Don't own Sherlock or any of the other characters/settings. While the execution is all mine, I do not claim authorship of the plot. Came across this plot line on Tumblr, decided to use it for a university assignment. Assignment turned out well and thus here it is for your enjoyment.
Dr. Watson's Blog – 25 December 2013
For two years it was like that. For two long, but at the same time very short years, there was an annoying prat on my couch, staring straight ahead when he had a case, retreating into his mind-palace. And yes, I did think that with a sneer. He is the most annoying man I've ever known. I mean that. He is annoying at a daily basis, stubborn even while unconscious, God knows how he accomplishes that, and he never listens to anyone, except if they're worthy enough, or at least, if their cases are worthy enough. I keep thinking back to Henry Knight, the man who got Sherlock engaged by saying 'hound' instead of 'dog'. Apparently, that made a significant difference. In the end, of course, we know it made a tremendous difference, but he couldn't have known that at the time, not a chance. Still, he took the case. I've always wondered what did it.
I don't think I've ever blogged about it before, but there was this time, only a few months after we met though long enough for us to get reasonably close, that I was out to get something, groceries I think. When I entered the living, Sherlock just sat there, in his effing mind palace. First thing he said to me was "I said, could you pass me a pen," seriously expecting me to hand him a pen. I asked him, "when did you ask me this?" and he replied "about an hour or so. " He hadn't even noticed I was gone.
In the end, I developed a habit where I just threw a pen or whatever he needed without even looking. We seemed to communicate at a subconscious level. I know, it sounds terribly cheesy, but surprisingly enough, it worked. I've tossed him many things over the last few years: newspapers, pens (at least fifty and that while he never writes), his revolver (the wall was already damaged beyond repair anyway, but I'm still sorry Mrs. Hudson, I had no idea what he was going to do with it), his phone (on numerous occasions), my phone (about as often), newspapers, scarfs, his special hat (though that was more a joke on my part, he detested that thing, hated it with a fiery passion, and that was about as much of a reaction I ever got from him, if you don't count the whole Baskerville drug thing) and I believe I once even tossed him a cup of tea.
After he was gone, I kept tossing him things. Even while he wasn't there. It broke my heart. It also broke many other things, for example phones. While luckily I never grabbed Sherlock's old phone, I had to replace mine twice during the last two years, and I knocked over quite a few vases with pens or pencils. The hat did not survive. Every time this happened, a little bit of me just died. After the inevitable crash of objects falling down, I sat where Sherlock used to sit, clutching something of his, usually that stupid deerstalker, and, though I'm slightly afraid to say it, just sobbing there, until the feelings passed.
Eventually, the habit died down, and after eighteen months I barely did it anymore. Once a month I would pick up a pencil, prepare to throw but stop mid-movement, and put it away again. This morning, though, it happened again. I came in, dropped my keys on the kitchen table, threw my coat on a random chair, and walked to the couch. I picked up Sherlock's phone and threw it to where he used to sit. I couldn't help myself, and the moment that the phone left my hand I thought "NO DON'T…" I squeezed my eyes shut, not willing to look at the inevitable crash, and prepared myself for the thump, the sound that announced the death of my last bit of Sherlock, the keepsake I held most dear. It didn't come.
"I said, could you pass me a pen, not my phone."