A/N: Welcome, welcome. Before you begin reading, let me be clear. I rarely read other people's fanfiction. Yes, there are many wonderfully written ones out there, but I usually avoid them because it tends to be a little too dreary for my liking. Especially for a series like Sherlock. (I read a few and just felt like committing suicide after.) SO! I have tried and enjoyed writing a little collection of short stories based on the Series. I'd like to think of them as humorous little insights to life in 221B Baker Street but this thing has a life of its own. I'm writing snippets and essays that occur during random times of the series, which I am attempting to put into chronological order. I will write clearly at the top of the stories, the time line it occurred to avoid confusion.

And yes. SPOILER ALERT! (Please go watch Sherlock, if you haven't yet.)

Have fun, laugh, and enjoy this collection!

Before 221B Baker Street

Addressing Loneliness

His phone rang. Once. Text. Watson was lying on his bed, cot, more like, and threw a glance in the direction of the sound. It was on the table. Damnit. Not that it mattered. It was probably Harry trying to keep an eye out for him. Not that she's in any position to. He should get out of the room. Go for a walk, grab a bite. This time, he fixed his gaze at the cane by his bed. No.

He hated this. The anger, the frustration, the bitterness. He has never been a sweet man, if he was, he wouldn't even be in the Army. No. But he had always been a man with a purpose. People come to him with their problems, not the other way around. Therapist. He snorted in derision and the sound echoed around the spartan room. He had a limp, big deal. He'll learn to deal with it, like he always does, but at the consistent nagging of his friends and Harry, he found one.

Absolutely ridiculous. A blog, she told him. Write a blog about his problems. Even the thought of it was ludicrous. Putting up his petty complaints up on the internet for the entire world to see? He would laugh at himself, even if the world didn't. But she was insistent, and he couldn't refuse. His only flaw. When people asked something from him with sincerity, he just couldn't say no.

He pulled himself out of bed and he could feel the dull ache of the muscle deep within his bad leg. It wasn't not painful that his mind swam in a sea of red. That particular prize goes to the shot in the shoulder. But it was annoying and debilitating. Psychosomatic my arse. He's been shot for gawd's sakes, you'd think people will trust his ability to differentiate between real and hallucinated pain.

Stretching his stiff leg out with precise movements before lowering himself into the chair, he tried to avoid the stab of discomfort that will always shoot up his thigh. But it came anyway. Damn this leg! When the ache subsided, he stared at his laptop for awhile, before grudgingly lifting the lid. After a good fifteen minutes staring at the blank space that was supposed to be filled with words, he could only write four.

Nothing happens to me

To hell with the full stop. At least Ella will shut up about the blog now. He increased the word count by three. That's an improvement.