Note: Two years Post-REICH (of the non-angst sort), focusing on John. Some swearing.
Summary: For the first time in two years, John sits down to write on his blog. But he can't think of anything to write. His life just isn't that interesting anymore. One-shot.
Let me tell you about Sherlock Holmes…
By Justine Themis
John stared at the blank text-box of his blog, watching the insertion point blink on and off his screen.
"You should keep writing on your blog, John", his therapist had said, "I know it's hard but, as I've said before, documenting your day to day life, I can promise you, will seriously help your situation."
But John had nothing to write about.
His life – it was boring.
It was a dull, animated and constant uninterrupted cycle. What exactly was he supposed to write about?
He tried a few times.
Bought a new laptop today-
No. Delete.
Watched the Grand Nationals last week-
Boring. Delete.
Patient came in to work today-
Delete, delete, delete…
Even when John wasn't typing, he just smashed at the delete button.
Delete, delete, delete, delete, deletedeletedeletedelete….
And the insertion point just continued to blink.
"Why don't you try telling a story from your past"? his therapist had offered, "Perhaps of your childhood or from your time in the war?"
Childhood? Fine, let's try that.
Childhood was… normal... (delete) Finished high school with fourteen GCSEs andwhothefuckcares (deletedelete) Dated a girl called Joanne (or Joan? Jane?) and she was… nice, I guess. Yeah… (deletedeletedelete).
Alright, try again. Time in the war.
Went in. Helped some people. Watched a lot of good men die. Got shot. Sent home. The End.
John stared at that small sentence, rereading it a few times. He highlighted everything but the last two words and pressed delete.
The End. Perfect. Because The End described everything. Because after John left the war, his normal life ended. Though he missed it – somewhat, sometimes - his scripted, routine life ended with a reluctant bow and no standing-ovation.
And outside that abandoned theatre he met Sherlock.
Of course, John wasn't allowed to write about Sherlock on his blog.
It's not healthy, his therapist (what was her bloody name anyway?) had said, your dependency on Sherlock Holmes is stopping you from moving on John. You need to focus your life on something else, something new.
But Sherlock was all John had to write about. Everything he wrote about now was boring in comparison to what he'd been through. John had been through all kinds of shit while living with Sherlock, but, looking back on it, he had never had a truly terrible moment.
(Until Bart's, John thought sadly.)
John had tried, once, to write about what happened the day of Sherlock's suicide. When news had spread, everyone wanted to know what had really happened, wanted to know how John felt being the puppet and pawn to Sherlock's ("was that even his real name?" one reporter had asked) ruse.
Nobody had given a shit that John had just lost his best friend (fake or not), oh no, they were more interested in wondering whether John had been under some form of Stockholm Syndrome or "How embarrassed must you feel for falling under the obvious ploy of the so-called "great" Sherlock Holmes?"
(To which he had kindly told the reporter to "fuck off".)
So John did try, two years ago, to write about what had happened.
("He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him… but Sherlock, if you are somehow reading this, then know that you are quite possibly the most selfish, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, narcissistic dick that I have ever met and if you ever come back then I swear I am going to kick the living shit out of you…")
But instead he deleted most of it, leaving only a sentence and a video as his last post.
And now he was back, staring at the empty text-box, wondering what to write, wondering what on earth could compare to his past life (could even come close), and he watched the insertion point blink patiently, waiting for him type.
Type something.
The thing was, John didn't want to type about just something. He didn't want to write about himself, he wanted to write about Sherlock.
He wanted to write about Sherlock's life and the cases they had been on together (he didn't care if people thought they weren't real, because he had lived them) and how Sherlock was a terrible, terrible roommate and the worst best friend he had ever had.
He wanted to write about how he knew that Sherlock was real and that he believed in him more than ever and that if he ever came back John would actually attempt to hug him and it would be awkward and weird and he wouldn't care.
And then John realised that writing on his blog wouldn't achieve a thing. A 5000 word limit was not enough. No-one would ever, truly, be able to understand Sherlock the way John did, understand just how unrealistically real he was, in a single post.
It was pointless.
So, with a defeated sigh, John logged off his blog for a final time and closed down his Internet browser.
And with a few clicks, he opened up Microsoft Word Processor instead.
The insertion point greeted him once more with a few eager blinks.
And John started to type.
"Let me tell you about Sherlock Holmes…"
He would think of a title later.
The End.
Just a little something that popped up while I was complaining that I had massive writer's block. I love pieces like this, that literally flow out and only take an hour or two to write – no matter how bad. Pieces I can actually be happy with.
In the Canon, during Holmes' "death", Watson wrote The Hounds of Baskerville; he kept writing his adventures with Holmes despite his supposed death. I would like to think John continued to tell Sherlock's story despite the media and the lies and made Sherlock the immortal man he is now.
(This is my first time writing (well, publishing) in the Sherlock fandom, so any advice and/or criticism would be wonderful and encouraged.)
Justine