lost without his blogger; a john/sherlock fic.
lost without his blogger, a john/sherlock fic, pg
Someone has been hacking into John’s blog, but for what purpose?
Written for littlehutt for my Jesusmas Advent Calendar.
“Could Lestrade trace an IP address and find out who’s been hacking my blog?” John demanded without preamble as Sherlock sat down at the table with his plate of toast. (2,030 words)
“Good morning, Freak,” Sally said in a conversational tone as Sherlock and John walked past her desk, on their way to a meeting with Lestrade. “Haven’t seen you around lately. Was hoping the boss had wisened up and finally cut you loose.”
“And a lovely morning to you as well, Sally,” Sherlock replied with an insincere smile. “I see you’ve moved on to greener pastures-been seeing Sergeant McMullen lately, hmm? Isn’t his divorce still being processed?”
She leaned against her desk and ignored the jab, turning to smile unpleasantly at John. “Been enjoying your recent posts, Doctor.”
“Donovan, don’t you have anything better to do with your life than read his blog?” Sherlock said with another smile. “Perhaps, I don’t know, combing your hair properly?”
“What are you talking about?” John asked, forehead crinkling with confusion. “I haven’t updated my blog in weeks.”
Sally raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Maybe you’ve been posting in your sleep, then,” she said. “After the Freak’s gone to bed.”
---
“Oh God, someone’s hacked into my account!”
Sherlock leaned back to look at John around his Bunsen burner. The good doctor was sitting before his laptop, hand clapped to his mouth, eyes staring in disbelief.
“It can’t be that bad,” Sherlock said, returning to his measuring cups and bottles of chemicals. “You’ve developed a flair for the dramatics since watching all of those brain-rotting daytime programs with Mrs. Hudson.”
“‘S’pose I should tell you all a bit more about myself,’” John began to read aloud, with a look of utter incredulity. “‘You already know my name is John Watson and that I’m a doctor and my flatmate is the infamous Sherlock Holmes, but there’s plenty about me you don’t know. I’m an Aquarius, a retired soldier, and I’m a huge fan of Duran Duran. I used to be a ballet dancer, and I’ve never quite gotten over my penchant for wearing tights and glitter. I’ve never said anything about this before, what with being in the Army and all, but I’m feeling bolder these days now that I’ve got a proper boyfriend, and I don’t care if the whole world knows this now. I love long walks in the rain or evenings at home by the fire, especially if Sherlock’s got his violin out. But my idea of a perfect date is a fancy Italian dinner out followed by puzzle-making and cuddling on the couch.”
He slowly turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze, eyes wide and bugging and mouth slightly agape. “…And I haven’t even pointed out the atrocious misspelling yet.”
“No one will take it seriously,” Sherlock said calmly, lifting a pipette up to the light to examine its contents. “Just delete the post and change your password.”
“Sherlock, this post has been up for two weeks. Do you know just how many people have already read this? Lestrade, Sally Donovan, my sister, Sarah, Anderson-”
“I thought we agreed to never speak that imbecile’s name in this flat.”
“The whole of Scotland Yard reads my blog, Sherlock!” John ran a hand through his now rather shaggy hair (he’d been meaning to get it cut, just as he’d been meaning to update his blog, but obviously he had had no time for either), an expression of panic taking up residence across his face. “They’ve probably been laughing about it for days!”
“Don’t put any stock into what those incompetent flat-foots think or say,” Sherlock advised. “I never have, and look at how happy I am.”
“…Happy? You’re never happy unless you’re up to your knees in dead bodies.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Donovan.”
“I’m being serious here, Sherlock.”
“God, John, it’s pointless to get wound up about this!” Sherlock snapped peevishly, setting down a beaker with a sharp clack of glass against the wood tabletop. “So some teenaged idiot hacked into your account and wrote up a silly post insinuating that you’re homosexual-”
“Insinuating?” John spluttered in disbelief. “Ballet? Duran Duran? They even said you were my boyfriend, Sherlock! I think you should look up ‘insinuating’ in the dictionary, because you clearly have no idea what it means.”
“Are you going to witter on all night or are you going to delete the post?” Sherlock said.
John turned back to his computer and began pecking at the keys irritably, hitting ENTER on the ‘Are you sure you want to delete this post?’ box rather more forcefully than was necessary.
