Clue Number One: Rose-Colored Glasses
"I uploaded our little escapade with the Sumatra rats this morning. Did you read it?"
"Unfortunately."
John frowned at his computer screen, trying his best not to glare over to where Sherlock reclined lethargically on the sofa. "What was wrong this time?"
"Oh, only all that was wrong every other time. Instead of focusing on the logical facts, you spoon fed the reader with pretty pictures and Year 4 vocabulary. Deduction is a science, not a gossip column."
Nothing got under John's skin faster than Sherlock's flippant remarks about his posts, especially since he took so much time working on them, pouring over hastily scribbled notes from crime scenes, trying to capture with mere words every intense moment of the chase, attempting to keep solution a secret until the end when Sherlock pulls the blindfolds from everyone's eyes. "I don't write to glorify your bloody deductive reasoning. I want this city to know what you do for it."
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Why do you constantly try to force me into the role of hero?"
"It wouldn't hurt for you to see yourself how the rest of the world sees you," John replied bitterly, startled when Sherlock suddenly sprung up with that sporadic energy bestowed only to consulting detectives and starting pacing their cluttered living room, throwing his arms around haphazardly (beakers full of what John was sure to be dangerous chemicals were scattered upon every available surface) and quoting from the online journal.
"'As the shot echoed through the museum, my heart plummeted in fear for Sherlock's life,' 'I could barely stand to see the look of betrayal on Sherlock's face,' 'if there were ten more Sherlocks in London, every criminal in England would be terrified to answer their doorbell,' 'nothing makes me laugh more than watching crap telly with Sherlock,' 'I can only hope to be of continued service to a man so great and, yes, good!'" Sherlock pirouetted a final time and pointed an accusing finger in the doctor's direction, dropping the mocking tone in his voice but none of the heat. "No-one's going to see me like you see me, John!"
John shrugged his unwounded shoulder, irritated with Sherlock's frustration but pacified (and secretly flattered) Sherlock could recite whole sentences from his blog. "How else am I supposed to describe my best friend?"
As if the air had been popped out of him, Sherlock collapsed back onto the sofa cushions, limbs askew and his silky housecoat billowing around his slender frame. "Exactly."
"Hmm. If you have time to waste being cryptic, you have time to pick out the beetle carcasses from my bottle of laundry detergent."