By the time John had returned home from his brunch with Lestrade, Sherlock had well and truly worked himself into a strop. He'd sort of been expecting it, so rather than get his feelings hurt over the entire ordeal, John had just taken the opportunity to run some errands without needing to arrange a way to entertain his flatmate during his absence. Much to his annoyance, Sherlock took care of that himself - the kitchen counter was never going to be the same, he thought darkly - and the two of them ended up going to bed without speaking more than three words in conversation for the night. John knew from experience that it would all blow over soon enough, so he wasn't all that broken up about it; actually, he was more than a little irritated that Sherlock took his misplaced temper out on the kitchen, but he'd grown a bit used to that.
It was really just until Lestrade had another case for him, John was certain. Everything would right itself in time, and he just had to sit back and try not to brain his flatmate with the nearest blunt object in the meantime. (Easier said than done sometimes, if you asked John.)
Anyway, while Sherlock sulked about the flat it gave John plenty of time to work on his blog, and so he did. They'd taken a few smaller cases that he hadn't written up due to, well, always running off on another case, so that kept him rather busy. Then there were the back-and-forth e-mails discussing Donovan and Anderson's situation, which John wasn't exactly comfortable with but he wasn't really uncomfortable enough to stop, either, so... there were those. Honestly, he'd never considered that he would find himself in the position of being something of a relationship guru, but it was sort of nice.
He tapped his fingers against his lips, frowning a bit. Wasn't it a bit disingenuous as well, though? The most functional and stable relationship he'd had since enlisting wasn't exactly anything to brag about, not when it came to the sort of advice that Lestrade was seeking for Donovan and Anderson. For one thing, he and Sarah hadn't progressed past significant looks from across the surgery, try as he might to arrange a nice, quiet date for them. Awkwardly, something always seemed to come up at the last minute that involved Sherlock either crashing his date or abducting him from it, and he ought to have been thankful that Sarah was being as accommodating as she was, but that was a bit disheartening in and of itself.
He could recall a time when a woman slapped him across the face for dancing with her friend. He'd been a lot younger then, of course, and she'd had more than her fair share of vanity, but at least he'd known that his date at the time was really invested in having his attention. Sarah, while interesting, intelligent, engaging, and rather attractive, just didn't seem all that bothered whether he was serious about their dating or not. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were both a little older, and she'd already written him off as a flake - lord, he hoped not - or perhaps she just wasn't all that into him. It had happened before. As Sherlock would tell him, it was the most reasonable deduction of all the gathered facts.
Oh, God. He was trying to think like Sherlock. Back up, rewind, erase.
"Is the milk sour?" Sherlock idly turned a page in his book, not bothering to look up.
"What?" John blinked at him, wrinkled his nose. "No. ... why?" Images of the wretchedness he could have wrought upon John's milk flashed through his mind, many far more likely than he was comfortable with, and he eyed his tea warily.
"You're just grimacing, is all." Apparently, Sherlock had forgiven him for the terrible offense of spending one-on-one time with Lestrade. Honestly, if John hadn't known better, he would have thought he was jealous - but that was so far beyond Sherlock that it made John snort. "And now you're laughing. Are you quite well?"
Unable to help himself, he nevertheless attempted to hide his smile, cupping his hand in front of his mouth and dragging it down over his chin. "I'm fine, thanks. Just had a funny thought. Anything on for today?"
Sherlock sighed, very noisily and gustily, and tossed his book carelessly to his left. John watched, unamused, as it hit the floor and the pages went all catawampus. "Nothing at all. It's dreadful. Hateful." He laced his fingers in front of his mouth, frowning and pressing his thumbs against his lips. "When London's criminal minds are functioning at a level where the police can handle them adequately, you know we need a revolution."
Rather more out of habit than design, John stooped to pick up the book and set it on the coffee table as he walked past. Only Sherlock would be disgruntled by the idea of the police force doing its job well and promptly, and it said something about John that he not only appreciated that aspect of his flatmate, but somewhat agreed with his opinion there. Not that he wanted more people to be hurt, God no; but he did enjoy the thrill of a case, and watching the absolute brilliance of Sherlock's deductive reasoning in action.
Well, all that, and the fact that when had something to sink his teeth into he was a lot less insufferable to live with.
Perching on the arm of his recliner, John brought his cup of tea up to his mouth, pausing just before taking a sip. "I'm sure something will turn up soon. If you're really, desperately bored, you could always volunteer to do the shopping next time."
