John slumped down into his office chair with a long sigh. He'd had nothing but a stream of runny noses and neurotic mothers this morning and had only managed to free up a small window of time to fit in his lunch now. At 2.30pm.
He rolled his eyes and wondered what his detective was doing. He hoped that Sherlock would make some effort to finish that damn sheepskin experiment. The kitchen was beginning to smell stranger. Well, stranger than usual for 221B.
His phone began to trill with the irritating ringtone that Sherlock had programmed into it. If John had the faintest idea how, he'd have changed it to something less... murder-inducing. In the absence of such knowledge, however, he was stuck listening to the repeated intro bars of "Hit me baby one more time". He supposed it at least made him answer the phone promptly. No doubt that was Sherlock's intention.
He pulled the phone from his top desk drawer and peered at the screen.
Mycroft Holmes
John rolled his eyes. Great. Just what he needed. He slid the phone open with a glare, as if Mycroft would see it.
"John Watson." he answered, hoping Mycroft would keep it short so he could get back to his limp ham sandwich. Even that was preferable to a conversation with the elder Holmes.
"Good afternoon, Doctor Watson," Mycroft began, his voice irritatingly polite, "I trust you are enjoying your late lunch."
John opened his mouth to ask how Mycroft knew before thinking better of it. It didn't stop him feeling irked that the man knew everything. Literally everything.
"What can I do for you, Mycroft?" he asked tersely and perhaps, a little more rudely than he intended. The tone wasn't lost on Mycroft, of course, and John heard the man tut at the other end of the line.
"Really, Doctor." he didn't follow it up with a particular complaint however. "I merely called you to let you know that I tried to call my brother to..." he paused a moment, and, if it were possible, John could hear him frown, "to remind him of the date. He didn't answer. I sent a message instead. I trust that I didn't cross any unspoken boundaries?"
The question didn't really sound like a question, and John was momentarily unsure whether Mycroft was actually expecting an answer.
"Right. OK. Well, thank you. No, that's fine." he muttered, slightly confused about his flatmate's brother's intentions.
"Good. Good." Mycroft responded with a soft chuckle, and a soft click indicated that he had ended the call.
John turned back to his sandwich. These Holmes brothers were a baffling breed.