A/N: So, my regular readers may be disappointed to know that this isn't the epilogue to "Shock Blanket" that was promised. I was going to write and publish it yesterday, but then the storm knocked out my power all night. Then, I was going to write and publish it today, but developed a migraine. So (in the immortal words of Sherlock and John), my cognitive functions are extremely sluggish and I've lost about 75% of my right-side field of vision. Which means that any serious, quality writing will have to wait until tomorrow at the earliest (although I typically get migraines in clusters of threes, so who knows). This little… um, story… was born out of boredom the other day, and it will have to suffice until I can manage a proper update. Enjoy!

Cheers,
-H.

IMPORTANT: Spoilers for Reichenbach. Yes, really.

The Author was asleep on her sofa when Sherlock materialised, dreamlike, into her sitting room. An old episode of Doctor Who was playing on the telly in the corner with the volume turned way down. Sherlock paid it no mind, instead turning his attention to the woman whom he had come here to see. Her slight form was all but eclipsed by two large dogs that snoozed practically on top of her, and all he could really make out of her in between the animals was a mess of short, dark hair on the throw pillow, and the tip of a nose. He sighed. Just like her to be asleep during his dramatic entrance.

He wandered a bit. The house was small, but warm and inviting. And deadly silent, aside from the television set. The mantle and several walls were adorned with framed photographs – most of them of the Author and some tall fellow. The kitchen was clean and sparse, with a fresh batch of biscuits cooling on a platter beside the stove. He sniffed at them, and stepped away. Peanut butter.

There was a stirring from the sitting room. Sherlock returned to find the dogs lazily hopping off the couch, and the Author sitting up, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Her gaze wandered drowsily toward the detective as he entered the room.

"Sherlock?" she said, clearly uncertain why he was here, but not seeming terribly surprised to see him.

"Good morning," he greeted formally. Then he glanced out the window and amended, "Well, good evening, actually, but no matter. Might I have a word with you?"

The Author continued to rub the sleep from her eyes and sat up a little straighter. If she had known Sherlock was going to materialise into the real world – in her sitting room, no less – she might have made tea or tidied up a bit. Or at least endeavoured not to smell like dog when he arrived. She pushed the heavy throw blanket out of the way and nodded. "Sure, I suppose."

Sherlocked perched himself unceremoniously on the coffee table, leaning in uncomfortably close to the Author. "We need to discuss this… fanfiction."

The Author blinked. "Um, yes?"

"It's wildly inappropriate, inaccurate, and altogether unacceptable." He paused and allowed this to sink in, then gesticulated wildly. "In fact, I can't allow it anymore! It must stop."

"Wait, you know about that?" The Author's brow furrowed.

"Of course we know about it!" Sherlock burst out, incredulous. "Do you really think that it could go unnoticed? It was in the news, after all." He waved off her concern. "Listen to me. This can't continue. The ideas presented in these… fanfictions… are completely preposterous. Unthinkable. Ridiculous. It's going to ruin my reputation."

The Author shook her head, now suddenly wide awake. "No, no – the canon universe is completely, (regrettably), separate from the fanon universe. It doesn't overlap. Your reputation is just fine. And anyway, what's so wrong with fanfiction? It's fun. I thought you liked seeing your talents utilised in new and creative ways."

"Well, I thought I did, at first, but – look at this!" Sherlock retrieved his mobile from his pocket and thumbed through a few menus, navigating to the correct page before thrusting the device into the Author's hands. "Read that."

The Author's eyes skimmed the page briefly. She didn't need to read it. "I wrote this. What's wrong with it?"

"John Watson and I are not in love!"

"I didn't say you were!" She scanned the page quickly, searching for any sign of Johnlock. She had never written a piece of Johnlock in her entire life, so she was certain there was a mistake. "It's just – bromance! It's not love love."

Sherlock made an irritated noise in the back of his throat and snatched his mobile back. "At the end of this story, John and I are holding hands!"

"You're in hospital at the end!"

"So what?"

"Oh, come on! You can't tell me that if you had just nearly died, you wouldn't give John a reassuring squeeze of the hand upon waking! He'd be worried about you, he'd want it."

"He'd want to go for Chinese and ask me how I'd so cleverly avoided death."

