It's been five days since the last case. Five days.
Sherlock can already feel it- his brain is dissolving into nothing. It's leaking out of his ear. Without a case, he will cease to exist. What a cruel way to go.
So why is it he hears laughter? Rude, considering that he's dying of boredom. Doesn't John have any sympathy? Compassion?
No. He doesn't even have the decency to look at him.
John is sitting there in his armchair like nothing is happening. He's reading something. A draft? Working on his blog? No. He wouldn't have laughed. Their last case wasn't something laughable. Was it? John had a strange sense of humor.
For instance, he continues to chuckle while Sherlock is giving him a needy look. Some friend.
Ah, there. Now that look is more appreciated. Sad. Thoughtful.
Why?
What was he reading that had him change expressions so quickly? Might be worth getting off the sofa. Hm. Yes, alright. There is nothing else to do. It's decided. Sherlock gets up and walks over to John's chair. He peers over the laptop screen.
Oh, it's just a blog. A picture blog. Postcards? What is so interesting about postcards? Must be one of those hipster blogs he hears about so often. How boring.
John doesn't like hipsters either, though. Said so himself, a while back. So then, what is this?
A closer look at the postcards.
Interesting.
Is it?
Each postcard only has a sentence written on it. No postcard is written by the same person, he could tell that immediately. All sent to the same place in America. Post Secret.
All these people are sending in secrets to one person?
Why?
Why would they do that?
"Do you want to read some?" John asks.
Moron. Sherlock has already read some. He's not that interested. No, he'll go back to laying down on the sofa. Much more interesting. He sighs, and makes his way there.
Must be nice to be entertained by such trivial secrets.
John, of course, notices his disinterest. Instead of keeping quiet, though, he continues.
"Sometimes I try to imagine what these peoples lives are like. The kind of person who wrote them."
Does he? Yes, he does. After each postcard, he stops and thinks, imagining the owner of the secret as he wrote it out. Could be interesting. Perhaps a chance to work on his graphology, find out more about the people who wrote them. Yes. That might hold him over for an hour.
Sherlock walks back over to John, and snatches his laptop away. He ignores John's protest ("Sherlock, I didn't mean you could take my laptop- again!") and goes over to the sofa.
Many secrets are about sex. Typical.
The handwriting, though. It was from all sorts of people. People Sherlock wouldn't have thought would ever write something like this, even if it was promised to keep secret. Why did they write their secrets? Why did they trust them to the public?
Oh. John is sitting beside him. When did he do that?
Sherlock looks down at the clock on the bottom left hand side of the screen. He's been reading these for ten minutes. Deducing about people's lives. This could keep him occupied. He's actually found a... hobby.
Sherlock sneers at the word. Usually, he has his experiments to tide him over the longer waits. Nothing this week. Dull.
Secrets it was, then.
"Anything?" John questions. He's curious what Sherlock can read in the slopes and long tails of people's handwriting. Does he care about these people?
Some. The ones with the harder lives. The ones in the military, particularly. Sherlock can tell- that's where he's stopped. The blog had a special section for the soldiers that week.
Every Sunday. New secrets. People kept sending them in, hundreds. Sherlock scrolls done. Millions of hits. It's fascinating for Sherlock because he likes to deduce about their lives. Why for everyone else? A connection to humanity?
He scoffs.
Pointless.
"A few things. Little blips of they're lives. Unimportant," He replies. Still, Sherlock can't bring himself to give John his laptop back. He's already gone through all the postcards for this week. There were more, yes? Obviously. "Where are the others?"
John grins, but says nothing. It's a small victory for him. Sherlock doesn't understand why.
John took the laptop back, and took Sherlock to the archives. They weren't hard to find. He passed it back to Sherlock.
"There you are. Hopefully that will keep you from becoming the dying drama queen again." That was uncalled for, Sherlock thought. He really was dying of boredom.
There are... years worth of secrets in the archives. Years. Amazing. The man who had started this didn't think it would grow to be so big, he knows. This grew out of nothing. He's made a career for himself. For some reason, it's helping people. Ridiculous.
They make a game out of the secrets. John would try and deduce the lives of the people, Sherlock would tell him what he's right about. Sometimes, Sherlock would show off, and deduce more than John thought was possible.
Yes, Sherlock is showing off a little. He likes seeing the look of amazement on John's face, especially after the words stopped coming so frequently.
It's a fun game.
"What can you tell me about that one?" He points out a post card with wine bottles in the background, the message saying 'I wish they'd stop trying so hard.'
"Alcoholism," But John already figured that out, hadn't he? Yes. He's thinking of his sister. Can't help it. He's worrying about her. She's back on the booze. "The text was pasted on the postcard- this person is scared of having her handwriting being recognized. Their family or friends must read the website as well. It's very likely they're close, discuss the secrets. They think their alcoholism hurts their loved ones," He sighs. "But it's not enough to stop them. They will continue to drink, despite what their friends tell them."
John frowned, just as Sherlock knew he would. Well, he asked, didn't he? Maybe he wasn't being 'kind', or 'thoughtful' of John's feelings. Some would accuse him of being cold. He ignores the next couple of secrets, most lives predictable and then he stops on a different secret.
It's from a person who sits on their toilet in a different way. Sherlock swears up and down that it's Anderson, that he can tell from the mediocre drawing and the infantile handwriting. John breaks out into giggles, tells Sherlock to stop, and then laughs some more.
It wasn't Anderson who wrote the secret. Sherlock doesn't tell John.
When did John go to bed? It's suddenly so quiet. Sherlock can't tell how long he's been deducing things about the secrets and the people who wrote them. Can't even tell if he's been doing so out loud or not. Post Secret wasn't so bad after all.
He finds himself three months deeper into the collection of secrets. Each secret takes about 4 minutes to deduce everything he can from them. Some longer. Some shorter. Sherlock finds himself wondering if he's met any of these people.
Then he comes across an unspectacular looking secret.
It's a completely white postcard, except for the middle. Tiny, handwriting. Like a chicken scratch. Barely legible. A doctor's handwriting. Sherlock knows this handwriting. John.
'It terrifies me that what everyone says about me is right.'
What did he mean? What was everyone saying about him?
Not only did his handwriting indicate that he had been nervous, but that he wrote it swiftly as well. He wrote this while Sherlock was outside of the flat. Went out and mailed it soon after. It's not just a secret from other people. It's a secret from himself.
Whatever it was, John didn't want it to be true.
Ah.
Yes, it would make sense why.
Bringing this up probably wouldn't be the best idea to go about things. Sherlock could be wrong. (Ha!)He needs a way to get out of this, just in case. Hm. So then. How shall he do this?
A small smile spreads across his face.
John would appreciate that such sentiment.