[15 May 2010, www. JohnWatson'sblog .com ]

Fairytales

Well, it certainly has been while since I last posted anything. Been a bit busy. As you've all probably seen in the papers, Sherlock's got to be quite the sensation recently. He's had a few good cases that have got him noticed by the media, which I don't think is really such a good thing, but at least it seems to be doing something nice for his ego.

I say nice, when you all know I mean the opposite. But at the same time… I do mean it. I can't tell you about the reasons why, because I'm sure he'd stab me in my sleep if I did, but I can tell you this:

Sherlock Holmes can be an annoying dick.

But he's also extraordinarily perceptive, and I don't just mean that in a detective sort of way. He knows a lot more than he lets on. And he deserves a lot better than most people give him. So if you're reading this (you know who you are) leave him alone already.

Just a friendly bit of advice from an ex army doctor.

Be nicer, and I'll see if I can't get him to apologize once in a blue moon. Maybe.

Some personal things have been going on, and we could both use a little slack.

Okay, on to the real subject of this post—'Hansel and Gretel.' Yes, those are the characters from that old fairy tale. That's what I'm calling this case, because that's what the theme was. I say theme because there really was one; the perpetrator left us all sorts of clues having to do with fairytales, a book of them, an envelope filled with bread crumbs, and a package of gingerbread men that were burned to a crisp. Sherlock says it was Moriarty. Everything's Moriarty isn't it. God.

Anyway, there were two children, a brother and a sister, staying at a boarding school who were kidnapped. Nobody knew where the hell they'd been taken or why. But Sherlock, genius that he is, figured it all out from a footprint the kidnapper had left. He analysed it in the lab, doing who knows what, and figured out exactly where the children had been taken.

Turned out to be an abandoned sweet factory in Addlestone. They'd been left to fend for themselves there, starving, so they ate the chocolates that were lying around. But the kidnapper had apparently laced them with mercury, so he could kill them slowly—what sort of monster does that to kids?

Thank god Sherlock found them. They're both alright, but the boy was in urgent care for a while. The funny thing was, when Sherlock went in to interview the little girl, she screamed her head off as soon as she saw him.

I have no bloody clue what that was about, and I don't think Sherlock does either. I know him, and I can tell when there's real, genuine surprise in his eyes. Trust me, I've seen it.

But it's solved otherwise, since he keeps saying it was Moriarty, so I suppose that's another one in the bag. Of course, it won't be until they actually catch the guy, but it is in his book.

Until next time, then.

John W.

"Are you going to be typing on there all afternoon?" Sherlock rolled over on the sofa to look at him. "It's starting to get annoying."

"I've just finished, and typing is a necessary part of having a blog."

"I don't like your blog."

"I know, but you like the cases we get because of it." John ignored him, choosing instead to poke about on his email for a while.

It seemed these days that Sherlock was okay—which was probably a pretty good indicator that he wasn't. With the side effects from the pills out of the way and a new volley of successful cases under his belt, his old walls of control had come back into play, and any and all interaction with other people would probably be guarded pretty damn well. That didn't, of course, mean that John was giving up.

"Hmm. Speaking of—have you gotten a reply from that client? What was it… Mr. Anonymous? What kind of silly pseudonym is that, anyway…? Sounds like some sort of absurd online dating profile…"

John cleared his throat. "As a matter of fact, I have. He says that what makes him different from other people is that he's intelligent. He's… um… extraordinarily clever."

The detective's brow furrowed as he listened, staring up at the ceiling, and he almost scoffed out-loud. "Very likely. I'm sure he is."

Deciding not to comment, John went on. "And… he's contacting you because he doesn't feel comfortable with talking to 'some quack.' He wants you to find the facts."

"Now that I can do, and at least there's one thing we agree on."

"So. Any thoughts?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, lacing his fingers together over his chest and settling back into the cushions. "…I think he needs a friend."

John blinked.

What now?

"Well… say he did get one, and it didn't help enough. What then?"

"That would help. Why do you think it wouldn't? Am I really that bad of an example companion?"

"Um… I'm just going to pretend you didn't say that. Just, for the sake of a hypothesis, say that didn't work. What would you have him do then?"

"Hmm…" Sherlock lapsed back into thoughtful silence. "He could get a hobby. Something worthwhile."

"He's got one."

"Oh?"

"…Puzzles. He likes to solve puzzles."

The detective looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. "Puzzles? Hardly useful."

"Trust me, it is. It's pretty damn useful, and he's incredibly good at it, too."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't see your reasoning. Besides, I'd probably be better at it than he is. You know I would be."

John almost found it hard to contain a chuckle at the idea that Sherlock might just be a bit jealous of himself, and he didn't even know it.

He'd have to save the chuckles for later, when everything didn't count on his acting job, which was probably already shoddy at best.

But it did seem to be working.