author's notes: i blame pinterest. pinterest is very handy, because one can blame many things of all different natures on it and it always somehow makes sense.

221b is really too quiet. Sherlock is "bored" again, though he's had four clients in the last hour — all of which he'd sent off with a reprimand for, quote unquote, "wasting his time."

"What time?" John asks from his chair next to Sherlock's. "I don't recall you doing anything at all productive today."

"As I recall, you haven't left the flat today either."

John protests, "I made tea, you wanker. You're welcome. At least I got up from my established piece of furniture. But what 'time' —" he made the bunny ears "— were they wasting?"

"So they weren't wasting time," drawls Sherlock. "Every one of the cases were mundane enough even for the police; I was preserving my brain cells — and yours."

John frowns. "I wasn't aware I had extra brain cells to be preserved." Sherlock just looks at John. "Right," he says, flushing a bit. "Of course I don't. How silly of me."

"Quite." Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin in his normal thinking pose. "I had a to-do list around here somewhere," he murmurs. "But it seems to have gone missing. I don't know how; my desk is very organised."

"Sherlock." It's John's turn to look at Sherlock with that disappointed 'are you really that stupid' look. "Your desk is the complete opposite of 'organised.'"

The consulting detective ignores him. "Help me look," he demands as he jumps up from the sofa.

John grumbles good-naturedly as he allows himself to be pulled out of his chair, but he doesn't protest or refuse. He knows it's pointless to argue with Sherlock.

Sherlock always wins.

•

"Er...Sherlock?" John holds up a piece of scrap paper. "This it?"

"Is it dated correctly?" Sherlock asks from the kitchen. "If the date's right, it, by default, is my to-do list from today."

John scans the paper. The handwriting is tiny and written in a pencil that is obviously — oh dear, he's starting to sound like Sherlock — close to being out of lead, as the markings are faint and barely readable. The spiky scrawl is unmistakable, though; it's definitely a to-do list of Sherlock's. "Yeah, the date's right."

"What's it say I'm to do today?"

Squinting at the paper scrap, John reads, "'Number one: John.'" He freezes. "Uh. Sherlock?"

"Mm?" the detective hums questioningly.

"Sherlock, what the hell is this supposed to mean?"

"Really, John," chastises Sherlock. "You've spent enough time around me to know what I mean by that."

"Yes, but —"

"If you're going to have a sexual identity crisis, can you please hurry it up? I have things — or one thing, anyway — to do, and the more time the better."