A/N So John's blog is basically how BBC acknowledges the novel-type stories that Watson write in classic!Holmes. I can't help but wonder, though, what it would be like if modern day John took the same approach of his Victorian counterpart.(Additionally- how the hell does this have over 400 reviews now? We're well on track to 500 in total, which is far more than I expected any of my stories to ever come near. Every single one of you is absolutely amazing for this.)

Thanks to 666BloodyHell666, Natalie Nallareet, johnsarmylady, sparrowismyhummingbird, starrysummernights, Hummingbird1759, linguisticRenegade, Rain Hamish Holmes, Sendai, MapleleafCameo, DuShuZi, and Song of Grey Lemons

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

LXXXI. Pen & Paper

"What are you doing?" Sherlock sounds almost suspicious as he edges in closer, frowning at the sheet of paper laid out before John, the long silver pen poised between his fingers.

John frowns and leans forward, extending his arm to cover the few lines of neat, dark text laid across the blank whiteness. "Nothing," he lies automatically, resulting in a snort from the detective.

"As if. What is it?"

"Just… something private, okay?" He can feel Sherlock's stare singeing the back of his neck as he turns away, glaring down at the wood of the desk. Of course, it was an idiotic idea in the first place… what the hell am I doing? Stupid, stupid…

"You're writing," Sherlock notes, then reaches in and grips his wrist, pulling it aside to get a better look at the paper.

"Hey!" John snaps in protest, snatching it away with his other hand, but it's too late—the words along the top have already been revealed: long, underlined script, four short words: A Study in Pink.

"You're writing about our first case?"

"Not even—not writing, I'm just…" Grumbling under his breath, he scrunches up the paper, viciously tears at the edges and shoots it towards the rubbish bin across the room. It sails through the air, teeters on the metal brim before tipping over and landing neatly inside, amongst the odd-smelling paper towels residual of Sherlock's latest experiment (its other aftereffects are still soaking in the kitchen sink).

"You're absolutely writing. Why so shy… you're not trying to be creative, are you?"

There's a flush somewhere along the base of John's neck, and he knows it, knows how visible it is, but can't quite force himself to turn around and look Sherlock in the eye. "So what if I am?" he hisses out through gritted teeth.

"What, then, a novelization?" Two long strides later, he's at the bin, pulling the paper out and straightening it. His silvery eyes flicker over the lines of text, and the scowl on his face deepens. "Dry… you really are fantastically untalented with prose."

"And what would you know about it?" John retorts, unwillingly bristling. It's all ridiculous—he's not a good writer, he knows he's not, but that doesn't make Sherlock's words any less of an insult.

"I read the occasional novel," the detective murmurs mildly, tossing the paper back with the rest of the trash.

"Like hell you do."

"They pass the time." He shrugs, plods back into the kitchen. "And you have a long way to go. But, John…"

"Well, thanks a lot for your feedback." Every word stings. "But, you know, I really couldn't care less what you have to say about my personal endeavors, it's not as though I was ever going to ask anyone else to read—"

"If you ever did get anywhere," Sherlock finishes quietly, "I'd be willing to take a look at it."

They're both silent for a moment, still not meeting each other's eyes, then John sighs and his shoulders droop slowly. "Right, okay. Thanks."