John was about to close his laptop when a new comment on his blog popped up. He glanced at the clock. It was only 10:30, hardly what one would call "late" for the inhabitants of 221B Baker St, and he decided to go ahead and take a look before finally logging off for the night.
"Sherlock amazes me, but everybody ignores John Watson! Where would Sherlock be without you John? There's a rapidly growing community of people like me, who see you as a team, and some of us have taken it even farther. Check us out here: www..."
John's brow knit together as he moused over the link. "What the hell is fanfiction?"
"What are you going on about?" Sherlock walked into the room, holding a jar of something vile up to the light and peering at it through squinting eyes. John decided it was best not to ask, as he was fairly certain he didn't want to know what the taller man was looking at. Instead he gestured at the screen before clicking on the website.
"Are you familiar with fanfiction?"
"Familiar, no. But I know what it is. I had a case several years ago involving a boy who lived and breathed for costume drama, and the bullying turned to murder. His contributions to a fanfiction website gave me vital information about the identity of his killers." Sherlock set the jar down next to the computer and it only took a glance to tell John he had made the right decision in remaining ignorant about it's contents.
"Right, so, what is it then?" John asked with growing trepidation and his eyes scanned past titles as benign and uninspired as "A Study In Fuschia" and started noticing things like "Sherlick Seduces".
"It's exactly what the name implies. Fans of various things write fiction about the characters. The themes and moods are as varied as any other artform, but the authors write simply for passion and fun. They don't expect to profit, which is good, because there are some abominable writers out there forcing their poorly written stories on the world."
"Well, they've written them about us. And I don't think I want to read them."
"Oh don't be ridiculous. Who would want to write about us?" Sherlock picked up his jar and started to walk away before her turned around again, scratching his head. "Wait, about us?"
"I'm looking right at them. And now I'm going to turn away from them and get a drink." John dragged his hands down his face, anding with his fingers steepled under his chin, unintentionally mimicking the mannerisms of his friend as he walked to the small, dark kitchen to search for a clean glass. He filled his glass and sat in his chair, trying to ignore Sherlock as he made clicked and scrolled for the next few minutes. Finally the detective broke the silence.
"Well, this one is short, skims over any details of how WE actually put together the clues that solved the case, and lacks any kind of imagination, but this one is really well thought out. Written like a professional, and they've obviously really paid attention to how I work. It paints you in a flattering light too."
"I don't want to be 'painted in a flattering light'. I don't want to be painted in any light. My life with you is interesting enough without other people getting their imaginations involved."
"Then I suggest you stay away from any of the ones labeled 'slash'. I'm sure your distaste for being a character in somebody else's fantasy would find those even more offensive."
"And you? You don't seem to mind." Sherlock waved away the comment like it was an insect in the air.
"What does it matter what they write? I've told you the only thing that matters is the work. I believe those were even my exact words. None of this changes anything having to do with my everyday affairs, and if these people choose to clutter their minds with smut, then let them." John perked up at this.
"Smut? Wait, hang on. What is 'slash'?" He almost leaped the short distance between his chair and the computer and peered over Sherlock's shoulder. His eyes widened and the color drained from his skin. Mouth agape, he turned the laptop more in his direction before just picking it up outright and walking away to the sofa with it.
"Why does everyone think I'm gay?!"
"And I ask again, what does it matter? Let the little people write what they want John, it keeps them off the streets, and makes for less mess. Goodnight." Sherlock closed his door behind him and John sat in shock. It took two stories about him meeting Sherlock during their time as students at Hogwarts and one about them living their life as a musical for him to feel comfortable enough in his own skin to sleep that night.