"No," the Author argued, dragging the word out over several syllables as though this would get her point across more intelligently. "Suppose you'd been in real, mortal peril – "

"I've been in real, mortal peril – "

"—and John honestly thought he was about to see the last of you – "

"—That's happened too—"

"—and at the last moment, the two of you were snatched from the jaws of danger, and you, Sherlock, were all hurt and dying and in hospital, and the doctors thought you wouldn't make it. But then you did make it, and John was at your bedside and he was so happy to see you were alive – don't you think then, even then, you'd at least squeeze his hand to let him know everything was going to be alright?" Her eyes were the size of dinner plates.

"He would know everything was going to be alright because the doctors would have told him."

"Maybe they didn't know until you finally opened your eyes."

"That just doesn't happen."

The Author looked a little deflated. "It happens when you're whumped," she replied dejectedly.

"Excuse me?"

"Whumped. Whump. Excessive physical damage."

"Why would I ever sustain excessive physical damage?"

"From jumping off a building?"

"Did you not see the final scene of The Reichenbach Fall?"

"That was… later! You could have healed."

"Miraculous."

"Sherlock, it's fanfiction! Fiction! By fans! What does it matter?" She scowled. Sherlock was ruining this for her a little bit. And quite deliberately, it seemed.

"That's just my point. Do try to keep up. It's unrealistic. It's nonsense. It's ridiculous. It must stop. I'm married to my work, and – "

"Yes, I know," sighed the Author. "Not your area. But we don't care." She scrubbed her fist across her eyes and patted a dog that appeared beside her to see what was the matter. Then she reached past Sherlock and wrapped her fingers around a cup of coffee that had gone very, very cold. She sipped it gingerly.

There was silence for several moments.

"You know," she said at last, "you ought to be flattered."

"Pardon me?"

"Flattered. You ought to be flattered. There are hundreds – maybe thousands – of people who are so utterly, completely in love with you, enamoured of you, and impressed by you that they can't get enough of you. So much so that they have to invent their own scenarios in which you fulfil all their wildest dreams. And sometimes fantasies." She sipped.

"Hm?"

"Yup. Sherlock, we love you. I think I speak for the entire BBC-Sherlock-fanfiction community when I say, we love you. Marry us."

"Impressed, you say?"

"I do say. Impressed. Enamoured. In love. We adore you. Obviously."

"Obviously."

"Think of it as a token of our, um, adoration. No, we don't always keep you entirely in-character. Yes, we're aware there's nothing between you and John, and you and Molly, and you and – well, everyone else. But we are trying to create our own lovely little worlds where you actually get to be happy and in love and stuff. Usually. Other times you just get, y'know, whumped."

"You are incredibly difficult to follow."

"Yes, well…" She shrugged, and made a vague, dismissive gesture. "Look. We all know how crazy most of our headcanons are, and how unbelievable our stories turn out to be. But you shouldn't think of it as us belittling you in any way, or anything like that. It's all in love. If there was more Sherlock, there might be less need for fanfiction."

"Or it would just fuel the fire all the more," he stated, seeing through her clever ruse.

"I had to try."

"Well. I don't want to see anymore of this Johnlock nonsense."

The Author barked a laugh. "You wish! I'm afraid Johnlock is always going to exist, dear Sherlock. It has since before your BBC series, after all."

"Hm."

"There's no help for it, I'm afraid. Personally, I like reading about it. It's sweet. Oh, and Sherlolly is kind of cute too. And Molstrade. Hee…"

"You're doing it again."

"I know."

A low, quiet sound thrummed in the back of Sherlock's throat as he thought. "Well. I suppose there's very little I can do about it. I can't very well visit the sitting room of every single fanfiction author on the planet."

"Certainly not."

"I could disable all the publishing websites…"

"We'd just email each other our headcanons."

"I could just disable all the email…"

"That might destroy the economy or something."

"Quite possibly. In any event, it would be more effort than it is worth. I have other things on which to spend my time." Sherlock sighed, and stood, and regarded the dogs for a moment, who hadn't seemed to notice him. Then he glanced back toward the Author and shook his head. "I don't understand it," he stated – a rare thing. For Sherlock not to understand. "But I'll leave you to it. Just… do me a favour?"

"Mm?" The Author was already curling back up underneath her blanket, eyelids heavy.

"Please never ask me to marry the fanbase again. It's a terrible responsibility on my shoulders to have to turn down thousands of rabid women."

"Don't flatter yourself. They don't all want to marry you. Plenty of them are in love with John and Lestrade and other characters with more redeeming qualities…" She paused for a yawn. "I was being facetious."

"Oh. Yes. Obviously."

"Obviously."

"Goodbye, Haelia."

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Do take care."