---
THREE DAYS LATER…
“Could Lestrade trace an IP address and find out who’s been hacking my blog?” John demanded without preamble as Sherlock sat down at the table with his plate of toast.
“There’s no need to involve Lestrade-I’ll have Mycroft do it.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s not bother a Detective Inspector who already owes you a hundred favors. No, we should waste the time of a high-ranking official in Her Majesty’s government instead,” John said sarcastically.
“You’re awfully sensitive about all of this,” Sherlock commented neutrally.
“You wouldn’t be so nonchalant if they’d hacked into your website and started posting slanderous allegations.”
“No one would believe posts like that if they appeared on my website.”
“Why? Because you’re Sherlock Holmes?”
“Precisely. Anyone who knows the slightest thing about me would immediately know that anything like that was fraudulent.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” John muttered under his breath. He felt Sherlock staring at him and glanced up. Something about the oh-so-superior look on his face, that familiar look that practically shouted ‘I’m so far above all of this petty human bullshit’ made him speak without thinking. “I’m pretty sure everyone excepting Molly thinks you’re gayer than a monkey with a banana,” he said spitefully. “And I think you’re enjoying all of this because you’re-”
Jealous that I have Sarah. He stopped himself before it slipped out, because he realized two things: one, that that statement was technically untrue. He didn’t really have Sarah. He kept trying because she was the only woman he’d met since returning home who had flirted with him, who’d encouraged him, and who had the nerves to still answer his calls after a very close call with death. Sarah was pretty and nice and interesting, and he was attracted to her-but he’d also begun to accept that their relationship had irrecoverably stalled. He could keep trying for months, but it would never go any further. They’d hit a dead-end somewhere near the ‘friends that flirt’ stage, and there was nothing for it now but to be satisfied with it or turn around in the opposite direction.
And the second thing was that part of him wished it actually was true: that Sherlock actually was jealous of him because of Sarah. Why else would he have practically sabotaged their first date, why else had he been so snarky and moody whenever John mentioned spending time with her rather than with him? He realized suddenly that he wanted Sherlock to be jealous.
“Were you going to finish that thought?” Sherlock asked dryly.
“Oh, never mind,” John said quickly, looking down at his bowl of now soggy cereal, rather confused. Why did he want Sherlock to be jealous? It wasn’t as if he-no, that was impossible. He wasn’t-no. He was straight. He fancied girls, always had and always would. And even if he were gay, he certainly wouldn’t fancy Sherlock. The man was too infuriating and strange and-
“John? Is there something wrong with your cereal?”
“What? No. Why?”
“You’re staring at it rather intently,” his flatmate observed.
“Just thinking.”
“What did your hacker write this time?” When John looked at him blankly, Sherlock only just refrained from sighing. “The way you’re carrying on today, I gather that he’s posted again.”
“Oh. Yes. He went on about how much I enjoy musical theatre, particularly The Phantom of the Opera.”
“I’m familiar with that story. A talented young diva is torn between a handsome nobleman and a mad but brilliant musical genius, both of whom are passionately in love with her, and it all unfolds with a predictably melodramatic inevitability,” Sherlock said. “Yes, I’ve seen a musical, don’t look at me with such disbelief, John.”
“…You’ve seen The Phantom of the Opera but you-”
“Shut up already about Copernican theory!” He rubbed at his temple with a groan. “If you want the hacker taken care of, I’ll speak with Mycroft today.”
“Thought you weren’t on speaking terms with each other at the moment.”
“No, we’re not. But if it’ll keep you from complaining every morning, I’ll try to make peace with the supercilious bastard.”
“Isn’t calling your brother a bastard also an insult to your own moth-”
“Shut up, John, and finish your cereal.”
---
TWO DAYS AFTER THAT…
“I thought you said you’d handled it!”
“I said nothing of the sort. I said I’d gotten Mycroft to handle it. Call him up and whinge about the incompetence in our exalted and hallowed government.”
“Now the bastard’s written up about how I collect china kittens and enjoy knitting pink cardigans!”
“There are worse things to be accused of.”
---
AND A DAY AFTER THAT…
“That’s it. That’s the limit. I’m deleting this entire blog.”
“Your friend seems ridiculously determined. I predict he’ll have created a new one in its exact image by tomorrow morning.”
“You’re not helping matters, Sherlock.”
