This is my first published fan fiction, and I really hope you enjoy it. Please post comments and give me feedback: you are my motivation to write this!

Subtle Johnlock - I ship it like FedEX, but I mainly write only what I can imagine actually happening in the show, and I can't imagine John and Sherlock ever going so far as kissing or sleeping together onscreen. By subtle, I mean signs of their deep friendship.

This is all, as yet, unwritten, but I am considering Molly dating either John or Lestrade - I'm a sucker for them both. Which would you prefer? Leave your answer in the comments!

Oh, and all this is post-Reichenbach. I haven't yet mentioned it, but am hoping to address it in the next couple of chapters. May even include my theory as to how Sherly survived (woo-hoo!).

Thank you for reading!

John's Blog

The Speckled Blonde

The violins set my teeth on edge.

Sherlock was bored - he hadn't had an interesting case for weeks - and it was showing.

In the course of the thirty minutes I had been out at the supermarket, he had repainted our apartment in a garish shade of orange, solved a murder connected to a mysterious jewel theft in Bulgaria and taken to watching reality TV with increasing exasperation.

Also, he had learnt to play 'Single Ladies' on violin, which I suspected was a deliberate attempt to annoy me and so get some action out of the day.

Not surprisingly, I decided to sleep at Molly's for the night due to the fact that Sherlock had turned my bedroom into a mortuary.

All of a sudden, I heard a loud hammering at the door.

'I heard a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door,' came Sherlock's muffled voice from upstairs.

I rolled my eyes and opened the door.

'Is Mrs. Hudson here?' A dishevelled-looking man asked breathlessly.

'Ye-'

'Not now; call later,' a voice said briskly: the door slammed and I found myself facing Sherlock, tying his scarf resolutely.

'What was that all about?'

'Phone call, John. A case!'

The cab pulled up on a sleet-covered road just outside main London. A small cottage stood there, surrounded by police carrying umbrellas. Even in the gloomy weather, it was picturesque; a little English village surrounded by thick wood.

'Isn't it beau-'

'Boring,' Sherlock said curtly, pulling his scarf tighter about his neck and ducking under the police tape.

'Oh, it's the freak and his blogger,' Donovan mocked, pulling me to the side.

'Have you set a date yet? You know - for the wedding?'

'No, actually,' Sherlock said crispy. 'But when we do, you'll be the first to know.'

'Once again, not gay,' I muttered to no one.

We found Lestrade inside the house, standing over the body of a young woman.

She looked in her early twenties, a natural brunette but with long hair dyed talcum-powder blonde. She was dressed for London: jeans, sweatshirt and raincoat. Pretty, probably - it was hard to tell, what with her being dead and all. The whole blue-skin-dead-body thing didn't really work for me.

The most extraordinary feature of her appearance, however, was something that was obviously unnatural. Her body was covered in red spots, like an extreme allergic reaction. A gun lay beside her corpse and a pool of blood surrounded her head.

Sherlock knelt over the body, his eyes roaming across the room.

'Stressed - notice the bitten fingernails and early grey hairs, a recovered alcoholic, superstitious (she wore a jade ring for protection while travelling), suffering from dandruff, a cold and an unrealised breast cancer, but nothing else of interest. Oh, and she was travelling from Manchester to Piccadilly.'

He held up a bus ticket.

Anderson, dusting in the corner of the room for fingerprints, paused to roll his eyes.

'Erm ... Yes,' said Lestrade, meeting my eye. He shook his head in disbelief.

'And your opinion, Doctor Watson?'

I grimaced. 'Well, she can't have been dead for more than eighteen hours and Sherlock's right - she had just recovered from a cold.'

'Whoever she was, she's given our policemen a bit of work. See, those - spots - they're not like anything we've ever seen before. We've got the top doctors in Harley Street working on it at the moment, but ... They don't have strong hopes.

'What happened?' I asked.

'Little old Mrs. Thomas walked into her home last night, saw little Blondie over here and called us. She swears she never saw her in her life before. We get there: pretty simple gun death, bullet exited skull and drilled a hole in that wall over there-' he pointed to the far wall of the living room -'but no one can explain those marks. We haven't identified the woman yet, but I'll be sending people down to Manchester and Piccadilly now.'

'How come she had no identification with her?' I asked.

'Two theories. One: it was a suicide and she threw away or lost her ID. Two: it was a homicide and the murderer took it to impede our investigation,' Lestrade said.

I finally asked the most obvious question.

'How did she end up here, then?'

Lestrade shrugged. 'The house was locked but a kitchen window was open. If if is murder, then the killer must have dragged her here. At first, we thought that she might have been shot nearby and crawled through the window for help, but that was before we found the bullet hole in the wall.'

'Two murders.'

'What?'

Sherlock wandered over to us.

