"You have four new e-mails. That's quite a lot for you, isn't it?"

John glanced up from where he was painstakingly buttering his toast, blinking in mild consternation as he realized that his flatmate had, once again, commandeered his laptop for personal uses. The first time, John had been more than a little annoyed, though looking back he supposed that was because his pride had been hurt that his password had been so easily deduced. (He'd since changed it, not that it seemed to matter. When it came to Sherlock, where there was a will there was almost certain to be about five different ways, and he always found the means to get where he wanted to be anyhow. Frustrating, but he'd chosen to find it endearing.) Now, though, he put up the token fight about it, but for the most part it didn't bother him. Unless he was using the thing to update his blog he didn't actually have much use for it, and he'd come to understand that rebelling in little ways kept Sherlock from being bored enough to blow up the kitchen on a lark.

Which, you know, he was kind of fond of the kitchen overall, filled as it was with Sherlock's experiments, so he'd rather keep it relatively intact if he could.

Crossing the room so that he stood behind his flatmate, he leaned over, balancing his toast on one hand and frowning. "Stop breaking into my laptop. It's a horrible invasion of privacy."

Sherlock didn't bother to glance back. "Stop making your passwords so easy. Honestly, it's almost an invitation."

John brought the toast to his mouth, taking a healthy bite and chewing; generally, he found that the length of time it took for him to chew and swallow a large bite was long enough to convince himself not to make a snarky response to one of Sherlock's flippant remarks. Generally it wasn't worth the fight, largely because the man was an unending well of witty retorts and John just ended up frustrated by the end of the talk, but also because there were plenty of other things to focus his annoyance on. Lately, the bulk of his ire was directed at the roofing, but a steady leak and an incessant plip plip plip while a man was trying to sleep would be enough to drive anybody a little mad, he thought.

Drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, he settled for saying, "Budge over. Let me get to my exorbitant amount of e-mails, unless of course you've already read them. In which case, just give me the highlights so I can finish my breakfast."

The chair groaned as Sherlock leaned back in it, tipping his head just enough to give John an offended look before she spun it on its back legs and sprang out of it. "Of course not, John. That would be a terrible invasion of privacy. I was merely using your laptop for research, as mine is all the way in my bedroom."

Settling himself onto the chair, reflecting that it groaned a bit more under his bulk than Sherlock's, John got to the business of opening his inbox folder. The fact that four was an unusually large number of e-mails for him notwithstanding, he couldn't decide if he was more amused or annoyed that Sherlock had noticed and commented on it. Well, no matter; e-mails didn't read or answer themselves, and John was a bit curious.

The first was from Harry, and it made him frown while he read it. Not tipsy writing, not like the last time she'd e-mailed him, but her excuses were as long as the message was short. He was coming to believe that she would always justify a reason to pick up another drink, and it was fast becoming the single thing that would absolutely undo an entire childhood and adolescence of precarious like but undoubted love. John often cursed himself for his inability to find the words to express to his sister exactly how much he missed the grudging camaraderie they had once shared, because often all that ended up coming out of his mouth was anger and bile and accusations, and then they ended up not speaking until the next time she slipped up and went looking for a bit of redemption. His cursor hovered over the reply button, and he considered it, considered for a long moment, but decided that he couldn't respond.

Not this early in the morning.

The next was spam, which was par for the course, and then, interestingly, an e-mail from Lestrade. Before he could help himself, John asked aloud, "Lestrade? Really?" and hunched his shoulders, leaning forward and focusing intently on his laptop. Across the room, Sherlock roused himself from his indolent position, but John gave no more details.

After a few moments' silence, Sherlock interrupted his thoughts with a curt, "Well?"

"Hm?" Blinking, John sat back, raising a brow at Sherlock. "Sorry, did you ask me something?"

Sherlock had sat up fully, legs crossed on the sofa, palms snugly atop his knees. "Well, what did Lestrade have to say to you in e-mail? It can't be for a case, and I don't recall the two of you as being particularly close. Tell me at once."

He wasn't certain if it was Sherlock's commanding tone or the absurdity of him being so interested in the contents of the e-mail that amused John more. He chuckled, shaking his head as he began to draft up a response. "Oh, nothing you'd be interested in."

"I am obviously interested," Sherlock replied peevishly, tapping a rhythm against his pajama bottoms impatiently. "And you are being coy. Why?"

John ignored Sherlock in favor of his e-mail to Lestrade. It would do the man a little good to be kept in the dark about something for once, for however long it lasted.

He'd just hit send and gone along to his next e-mail when Sherlock flung himself off the couch, swirling about the room with an agitated air and muttering all the while. Well, John would let him have his little strop; the last e-mail required sufficiently less consideration to reply to, and when he was finished, he locked down his computer.

Rising, he tugged at the hem of his jumper, glancing about for his wallet. As he did, Sherlock paused, giving him a long once over.

"And where are you going?" His expression eloquently spoke for him: I know where you are going but I want to hear you say it so that I can demand to know why.

Patiently, John tucked his wallet into his back pocket and replied, "Going to grab a bite with Lestrade. There's bread and eggs in the kitchen if you can rouse yourself to make a meal. I should be back in the afternoon, though you can always text if you need something."

Sherlock's eyes followed him while he moved about the flat, hand passing over the back of the sofa with a couple of quick pats while he gathered his thoughts. He wasn't certain exactly how long his lunch meeting with the detective inspector was going to take, but judging from the contents of the e-mail, they'd be hunkered down over coffee for a good couple of hours. Well, coffee and probably some kind of breakfast bread for John, as he'd only had that one piece of toast and he couldn't imagine tackling the task at hand on an empty stomach.

"I could just read your e-mails." His tone was petulant, brooding.

John laughed. "You could, but you won't. Invasion of privacy, and even you know that's a bit to the end of not good. Anyhow," he added, surveying the flat with a raised brow before settling his gaze on Sherlock, "you know that if it was something where I needed your expertise, I'd ask. Just trust me on this."

Ah, but the size of the lemon he would have needed to suck to make that face any other day, John thought fondly.

"I'll be back later." He repeated, closing the door behind him with a satisfying click.

It was sort of nice, after all, to be the one being consulted once in a while.