A/N: Alright, Jane, here you go. It's crappy and I wrote in on the bus, but now you have to finish it. Off with you.


Pressing Matters

Part One

It began because Sherlock was completely absorbed in one of his cases. And to make up for his complete absorbance, he would willingly allow other aspects of daily life to slip under the radar, filing them away for when they became important.

He was never unobservant, just selective, like all the good, time-manageable geniuses are.

It wasn't a particularly engrossing case compared to some of his others, but he felt deep down that there was something he was missing and, of course, he couldn't have that. And it's not like a serial killer that likes to commit his crimes using cookie jars could ever be considered boring by normal, John-standards.

Anyway, he wasn't paying attention. His filter was on and it deemed most social interactions as completely irrelevant. Including the behavior of Greg Lestrade, despite the behavior's rather peculiar nature.

"Ah, Sherlock," Lestrade began with a hint of hesitation. It was during one of his increasingly frequent visits at 221B and Sherlock was busy pouring over some documents involving German cookie pots. Obviously important. Lestrade's nervous ticks? The biting of his lip? The slight flush on the inspector's cheeks? Not important. (At least not yet.) "I was, uh, wondering..."

"Spit it out," he commanded with a flash of annoyance.

Lestrade stumbled over his words a bit before a sense of resolve settled in. "Well, I was wondering if you would like to go to dinner with me." He sounded a little pained to be asking, in truth, like he was admitting something he would much rather forget.

Dinner. Lestrade. Lestrade? Hmm... Wait. What if the killer was using the pots for a trail to... No, too obvious. But if I could just locate the sister of the first victim-

"Sherlock!" Lestrade sounded strangled, his face a much deeper red. "Well then?"

Sherlock nearly groaned and spun around to face the nuisance head on. "Dinner?" he exclaimed. "How could you think I would ever have enough time for something so trivial?" He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, excuse me you fucking prick-"

They both heard the door to the apartment open. Sherlock was eyeing his laptop, his brain quickly trying to fit the loose ends of the case together, but it seemed like Lestrade was going to open his mouth again for God's sake.

"John," Sherlock barked. "Take Lestrade out to dinner."

An awkward silence filled the room.

The inspector looked mortified and John slightly puzzled. Finally, the doctor shrugged and put the grocery bags onto the floor near the kitchen. "Alright. Why not? Do you mind, Greg?"

Greg? Sherlock registered. And so little hesitation? "Irrelevant," he muttered to himself.

Lestrade paused for a second, before giving a little unsure smile. "Sure," he repeated. "Why not?"

Sherlock frowned as the two men starting chatting as they headed out of the apartment and down to the restaurant a couple of blocks over. There was something different about their exchange. And while Sherlock wasn't exactly the most social butterfly in the bunch, he was anything but unobservant.

He stood up and walked to the window, watching the two figures making their way down the road at a leisurely pace. Something Lestrade said made John laugh. John deftly hailed a taxi and when the cabbie stopped, Lestrade smiled again and held the door open for the other man.

And a cold chill settled over Sherlock, as something extremely pressing entered his thoughts.

He had just set up a date between Lestrade and John.

Not acceptable.