John leaned back in his chair, clasping his arms together over his head. With tremendous effort, he stretched his torso and released an immense yawn. The creaking of the old wooden desk chair sounded like a tortured scream in the absolute silence of the flat.
Blinking as the world outside of his computer screen came back into focus, John glanced at the clock.
Have I really been writing for that long?
He had developed an unnerving habit of entering his "writing zone" for hours at a time, during which the outside world ceased to exist. John supposed it was rather similar to Sherlock's habit of eliminating any and all distractions from his mind when analyzing a difficult case.
What could Sherlock be up to right now? He should have been back from that meeting with Molly by now.
John always had to worry about something. Luckily, his flatmate and best friend gave him an endless source of things to worry about. There was no telling what would happen if Sherlock were left to roam free about the streets of London without someone to keep an eye on him.
Glancing back at his computer, John caught a glimpse of the blog post he had just finished writing. Just yesterday, he and Sherlock had been hot on the trail of a murderer targeting male bartenders. In their investigation, they popped into dozens of bars throughout the city to question employees. Several times throughout the day, Sherlock had decided that the work would go much quicker without the mindless noise of televisions in the background. He had a difficult time understanding why everyone around him became quite hostile when the playoff football game was suddenly cut short. If John hadn't been there to run damage control, he knew that Sherlock would have been slightly worse for wear after encountering several bars full of angry, drunk football fans.
Instead, it just became another peculiar adventure with the unique Sherlock Holmes. John loved to remember all the odd experiences he'd had since coming to live at Baker Street. His life was suddenly so full of excitement, just like in war. Working with Sherlock was its own kind of battle, but a far more enjoyable one. Every story in that blog was a testament to John's new life.
It stood to reason, then, that he zoned out so much when writing. He got lost when reliving the cases, relishing each small detail of a good mystery. It was so easy to get caught up in the lingering echo of a gunshot, the flash of a red laser searching hungrily across his body, the silken softness of a scarf peeking out from beneath a comforting wool coat. John found an outlet in his blog, a type of release. It helped to unload the overwhelming images from his mind and share them with others.
In John's opinion, the work that Sherlock did deserved to be publicized, somehow. From John's very first case, he recognized what a thankless job the consulting detective had. For all that he ostracized himself from society, John knew that Sherlock was special. He wanted to make sure that others knew it, too.
Despite Sherlock's frequent mutters about the blog, the fact that he hadn't enforced its destruction yet was a good sign. John didn't think that Sherlock enjoyed the growing fame, but he knew the man well enough to appeal to his pride. Some small part of Sherlock reveled in showing off just how good he was to anyone who would dare challenge him.
Startled out of his reverie by the sound of feet tramping up the stairs, John glanced toward the door. Sherlock swept into the flat, arms laden down with a large cooler. It most likely held the experimental body part of the day. The unmistakable clinking sound of test tubes coming from the bag slung over the detective's shoulder confirmed that hypothesis.
"Hello, John. Interestingly, Molly thinks she's found a new drug in one of the more recent bodies, which could require some extensive research. In short, this shouldn't take more than five minutes, but with the lack of a case, I'll at least take the opportunity to have a little fun and experiment." Sherlock placed his burdens on the table and spun around with the excited air of a performer preparing to go on stage. "Are you still writing those dull stories? I've told you exactly 38 times that your blog would be so much better if you wrote about something useful, like categorizing the average thicknesses of panes of glass in household windows."
John merely smiled and returned to his blog, glad that he would never have a shortage of stories.