"Worse day ever."

Some people said that at the slightest frustration, but not John Watson. He usually made the best of a not terrible situation, but even he had his limits, and they had been crossed thrice over today, by the same person to boot.

"I am going to murder him. And no one will ever know. Best detective to solve it being dead and all… Ha! That'll be the real test to see if I haven't learned a thing."

Because that's what Sherlock had belittled him for, in front of Lestrade and half the bloody Yard, right in the middle of a crime scene. He'd made him feel like a complete idiot. So what if he couldn't deduce the manner of death from minuscule traces of nailpolish on the cap of bottle. No one else had either. And he kept telling himself that while Sherlock insulted his intelligence, but it didn't stop his cheeks from turning a bright tomato red.

"What an utter twat!"

John would have stormed off to make his displeasure clear, but Sherlock beat him to it and left him there in the middle of all those wide-eyed Yarders. He'd muttered an apology and ran off with his tail tucked between his legs, only to find out Sherlock hadn't even waited for him outside. He'd buggered off in one of his magically appearing cabs no doubt and just. Fucking. Left him there! Unbelievable. He checked his phone, but Sherlock hadn't given him any directions. He supposed he could have just gone back home.

With no idea of what else to do, John did exactly that and took the closest tube station to return to Baker Street. Maybe it was for the best. He had a date with that pretty barista he'd met the other day. A pretty redhead with freckles all the way down her cleavage. If he was lucky, he might learn how much of her creamy skin those freckles covered exactly.

Sherlock was not home, and he still had no text from him, but John was loath to send him one after the way he'd treated him. He snorted at the thought that he probably hadn't even noticed he wasn't around. It wouldn't be the first time. He put him out of his mind and got ready for his date instead. He even got time to relax before and was right on time. It was going splendidly too… At first.

Then came Sherlock, out of nowhere, like a freak storm. John had no idea how he had found him, but he stomped into the small restaurant, right up to his table and began scolding him for having wandered off. Wandered off. Seriously.

"You left me behind!" John protested.

"Well, it wasn't hard to figure out where I'd gone. You only had to catch up."

"What? No! I didn't have a bloody clue where you'd gone! How was I supposed to know?"

He realized in that second he shouldn't have asked that, not even rhetorically, because Sherlock started round two of how stupid he was.

"Stop!" John shouted, at his rope's end.

But they were drawing a crowd and John was not going to have a bloody row in the middle of his date. He told Sherlock as much. Big mistake. His focus shifted to the poor girl, deducing every embarrassing little thing he could before voicing it out loud. It wasn't even that bad, although if she really had a preference for dldos that large, she might have been disappointed by what she got in the bedroom. She didn't even say a word. Simply stared at him with wide, horrified eyes full of betrayal, and ran off. Flowers weren't going to cut it. He'd lost her. He would send an apology anyway, for his own peace of mind, but he knew she would rather never see his face ever again.

John settled the bill, thankful Sherlock had been thrown out by the uppity maitre d', even if he was still lurking outside.

"Sure. Now you wait for me," John muttered when he exited the restaurant he would never be dining at again.

"But-"

"No. I'm going home."

John walked off in the general direction of Baker Street because he needed to walk off some of his frustration before he punched the git the next time he saw his face. Everyone was right. John didn't understand how he put up with him either. Sherlock was selfish, condescending, arrogant, self-centered, unapologetic, ill-mannered, rude…

The list went on until he got home, but John was still furious. He needed to vent, to talk about it to someone or he was going to choke on his anger or do something stupid. But who would listen? Everyone around him was tired of hearing about Sherlock's antics. They usually just rolled their eyes and told him that's just how Sherlock was. Loads of help that was. Except Molly, but she was worse than the others because she found him all sort of reasonable excuses.

His gaze landed on his laptop. If he really wanted to vent to strangers, that's what the internet was for, right? John settled himself comfortably and opened his laptop. He hadn't done this in a while, but he soon found a chatroom promising relationship advice. Close enough. Everyone always assumed they were a couple anyway, and it was better than the vast majority of hook-up channels.

