Through the chinks and clinks of Mrs. Hudson pottering about in the kitchen comes the faint sound of the door shutting softly downstairs. The gentle thud-thud of feet padding up the wooden staircase is unmistakable even over the loud crackles of the cheerily roaring fire. As the sitting room door opens Holmes folds his newspaper carefully, placing it in the exact centre of the table.

"You're late," he says mildly, without even looking up. "I've had to deny Mrs. Hudson the pleasure of brewing me tea twice already."

The figure slumps in the armchair facing the fireplace without replying, submitting himself almost resignedly to Holmes' critical glance as he sums up the adventures of the day with his steel blue gaze. Somehow, all the years have failed to take the edge off that scrutinising look. It still makes him feel like a guilty schoolboy under the supervising watch of the headmaster.

"You look rather the worse for wear" comes the verdict, clipped and unrelenting.

"Yes, well", sighs Watson, now removing his gloves and draping them over the edge of the armchair. "So would you, if you'd taken the pains to go through the paper today." He looks down surreptitiously at the folded newspaper on the table.

"What about it?" Holmes asks nonchalantly, reaching into his robes and producing a battered old pipe from its depths.

"I do wish you'd stop doing that" Watson says irately, "They were right. Nicotine patches are so much better."

"My dear, you're confusing the two of us." Holmes reproaches lightly, "I'm not him."

"You know that's not what I meant. Besides, he does a pretty good impression of you, so you might as well have been." Watson replies vehemently.

Holmes mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "pretty boy" but Watson can't be sure. Checking himself, Holmes repeats patiently, "What about it?"

"What about what?"

"The paper, John. You were saying there's something in it?", he provides, now prodding the bowl of the pipe curiously.

Without a word, Watson reaches for the paper on the table and unfurls it with a vindictive flourish.

"Presenting a contemporary update of the famous Sherlock Holmes detective stories, the new BBC television series Sherlock joins the pantheon of great British classics graced by the likes of Doctor Who and James Bond…"

"Yes, yes", Holmes waves his hand impatiently. "Apparently, I'm a 'dynamic super-hero in a modern world, an arrogant, genius sleuth driven by a desire to prove himself cleverer than the perpetrator, the police and everyone else…'. I must say, apart from their rather obvious penchant for hyperbole, I see nothing worrying in it."

Watson gapes at him. "So you read it?"

"As much as I could afford to, John, without causing permanent damage to my diligently cultivated sense of modesty." Holmes indulges in one of his rare grins.

John stumbles down the street, barely noticing where he's going. The meeting with Lestrade has been less than satisfactory. It was apparent that the man was taking the opportunity to bask in the light of his fifteen minutes of fame, however dim.

"But surely they can't get away with this?" he had asked.

"As far as I can see, they've done nothing wrong." Lestrade had replied, smiling grimly.

"But the viewers! Look at what they're coming up with! This is totally detrimental to everything!"

Lestrade reasoned "They can't stop fans with coming up with their interpretations, Watson. In fact, trying to hinder it in any way might be unfavourable for subsequent ratings as well."

"Questions of damaging your modesty aside" Watson presses on, "I see you haven't read the inset then."

"Go on.", Holmes tilts his head by a fraction.

Riffling through to the middle page, Watson reads "The meteoric popularity of the series has not only created a whole new fandom dedicated solely to the BBC adaptation, it has also spurred them to come up with their own interpretations, observations, deductions, and fan fictions, leading to entire websites being enthusiastically devoted to stories created out of loving fan labour. A sub-genre of the fan fiction that seems to be particularly popular among all gender and age groups is slash, which is a term given to fan fiction that focuses on interpersonal attraction and sexual relationships between fictional characters of the same sex. The pairing of Holmes and Watson as potential lovers has, indeed, drawn a great deal of attention and speculation, and generated enough discussion on online message boards for the threads to run on for hundreds of pages."

Silence.

"Well?" Watson presses impatiently.

