Title: What Is This?
Rating: PG-13 for cursing.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Beta: quibbleisms
Summary: A terrible fic about terrible fics.
Warnings: Language
Word Count: Around 1,000.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to anything that has ever made money, especially Sherlock.
Uneventful. Peaceful. Boring. Horrible.
There was nothing so dreadful to Sherlock as being unoccupied. Last time he had been left with nothing to do and nothing brilliant to inspire him, he had taken John's gun. At first he had spouted a dramatic inner monologue about how he would rather kill himself than be without an exciting case to solve, but he quickly turned the gun to a better subject than his poor, unstimulated brain – the wall.
Today was another quiet day in the flat.
"Entirely too quiet," he groaned to himself. Not even John was there to listen to Sherlock's woeful bemoaning. All of a sudden, he ran to John's laptop to fill the room with music and found himself trapped in the endless web of the Internet. It all started with email. He had gone to check his email after finding just the right album to play.
"Lestrade, Lestrade… why can't you find me anything interesting? It's all so dull – oh, blast – Mycroft! DELETE."
Sherlock's fingers clicked and tapped their way through all the loathsome, boring emails. They clicked and tapped through The Science of Deduction. After enough clicking and tapping through the electronic maze, Sherlock found himself paralyzed by something more horrifying than Moriarty.
Hours later, a happy face showed up at the door.
"Hello, hello… Did you have a nice, productive day?" John asked sarcastically, hanging up his coat and setting his keys in their proper place. When he got no response from his friend, he was annoyed. The doctor turned and glared at Sherlock's ragged form. No doubt it had been sitting in the same place all day.
"Oh, for the love of Gandhi, Sherlock! Must you mope all day? You would think someone had died. Oh, but then again, that would make you happy," John sneered, using his nastiest sneering face, which, for the record, was not very convincing. Yet, there was something different about Sherlock today.
"Are you crying?" John asked with worry seeping into his voice. "Sherlock? Sherlock!"
John ran to Sherlock's side and checked his vitals. The man hadn't been crying, but he looked so depressed and lifeless that he legitimately put John into one of his tender, loyal, and concerned moods.
"How many drugs did you take?" John asked in an urgent, hushed voice. Sherlock hadn't objected to a single one of John's touches and he hadn't said a word yet, but when John asked him that question, he lifted his pale blue eyes to John's face. "I'm calling the ambulance if you don't answer me, straight away."
Although he looked like he was about to cry, Sherlock broke down into a madman's laughter. "None! I haven't taken any." He said between harsh laughs, "Not today."
"What the Devil is wrong with you?"
"I can't – I can't tell you – It's so terrible," Sherlock responded, feeling heartbroken, but still laughing. John wasn't sure if he was better off punching Sherlock in the face or calling the mental hospital.
"Tell me!" John urged. Whatever was bothering Sherlock, it wasn't the usual self-pitying parade.
"I found something. Something terrible."
Was Sherlock overreacting again?
"You've gone completely mad."
"Look. Look for yourself," Sherlock said. He pointed feebly to the monitor of John's laptop and John didn't waste any time investigating.
"Oy, wait a minute. This is my laptop – How did you get past the password AGAIN? Wait, what is 'Holtson?' 'Sherlock slash John?' But that's us. They're stories… about us?"
"Not just any stories."
"What'd you mean? Who's writing these? How do people know who we are? I mean, you I understand, but me?"
"It's the Internet, John. Welcome to the 21st century."
"Are you telling me a couple of stories upset you?" Clearly, John was not taking this new dramatic scenario seriously. He was only skimming titles here and there, not really paying attention to the content. He had no idea what 'mpreg' or 'non-con' was. There were several unusual terms written up in short summaries of the stories that lay just behind the click of the mouse. It was all gibberish to John.
"Gay ones."
"WHAT?" John gasped. "What?"
"Gay." Sherlock responded more quietly.
"Oh my God."
"The grammar, oh, the grammar," Sherlock cried in a haunted voice. "The gay sex would be tolerable if only it had proper punctuation."
"'You're the love of my life?'" John read out loud, "'I can't live without you?' Who the fuck is doing this? And why do I sound like a woman?"
"There was a period in the MIDDLE of a sentence, John!"
"'Sherlock thrust deeply' – WHAT? Did I just?" Horrified, John nearly threw his computer on the floor. He was red in the face and now understood what had upset his dear friend.
"People don't know when to use 'T-H-E-R-E' not 'T-H-E-I-R.' The world isn't worth saving."
"Have you been reading these all day?" John asked after a moment of awkward and intense silence. Sherlock nodded. John prodded, "WHY?"
"I don't know!"
"I'm getting you out of the house, right now."
"No, John. How will I know where those people are? They could be anywhere, plotting their next poorly written story."
"Get up."
"Did you see the story where I proposed to you on Valentine's Day in public, in front of people?"
John didn't listen. He just grabbed Sherlock's pants and coat.
"Or the one where I was a sex-crazed madman? I slept with Lestrade and you in the same day! Watch it! Those are my pants! I can dress myself!" Sherlock stopped John from taking his pajamas off in order to put on some decent clothing.
"We're going out and that's final," John said.
"I cried in one of them. Me. My fake, alter self, that is. He blubbers like a baby."
"Oh, shut it. Let's get some Chinese," John replied, throwing Sherlock's coat over his shoulders and hauling him out of the door as fast as possible. Sherlock was quiet. They walked nervously down the street, each thinking a million thoughts.
"What?" Sherlock asked John after a moment. He could tell John wanted to scream something out, but was restraining himself. After a second or two, John sighed and gave in.
"Am I always…"
"Hm?"
"Am I always the," John stammered, "the, uh, catcher?"
"That was the only thing they got right."