A/N: I wasn't going to repost this, but I read it again and I still kind of like it. So enjoy! And thanks for the reviews and favorites~ :)
John's POV
I must be mental, I thought.
I was sitting in my usual armchair by the fireplace in 221B, reviewing my first blog entry. Well, not my first, technically. The first few posts are barely a sentence each, written only to please my therapist and prove to everyone how boring my life is-was. The two after those I used to tell about a few minor things that happened; but none of these were important. What I consider my first entry is the one that signified the end of everyday monotony and the start of so much-my blog, my adventures, my life. In short: I was reading my recount of the day I met Sherlock Holmes.
Something about the post struck me as humorous-I had called him a madman. Multiple times, actually. Not that I disagree with this statement, but it was me who moved in with a complete stranger who knew an alarming amount about me while I was left with only a name and face. I just up and left my old flat, dropping my box of few belongings among Sherlock's piles of...of what? Rubbish? That doesn't fit since nearly all of his belongings had a reason to be there, even if that reason was lost on me. Whatever. It doesn't matter what I call it since his stuff isn't my point-Oh. "Stuff." Duh. Moving on...
I'm still certain that Sherlock really is mad, but I don't mean it as an insult. I also have to admit that he is a freak, though not in the negative way Sgt. Donovan is fond of using. "Arrogant, imperious, pompous," I had described him in my next entry. To this I'd like to add, "Fantastic, brilliant, magnificent creature who appreciates and deserves every ounce of admiration I give him and I don't even care anymore what people think about that." If only I could find the bloody "edit" button on this stupid blog.
In any case, just as I'm sure that my flatmate is, I am now positive that I'm mad as well. I must be with the way I trail after Sherlock into obvious danger, and perhaps worse I enjoy it. And living with him is beyond belief for anyone who knows him. Except me. I've not only dared to share a flat with him but I've become dependent on Sherlock, and I believe it's mutual. We need each other around-bad habits, temper tantrums, and all-or things stop making sense. It's such a strange feeling to miss the time when I didn't find body parts in the kitchen and spend all night chasing dangerous criminals, and yet not be able to imagine my life without those things.
This is it, I thought. I've speculated before, but now I know for sure. I'm as mental as Sherlock Holmes.
Speak of the Devil...
"John!" he called, feet falling loudly as he hurries up the stairs. He burst into the flat, eyes glowing with excitement. His face was plastered with the grin one sees on a child who's been waiting for a present and it's just been given to him.
"What is it?" I asked, his energy already rubbing off on me. I closed my laptop and put it aside.
"Remember that double homicide?"
"Yeah."
"It just became a triple. We've got ourselves a serial killer!"
So I pretty much hit the bull's eye. That made me smile in a way that it shouldn't. I stood to follow him. He had already grabbed my coat for me, and helped me slip into it quickly before we stormed down the stairs and out the door. Me and the madman-No. Not anymore.
Two madmen.