A few weeks after their encounter with Moriarty, Max and John found themselves grabbing a quick meal during Max's lunch break.
"So where's Sherlock?" Max asked casually.
John shrugged. "Doing something with a dead man's fingernails," he answered. "I didn't want to ask." He paused. "Anyway, how's work going?"
Max rolled her eyes. "Same old, same old," she replied.
Neither of them spoke for a second, but then Max cleared her throat. "Uh... how have you been?" she asked. "After... y'know." After Moriarty.
John grimaced. "Coping," he answered. "Near-death situations don't really faze me anymore, y'know?"
She scoffed. "You love it," she corrected. "Don't try to deny it."
He hesitated, then grinned. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, I do." She grinned back. "Uh, what about you? Are you okay?"
Max shrugged. "Yeah," she replied. "I'm fine. Actually... I'm not as upset as I thought I would be about it. I mean, I was pretty shaken up at first obviously, but now I'm fine. I guess... I don't know, I guess I'm getting used to all this stuff? Risking my life and all?" She looked at John intently. "Does that make sense?"
John was silent for a moment, and Max frowned in concern. "Johnny boy?" she asked. "You okay?"
But then he laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "Oh my God, we've converted you," he laughed. "You're one of us now. Welcome to the Dark Side, Max. We have cookies."
Max rolled her eyes, grinning widely. "You're a nerd, John Watson," she said. "You're a complete nerd."
John grinned back. "And you know it," he replied.
She reached across the table and punched him on the shoulder.
000
Later that day, John was sitting at the dining table, typing on his laptop. Sherlock was standing on the other side of the table, wearing a red dressing robe over his clothes while reading the newspaper and drinking from a mug. "What are you typing?" Sherlock asked.
John didn't even turn his attention away from the screen. "Blog," he answered.
Sherlock scowled. "About?" he pressed.
John shrugged. "Us," he said.
Sherlock gave him a look. "You mean me," he corrected.
This time John looked up at him. "Why?" he asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, you're typing a lot," he said simply.
John huffed in irritation and was about to retort when the doorbell rang, interrupting him. Sherlock put his newspaper down as he walked to the door. "Right, then," he said. "What do we have here?"
000
Over the next few weeks, many people came to 221B to consult with Sherlock. Each of them sat on a dining chair facing the fireplace, seeming slightly uncomfortable under Sherlock's scrutiny. John stood next to Sherlock, quietly observing, and if Max happened to be there she sat at the dining table.
"My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office," a man said.
Sherlock scoffed. "Boring," he declared.
000
"I think my husband might be having an affair," a woman told them.
Sherlock didn't even blink. "Yes," he stated.
000
A man sat in front of them, holding an urn. "She's not my real aunt," he insisted. "She's been replaced. I know she has, I know human ash."
Max groaned. "Oh God," she muttered.
Sherlock pointed to the door. "Leave," he ordered.
000
"We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files," a businessman said, sitting on the dining chair with an aide on either side.
Sherlock scoffed. "Boring," he declared.
000
"We have this website," a geeky young man told them. Two of his friends stood behind him. "It explains the true meaning of comic books, 'cause a lot of people miss a lot of the themes."
Sherlock was already walking away, clearly disinterested.
"But then all the comic books started coming true," the young man continued.
Sherlock quickly backtracked. "Oh," he commented. 'Interesting."
000
A few days later, John was sitting in his armchair and typing away at his laptop, updating his blog. Sherlock walked by and leaned over his shoulder. "'Geek Interpreter,'" he read aloud. "What's that?"
John didn't even look up at him. "It's the title," he answered.
Sherlock scowled. "What does it need a title for?" he demanded.
John just smiled tightly and didn't reply.
Max turned her attention from the book that she was reading and leaned over to look at John's notes. "...Wait, hold up, you dressed up as comic book characters?" she demanded.
John glared at her. "Unfortunately," he grumbled.
She grinned. "Oh my God, do you guys have pictures?!" she asked. "This is priceless!"
Sherlock scowled. "No, we don't have pictures," he replied, as if that were the most absurd thing he had ever heard.
Max reached up and patted him on the arm. "Oh, it's okay, Sherlock," she said. "I'm sure you looked adorable."
Sherlock looked at her in surprise, clearly at a loss for words, then sputtered out a few unintelligible words and walked off to the kitchen.
