John sat at his computer screen and hated Sherlock. He hurt and hated as a result.
It wasn't pain like a bullet because bullets could be taken out and the wound healed over. This hurt was worse than that.
John hurt the way he did when he was sixteen and his Mum was dying. He hurt the way she had said she was always proud of him and to take care of Harry and to not worry that she was ill.
John hurt the way he did when Harry first called him and spoke with an inflection that belied her assurances of sobriety. John had heard the same inflection in a gruff, familiar voice when he was called to go and fetch his alcoholic father from the Yard. John used the same firm tone with the officer when he went to fetch Harry.
While staring at the blank page, John remembered Sherlock.
John remembered how Sherlock first looked when they met at Bart's; mad, wild, enigmatic, cocky, and alone.
There had been a man in his unit like that. He had been mad and smart. Not as smart as Sherlock, but smart enough to impress blokes who spent too many hours in the Afghan sun. He was alone, too. He never got letters from home and never sent any. John was the only one that noticed.
John remembered when Sherlock kissed him at breakfast. He woke up that morning wanting some jam on toast and at least an hour to read the paper before Sherlock stumbled upon the world. He woke up that morning and got bread in the toaster and a jam jar in his hand before Sherlock tore out of his room. Sherlock had kissed him then, and many times after.
Still sitting staring at a blank page, John could not find words to explain it all.
He wanted everyone who logged onto his blog to understand something he himself was only just starting to. He wanted the crime hobbyists and the Yarders to read it and realize that they never really knew Sherlock Holmes. And John wanted all of them to be horribly disappointed and angry that they had missed out.
John wanted to type out how it felt to kiss the spot behind Sherlock's ear and feel the discipline of a genius slip.
He wanted to explain to them how many perfect stitches he had insisted on doing when Sherlock needed them. To explain how he would not let a single other doctor stich Sherlock up because John knew he could do them better, perfectly, and not leave a scar behind.
John wanted to tell them how frustrated he was the first time visitation rights had been denied. Sherlock was in a hospital bed with a knife wound to the thigh, and John beat up three security guards just to get a glimpse in the tiny window before being hauled away.
John wanted to say how he had cried alone in the bathroom the night before their wedding just because he was so unexplainably happy. And how he had spent the best honeymoon home in 221B while everyone else thought he and Sherlock were touring the world.
The blinking cursor was mocking him. It could have been the metronome to a solo, 3am, violin concert.
John let memories of Sherlock fill him to the brim. He let Sherlock's words ring in his ears and he let the feel of Sherlock's lips ghost across his own. If only for a second.
John closed his eyes and mentally told Sherlock to get his own bloody tea. He told Sherlock that he was a grown man and perfectly capable of getting tea. And while he is at it to get John a cuppa as well because god knows he's deserved at least one out of Sherlock for the thousands he's made the detective before.
John reached his hand out to take the handle of the cuppa he had made before taking a seat at his computer. It was cold.
John raised his hands to the keyboard, not realizing that he had clutched them in his lap. His fingers rested at their familiar position. John allowed himself a small smile at the memory of Sherlock teaching him to type properly. Sherlock, shockingly, had patience with John while he learned and became gradually faster.
After a few moments more of staring at the blank document, John began to type.
Sherlock Holmes was a great man. I hope all of you realize that.