Watson's sick.
We have an epidemic, people! If Holmes and Watson were really sick/wounded as many times as our fanfictions tell them to be then they'd have no time for cases! Lestrade wouldn't've bothered to call at 221b Baker Street anymore, for fear of stumbling into yet another touching, personal scene as Holmes/Watson nursed Watson/Holmes back to health. Watson would've become a joke, the doctor who can never keep himself healthy, and Holmes would've shared the title of the Defective Detective.
But I'm getting away from the story. For all extents and purposes, our dear doctor is ill. Again. Not fatally, but any question of him leaving that couch is...well, out of the question.
"Sick and tired of being sick and tired..." he scrawls in his journal. Then his eyes light up. He seems to be looking at...ah, yes. A small notebook on the nearby table, containing notes on the latest case. Nothing cheers up a sick Watson more than the prospect of fleshing out the latest Holmes adventure. He picks up the notebook, opens it, and turns the page of his journal, pen at the ready...only to find it is the last one. The last page, I mean. One blank side of paper is all he has left to work with. He considers whether it would be worth the effort of walking upstairs to get the next blank book before he remembers there isn't one. With a sigh of aggravation, and a glare at the author who's putting him through this angst, he tosses both now-not-blank books on the table, and tries to fall asleep. Because she is in a good mood, the writer allows him to do so. Because the mood isn't that good, he sleeps through the period that Holmes is there. He awakes to find a cup of warm tea on the table, along with a slim volume. It has a black cover, and inside is(Ta da!) blank. Ooh, save for this small note:
"Couldn't help but deduce that you were reaching the end of the last one.
Get well soon, old chap,
S.H."
Watson smiles, slightly.
Induce.
The word appears in Watson's head. Aloud, he says, "What?"
Induce, repeats the author. not deduce. Holmes has been using the wrong word all this time-
"Just get on with it." Watson says, motioning to the story.
Watson took up his pen.
'First,' he thought. 'for the perfect title.'
In his best handwriting, he wrote:"The Giant Rat of Sumatra."
He looked at it. Pursing his lips, he crossed that out, and tried:"The Corpulent Sumatran Rodent."
That didn't seem any better. He crossed that out too, put on a determined expression, and wrote:"There Was This Mouse From Sumatra That Was Really, Really Big, Okay?"
He tore the page out, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at the author.
"I shall choose the title, if you don't mind." he said.
Well, get on with it, then! It's not like Holmes will...disfriend you somehow if it isn't perfect.
Watson decided to leave the title for later, and get straight to the story.
"Snow in London does not stay white for long. The flow of carriages and pedestrians never cease. By the time the city is illuminated by Aurora's light, all we see is grey slush, adding to the grime of the criminally inclined streets of London-"
He sighed, and scribbled over it. Far too poetical. Holmes would never approve.
Holmes isn't writing this, and he probably won't read it either, so why're you worrying so much about his opinion?
"Well, he bought me the item."
Is that all you're worried about? Look, he got you the thing to entertain you in your hour of illness, not to criticise your every mark in it.
"Are you certain?"
I'm the writer. I know everything. Of course I'm certain! Gah, enough of this. I'm going to watch 'Pride 'N Predjudice'. Do whatever you want, dude.
Watson was relieved, half an hour later when Holmes returned, that he felt perfectly healthy.
Holmes started coughing.