Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Just a little thing to clarify something that will be mentioned later. In Chinese, 520 is shorthand for "I love you," in the romantic way.
Pride
Sherlock wasn't envious. Of course he wasn't. The widespread success of John's blog, though, would forever be a thing of wonder to him. His blog was full of useful information, mostly for anyone needing empirical data for an investigation, of course, but also for anyone who wanted to win a round of Deductions. Were common people so dull that they never played the game against their siblings?
So maybe they were, but back to the main subject – even if there were no public for his own blog, and seriously at least every English speaking forensic officer should be subscribed to his posts, why were there so many people waiting anxiously for any update from John? Half the time his friend couldn't even write cases properly because they were what Mycroft would have called 'sensitive'. And even when the doctor could do more than hint at it, he still accented all the wrong points. What could have been a number of clean-cut demonstrations, not out of place in a philosophy book, turned into a series of lurid sketches under John's sluggish fingers.
Sure, when John's blog somehow attracted Moriarty – or at least gave him data to craft his game – the two of them had reacted differently. Sherlock had almost decided it was worth seeing their cases twisted into silly tales if the results were so delightfully entertaining; his blogger, instead, had been close to erasing his page altogether. The sleuth would have been glad to be able to claim that he had talked his flatmate into continuing, to goad more arrogant criminals in – hopefully some not careful enough to manage to escape them. Instead, it had been Graham who talked to him – during one of those outings dedicated to mysteriously popular sports.
Fine, if Grant hadn't, discovering that the Queen herself read his blog probably would have. John was, after all, a classic 'queen and country' gentleman at heart. While, under Mycroft's tutelage, Sherlock had learned to sneer at that, he couldn't find in himself to criticize his flatmate for it. After giving her some years of his life and a chunk of his health, there was no way that John would have purposefully denied her majesty ten minutes of entertainment.
One would have thought that his blogger's fame reaching the whole country was as far as anyone could reasonably hope it could extend to. Especially someone like John, who wasn't exactly a professional author. But, much to the sleuth's puzzlement, that hadn't been the end of that. Not only people from other English-speaking countries subscribed enthusiastically to John's blog. If it was just that, Sherlock would have suspected John's very personable nature, his ease in forming a friendship with just about anyone, and the undoubtedly numerous brothers in arms from different countries' contingencies he had met in Afghanistan. After all, the doctor's unfortunate New Zealand trip had been organized by a former army friend who lived there. And all John's friends would have had friends of their own, and before you knew it the blog registered another two hundred subscribers.
No, to add another layer to this inexplicable nonsense, there were fan translations! As if John's blog was a webcomic, or some other fictional endeavour. French, German, Italian, Spanish…the consulting detective refused to check when yet another language was added to the list, but he suspected that you'd be hard pressed to find an European language which didn't follow their 'adventures'.
Honestly, it was his work! Okay, a job he'd invented to be able to have the most fun and the minimum of paperwork to go with his investigations, but still. When he enjoyed a well-planned murder people called him a freak. So why did these so called 'fans' get not to be publicly shamed for being obsessed with John's posts? Or did they not care? (If they didn't….well, that might be one of the few good qualities they possessed.)
Before he knew it, non-European languages joined the mix. It wasn't that Sherlock was envious. It was just that he wanted to understand how John had accidentally founded an international web that could probably rival Moriarty's in extension, if not in scope, while he'd invested so much money in his homeless network and still couldn't reach past London .It couldn't be the quality of the writing, so what was his secret?
The height of madness came when their prime minister visited China for something or another (he didn't care about the details, it was probably just an errand because Mycroft didn't want to deal with jet lag) and their fans (they had fans in China…mindboggling) asked him to make sure that John would update his blog more often with his amazing stories.
Sherlock pitied the man. Of course, their premier weaselled out of the request by pointing out that the updates depended on the cases, and he was sure that the good people of China weren't asking him to organize crimes for the sleuth to solve. The consulting detective was tempted to text him that blog posts would come much quicker if only John could take a typing course, but asking the government to fund it would be ridiculous. Besides, his friend would insist he didn't need one, despite the opposite being patent.
Not that the detective was especially fond of his international fans in the first place, or willing to look out for their happiness. He had gained a number of ridiculous nicknames after all. The so-eager Chinese called him 'Curly Fu'! No matter how exact the transliteration of his last name (or its start) was, it made him feel like a failed martial artist star. And that one, at least, didn't reference the Hat – some would make people swear he was a Dr. Seuss character.
That was another problem – the existence of their fans had sicced the media on them. With all the embarrassing, annoying, downright troubling consequences that had, including Moriarty seeing a perfect chance for what was supposed to be the ultimate attack.
They'd survived that, somehow, and when – finally – Sherlock had come back to London and life, John had jumped at the opportunity to tell him what he'd always wanted and never dared to. The resulting kiss had rebooted his brain like not even the most powerful drug cocktails had ever managed. There was no blog post about that, though. Not because they wanted to hide it or, worse, deny it. It was just that they wanted to bask in their bliss in private, without anyone hounding them to catch a photo of a kiss.