"You should have learnt by now, John, that public opinion is the least of my concerns."

"Yes, but..." Watson splutters.

"Unless of course, Moriarty's behind it – which, I think we can safely assume this time, is not the case."

"Of course not, but that doesn't stop it from being…"

"Also, these people are writing things about a representation of us, as opposed to the real us. That makes a lot of difference you know."

Watson shakes his head. Holmes doesn't know what he is saying.

"You'd never say that if you'd actually read some of the things they've come up with."

"Oh? And you have?" Holmes raises his eyebrows ever so slightly, the dark arches disappearing into the mass of tousled wavy hair lying on his porcelain forehead.

"One must always know ones enemies" Watson replies with a shrug.

Holmes laughs.

"As always, you let your emotions rule you John – that fly in the ointment… You need to divorce yourself from your feelings in order to be truly objective."

Watson purses his lips and busies himself on his laptop, feigning to ignore Holmes' jibes and failing miserably, his resentment betrayed by the sound of keys being hit much too harder than necessary. Holmes goes back to poking his pipe, and has just lit up and taken the first puff, a thin stream of gray smoke issuing from nostrils steadily, when Watson pushes the laptop in front of Holmes' face. He looks up questioningly.

"Go on then, read it." Watson says.

Holmes frowns.

"I kiss his lips, gently." he reads aloud, "I feel the tension sag away from him and his hand on my face. I hold him close, our foreheads together again. His eyelids are flickering now. He kisses me back, straining like it's taking the last of his strength. His hands clench in my jumper and his eyes blaze as he looks at me. 'I want you to be the last thing I see,' he rasps." Holmes' voice is even, his inflexion revealing no sign of the slightest bit of embarrassment. When he finishes, he merely looks at Watson curiously.

"You let yourself be affected by these things?" he asks. "Your insecurity is deeper seated than I'd previously imagined."

"It's not just this Sherlock." Watson snaps, "They're killing one of us off and writing angsty stories that reek of teenage drama. Then there are these, with scenes steamy enough to fog up my reading glasses. But the worst of the lot are the crossovers. You know that those two have started working on a godforsaken movie together? Something involving a dragon and a hobbit apparently, whatever that is. And they're transcending the limits of the show and making up stories about them as well."

He starts reading out.

"…and he closed his eyes and inhaled Smaug's warm, smoky breath, feeling himself rise, almost unconsciously, on the waves of his masculinity. The dragon felt something stirring deep within it. An ancient hunger, of a kind it had never known before. And the hunter became the hunted. Slowly, gently, the great beast stooped lower, lower, till its fiery snout was level with the Hobbit's gold-laced face. For a moment, time stood still. Passion was patient. Hunger was tame. And then without warning..." He trails off in a huff.

"I still don't see what you're getting so worked up about. The stories are about them John, as I've told you already. You could hardly expect me to get all riled up needlessly because two blokes in some movie get sleazy fanfiction written about them."

"Two blokes who are portraying us." Watson corrects exasperatedly. "Honestly Sherlock, I don't see how you can be this calm about it. Don't you think, even for one second, that our reputation is at stake?"

"Nonsense", and with that Holmes gets up in a sweeping movement and reaches for his violin.

"You're the same as Lestrade then," Watson says heatedly as he snaps the laptop shut.

"You talked to Lestrade about this?" Holmes glances at him.

"If talk means a one-sided-rant to someone who might as well have been a concrete wall than yes, I have." Watson snorts. "He didn't think there was anything that could be done to stop them, and frankly, I don't think he even wanted to. He seemed to be enjoying all the sudden attention he was being lavished with."

"Observant of all the wrong details as always, John." Sherlock responds, "He was merely too frustrated of the fact that his wife's sleeping with a PE teacher to care about your inane worries."

"Inane?!" Watson splutters with rage, "What the… Fine… You know what? Sod it. Sod it all. I'm out of here."

And turning, he storms out of the room, banging the door shut violently.