Signing in as Cold Toast, the only thing he had managed to eat all day because of Sherlock, John began scanning the messages to make sure he was in the right place, then he began his rant about Sherlock, but kept the reins on, just to feel out the waters. He got good responses: some honest-to-God advice, some questions, some just offered kind words to make him feel better and he took them all, he needed them. The sympathy, the understanding, the commiseration, even the disbelief… All of those honest responses showed interest, that they cared on some superficial level, that he mattered, even a little. John ranted some more. It felt good to empty his bag, as if it allowed him to delete his grievances one by one as he aired them out. Soon though, another user called Tea&Biscuits offered him a private chat since his problem seemed both "urgent and complex".

John happily clicked on the new tab, glad someone was willing to listen to him one on one, as if he was worth someone's time. John got more into details, into why his flatmate's attitude towards him bothered him so much and how it made him feel like utter shite. Tea&Biscuits offered taylor-made advice and gave him heartfelt words of encouragement that made him feel so much lighter and better about the whole situation that John almost laughed at how angry he had become apparent by the end of the day.

ColdToast - So are you some kind of shrink irl?

Tea&Biscuits - No, but the knowledge certainly comes in handy. I deal with a lot of people, as well as a lot of problems.

ColdToast - Well, thanks anyway. I feel loads better. Are you a regular on this channel?

Tea&Biscuits - I'll find you if you come back, don't worry.

All was well again for a while after that. John didn't let Sherlock wind him up so much, and he learned to take time out for himself when he felt the urge to punch him in his stupidly perfect face. John also learned to tell him no. Tea&Biscuits had been right: John was a bit of a pushover where Sherlock was concerned, never realizing how much power he was giving his friend over him, as he ordered him about like his own personal servant rather than treating him as a friend.

His newfound serenity lasted for all of a week until Sherlock went and did something incredibly stupid again, which John couldn't deal with it on his own. John went straight to his laptop this time, connected to the chatroom, but then hesitated when he saw Tea&Biscuits' username in the list of users. What if he didn't remember him? And maybe he didn't have time, or had problems of his own. John doubted he could deal with rejection right now, even coming from a stranger. He was still hesitating when a new private tab flashed at him. John clicked on it to enlarge the window with a smile.

Tea&Biscuits - Something wrong?

ColdToast - Yes, actually. How did you know?

Tea&Biscuits - You have been connected to the chatroom for a while, but haven't typed anything, not even a general greeting. Is it your flatmate again?

John told him everything. It was like opening a faucet, all of his worries spilling out at once. He belatedly apologized for the quite frankly unbelievable tale he had just shared, but once more, Tea&Biscuits merely talked him through his frustrations, taking his time, lending a metaphorical friendly ear. By the end, John already felt better, more confident and relaxed. He tried to get Tea&Biscuits to open up, tried to reciprocate all the help he had been given, but his Internet stranger obviously didn't want it, so John didn't insist and thanked him again before turning in for the night.

No nightmares. He usually had them after such a bad day as he'd had, but talking to Tea&Biscuits had relaxed him enough that he had slept peacefully through the night, just like the last time. He stretched but then froze when he heard Sherlock arguing downstairs. His friend was on the defensive, so it was most likely his brother rather than Lestrade or a client. The siblings' bickering could last a while, so John shuffled downstairs even if he'd rather avoid a double dose of Holmes this early in the morning. He had quite enough of the one, thank you very much. John mumbled a collective hello when he crossed the living room to hide in the kitchen with a nice cuppa, waiting until he heard the sound of the umbrella tapping its way out to the exit.

"What did he want?" John asked Sherlock when he was certain Mycroft had left for good.

"A case."

"And you accepted?"

That was rare. The last time Sherlock had accepted a case from Mycroft, he'd then foisted it on him, so John hoped he wasn't going to make a habit of it. Nothing a deadpan "no" couldn't take care of now that he knew how to not be a pushover. John made a mental note to find a way to thank Tea&Biscuits properly one of these days.

"I wasn't going to, but it's inordinately complex and fascinating. I did weasel the best lodgings and transport out of the deal for us however. It's in the south of France."

John beamed, because that almost sounded like a frigging free vacation, and he might actually get a bit of sun out of it, even if it was not the best of seasons to go on the Côte d'Azur! Still beat the London gray. Of course, now John felt a bit guilty he hadn't bothered to be polite to Mycroft, but in his defense, his presence rarely promised anything good.