Dedicated to the Sherlockian Time Ladies at the Official Time Lord Registry.

Sherlock tossed his scarf nonchalantly to the side as he entered 221B Baker Street. He gave a quick toss of his head as the warmth of the flat sent a shiver down his chilled spine. He had always preferred winter to any other season. Cold weather was much better for brainwork as it always seemed to stimulate his thought process. And there was nothing he liked better than calculating his way through a particularly invigorating case.

However, nothing in his life currently resembled anything remotely similar to an invigorating case. Unfortunately. He was, to put it bluntly, bored stiff. What in the world did ordinary people do with their lives? How could they stand it?

Shaking his head in annoyance, he tossed the package of nicotine patches he had just purchased onto the kitchen table. Not that he particularly needed them at the moment. Still. It certainly didn't hurt to be prepared.

"John." He raised his voice to the man sitting in the armchair. "I'm back."

"Yeah, yeah." John nodded impatiently without looking up. He was hunched over his laptop typing madly away.

Sherlock gave him a look of annoyance as he flopped down on the couch and kicked his shoes off. "What are you doing?"

"Yeah, just hang on a second, Sherlock. I'll be done in a minute." John's fingers flew over the keyboard, his eyes glinting madly as he worked.

"John?"

"I said just a second, Sherlock. I'm in the middle of a word war. Aha!"

"You're in the middle of a – what?"

"A word war," said John as though repeating the words could solve Sherlock's confusion. "You know,"

"I'm afraid that I don't," said Sherlock dryly. "Would you possibly care to explain?"

John closed his laptop with a sigh. "Only made it to 500 words this time. Not really the best way for me to jack up the word count." He paused, setting the laptop aside before turning back to look at Sherlock. "You mean that you really don't know?"

"That's why I'm asking. I can't imagine that you'd be working on your blog with such enthusiasm and we haven't come across anything particularly stimulating for you to write up anyway."

After a moment, John sighed and pulled his laptop back up. A few keystrokes later, he turned the screen around to face a skeptical looking Sherlock.

"National novel writing month." Sherlock read the large, bold letters in a bored tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's a challenge," explained John. "Writers from all over the world come together during the month of November in order to write a 50,000 word draft of a novel in 30 days."

"Why would anyone want to do that?" asked Sherlock, examining the webpage in greater detail.

"Why?" repeated John. "Because it's fun. You get to release all that creative energy that you don't know what to do with during the rest of the year and have the satisfaction of having completed a draft of an original novel in just 30 days."

"That sounds extremely tedious, John."

"You wouldn't say so if you tried it, Sherlock. I'd bet that you wouldn't be able to write a novel before I could if you tried."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do have something of a creative bone in my body, John," said Sherlock, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "It's now November 3rd. How many words do you have?"

John blushed. "2,342."

"I'm rather surprised at you John. Aren't you aware of the fact that you must write 1,667 words a day if you want to succeed in your project?"

"How did you figure that out so quickly?" asked John.

"Simple mathematics, John. All right."

"All right what?"

"I'll take you up on this writing challenge. What would you like to bet that I can complete a novel draft before you can?"

"But you're starting three days late," said John. "How do you plan to catch up?"

"I'm only 5001 words short, John," shrugged Sherlock. "I can't imagine that it will be that difficult to catch up."

"Only?" John shook his head in amazement. Then he straightened and sat back in his chair, a grin spreading over his face. "All right. If I win, you have to go out to that Sunday dinner with your brother that he's been after."

Sherlock grimaced. "Oh, dull. What do I get if I win?"

John paused for a moment, considering. "If you win, I stay out of your experiments in the kitchen for a month."

"Oh, that's not nearly good enough, John. If I win, I say that you lay off that blog of yours for a month and…"

"And?"

"And I think that you should grow a mustache."

"You think what?" asked John, one hand unconsciously reaching up to his upper lip.

"You heard me, John," replied Sherlock smugly. "If I'm faced with the prospect of a Sunday luncheon with Mycroft, you should be faced with a similar horror."

"A mustache?" John tried to laugh weakly. "Sherlock, you can't be serious."

"What amuses me most is that the prospect of growing a mustache horrifies you more than abandoning your blog."

