Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2011-09-03
Words:
1,551
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
44
Kudos:
200
Bookmarks:
34
Hits:
2,069

The Problem of Time Management

Summary:

John solves a mystery of authorship.

Notes:

Thanks to belovedmuerto for beta and AJHall for beta, Brit-pick, and geography-pick.

Work Text:

The first time was during the case that John later called “The Blind Banker”. He had helped Sherlock sort through piles of books, wishing that at least one victim had been of the “books take up space, and why should I need more than ten?” mentality. Pausing while Sherlock scanned the stacks, John picked up Time Management for the Eternally Overbooked and flipped through it. Alas, there was no chapter entitled “How to Maintain a Day Job and Still Follow Your Mad Flatmate to Crime Scenes”; there were, however, plenty of useless platitudes.

He read one aloud. “‘Carrying a simple project in case of free time is like carrying an umbrella in case of rain.’ Who writes this stuff?”

Sherlock sighed, drama setting three. “We’re here to compare books, John, not to read them. And you really don’t want to know.”

“What, did you write it?”

“No.”

That sounded clipped even for Sherlock. “Then who....”

“John, the books? Tonight?”

John let it go, and in the ensuing days forgot about it.

Until a few weeks later. John was in Terminal 3 at Heathrow, waiting in the unsecured area for Sherlock and hoping that whatever Sherlock was doing wasn’t on the wrong side of security control. He was growing more bored by the minute; not Sherlock-without-a-case bored—fortunately, as shooting the walls at Heathrow was a bit too exciting even for him—but certainly Sherlock-explaining-the-obvious-to-Anderson bored.

He finally decided that waiting for Sherlock would be just as easy from inside the WH Smiths. And if he bought a mystery he might be able to read it before Sherlock found it and deduced the solution from page 3...no, what was he thinking? Maybe a technothriller. Or a Mills & Boon; at least the ending was a given, so Sherlock couldn’t spoil it. Or Take Time by the Forelock, which, again, didn’t have a chapter called “How to Stay Employed, Go on the Occasional Date, and Still Follow Your Mad Flatmate to Crime Scenes So He Doesn’t Get Himself Killed (Or At Least Has Someone to Phone the Duty Solicitor For Him)”.

But it did have “Carrying your list of quick tasks to do is like carrying an umbrella in case of rain.”

What was it with these time management writers and umbrellas? He’d almost think they were all written under pseudonyms by....

Oh.

Google Book Search turned out to be remarkably helpful.

Three new and five used bookshops later (and £108.93, but he was using Sherlock’s debit card, so Mycroft would be footing the bill in the end), John found a bench near a CCTV camera and set down the bag. One by one, he held up the books to the camera. He then sat back and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, the black car pulled up, Not-Anthea in the back seat focused on her Blackberry.

“I am impressed.” Mycroft actually did look impressed, or at least, he looked surprised that someone of John’s intellectual stature had solved this particular mystery, which from a Holmes brother amounted to the same thing. “I suppose that now you are going to ask me why I write them.”

John had expected another interview in a vacant car park or abandoned house; a bench in a flower garden was rather a surprise, though as the space was surrounded by three-metre-high windowless walls, it wasn’t entirely un-Mycroftian. “To reduce your competition.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, and then slowly smiled. “Do go on.”

John held up the bag. “Frankly, the advice in these is rubbish. Anyone who seriously followed one of these books would spend more time supposedly managing their time and less time actually doing anything. So you’re convincing a large number of people to accomplish less, which makes you and yours look that much more competent by comparison.”

“Well done. It’s only half the reason, of course, but you are correct as far as you go.”

He had to ask. “And the other half?”

“The money, my dear boy. Countless people are willing to buy a book in lieu of actually changing their habits. You really didn’t think I subsisted entirely on the salary of a minor civil servant, did you?”

“No, believe me, I’ve never thought that.”

Mycroft snorted softly, but didn’t seem offended. John couldn’t help asking, “What if you wanted to write one that isn’t rubbish? What would you say?”