They would still hold hands and steal kisses in the back of cabs and behave like any new couple would. Even with the chaos following Sherlock's resurrection and rehabilitation, the role of the media in the mess before gave Mycroft a good argument to warn journalists to leave his baby brother alone. Which is how it was possible for them to come up with the plan.
They had to come out at some point, that was a given. The wrong people would eventually notice, and the gossip papers would run with it. They might as well take the matter into their own hands. And as much as Sherlock didn't understand their fans in general, many of them had believed in him despite Moriarty's apparently foolproof plan. These people deserved something back.
When the boys planned to visit Shangai at the same time as the local gay pride festival, gaining visas was very easy. It could be due to Mycroft, of course. But Sherlock suspected that the politicians were just very happy for anything that could distract people from the event. As much as the situation was less dire now – gay people weren't jailed or officially considered insane anymore – there was still a great amount of prejudice in the country.
John would giggle, saying that his beloved just wanted the most dramatic coming out possible. Which wasn't entirely wrong, but if this managed to make some of their fans rethink that widespread mentality, or – in case they were lgbt – feel closer to their idol, it was worth it.
They were supposed to meet their fans in a rented theatre, all very authorized and planned. If they happened to invite – on their own dime – anyone who wanted to follow them to the private gay pride party afterwards, well. It was legal, wasn't it? John was pretty sure. Besides, they had the secret weapon.
Which was how they found themselves sitting in a theatre, in front of apparently a million people (that many couldn't fit in the place, could they?), their chairs barely one inch from each other. They were graciously – or graciously by Sherlock's standards, anyway – answering a true barrage of questions. About past cases, about future prospects, about 'yes we take clients abroad, but after Sherlock's time…away we like to stay home, so don't expect us to solve cases for every one of you once we get home'. And if every now and then the sleuth's hand took comfort in his lover's, fingers entwining for a minute, nobody appeared to notice.
What they asked everyone to avoid was questions about their private life, and while not everyone acquiesced – these people were human, after all – the duo just refused to answer, promising that everyone would have a special insight about their life at the end. The excitement ran among the crowd like a visible frisson at the news.
In the meantime, Sherlock distracted them by chatting about something that was technically classified, but in terms so vague that not even the harshest judge would condemn him for it. If anyone in the audience could figure out any forbidden details from his words, Mycroft would have done his best to hire them.
After a good three hours of entertaining the crowd, John sent his love a look. They were doing to do it now. Or they could go back home and be quiet, maybe organise a different press conference for another day – but that would be a cop out. He wanted to do this. He'd denied things long enough.
"We promised not to let you all go without knowing some details about our private life. And maybe we should stick to giving you John's recipe of that thing with peas, which is absolutely heavenly, but Chinese food is delicious anyway. We order it often enough," Sherlock said.
His audience laughed loudly, and some clapped.
"But there's been a very important change lately, and we want everyone to share our happiness. We stopped being idiots and dancing around each other," John resumed.
Suddenly, there was quiet in the room.
"In case anyone of you is still wondering, yes, this means we wasted years pining after each other when we could have been happy. But we finally got around to talking. And we're very much in love. In fact, we rented this place because its address number is 520," Sherlock finished for him, grinning. And kissed John. On the mouth.
If the boys hadn't been entirely sure of what their reception would be, to that very second, the resulting hollers were very welcome. Especially because the most shouted word seemed to be, "Zhōngyú," (which Sherlock had told John lately meant, "Finally!"), while the few angry sounding ones mostly seemed to be shouting the names of people that were quite often mentioned on John's blog. It seemed that most people didn't object to a gay relationship, so much as they were shocked that the duo didn't fall in love with whomever they thought was better suited to either of them.
"Now, we've heard of a wonderful private party that's going on right now not so far away. Yes, as part of the gay pride. We are planning to go there to celebrate, and we'd be delighted to invite anyone of you who wants to join us. Yes, even everyone if you want. We'll take care of the entrance fee – that's the least we can do, for our friends. And if you're afraid of social repercussions, don't be. It's mostly annoying, but this is where having a big brother with far reaching influence comes handy. He's promised to take care of anyone bothering you," the detective said, grinning.
John giggled, "Love, you're making him sound like a member of the Triad!"
"Which is exactly what you thought when you met him at first," Sherlock shot back. "No, fine, that's more my department. He acts legally…mostly. But seriously, he did promise, and manipulating people is what he's been doing since he was born, so he's an expert by now. He'll keep an eye out, but if you're being bothered at all, just reach either of us saying that we've grown fat, and we'll make sure that things will go smoothly. Make a post on social media, anything. If you want to come along, you'll be safe."
There were laughs in the audience, and even if not everyone followed them, more people did than not. Everyone walked out, the ones that followed them to the party clearly excited to be allowed even closer to their idols.
The rest of the evening was one of the wildest and happiest of many people's lives. And if some bureaucrat realised their plan had utterly backfired…well, just a few more feathers for Mycroft to smooth about this whole initiative. It would be boring having a little brother who never caused trouble anyway.