A/N So, I wrote these so long ago that I don't even know how I thought the title of this tied into the content. Oh, well, I still don't think it's awful (though not necessarily one of the better ones, either). Also, I can totally see John as a hardcore Whovian and Trekker. Just saying.

Thanks to Guest, johnsarmylady, and AJ Elfhawk

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XLVII. Creation

John's never tried his hand at the creative arts. All of them seem rather useless to him, really—drawing, music, even writing. Well, writing of the fictional variety. And it is indeed a bit of a chore to maintain the blog cataloguing his and Sherlock's ventures, but he does it anyways, since he actually has readers at this point—fans, even.

Still, that's just about as nonfiction as it gets, and he's happy sticking to it. Fantasy worlds have never really appealed to him in the first place. They're… all a bit silly, really, even the ones that don't concern fairies and aliens. He can appreciate Doctor Who and Star Trek as much as the next man—alright, perhaps just a little bit more, when it comes to those two—but still, he's really not the type to get wound up in unreal plots and characters.

Not usually, in any case.

He can't remember just when he started reading mystery novels, but he's undeniably hooked.

And it's not because of anything made-up; that's what's so funny about the whole thing. He loves the badly written paperback crimes because they're familiar. He can associate with them, he can see himself in those pages, recognize the dark dynamic of the unlawful underground that he's so familiar with. In fact, he prides himself in being able to notice when the author makes an error—factual or even just in describing the precise feel of panic, the exact sensation of one's finger on a trigger and their eyes fixated on a target. He knows this better than them. He practically is a character, can easily see himself slipping into the pages, taking on the role of the slightly too clueless assistant that seems to plague the lines of any novel he picks up. Some of them even have remarkably similar backgrounds to him, and he can't help but be entertained by the similarities.

But the books have absolute main characters, too—always the dark, brooding detective, highly intellectual but also witty, sharp, quick and likable. The one who always gets the girl in the end, seduces them with his very atmosphere, all leather jackets and flashing eyes and flirty manner.

Sherlock is more impressive than any of these fictional mystery-solvers, though. Sherlock, lighter and slimmer, clean-shaven and pale rather than tanned and scuffed with stubble, typically clad in a tight-fitting suit instead of absurd gear more appropriate for a motorcycle rider than a crime fighter.

He's unique, unlike any of the detectives that traverse the pages of John's guilty-pleasure books, and undeniably superior to them.

And John thinks that that may be another reason why he loves reading them so much. Because they make his reality all the more vivid, intensify the magnificence of the man that he gets to live and work with, show how even the dreamiest authors can't come up with anything near matching him.

Sherlock will always be better, and that's something that John is positive of—something that he carries with him in the proudest manner possible.