John Watson: The Blog Doctor
June 14, 2012
Erm…Dear…People of the Internet (How the hell are you supposed to start these blog post things?),
Suppose I should start by explaining a bit about myself? My name is John Watson, I'm an army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan, and my therapist says that keeping a running blog will help me deal with the stress I've been under since I got home. Right. Well, let's get right to it, then.
Three weeks. I've been living here three weeks, but already it feels like a lifetime. I've properly moved in now, taken over the second bedroom, though Sherlock's landlady and shop assistant didn't seem to think we'd need two bedrooms. I'd rather not think about the things they say about Sherlock and me when we aren't listening. Needless to say, it's been an awkward three weeks, and I've been refusing to respond to Mike's texts asking how I'm doing.
Molly and Mrs. Hudson are just the icing on the Sherlock cake, however…oh, have I already been reduced to terrible cake puns? IT'S ONLY BEEN THREE WEEKS! My newly developed sense of humor is the least of my worries, though. Sherlock is the real problem. He's been driving me up the wall, asking me to taste test everything for him. "John, have a bite of this cake, I'm working with a new icing." "John, does this filling actually taste like strawberry?" "John, have these leftover pastries, I don't understand why no one wanted them." The requests themselves aren't so bad; he really is quite the baker. No, everything is fine until I actually attempt conversation with the man.
For example, just five minutes ago, this happened:
"John, would you come here a moment?"
I sighed and shut the lid to my laptop (where I'd been working on this very post!), shuffling over to the kitchen.
"Yes, Sher—…" I stopped short, eyes widening comically at the state of the kitchen. He'd only been up for ten minutes, and the entire room was covered in flour and some sort of blue paste. "Sherlock, what the hell? Mrs. Hudson just cleaned up last night; she'll have your head!"
He waved away my concern impatiently. Clearly, there was a greater game afoot, something far more important than our inevitable eviction. "I've just had a thought. I was experimenting with this blueberry icing, but wouldn't it taste much nicer if I baked it into the cake?"
It took me a moment to realize that the question was in fact directed at me. I stood there staring at him in amazement—I could actually feel my eye twitching a bit—my eyes slowly sliding down to his robe. That horrible blue bathrobe, today's flour now covering the flour from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that…Completely forgetting the issue at hand, I stepped forward and tugged at the offending garment, nose wrinkling as a layer of flour fell to the floor. "Sherlock, when are you going to wash this thing?"
"John, the blueberries!" Upon meeting his gaze again, I was amused to find something akin to panicthere. Apparently, blueberries are a serious matter in this flat.
"Right, the blueberries. I think you should go with—"
"Quite right, John, thank you for your input." I glanced up at him in shock, brow furrowed as he started back to work.
"But…I haven't actually said—"
"You were going to say that I should go with my initial instinct, because in your limited time with me you've already found that my skill as a baker far surpasses your knowledge of the subject and you could never hope to give me any sort of real advice on the matter. And you're quite right."
The eye twitch returned, and I turned away from him to head back to my computer, mumbling, "Well, glad I could help…Wash that bloody robe, it's revolting."
The moral of the story? Never, ever attempt a logical conversation with Sherlock Holmes.
Best wishes, John Watson.
Save and Publish
The click of my mouse feels somewhat satisfying as I submit my first ever blog post, setting my laptop on the coffee table in front of me. I peek over into the kitchen, checking that Sherlock is still hard at work on his blueberry concoction before laying down for a nap.
The first thing I see when I wake several hours later is Sherlock's horrid blue robe folded up and sitting on his chair. Only it isn't so horrid now. He's cleaned it.
So...uh...there you have it! Chapter 2! And what is this at the end? Sherlock actually doing what John asks? Hmmm...
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