“I would hardly dare attempt it. There are no answers, certainly none that are both general enough to fit in a book and specific enough for any given person’s situation. One tries to do all of what one has to and as much as possible of what one wants to, and some things will always remain undone.” Mycroft shrugged. “Having enough money to hire competent people to accomplish some necessary tasks helps, of course.”

“So, you don’t have real advice for how to work at a day job and still keep one’s mad flatmate alive?”

“Ah, you do want specific advice. In which case I would say that you have defined your problem in the wrong terms.”

“Oh?”

“Your problem is not how to balance a job and assisting Sherlock; it is how to earn money while assisting Sherlock.”

“Works out to rather the same thing, I’m afraid.”

“Not necessarily. I previously offered you one solution, which you turned down.”

“So I did. Still not interested.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am unsurprised. May I, then, point out that you could do worse than follow my example?”

“Write bad time-management guides?” John hoisted the bag. “Based on what I’ve found, I think you’ve already cornered the market.”

“You would be surprised. But no, I think your expertise lies in another area.”

“I’m not writing bad medical advice for any amount of money.”

“I would never dream of suggesting it. Though what I would suggest does relate to the physical body.”

It took nearly a full minute for John to make the connection, for which he blamed the extended lack of said activity. “You aren’t suggesting.... I can’t write sex books! Not even bad ones! I haven’t even...ever since I got back, it’s been....”

“Three continents of experience beforehand, Dr. Watson. Four if one counts that afternoon you and your university girlfriend spent in Ceuta.”

John buried his face in his hands. “Just so you know, even if I break down and ask, I never, ever want to find out how you knew that.”

“As I cannot tell you, that is just as well. I will, however, say that your qualifications are impeccable, and I will be happy to provide you with some genuinely useful books on self-publishing, as well as a referral to a reputable literary agent.”

“It’s... it’s not on. If nothing else, there’s no way I could write anything without Sherlock reading it, and Christ, I don’t even want to imagine his reaction.”

Mycroft smirked. “You don’t have a folder on your hard drive labelled *Sherlock please read*?”

“It’d be redundant.” At Mycroft’s silence, John shook his head. “You’re not serious?”

“Completely serious.”

“Why didn’t I ever think of that? Don’t answer that question. And what’s in this for you, anyway?”

“I have no idea how your having a sufficiently flexible schedule to look after my brother could possibly benefit me or my interests.”

“Okay, I get it.” John shook his head and watched a bee land on a flower. “I’ll keep the possibility in mind, anyway.”

Some months and far too much Semtex later, they were helping Lestrade search a suspect’s flat, or if one took Sherlock’s view, Lestrade was mostly not hindering their search of the flat. At Sherlock’s choked noise, John looked up from the stack of bills and papers.

Sherlock held the suspect’s ebook reader and was staring at its screen. John had seen a wide range of expressions cross Sherlock’s face—annoyance, anger, irritation, boredom, smugness, and the rare flash of delight. Disgust, however, was a new one—not the usual “everyone is an idiot and why do I even bother?” disgust, but the disgust that most people would feel about the contents of the 221B refrigerator. Christ, Sherlock actually looked nauseated; what the hell was able to do that?

Sherlock flung down the reader. “No help there.”

John picked it up and looked at the title. Oh. Oh.

He really should not feel so delighted that the suspect had been reading his book.

But then, what had made Sherlock... ah. He read the text aloud. “The Science of Seduction? ‘Carrying a condom in your wallet is like carrying an umbrella in case of rain’? Who writes this stuff?”

Sherlock grimaced as if he were trying to seal his pyloric valve through sheer force of will. “You really do not want to know. And it’s irrelevant. And—of course, the roof!”

He ran for the balcony and disappeared up the drainpipe. John grinned. I have just convinced Sherlock that his brother is writing bad sex advice books. Well, good sex advice books, if I say so myself.

He’d tell Sherlock the truth. Eventually. If Sherlock didn’t figure it out for himself first. In the meantime, this was the best day he’d had in weeks.

“What are you smirking about?” Lestrade asked.

John set the reader back down, still grinning. “I just received my first royalty cheque.”