"Well, of course it does. No one grows facial hair like that anymore."

"I beg to differ, Watson," said Sherlock, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "If you were to look around London, I'm sure that you would find plenty of men with mustaches equally as distinguished as the one that you will shortly be growing."

"Not likely, Sherlock. I'll make sure to beat you if that is what you're offering."

"Than it's a deal?" asked Sherlock, extending his right arm towards his flat mate.

John didn't hesitate a moment. "It's a deal."

As Sherlock retreated to his bedroom, he stopped and chuckled as he heard John dragging his laptop across to the kitchen table. The clicking and clacking of his keyboard began almost immediately and sighs of elation and frustration began to float on the air.

"Yes," he said to himself. "If that doesn't motivate him, then nothing will."

Over the next few weeks, 221B Baker Street became unusually quiet except for the rapid sound of fingers dancing over keyboards. Sherlock had made an impressive comeback, managing to catch up to the rest of the pack in just two days. However, John was even more impressive; he managed to catch up the same day that they had decided to make this a challenge.

Mrs. Hudson had to admit that it was nice to have the house so quiet and orderly with the boys being too busy to undo most of her cleaning. Although all of that typing was beginning to drive her mad; she had taken to listening to her iPod with earbuds during the day so that she didn't have to listen to them.

Every time she went up to the flat, she watched them typing madly with precious expressions of pure insanity written all over their faces. She had to admit that it was kind of cute.

It was 11:51 on November 30th and John was at a standstill with his novel. He was approximately 400 words away from his goal and yet he could not think of a thing to write. He supposed that was what happened when you don't sufficiently outline the project.

A quick glance across the room revealed that Sherlock wasn't typing either. Instead, his eyes were trained over the top of the laptop, reading busily at a piece of paper on the table next to the couch.

"How much farther do you have?" John asked, trying to stifle a yawn. He hadn't slept more than about five hours a night for the past week because he was behind in his word count.

Sherlock looked up from the page. "A bit. Not much. You?"

"No," said John hurriedly. "Not much at all."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that." Sherlock's fingers began to move again and John could barely stifle his grown of despair.

"It's 11:54, Sherlock. Think that you'll be done in time?"

"Oh, I'm sure that I will. Six minutes is all the time in the world, John."

"I'm glad that somebody feels that way," muttered John. He stuck his own earbuds in his ear and began blasting the first tune that he came across. Without really listening to what it was, he stared at the page, feeling the minutes begin to tick away. What have I gotten myself into?

He glanced at the clock and realized that he shouldn't have. He still had 350 words to go and it was 11:58.

"Done and validated."

John froze. "What was that, Sherlock? Did you say something?"

Sherlock slapped his palm against the laptop and whirled it around to face his flat mate. "Done."

With a feeling of intense dread, John leaned across to read the winner's certificate that flashed across the screen. "You're kidding,"

"I never kid, John."

John leaned back in his chair and sighed as the clock turned to 12:01 on the morning of December 1st. It was over and a mere 350 words away too. "I can't believe it."

A week later, John was standing over the bathroom sink, carefully shaving around a blonde mustache that he had been skill-lessly nurturing. It wasn't the tidiest of mustaches but no one could say that he was not a man of his word.

A sigh escaped his lips as he stroked the soft hair on his upper lip and he shook his head, drying his hands on a towel and exiting the bathroom.

Sherlock was busily putting on his coat and scarf when he entered the living room. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Going out. I have a lunch date with my brother."

"You have a what?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "You may not be a sore loser but I also intend to keep my end of the bargain."

"Your end of the bargain?"

Sherlock flushed. "You see, I wasn't actually writing a novel for this project."

John stared. "Well what were you writing then?"

"I've been looking for an excuse to write up the manuscript on that coagulation of saliva after death project that I was working on."

"You wrote 50,000 words on the coagulation of saliva after death," repeated John in disbelief.

"Yes. So you see, neither of us actually won this competition, though you certainly came close."

John stroked his mustache and shook his head. "That is bloody incredible, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged, throwing his scarf around his neck and heading towards the door. "Well, you didn't think that I would actually write a novel, did you?"