Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or anything of worth.
a/n: This is my first Sherlock fanfic! My first finished attempt at writing fanfiction too, now that you think of it... It's quite short and all that so I'm sorry for any grammatical mistakes especially in punctuation. Please be gentle with the criticism, though I would appreciate it greatly if you'd provide me with some.
He stares at the monitor, eyes blank and unseeing. He thinks deeply somewhat engrossed in his thoughts; they wander farther and farther from its intended path. He neither notices nor minds.
There was the task of writing his blog, coping and "getting-over" the past, the war; whatever his therapist wants done. Truthfully, he isn't much of a writer. Words never were his strong point, he was a man who takes action and stares dully at ink; at the blurry shapes of letters he sees and not-sees because they are devoid of meaning in his eyes.
But there are certain instances; he finds that words are exactly what he could only ever use against Sherlock. His shield is frail and his sword dull against his opponent's shining arsenal. It was all he has, and he hopes his wielding could make up for insubstantial armor.
He wars and loses and rebounds as fast because there is no possible way he can win against Sherlock with his words and deducing abilities, so he goes off and does what he can, where he excels and saves that *idiot's* ass because someone's job is to keep an eye on him and his genius amidst recklessness.
He won't stop him, he knows he can't because otherwise he'd be high as a kite or in utter insanity and he won't let that happen. Even if there's the risk of losing both their lives for the sake of amusement; that brief reprieve from the monotonous high and blatantly unfavorable moments he has.
John Watson stays and leaves things as they are because there are grave repercussions if he leaves this madman alone. And the guilt would crush him harder than the sight of pure genius drowning in the depths of madness. It simply would not happen, not while he brandishes his sword; dull albeit a tad sharper than before. Up till now, he never knew exactly when he went from "potential flatmate" to "psychiatrist, housekeeper and entertainer." Never would he admit it, but he found not to mind too much.
With much vigor, now that he has something to write, John begins a new blog post entitled 'A Study in Scarlet.'