*prompt fill for the lovely jeeno2 since she came through big time on a request from me. Hope this works! The title is taken from the poem, "The Spider and the Fly" by Mary Howitt
"The idea that we can be exactly what the other desires is a powerful fantasy." ― Sherry Turkle
It was one of those evenings destined to become defined as 'another lonely night on Google' when reiterated on John's blog. The day had been interminable with nothing lingering on the horizon to distract him…no clients, no ongoing experiments, no companions.
Lestrade and Scotland Yard were determined to exceed their usual incompetence by having nothing requiring his brand of assistance. Lestrade, responding to a particularly testy eighth text, advised him to delete his number from Sherlock's phone. London's criminal element had unilaterally decided to go on holiday, it seemed. Sod them all.
Correspondingly, all of his potential clients had disappeared and John along with them. The clients were inexplicable but John claimed that the moppet, Sherlock's goddaughter, had picked up a bug and that he was staying home to help Mary cope with the aftermath. Sherlock considered that Rosie would be much more comfortable and content without two hovering parents but decided to leave the particulars to the Watsons. Most likely, they were only closeting themselves with their offspring to make themselves feel better. Cosseting and constant attention during illness were reserved for the very young in his considered opinion. Since he, himself, frequently required medical attention for one reason or another and nobody stayed at his side twenty-four/seven, he deemed his finding valid.
And then there was Dr. Molly Hooper…his pathologist, his dearest love, his amour, the sweet and accommodating holder of his heart who threatened to employ all her skill and creativity in cutting him into minute bits should he interrupt her composing a research study for publication. There was something about a deadline and prestige and how she'd always wanted to have something featured in this particular journal. The meaning was clear…interrupt her at his peril.
He considered importuning Mycraft but dismissed that thought immediately. Mrs. Hudson had gone off to her sister's for the nonce so he didn't have even a decent cup of tea to look forward to. A promise to Molly meant that he couldn't take up smoking again much less any of his previous other illicit escapes.
It was sheer boredom that eventually led him to opening his laptop or Molly's …a laptop anyway…and Google. Sherlock idly tabbed through a few random searches before typing his own name into the box and hitting enter. Almost immediately, the results populated and he began to sort through them. Stories about cases and those claiming knowledge of private matters were set aside. Lurid tabloid exposes were surveyed and smirked over. So, he was the product of an experiment funded by the British Government, carried out by shadowy figures hidden in the ranks at Bart's (including Molly and John as they were both doctors), and supervised by his brother…a mid-level bureaucrat with no discernible purpose. A few details of the story had elements very close to the truth…enough for him to send a link along with a suggestion that Mycroft quietly look into it…but the rest was rubbish.
Toward the bottom of the third page, he found something that piqued his interest. It looked as if he'd become something of an internet fixture that wasn't tied to John's blog or his website. These sites were not unlike the tabloid clickbaits in their preoccupation with matters other than his cases. The sheer number along with the specificity was mindboggling. One catalogued his clothing…the particulars of his Belstaff and his preferred suit cut. Another focused on his closest intimates including pictures…Mary and Rosie in the park, John cycling to work, Mrs. Hudson entering Baker Street, Lestrade with Donovan at a crime scene, Molly sitting in a tea shop with a book and cuppa. The gamut ran from art (some exceptional) to vids to whole fictional accounts written by fans of cases and romantic attachments. He did bookmark the site for further review before moving on.
There were boards dedicated to conspiracies that made Anderson's Empty Hearse seem like child's play. One of them grabbed his attention, mostly because of the innocuous title it held. He hit the link and was taken to the page, a black paneled door with a golden knocker and house numbers and a gilded title…"The Holmsies" Most of the areas were self-explanatory and the more esoteric were easily puzzled out. Discussion boards and chat rooms prevailed, arranged by topic much like Reddit. The most popular threads appeared at the top of the queue, with comments enumerated and the ancillary topics picked out like branches on a tree.
Each member appeared to have a profile featuring a picture, quote, awards earned (what in the world?), and their rank. Two stood out from the others for the number of emblems under their names and the way others in the group clustered about them. They were sought out, emulated, and clamored over even though neither appeared to seek out the attention. BlackTwoSugars was female, well-read, articulate…a professional who seemed to have contradictory view of him…admiring and scathing by turns depending on the subject. The other had an unseemly nickname considering that it belonged to a male, TheLittleHelpmate1895. He, too, was marked out by conflicting opinions when it came to Sherlock but his remarks were tempered by the view that there was surely good to be found in the Consulting Detective if an honorable chap like John Watson could stand him.
Sherlock sought out the filter option on the forum and soon discovered that those two and commented on no less than eighty percent of the threads present on the main board and the percentage held above fifty on many of the sub-threads. Theirs frequently became the final accepted view if not…one word from either of them could sway the stance. Intolerable! That he was dissected and examined and judged by those who knew nothing of him was insufferable. TheLittleHelpmate1895 was oddly preoccupied with certain habits of Sherlock's…calling him a show off and bemoaning his tendency to pop his collar at every opportunity. Sherlock rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at the screen. TheLittleHelpmate and John would get along splendidly. It was almost certain.
A few other turns of phrase tugged at Sherlock's mind, as if he'd heard them somewhere before. He read them once, twice and then again before a bell sounded a connection. Opening a new tab to John's blog, he ran a search and was unsurprised when it popped up on no less than four stories. Balance of probability suggested only two possibilities: TheLittleHelpmate mimicked John Watson out of admiration or TheLittleHelpmate was John Watson. It was a small matter of a simple hack and tracking down an IP before he was certain. That preening, self-serving little git! Another suspicion raised its head and he felt certain that it had legs. Where there was one, might there not be two?
The same examination of BlackTwoSugar's commentary was less illuminating. She stuck to the facts as she saw them, citing sources often and laying out her reasoning as one would if presenting them to a journal. There was clarity and brevity that he appreciated but the prose held a playfulness and colorful élan that seemed familiar. Two indeed. She was wilier than her counterpart, utilizing a VPN to conceal her whereabouts. He smirked when he saw the one she'd chosen…Serbia. Molly, Molly, Molly. However had she managed to conceal the reality of his death was beyond him. She had no head for espionage, his Molly.
Now the only question was how to settle for the two of them. Something had to be done. Out them. Drop hints that he knew of their pastime. Play with them. Ah yes…that was perfect. He would set up a membership of his own and then the game would begin in earnest. What to call himself? It had to be just right. Of course!
YellowBeard221B made his first post in the "The Holmesies" and then waited eagerly for the flies to come into his parlor.