Mouth screwing into a childish, hopelessly endearing frown, Sherlock returned, "Why in the world you think a mind-numbing task such as shopping would somewhat relieve me of my boredom, I don't know. Really, John."
Having expected about as much, John just shrugged. "It was worth a try. You know, doing a bit of shopping can be pleasant. It lets the mind wander, and sometimes you run into interesting people."
Kicking his legs out before him, Sherlock inched down the chair, vising his hands around the ends of its arms. "We have very different opinions on what constitutes an interesting person."
After a moment's thought, John decided to be pleased by the fact that, all things considered, that had likely been the most inoffensive thing that had occurred to Sherlock to say. Perhaps Lestrade had been correct; maybe he really had improved Sherlock a bit.
"That aside, it isn't as though there's anything flattering about the implication that the mind wanders. You ought to train yours to focus more intently on one subject at a time; you're never going to really improve otherwise."
And then he opened his mouth again.
They were spared the impending domestic by the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs. John was no where near Sherlock's level of deductive powers, but even he knew these were not the dainty, heel-clicked steps of Mrs. Hudson; more than likely a man, though he didn't have much time to puzzle it, as their guest stopped abruptly and knocked. Well, definitely not Mrs. Hudson, and not Mycroft either, because when had Sherlock's brother ever bothered to knock for anything?
"Come in," Sherlock called, a strange sort of light in his face. He obviously knew who it was - well, the arse could have let John in on it.
The door swung open, and Lestrade stood there a bit awkwardly, slapping a pair of gloves against an open palm. It was cold outside, and a bit drizzly besides, so John's first instinct was to rise and offer him a cup of tea. Unfortunately, just as he said his name - Greg - Sherlock also greeted him.
As Lestrade.
Well aware that a pair of keen eyes were boring their way into the back of his head, John decided to ignore them in favor of clearing his throat. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
Lestrade curled his fingers around the pair of gloves, raising his free hand and waving it. "Er, no, that's fine. I'm all hopped up on coffee as it stands. Thank you though, John."
"John?" Sherlock asked, seemingly unable to help himself.
Lestrade's eyes flicked to Sherlock's, and then back to John, who shrugged. "Yes, Sherlock? Did you want a cup of tea?"
Feigning ignorance was not something he was generally good at; neither was lying, or even covering up the truth, actually. It was a wonder Sherlock kept him around at all, given how absolutely hapless he was when it came to subterfuge of any kind.
Standing awkwardly between the other two men, he decided it must have been his rakish good looks that tipped the scale.
Quickly turning a laugh into a cough, John said, "I'll take your silence as a no, then. What can we help you with, Greg? Needing Sherlock?"
Sherlock's attitude of casual indifference was completely undermined by the way he sat straight up in his chair when Lestrade replied, awkwardly, "No, actually, John, if I could.. busy today?"
"What do you need John for?" Then, apparently realizing how childish that sounded, Sherlock added, "Surely he resolved your personal problem for you days ago?"
Before Lestrade could jump to the wrong conclusion, John cut in. "He read the first e-mail. Nothing's been said aside from it, don't worry. Sherlock would find it all very boring, anyhow."
"Right," Lestrade agreed, shifting this time to tapping the gloves against his thigh. "Here, these are for you - nothing terribly exciting, but they should keep you busy of an afternoon."
Reaching into his jacket, Lestrade pulled out a manilla folder, offering it to Sherlock with a faintly disapproving look. John sighed as Sherlock sprang up, accepted it, and then quit the room without so much as a backwards glance.
Massaging his neck, John muttered, "Phase two of the power sulk."
"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, shoving his gloves deep into his jacket pocket.
"Nothing." Nimbly plucking his jacket from its peg, John shrugged it over his shoulders. "Fancy a walk and a talk?"
Tension eased out of his friend's shoulders as though a tiny string had been pulled. "Please."
They were halfway down the stairs when John's mobile chimed in his pocket. With a sense of foreboding, he pulled it out, stared at the message, and then smiled and slipped it away.
"Hope I'm not distracting you from anything important." Lestrade looked a bit guilty, a bit nervous. "I know I've been a right pain in the arse the past few days."
"No, it's fine." He pulled his shoulders up when a cold fist of air hit him in the face, and repeated, "It's all fine, honestly."