'Two. Didn't I just say two?'

'How can you tell?'

Sherlock smiled thinly. 'Mrs. Thomas killed her husband last night with his own hunting gun. While she was out, wondering what to do about the bullet hole in her wallpaper, she came across a dying girl who had crawled into her garden for help. Mrs. Thomas killed her, burned her husband's body and contacted the police. She thought, like many imbeciles would in her position, that the dying girl on her doorstep was her fifty-two-year-old husband's lover.'

'What - but - how do you know?' Lestrade asked in astonishment.

Sherlock sighed. 'Is there some sort of course you have to do, or do you just sign up to be a detective?

'Mark on right index finger, stain on door and Mrs. Thomas's almost-new dress. Need I say more?'

'Yes, actually, but we'll get to that later. What was the cause of the woman's injuries?'

Sherlock brushed off his coat. 'Don't know. Get your best people on it.'

I cancelled my plans to stay at Molly's apartment and sat in an armchair for the rest of the night, thinking over the case. Sherlock lay on the the couch, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

As far as I know, he didn't stir from that position the entire night and most of the next day.

(Unpublished)

It was odd, and I'd never tell him, but I loved Sherlock. I loved the feeling I got when I was around him, that same frenzy of danger and adventure and not knowing exactly where I was that had driven me to Afghanistan in the first place. He made me feel alive.

He had said that he was a sociopath, the first night we met (almost as if to warn me) but, honestly? I don't think that's true. Sociopaths are almost incapable of feeling the softer emotions, and merely attempt to mimic others', but I think Sherlock feels too deeply. And it hurts him, so he tries not to feel: only to think.

And he's become very good at it.

Emails

To: John

From: Sherlock

Subject: Bored.

CC: Mrs. Hudson

John, get me my revolver.

- SH

To: Sherlock

From: John

CC: Mrs. Hudson

Subject: RE: Bored

Get it yourself.

To: Sherlock, John

From: Mrs. Hudson

Subject: RE:RE: Bored.

I'm going to my book club in a minute. Do you two need anything from the grocers?

From: Sherlock

To: Mrs. Hudson

CC: John

Subject: RE:RE:RE: Bored.

Oh, yes. Was it wine labels you were reading this month, or scotch?

- SH

To: Sherlock

From: John

Subject: None

Sod it.

To: John

From: Sherlock

Subject: RE: None

Not good?

To: Sherlock

From: John

Subject: RE:RE: None

Bit not good, yeah.

I was nearly home from lunch when the cab swerved and parked on the side of the road.

I was taken aback, until the driver turned round. It was Anthea: Mycroft's little toy soldier. Pretty, smart and completely out of my league.

'John,' she said, eyes fixed on her phone. 'Nice to see you again.'

'Were - were you on that while we were driving?' I asked, nodding towards the glowing screen of the smartphone.

She didn't answer, but quickly looked up and smiled.

'Into the building. Mycroft wants you.'

I sighed, and got out of the car. What looked like an abandoned warehouse stood in front of me, backlit ominously in the light of the setting sun.

I pulled at the heavy steel doors, half expecting to find them locked. They creaked open slowly, grinding on their hinges.

Inside, I found a wide concrete room, puddles forming where the roof had leaked. Mouldy cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly on top of each other in the corners and from the darkness came the high-pitched squeaks of rats.

'Ah, Doctor Watson. I hope Anthea was good company?'

Mycroft's voice echoed from across the room.

He stepped out from behind a stack of boxes, tapping his umbrella on the ground neurotically.

'Why am I here?'

Mycroft smiled, held out a sheaf of papers.

'This is why.'

I took the papers from his outstretched hand distrustfully. Mycroft was a bit of a git, but - occasionally - he had helped me.

My eyes travelled over the folder in my hand. 'These are all descriptions of murders,' I muttered. 'Just like ...'

'Yes, just like that boring little murder my little brother is investigating.'

'Well, we worked out who did it. What do you want?' I asked, feeling more than a little exasperated.

'No, you didn't,' Mycroft said: 'the woman merely put her out of her misery; she would have died anyway from those spots.'

I shook my head. What did it matter?

'Those spots were probably just an allergic reaction. Anyway, what does it matter to the Government?'

Mycroft flipped over the last page of the files. It showed a photograph of a sharply dressed middle-aged man, and the description of his death.

'William Petersburg ...' I read aloud. 'Minor role in administration in the Government. Was found ... So on, and so on ... With unexplained markings on skin and visage. No record of any allergy.'

Mycroft looked at me meaningfully. 'What? He was a clerk. Why are you lot interested?'

The short, stout man pursed his lips and I was forcibly reminded of my mother.

'We have not, of course, told the idiots at Scotland Yard, but that man was rather more than a clerk.'