Max turned to John. "Was he blushing?" she asked in disbelief. "That definitely wasn't my imagination. He was blushing, right?"
John blinked. "Err, yeah, I think so," he agreed.
000
"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock demanded.
Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were at St Bart's morgue, examining a woman's body with tiny red marks all over her body. Sherlock was using his magnifier to examine the body, while John stood at the other side of the table and Lestrade lingered in the background.
John scowled at Sherlock. "Where d'you think our clients come from?" he retorted.
Sherlock gave him a look. "I have a website," he pointed out.
John scoffed. "In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash," he pointed out. "Nobody's reading your website."
Sherlock straightened indignantly and glared at John, then pouted momentarily. John stepped closer, returning his attention to the case. "Right then," he said. "Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are."
He pointed at the red marks, but by that point Sherlock had already left the room.
000
The next week, John was updating his blog again. Sherlock walked past eating a piece of toast, but when he saw what John was doing he stopped and looked at the title of the entry. "Oh, for God's sake!" he exclaimed with his mouth full.
John looked up at him. "What?" he asked.
Sherlock glared. "'The Speckled Blonde?'" he demanded.
Before John could reply, the fire alarm started beeping, and the next second Max came running out of the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind her. "Uh... I left the cookies in the oven for too long," she said breathlessly. "Way too long. We, uh... we might want to steer clear of the kitchen until the smoke clears out?"
John groaned.
000
Two little girls sat together on the dining chair, looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes. "They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead," one of the little girls said. "Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?"
Sherlock scowled. "People don't really go to heaven when they die," he snapped. "They're taken to a special room and burned."
The two girls looked at each other with wide eyes.
"Sherlock..." John warned.
Max cleared her throat, doing her best to smile at the girls. "So, uh... do either of you want something to eat?" she offered. She glanced into the kitchen, trying to think of what food they had. "What about... uh... burnt cookies?"
000
A few days later, Lestrade was leading Sherlock, John, and Max across a stretch of open ground. "There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday," he told them. "Everyone dead."
Sherlock nodded. "Suspected terrorist bomb," he added. "We do watch the news."
John scoffed. "You said 'boring' and turned over," he reminded him.
By this point they had reached where Lestrade wanted to show them: a car with its trunk open. And inside the trunk was...
"A body," Max stated.
Lestrade nodded. "Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board," he told them. He looked at a bag of evidence from the scene. "Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here's his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."
John nodded. "Lucky escape!" he commented.
Max scoffed. "Yeah, sure," she agreed sarcastically. "I know what this is. This is some Final Destination situation here."
Sherlock looked at her blankly. "Final Destination?" he repeated.
John nodded. "Y'know, that movie where these people are supposed to go on an airplane but they miss their flight or something, and the airplane crashes and then those people die one by one or whatever because they were supposed to die in the crash?" he said.
Sherlock gave Max a look. "This is nothing like that," he told her. "He didn't miss his flight."
Max scowled. "It's close enough- y'know, never mind," she sighed.
Lestrade cleared his throat, bringing their attention back to the case at hand. "Any ideas?" he asked.
Sherlock bent over the man's hand, examining it with his magnifier. "Eight, so far," he answered. He straightened up and looked at the body again, then frowned. "Okay, four ideas."
He turned to Lestrade for the evidence bag, examining the passport and ticket stub. "Maybe two ideas," he amended.
But he never narrowed it down to one.
000
Later that day, John and Max were relaxing in the living room when Sherlock walked in. Max looked up from her book and nearly fell out of her seat. "Sherlock, what the hell?" she demanded.
Sherlock blinked innocently, as if he weren't holding a blowtorch in his hand. He was wearing heavy protective gloves and had a pair of safety goggles on his head, and in the other hand that wasn't holding the blowtorch was a flask of green liquid. "What?" he replied. He walked over and looked at John's laptop. Max leaned over too, glancing at the title: Sherlock Holmes Baffled. "No, no, no, don't mention the unsolved ones!" Sherlock protested.
John looked up at him. "People want to know you're human," he pointed out.
Sherlock scowled. "Why?' he demanded.
John shrugged. "'Cause they're interested," he answered.
Sherlock scoffed. "No they're not," he stated. "Why are they?"
Max shrugged. "I'd be pretty interested if I were other people," she commented.