"Your walking stick's in the umbrella stand at the end of the hall," Sherlock calls after him.

And sure enough, as he steps out of 221 B, Watson notes with extreme annoyance that his limp has decided to come back. He goes back in and wrenches the cane out of the stand and slams the front door shut behind him. As he crosses the street, Holmes watches the receding figure in a grey hand-knit jumper, hobbling along with a pronounced limp until it vanishes down the bend of the road. Holmes lets the curtain fall and starts dressing quickly, casting his robes for his usual purple shirt, suit, scarf and coat.

You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle.

The voice from the television floats across the room to the two of them reclining on the couch. Holmes sighs and hits a button on the remote. The drawing room goes quiet, and he looks at Watson, who's frowning at the TV screen as if he can will it to melt to nothingness. Presently, he feels Holmes staring at him, and glances up.

"They made me look like an imbecile." he mutters, scowling.

"Welcome to the third person perspective of you, John." Holmes replies, an edge to his voice. "Personally, I thought it was a sufficiently accurate portrayal, the same of which I'm afraid I cannot quite say about the other chap. I found him… rather pedantic. And I dislike nicotine patches."

Watson scoffs, "Oh please. If anything, I found the bloke rather bang on about you. In fact, he really hit the nail on the head."

Now it's Holmes' turn to frown. "It's beginning to dawn on me what kind of perception you have of me John. I must say I'm hurt."

"What about me then?" Watson retorts, "You think I'm anything like… like that? I would like to think that my compliments on your deductive abilities were at least a bit more originally worded than those lines he kept spewing! And blogger? Really? What happened to good old-fashioned author!"

"Oh do calm down John. You must remember that the books don't exist in their world. It's simply make-believe. You cannot afford to let imaginary things affect you so."

"In that case you should stop griping about your misportrayal!" Watson snaps. "A study in pink," he plods on under his breath. "As if scarlet wasn't good enough."

Holmes sighs. He's beginning to realise that although he'll never get used to Watson's touchiness on some subject matters, it's exactly the part of his charm that makes him, well, him. He watches as the doctor rises from the couch in an attempt to shake off his resentment, and smiles inwardly. Watson takes no notice and walks over to the kitchen. Moments later, Holmes hears the fridge being opened.

"A severed head?" Watson's startled voice carries over to the drawing room.

Holmes settles in even more comfortably in the couch. "Just tea for me, thanks."

Watson drags his feet down the narrow alleyway, his ragged breath coming out in puffs of condensed cold air. His resentment towards Holmes has ebbed away with the fading rays of the winter sun, and a cold hopelessness has set in along with the evening chill. It does't matter to Holmes, he knows, what other people think. He's always been detached that way. It's why he is so brilliant. So objective. So superior. But he can't be that way. He, John Watson, will always be relegated to the position of the sidekick. The assistant. The colleague. Sometimes even the friend. But only as long as he doesn't get in the way. Sherlock Holmes has no friends, he reminds himself.

The phone in his coat pocket buzzes loudly, interrupting his increasingly gloomy reverie. It's Lestrade. After the afternoon's events, he's less than keen on picking up the call. But with Lestrade, you never know, a small voice in his head reasons. His thumb hits "Accept".

The voice at the end of the line is scraggly, probably because of bad reception. Watson's mood swings never had a tendency to take him to respectable parts of the city.

"Hello?"

"John…", Lestrade's voice flickers.

"Lestrade", Watson says loudly, "You have to speak louder. The reception's awful here."

"John… Sherlock…", Lestrades voice flickers dangerously, but Watson's hearing has become magically sensitive by a thousand times at the mention of Holmes.

"What about him?" Watson asks, trying hard to keep the sudden surge of panic out of his voice and not shout in the middle of an alleyway. "What about Sherlock?"

The voice at the end of line sputters one last time, and all Watson can make out is "Baker Street" before the reception trails off into an infuriating static.

