What. The. Hell.
John turned every page of Sherlock's journal over twice and then a third time.
And then again,
and then again.
The barely legible notes and formulas crowded each other on most of the pages- Numbers and abbreviations, questions Sherlock asked himself but not anyone else concerning cases.
Everything scribbled in the journal was in black ink. He always hated blue ink, John remembered with a small smile as his fingers ran over some of the inscriptions. In fact, eventually John stopped buying blue pens because the few times Sherlock had started writing with one without noticing first, he had a full-out conniption. He actually threw the pen in John's general direction while yelling at him.
"Why do we even have these bloody things?"
"I'm sorry!" John ducked as the pen hit the back of his armchair and bounced onto the floor a few feet away. "I didn't realize we had it. Calm down."
"I specifically told you that black ink is better for when I'm writing my notes."
"Sherlock, it's just ink." John rolled his eyes and turned a page over in his book. "There's probably a black pen somewhere on the desk, find one and use that."
"But I've already used the blue pen!" Sherlock's hands waved around aimlessly, jerking his head back and forth in a "no" motion. "I can't just put the black ink over the blue-"
John lowered the book in his hands, eyebrows knitted together. "Sherlock, it's really not that big of a deal-"
"Shut up. Shut up!" Sherlock yelled, nearly sounding like a child by then, suddenly tearing the apparently "tainted" page from his journal and balling the paper up. He tossed it to the floor then, aiming it nowhere in particular. John stared at him while he seethed for thirty more seconds, his fingers moving in that…way again. John swallowed.
"Sit down, why don't you? Take a breather."
Sherlock gave him The Look and sat down at the desk, pulling a new paper out and a pen, thankfully, with black ink.
John ran his fingers over more of the words Sherlock had written, for another few minutes before finally turning to the last page he wrote on. A sigh escaped John's lips as he read over the lines.
It just didn't make any sense.
It didn't make any sense.
What even was it?
"So, what is it about blue ink?" John asked later after Sherlock had seemingly calmed down, sitting with his laptop at hand. Sherlock looked up from the screen, not having paid attention to John at all.
"Hmm?"
John raised his eyebrows. "Blue ink?"
"What about it?" Sherlock made a face and John sighed.
"Sherlock. Why don't you like blue ink? It can't just be because they suggest you use black for filling forms out."
"Don't be ridiculous, John. They stopped suggesting that ages ago. Spectrograph specialists say there's no difference between blue and black ink." Sherlock sounded bored now, pulling a few pages up on his laptop and browsing around.
John let out another sigh, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, obviously you think there's a difference."
"What's wrong with disliking blue ink?" Sherlock sounded offended.
"Nothing!" John threw his hands up. "But there must be a reason for it...Humor me."
Sherlock contemplated this for a minute, looking up. "It's darker, more permanent."
"Darker. Does that help your…process?" John found himself laughing a little. "I suppose if it gets wet you'll probably have less of a problem deciphering it."
"Not that I'd need to, I'll probably remember it anyway." Sherlock shrugged.
"And yet…you're writing it all down." John raised his brows, and a small smirk plays on his lips.
Sherlock wasn't fazed. "It helps…seal it in."
"Ah, Mind Palace and all that." John nodded in half-understanding, going back to his own laptop now.
A few moments passed before Sherlock resumed the conversation. "Well, if anything happens and you need to read it, it could be easier for you." He spoke the words so simply John didn't think anything of it, really. Not right away.
"Still thinking up reasons so I won't think you're just weird?" John turned a page over, half-listening.
"Worth a try." Sherlock closed his laptop, sank a bit in his chair and folded his arms. It was then John realized two things. One, Sherlock still had his coat on from earlier that afternoon. Two…
He says the first thing that comes to mind in response to it. jk de says the frist thing hhhd"Nothing's going to happen where I have to look in that thing, anyway." He gestures to Sherlock's journal on the desk. "Is that what you meant?"
Sherlock only shrugged again, waving his hand in dismissal. "As if you could decipher anything I write anyway."
Right, then.
Well, it was obvious what the JHW was. John knew that anywhere. It had to be his initials. The odds that Sherlock knew anyone else with those initials was rare, and why would he write them down if he did?
Why would he write them down anyway?
John shook his head, looking the page over again. Dates and times, some numbers…and…his initials.
And Sherlock's initials too, at the bottom corner. With a dash by it, like…
Like he was signing it.
John's breath stopped for a second, and he had to force himself to gulp some air down into his lungs. You don't sign things unless you plan for them to be read.
Like letters.
You sign letters.
"Whas'at?" John peered around Sherlock's arm as he sorted through the post one morning. Sherlock clipped the envelope away from John's view as quickly as he could, but it was too late.
"It's the post. Today's Tuesday, John." He spoke slowly, as if John was dim.
John was used to it, though. "Yeah, but that's addressed to you." He pointed at it this time, as Sherlock tried to shove the other letters and bills into John's hands.
"Then I suppose it's mine, and my business." Sherlock said quickly, turning his back and heading to the mantel.
John watched him, glancing at the envelope a few more times as Sherlock pulled his knife from the mantel and turned it over in his free hand. "No one writes you letters."
Sherlock sighed, and John knew he was rolling his eyes even though his back was to him. "Apparently, someone did." With that, Sherlock set the letter on top of the small piles of papers on the mantel, hurling the knife's edge down into it once again. He hadn't even bothered to open the letter first.
"Aren't you going to read it?" John inquired, stepping to the mantel after Sherlock had walked away. He tilted one of the envelope's corners up, but there was no return address.
"Obviously not." Sherlock was in the kitchen now, his focus channeling into something more interesting, no doubt. The petri dishes on the counter.
John shrugged and sat down in his chair, opening one of the bills.
"Sherlock." Siger's voice startled him, and Sherlock sat up quickly in the chair he was in. He shook his head, and the images of John's memories faded to white along the room's walls.
Siger took a step inside. "Do you know?"
Sherlock's brows furrowed together in confusion, an edge of irritation in his voice. "Do I know what?"
Siger took a deep breath and spoke quietly. "He found the journal."
Sherlock watched him carefully for a few seconds, breaths suddenly quick. "He…"
"Yes." Siger nodded once.
Sherlock exhaled, and let the images played on the walls again: John being amazed at something Sherlock's worked out, again. A Study in Pink, and John's voice echoing in the small room of the first corpse they examined together.
"Fantastic!"
John looked everything over in the journal again, trying to avoid the last pages as he circled around the kitchen.
But by the end of the afternoon, he was sitting at the table, with his own pen and paper in hand and some sort of impossible, and undetermined, mission ahead of him.