If Sherlock had all the time in the world, he'd make things right.

He thought quicker than most, yes. When he was in his mind palace, he found that his internal clock moved much quicker than the monotonous ticking of the clock in the outside world. So in a way, he had more time than the rest of the world-- but it wasn't enough.

If Sherlock could remove himself and put himself in a bubble where no one bothered him, he'd be able to work everything out. In a world where there were no idiots, no Andersons, no dumb questions, no curious classmates, no freshman girls mooning after him (their mistake, really), he'd finally be able to get work done. If he could fully remove himself-- more than just his mind, but his whole, he'd finally be at peace.

He'd solve the case-- he knew that if he could think about it for long enough, the pieces would start to come together and he'd know the narrative of why exactly the girl died. If he had all the time in the world, he'd set things right with Mycroft; with his parents. If he had all the time in the world, he'd place a finger on what exactly made him feel so different, instead of just glossing by it because there just wasn't enough time.

However, though he hated to admit it, Sherlock was still human, and time kept marching on while he tried his best to stay frozen in place. He grasped on to the time, tried to keep it from moving on without him, but in the end, it just slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass.

But the sand kept slipping through as he grasped his head in his hands and paced around the bedroom, trying to piece together the clues he hadn't yet acquired to solve the murder. He had to figure the solution before anyone else could... he had to. If anyone else finished before him, he'd lose his place as genius in the well oiled machine of life-- he'd just be ordinary.

"Sherlock, we've really got to get to studying, soon."

John's melodic voice drew Sherlock gently out of his mental crisis, fastening a rope around his middle and pulling him oh-so-slowly to the shore. "Just a moment, John."

"It's nearly midnight, Sherlock. I'm tired, but I need to go over this material, and you know it better than I do. Come on, please."

Sherlock sat, irritated at the interruption. John watched him with some trepidation as he hastily pulled out his notes and shoved them toward John. "Here. Busy."

"You've got to be kidding me-- Sherlock, I want to sleep."

"Sleep, then. Oh, and don't forget your anxiety medication, although it seems as though you don't need it.

John ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes and massaging his temples in disbelief. "What do you mean, I--"

"Don't bother lying to yourself, John. I know you enjoyed earlier's little... crime detour."

"I don't like death, Sherlock." John's voice was hollow now, aching. "I don't like it at all."

"You can't tell me you didn't get a rush from that. You've been typing furiously into your laptop for an hour, and you only now thought of studying for calculus--"

"I don't get a rush off of death, Sherlock. Sally told me-"

"Oh, Sally can go to hell."

"Sally told me you get off on this stuff, and that's why you help people. I told her to piss off, but honestly, Sherlock, this was a murder. Not a robbery, not a mugging, not a blackmail. A bloody murder." He paused, his breath slowing as his flaming temper suddenly cooled to ice. "Sally said you were a freak; maybe she was right."

The pause that followed was long and awkward. Sherlock bored holes into the wall with his laser glare, and John stared into a cold, untouched cup of tea that he'd brought in hours before.

"Sherlock, I--"

"Your father died, yes?"

"I'm trying to apologize, you pretentious prat."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, but... I swear, if you somehow bloody deduced that..."

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft told me a few weeks ago, so I'd be gentle with you. He said you were rather... touchy about it." Sherlock tilted his head, and John smiled slightly in spite of himself. Touchy was an understatement.

"I won't try to deduce your grief, John. What happened?"

John swallowed hard and breathed a long, hissing sigh into his hands. "Not much to tell. He left when I was thirteen. He was shot down on the field by a random attacker, and he died almost instantly... so we were told. My mum and and grandmother took care of Harry and I for the rest of the time we were at home. It's just--" John paused, searching for the right word in the endless abyss of vocabulary. "When we were sitting here, just now, and I was typing up all that happened today, I was thinking that someone has to make a house call to that poor girl's parents and tell them that their daughter is dead. Not only dead, Sherlock-- murdered. I know you don't really know, but not being able to say goodbye, just having a man in a uniform that you've never met come and tell you the person you love most in the world was killed by some person with a gun... It's the worst feeling in the world."

Sherlock listened quietly while John spoke, his hands folded beneath his chin and his eyes trained on John's face. "I'm sorry, John."

The shorter boy half-shrugged. "It's not your fault."

"No... I was insensitive earlier. I apologize." The word rolled off of Sherlock's tongue and hung between them for a few moments before it settled into the debris of frustration and hurt that lined the floor of the room. I apologize. John wasn't sure if he'd ever heard Sherlock apologize to anyone before... and if he had, he didn't remember.

If John had all the time in the world, he always thought he'd go back and find his dad; save him somehow or another and live the rest of his life knowing he'd forever changed the course of his life. He wouldn't have to live with crippling anxiety, he wouldn't have to live with his grandmother, and he'd have his dad back.

But then, he'd never have come to this school and met Sherlock. He was a bloody pretentious idiot, but then, John supposed that in his own way, he was too.

"So, about that calculus studying?"

"Of course, flip to page 394 and I'll give you a summary."

"Perfect." A smile.

A/N: THIS IS REALLY SHORT IM SORRY 

I JUST

I'VE BEEN SO BUSY 

BUT I WANTED TO WRITE SOMETHING

NEXT CHAPTER MORE THINGS WILL ACTUALLY HAPPEN I THINK! I've just sort of hit that mid-story funk where I have a lot of things I want to write but I don't know how to write them.

So. 

Y'know.

You'll get another chapter soon I hope.

IN THE MEANTIME YOU CAN GO READ MY ONE SHOT YAYAYAYA 

Alright, its 11:30 and I'm tired. Goodnight, loves.