Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
You'd think that, having had a number of interesting cases recently, with the relative public acknowledgment, Sherlock would be ecstatic. John is certainly happy for him – his or not, the urge to show the consulting detective off has been irrepressible since the first day, and now he gets to. Well, the blog was born for that, too. But there's something to say for the flashes of actual press. Now, with anyone else the doctor would just be over the moon. But Sherlock, notorious public relations nightmare and misanthrope (unless you're Mrs. Hudson), fills him with dread.
Enjoying that everyone in the world will realise how utterly amazing his partner in crime solving is, all the while trying to subtly steer him in the right direction to avoid that the sleuth will insult every journalist and their mom, is a hard – and stressing – job. One that John has taken upon himself, because there's no way he'll let the press lay it into Sherlock – and spit out much worse than the odd freak – once they realise that their new favourite toy and hero is a man incline to deduce people to tears.
The detective still considers the media like nothing more than an annoyance, and is very vocal about his displeasure. To be honest, if the papers could bother hiring an actual proofreader, Sherlock would probably be much more friendly towards them. But for someone who already objects to the frankly mild blog John writes, sensationalist articles with poor spelling and grammar are crimes about on par with Moriarty's carnage. John tries his best to calm him when the sleuth goes on one of his rants, but it's difficult to defend someone who cannot figure out the difference between lead and led and still opts for a writing job.
It's even harder to keep his cool when the papers make insinuations about him. Though he wouldn't be able to explain, if he was still seeing Ella, if he's angry because his love is so obvious (confirmed bachelor as slang for gay in the past…but these people have serious spelling issues, would they know that?) or because they need to catalogue him as 'lacking'. His nickname could also be interpreted as 'nobody can stand him for any length of time', after all. Not his temporary, almost accidental girlfriends (did Jeanette speak with the papers?)…and not his soulmate, that needs to pretend that there's nothing between the two of them to endure sharing a flat with him. Fuck!
And it's basically impossible to somehow teach your…okay, your Sherlock proper interaction with the media when he seems to have the flightiness of a hummingbird. Some of his less angry reactions are actually hysterical, but John's aim is not to have fun right now, but to force in that brilliant brain to acknowledge that he's not just the world's only consulting detective anymore. He's a fucking brand, and should behave accordingly
Okay, John wouldn't even have come up with the idea that people could be brands if he hadn't toyed with the idea of writing an actual book. He should be able to write a passable mystery, he thinks. Don't they tell you 'write what you know'? Until now, his career as a fictional writer consists of reading every 'helpful suggestion for authors' blog he can find, almost compulsively. Somehow, he doesn't think that he'll have problems crafting a scary villain.
That's not the point, though. The point is that even if internet had never been invented, John would still know the basic principle 'try not to piss off the press and/or your fans', which somehow seems to escape Sherlock. Every. Single. Time.
It escapes him so much that the sleuth seems to find him not just annoying, but almost inopportune. Well, sorry about still caring for his soulmate enough not to want his image skewered once he frustrates one journalist too many. He wants to scream it, but the implication that John has no right to care about him – not even as a friend, because he would tell a friend if the guy was setting himself up for a smear campaign – well, that hurts like a bitch. And it shuts him up, because if living with the detective has taught him anything, it's that there's no need to voice the obvious.
All John can do – for everyone's sanity, and to delay as much as possible the inevitable conflagration when Sherlock will thread on some journalist's or another's last nerve – is to pray that the next cases will keep the detective out of the spotlight. And yes, it's exactly the opposite of what he wished before the media circus started – but what do they say? Careful what you wish for?
Someone definitely heard him – more likely to be a traditional djinn with a twisted sense of humour than a Disney-style wish-granting genius, though. Sherlock – not caring for publicity, in the first place – shrugs and, well, tries to comply. He doesn't have control over which cases come to him, of course, but he's certainly not classifying their interest level on how famous the victims are or how big the titles he'll get will be.
Why, that brings the detective to reminisce about that one time when a missing cook had somehow uncovered the responsible of a bank heist. He'd been very bored, okay, and the person looking for his help reminded him of Mrs. Hudson, who was still in Florida then according to his knowledge.
"Did she lecture you?" John asks, with a lopsided smile. Most people only see the nurturing side of their landlady, but the woman can be fierce.
"She offered an interesting new perspective," the sleuth replies, snottily. John just stares at him, so he ends up sighing and admitting, "She pointed out that just because I didn't eat at all, like the other models – and she definitely put in doubt my profession, and my ability to practise it – it didn't mean that other people would deprive themselves of an expertly cooked meal, or that her activity could survive without her employee. I almost sent her to Mycroft, but well…couldn't have my clients think I couldn't solve such a simple case."
