This was originally posted as part of a collection called Catch-All during August 2012.
Beta
John came home from surgery sticky and smelling faintly of vomit to find Sherlock hunched over a laptop. The computer was not visible from this angle so he could not tell whether it was Sherlock's laptop or his- Sherlock seemed to think that they were interchangeable, at least as far as his usage, because he threw a wobbly the last time John had borrowed his. John shrugged, heading upstairs to take a shower, behind him he could hear Sherlock ranting:
"Oh, that is not even physically possible! You would think these people would do a little research."
Sherlock typed furiously. John couldn't help smiling, wondering what inane thing Sherlock had found to capture his attention this time. Sherlock's brief obsession with Jeremy Kyle had been deeply amusing but disturbing.
When John came back downstairs fresh and clean, feeling like a new man; Sherlock was muttering to himself, angrily.
"There, not there. There, not there."
John walked past Sherlock, angling himself so that he would be able to glimpse at the computer screen over Sherlock's shoulder. A document was open and the word "their" was highlighted in all capitals with bold green font that was twice the size of the rest of the document.
"Their, not there," muttered Sherlock again. Few things could raise Sherlock's ire faster than using the incorrect homonym- a clear sign of a lazy and dim-witted writer.
"What are you doing?" he asked, curiously, moving back a step so that Sherlock would not catch him looking at the screen. Sherlock called such actions spying and did not appreciate it; unless, of course, Sherlock did it to John, and then it was called research or constructive criticism and could not be protested.
Sherlock was typing again and did not answer. John wandered off into the kitchen to see if there was anything edible to be found.
"Editing," came Sherlock's absent-minded response ten minutes later.
"Oh," said John, poking his head into the living room, "what are you editing?"
Sherlock ignored him again so John went back to surgically removing the mould from their block of cheese. He hoped to combine the cheese with some olive oil to make a sauce for the pasta he had found hiding in the back of the cupboard.
"John," called Sherlock in that almost friendly tone of voice that he used on the rare occasions when he asked John to do something instead of demanding. "I need your assistance."
"Just a moment," said John, stirring the pasta into the cheese-sauce concoction. He tasted a bite, labelling it bland but edible, before dividing it onto two plates. He carried them into the living room and passed one to Sherlock, who accepted it with a brief thanks. "Now, what did you need?"
"Read this," ordered Sherlock, plopping the computer onto John's lap. "The writing is such a mess that, quite frankly, I have no clue where to begin to make them fix it. I would tell the author to delete it and start over, or preferably not, but in the past that just made them angry."
"You never worry about making people angry."
"I don't care that they're angry," replied Sherlock as though John had said something stupid. "But the quantity of drivel produced is directly proportionate to the extent of their anger. People seem to think that writing massive quantities of utter crap is the only way to silence the "flamers and haters". If I want people to stop writing like this, I need a more palatable way of informing them of their faults."
At this announcement, Sherlock looked distinctly disgusted.
"Flamers and haters?" repeated John, bemused.
"Just read," ordered Sherlock.
John read a few lines, wrinkling his nose at the flowery prose. Each sentence became more descriptive and heavily filled with euphemisms.
"Sherlock," he began, "Why am I reading porn?"
He scrolled down and choked.
"Why am I reading porn about us?"
"Because it is badly written and we need to fix it."
"Why?" he asked, his voice squeaking from his suddenly dry mouth. This had to be a nightmare.
"Because, John, if people are going to write porn about us, it should be grammatically correct and use aesthetically pleasing terminology. No one should ever describe my anus as blossoming like a rosebud."
John choked again, feeling the wild urge to laugh hysterically, or perhaps, cry.
"I don't understand why people are writing porn about us," said John, trying to remain calm. "Is this…did you…Should I be blaming you?"
"Oh, no, it's mostly your fault."
"My fault."
Sherlock watched him over the monitor of the laptop.
"You started the blog," he pointed out, "which was the beginning of all the publicity. Between that and newspapers we're practically public entities."
"I don't understand."
"They call it R-P-F on the message boards. Everyone who is anyone has it." Sherlock smirked, looking distinctly pleased. "But Mycroft doesn't."
"R-P-F?" asked John, wondering when he had fallen down the rabbit hole.
"Real person fiction, or fic, they do like their abbreviations."
"And this equals porn?"
"Usually, yes."
"About us?" John just could not wrap his head around the idea.
"And occasionally with other people," said Sherlock helpfully.
John shook his head.
"I don't want to know," he said, emphatically.
"Okay, John," said Sherlock, in a slightly worried tone, only just now catching on to the fact that John wasn't taking the revelation as nonchalantly as Sherlock himself apparently had.
"How did you discover that people were writing, ahem, stories about us?" asked John. He closed the laptop and set it aside, not wanting to accidentally read another word.
"Someone left a comment in your blog with a link."
"I think I would remember that."
Sherlock shifted, guiltily.
"I may have deleted it," he admitted with a shrug.
"You delete comments from my blog."
"Sometimes."
"Right." John ran a hand over his face. "And now you read about us having sex so that you can tell the author how they're writing it wrong."
"Yes, exactly."
"I think I need a drink."
"Does this mean that you're not going to help me fix the story?"
John stared at Sherlock.
"Oh, fine," said Sherlock with a huff. He grabbed the laptop and stomped towards his room.
John nodded to himself. He definitely needed a drink.