...

John had decided to begin writing on his blog again except he had little idea on how on earth to start the bloody thing. He had already decided to write up some old cases but how to start? How? Did he pretend nothing had happened? Did he post a little note before he began? What should he do? John sighed deeply before simply going with his last train of thought.

I've decided to go back to writing my blog, however I am keeping the comments disabled for now. I don't trust you to not insult the memory of my best friend. I don't care what you think, I just don't want to see the hatred and lies spewed on here like they are in the papers.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes and always will and if you don't get off my bloody blog. If you do, thank you. I know he would have appreciated it in his own funny way.

The following two cases took place shortly after the incident in Dartmoor.

There. That looked right to begin with. Which case to write up first? "I think you should right up the one about the gingers, John" piped up a voice from around his shoulders. John's lips curled, that had certainly been an interesting case. Definitely one of the more amusing ones.

"The League of Ginger's it is then, Mary"

I remember this incident started with an explosion. A minor one actually. Located entirely in our kitchen. Guess who started it. You don't have to be the worlds only consulting detective to figure that out.

I'd woken up fairly early, due to getting little sleep the night before. Thanks to the midnight musician. Sherlock was perched over a new experiment. Sometimes I wonder if there are any real reasons for doing them or he just likes the explosions. In any case a few seconds later there was one. And Sherlock Holmes ended sprawled up on the ground. I cracked up laughing for about two minutes until I noticed he was still on the ground. The idiot had given himself a concussion and was rambling in french for a solid ten minutes. He found it, "fascinating". I had the urge to give him another reason for a head injury. A few seconds later, however, off goes the door bell. A client.

He was quite a tall man, with fiery red hair. His name was Mr Wilson. There wasn't anything really remarkable about him. At least in my opinion. Sherlock however quickly remarked that the man was a smoker, used to manual labour, recently back from China and recently done a great deal of writing. He does love to show off. The man was quite impressed and begged Sherlock to explain how he had 'deduced' all that. It was of course relatively simple once explained.

Mr Wilson regaled us with a tale about his son, who had recently, in Mr Wilson's belief, joined a cult. The oddest thing about this cult was that to join, one had to have fiery red hair. Not reddish blonde, not strawberry blonde, not deep red but fiery red. Sherlock and I found this piece of information somewhat amusing and we both burst out in a fit of laughter, which of course, quite insulted our client. We assured him we would take the case and ushered him from the flat not long after.

Sherlock suggested that one of us needed to go undercover, the problem with this idea is that neither of us was a ginger. So hair dye it was and like hell would I be the one to do it. We flipped a coin, it came up heads so guess which flatmate had to go red? Sherlock. God he was such a child sometimes, really. Firstly he complained I was doing it wrong, then he whined that I should be the one to go, then as the dye began to trickle down his cheeks he all but had a childish tantrum. It was thoroughly amusing though, to see him ginger. The look on his face was priceless.

Not much happened to be entirely honest, Sherlock ventured off to the "cult" which was in fact not a cult at all as it turned out. It was a scam, a con. A way to get people out of their houses at certain times of the day so other members could rob them. Because Mr Wilson worked from 9-6, his son was usually at home for most of the day, joining this cult had given him a reason to let his new mates steal from his stingy father. Why red hair? Blowed if I know, perhaps because it would seem less like a scam if it was aimed at one hair colour.

I still crack up laughing whenever I think of Sherlock with that red hair. I still have the photo. Would not have missed this case for the world, boring or no.

John finished typing, leaning back and picking up the mug of warm tea that Mary had been kind enough to leave on the desk. His finger hovered over the post button. Should he send it? He took a deep breath and pressed the button. "John?" He turned his head. Mary stood behind him in her aqua dressing gown. "I think you should enable the comments. Just this once...see what happens. If you get abuse, delete it and disable the comments again, but.. people might like to talk to you." John shook his head, he feared the abuse, the hateful comments, the spiteful words.

"All those people who used to comment, still believe, John.. let them voice their opinions here.."

"...I don't know..."

"Give them a chance, John..they lost a friend too.."

John turned back to his laptop. "Just this once." He replied, adjusting the settings on his blog. "Just this once."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine"

"Liar"

"If you know I'm lying then why bother even asking, Mycroft?"

"Force of habit. Besides I had hoped you might have 'grown' a little during your absence. It seems I was wrong to think so"

"Clearly"

"Just as childish as before"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was clearly enjoying the banter between himself and his older brother. In truth, he wasn't feeling so good. He still felt quite ill from the drug. Last night he'd even had a fever and to add to his embarrassment, it was Mycroft who had nursed him back to health. This was not the first time he had done so in a long time. Usually John would be the one to look after him if he was sick or injured, which was thankfully, quite rare. Except John wasn't here...

"Sherlock?" His brother clicked his fingers a few times in front of his nose. "What?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You need a partner. I have just the person." The detective shook his fiery head. "Too dangerous, your back up is enough." Mycroft disagreed. "I dislike the idea of you constantly venturing in alone. You need someone able to scope out the houses or buildings as well as the suspects." Mycroft handed him a phone.

"She is back. Text her. She doesn't know you are alive yet. Text her and arrange to meet her here."

"No"

"It's not open for discussion, dear brother. Text. Her. Now."

Sherlock sighed. He might as well, Mycroft would continue to bother him until he did and he had to remarkable ability to be incredibly annoying if he so desired. So he took the phone and typed a quick message and pressed send.

"I'm not dead. Let's have dinner- SH"

A/N: As I do with all John's blog posts, I photoshop them to look like the real deal. View them on my profile page.