"Of course. You have a reputation to maintain," John agrees, grinning.
Honestly, the next case the consulting detective takes shouldn't attract any attention. The police already closed it, deeming it a suicide. But the best friend of their victim came to them, declaring loudly that such a thing is completely impossible. The dead man isn't famous, and even a mistake shouldn't attract more than a couple lines. But the chance to prove that Scotland Yard botched yet another crime scene is a nice bounty in itself. After the hat gag gift, humiliating them in revenge (not that anyone else needs to know) is something Sherlock obviously looks forward to.
If the investigation requires the sleuth to leave a mannequin hanging from the ceiling overnight, to acquire data that John probably could tell him, or that he could surely find in some research paper, well, it's a cleaner and less annoying experiment than so many in the past. John has learned to take these things in stride, and he has his morning tea without even glancing at their new friend. After all, why should Sherlock accept anyone's data when he can procure his own – and shock anyone visiting in the meantime?
Anyone who isn't used to their own brand of madness, at least. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson has seen much worse in her life, and only comments that it looks just like a lad she knew back in Florida. And Angelo, who arrives personally to deliver John's dinner just after Bryce has been put up (because of course they named the dude, and no, that's not the same name of their victim) chuckles and offers a bad pun about the boys deciding to hold a swinger's party. How can the man be so perceptive and so oblivious at the same time about their relationship?
Of course, that's when everything goes to shit. As if their life wasn't difficult enough, Moriarty decides he wants to play again. Play. Of course. Honestly, the madman is a criminal mastermind with the mindset of a toddler. He's bored. He needs entertainment. He wants to play. Only, his game last time almost blew them all up and killed dozens of people. Seeing his text – because of course John is still playing valet when Sherlock can't be bothered, as frustrating as it is, he swears, he's conditioned by now – John feels a bitter taste in his mouth. No. Not again.
Yes again, because of course it's not like they can tell Jim fucking Moriarty, "Sorry, busy this week, maybe we can reschedule for the next?" And of course the man has to mount the biggest fucking spectacle that has ever happened in the history of crime news since….oh, maybe forever, honestly. As much as John would never admit it aloud, Moriarty is a worthy opponent for Sherlock. An equal. The fact that they don't just match in cleverness but also in dramaqueenness (John doesn't care if it's not a word) is just the icing on the cake.
Of course, after the articles his enemy earned, there is no way that Moriarty would be content continuing to play behind the scenes, even if that is exactly what keeps him safe and allowed him to become so powerful in the first place. The crime of the century is, apparently, just another Thursday for him…given that he feels the need to organise three of them at the same time for his first live performance. Well, his first for the general public. Dressing up in the crown jewels has much more of a flair than awkward Jim from IT.
Still, John cannot figure out how or why Jim would agree to let himself be jailed. One would think that it would put quite a damper on his career, never mind his life in general. No, Moriarty has a plan. He always has a plan (and sometimes two or three, if he's anything like Sherlock). If that's not terrifying, John doesn't know what it is.
He cannot lose it, though. No matter how tempting it is. This is not about him. (It's never about him.) This is a direct challenge to Sherlock, and – secondly – it's Lestrade's problem, as official Met 'Sherlock wrangler'. John empathizes. He bets that Greg would prefer a serial killer creating locked rooms than this mess.
When they're shown the video, John stares at Moriarty dancing. Dancing to a music only he can hear. And if this isn't a weird sort of symbolism (besides being scary as fuck, despite – or because – the criminal being almost dwarfed by the fire extinguisher he is holding), well, he's not much of a blogger. If only there was a way to get inside the man's brain (and inside Sherlock's mind palace, since they're at it), the world would have been actually safe. And maybe John wouldn't spend so much time wondering about his soulmate, and find some peace.
Peace. Ah. How did he even think the word. Lestrade hasn't even left yet, when the siege starts. Everyone and their mum got their hands on Moriarty's video (not that John blames Greg, he's sure that the consulting criminal has arranged that), and of course they want Sherlock's opinion on the matter.
The detective has enough sense to refuse to talk about this – not until he has sized the situation completely. Not that it deterred the journalists. In the end, Sherlock dismantles the doorbell (Greg will text him anyway if he's needed). Not before Mrs. Hudson appears on the threshold, holding her heaviest pan, and warning the people on her stairs that they better not try to sneak in, because she's an old lady and easily scared, and she would use that before checking who the intruder is. John is overcome by affection for their landlady, and hopes that none of these reporter underestimate her. It would be embarrassing having to treat them afterwards, without being able to answer their questions.