John just smiled, shaking his head in amusement. "Look at that," he said, gesturing to the hit counter on the home page. "One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five."
Sherlock blinked. "Sorry, what?" he asked.
John looked up at him. "I re-set that counter last night," he explained. "This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock- not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash."
Sherlock scowled. "Two hundred and forty-three," he grumbled.
With that, he pulled his safety goggles over his eyes and headed back towards the kitchen, firing up the blowtorch as he did.
"Dear God," Max muttered.
000
Sherlock, John, and Max walked across the stage of a theatre as police officers milled around in the background. "So what's this one?" he asked dryly. "'Belly Button Murders'?"
John shrugged. "'The Navel Treatment'?" he suggested.
"Ugh!" Sherlock groaned.
Max shrugged. "I think it's kinda catchy," she said.
By this point they had reached the backstage, where Lestrade was waiting. "There's a lot of press outside, guys," he warned them.
Sherlock scoffed. "Well, they won't be interested in us," he replied.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that was before you were an Internet phenomenon," he pointed out. "A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three."
Sherlock groaned. "For God's sake!" he exclaimed, glaring at John.
But John just smiled back.
Max blinked. "Wait, all three of us?" she asked. "You've got to be kidding."
They walked past the dressing room, where Sherlock spotted some costumes on a rack. He grabbed a handful of items off of the rack. "John," he said as he walked back. He tossed a cap to John, and he caught it. "Cover your face and walk fast."
He passed Max a length of black fabric, which she proceeded to wrap around her head. "Why do we have to do this?" she asked.
Sherlock gave her a look. "Do you want your face all over the Internet?" he retorted.
Lestrade shrugged. "It's good for the public image," he commented.
But Sherlock just scoffed. "I'm a private detective," he said. "The last thing I need is a public image."
He pulled on the third item that he had picked up from the rack: a deerstalker hat. And then he pushed open the exit door, and he walked out into the crowd.
Max and John shared a look, then shrugged and headed out after him.
Instantly they were blinded by the flashes of the cameras, everyone jostling around and trying to get a good shot of them. Sherlock paved the way, pulling up his collar as high as it could go, and Max and John walked behind him, both of them trying their best to avoid looking at any photographers. Somehow in the middle of the chaos, Max's hand found Sherlock's, and they walked hand-in-hand through the crowd.
They didn't let go until they were safely seated in a cab, driving away from the theatre and the crowds.
000
The next day at work, Max's friend Anna hurried up to her, eyes wide with excitement. "Max, have you seen the papers?" Anna demanded.
Max blinked. "Uh, no," she said. "Why?"
Instead of answering, Anna threw a newspaper onto Max's desk. "What the-" Max started, but then she saw the picture on the front page: Sherlock, coming out of the theatre last night. "Hold up, what?"
She grabbed the newspaper, unfolding it so that she could read the entire article. Sherlock, John, & Max: Blogger Detectives, the title declared. "Oh God," Max muttered. She put the newspaper to the side and turned to her computer, typing Sherlock Holmes into the search engine.
There were articles. A lot of articles.
Max scrolled through the websites, taking in their sudden fame. Sherlock Holmes: Net Phenomenon, one read. Sherlock Net'Tec, was another. And her personal favorite: Hat-man, Robin, and the Ninja: The Web Detectives.
"Wait, hold up, why am I a ninja?" Max demanded. "Is this because of the black scarf I used? Seriously?"
Anna scoffed. "Who cares?!" she exclaimed. "You're famous, girl!" She grinned. "When can I get an autograph?"
Max was about to reply when Simmons walked by. "Let's get back to work, ladies," she said. "I know we have a celebrity in our midst, but our clients are waiting." She gave Max a fond smile then continued on her way.
Anna headed back to her own desk, but Max could barely even turn back to her computer when Tony leaned closer to her from where he was sitting next to her. "Hey, Max, I need to ask a favor," he told her. "Sherlock Holmes, he's a looker, eh? Do you know if he's single?"
Max scowled at him. "He's not interested," she said.
Tony grimaced, completely oblivious to her annoyance. "Darn," he grumbled, leaning back to his own desk.
She had just pulled up her current project when her phone beeped. Resisting the urge to curse, she pulled out her phone. It was a text from John.
Did you see the news?
And despite her previous bad mood, Max found herself smiling as she texted back.
Yeah, Johnny boy! We're famous!