Cursing under his breath, Watson turns back, weaving his way out of the dingy street and onto the main road to flag down a cab back home.

A pair of feet pauses on the landing outside the drawing room of 221B, its owner listening keenly to a pair of voices arguing heatedly inside.

"He what?"

"I just want you to come to St. Bart's with me right away, okay?"

"He couldn't have.", the other voice continues stubbornly.

"Look, there were witnesses. A dozen of them. Will you just come?"

"Come? Come where?"

"He's with Molly.", the voice falters. "At the morgue", it adds quietly.

Silence. The voices seem to have reached an impasse. The pair of feet outside shuffles slightly, as if making up its mind on whether to cross the threshold when, as if on cue, there's a sound of footsteps approaching the door from the other side. The next second, the door is wrenched open and a harassed looking man dressed in a gray jacket comes face to face with the tall figure waiting outside.

"Oh!", he ejaculates in surprise as the figure swishes past him and steps squarely into the room.

"Sherlock!", the second man chokes, recognising the intruder.

"But but but", the other man splutters. "Molly said…", his voice trails off into a cloud of unasked questions.

But Sherlock has eyes only for the second man, who takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Their eyes meet, and suddenly, something inside the man hardens, as if he's steeling himself for something.

"Explain yourself", he demands, his voice curiously hard.

Holmes merely drops into the nearest couch with an air of unperturbed ease.

"Explain yourself.", the man repeats. "I think you owe all of us that at least."

Holmes clears his throat softly before saying, "If you must know, I've just returned after cleaning up a few… anomalies."

"You jumped off Bart's, they saw you…", the harassed-looking man manages to gasp.

"You of all people should know that what the eye sees is not always what is, Lestrade.", Holmes corrects softly.

"You jumped off Bart's", echoes the second man, his voice now shaking.

"As I would have most people believe John", comes the reply. "But you aren't most people."

"Sherlock, why… Why…"

"It was you who gave me the idea, really.

"I gave you the idea to jump off St. Bartholomew's Hospital?!", Watson yelps in outrage. "Exactly how did you manage to figure that out!"

"Well, it was you my dear who, only this morning, was griping about how those two have been 'tarnishing our reputation', if I'm not much mistaken."

"But how that is even remotely connected to you deciding to take a plunge off St. Barts, tell me that Sherlock!"

Holmes shakes his head slowly, his expression a mixture of pity and impatience.

"After all these years, John", he says after a while, "After all these years, you really should know me better. Didn't you hear me say that what people think is none of my concern? Do you really think I care whether these people think I'm dead or alive?"

"You… faked your death? On purpose?"

"You know I consider myself married to my work John. And you know I need you to do my work as well as I do. I can't have you moaning and griping all day. It's annoying and frankly, it puts me off my game."

Watson stares at Holmes with dawning comprehension.

"The Adler episode will air next week.", Holmes continues, "That should keep them quiet for sometime. It'll be tough for them to work around Adler just to maintain the current pairing. And you know how these people love cliffhangers. When they hear about today's events…"

"… They're going to shoot it.", completes Watson, now almost grinning. "But they wouldn't know how you pulled it off…"

"Effectively, Sherlock Holmes is as good as dead."

"Unless of course they figure out a way around that too." Watson says. "That bunch isn't a stupid lot you know."

"I think the chances of that happening are slim enough to be risked, don't you?" Holmes smiles quietly.

Watson laughs, his eyes sparkling. Holmes has heard that laugh before on many occasions, the first of which was right after they'd chased a cab through the streets of London without Watson realising he'd left his walking stick behind. He looks at him now.

"You faked your own death by jumping off the roof of a hospital so I'd stop complaining about fanfiction on us." Watson mutters incredulously, running his hand through his hair.

"Anything for you my dear", Holmes smiles. And Watson can't help but return it.

Authorspeak: Liked/hated this fic? I would love to hear from you! Please leave a review below so that I know where I went right/wrong and improve my storytelling abilities. =)