“I’m sorry John, if I don’t have the energy or time to spare for your current little melodrama. I’ve got more important things to concern myself with. Such as the viscosity of blood after a botched embalming when exposed to intense heat.”
“This latest post is all about you.”
“You say this as if it means something to me.”
“About you. And me. In bed. Together.”
“And?”
“And? And? You sit there all unruffled and act like this is nothing! It’s bad enough that everyone we knew thought we were shagging-now they’ll think they know it.” John glanced back at the computer screen and groaned, his forehead bumping against the top edge of the laptop. “Harry just commented on the post and said I’m being crude for airing all of our ‘naughty laundry’ on the internet. And then she added a grinning emoticon at the end with a ‘thumbs up’ in between some asterisks.”
“I think the real question here is why you’re allowing this to bother you so much,” Sherlock said quietly. He folded his hands in his lap and looked up at the ceiling.
“Maybe because this blog is supposed to be mine,” John said angrily. “It’s an invasion of privacy, and I don’t appreciate people that spread lies just to be spiteful and get a laugh at someone else’s expense.”
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair with a quiet sigh, ruffling his hair in that frustrated gesture John knew so well by now. “Don’t delete your blog.”
“Like it matters to you, anyway,” John said, forehead furrowed. “Every time I write up one of our adventures, you just deride me.”
The lanky man stood up sharply. He actually looked unusually rumpled today, his black slacks creased and his blue buttoned-up shirt wrinkled from a day spent hunched vulture-like in his chair. He’d rolled his sleeves up and unbuttoned his collar; combined with his disheveled hair, he looked rather wild and unkempt. He took the two steps necessary to bring him beside John’s chair and leaned over. He laid a hand over John’s, sitting just next to the enter key. The long, surprisingly soft fingers pressed against his skin.
“I’d be lost without my blogger,” he said firmly. “Don’t delete it. I’ll sort this out tonight. You won’t have to see another fake post. You have my word.”
John somehow managed to swallow-his throat had suddenly gone dry and he felt rather flushed. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.”
He turned his head and met Sherlock’s eye. A devilish grin slowly twisted the detective’s lips and he winked cheekily.
Oh bloody hell, John thought to himself, somewhat despairing. I do fancy Sherlock Holmes.
Someone has been hacking into John’s blog, but for what purpose?
Written for littlehutt for my Jesusmas Advent Calendar.
“Could Lestrade trace an IP address and find out who’s been hacking my blog?” John demanded without preamble as Sherlock sat down at the table with his plate of toast. (2,030 words)
“Good morning, Freak,” Sally said in a conversational tone as Sherlock and John walked past her desk, on their way to a meeting with Lestrade. “Haven’t seen you around lately. Was hoping the boss had wisened up and finally cut you loose.”
“And a lovely morning to you as well, Sally,” Sherlock replied with an insincere smile. “I see you’ve moved on to greener pastures-been seeing Sergeant McMullen lately, hmm? Isn’t his divorce still being processed?”
She leaned against her desk and ignored the jab, turning to smile unpleasantly at John. “Been enjoying your recent posts, Doctor.”
“Donovan, don’t you have anything better to do with your life than read his blog?” Sherlock said with another smile. “Perhaps, I don’t know, combing your hair properly?”
“What are you talking about?” John asked, forehead crinkling with confusion. “I haven’t updated my blog in weeks.”
Sally raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Maybe you’ve been posting in your sleep, then,” she said. “After the Freak’s gone to bed.”
---
“Oh God, someone’s hacked into my account!”
Sherlock leaned back to look at John around his Bunsen burner. The good doctor was sitting before his laptop, hand clapped to his mouth, eyes staring in disbelief.
“It can’t be that bad,” Sherlock said, returning to his measuring cups and bottles of chemicals. “You’ve developed a flair for the dramatics since watching all of those brain-rotting daytime programs with Mrs. Hudson.”
“‘S’pose I should tell you all a bit more about myself,’” John began to read aloud, with a look of utter incredulity. “‘You already know my name is John Watson and that I’m a doctor and my flatmate is the infamous Sherlock Holmes, but there’s plenty about me you don’t know. I’m an Aquarius, a retired soldier, and I’m a huge fan of Duran Duran. I used to be a ballet dancer, and I’ve never quite gotten over my penchant for wearing tights and glitter. I’ve never said anything about this before, what with being in the Army and all, but I’m feeling bolder these days now that I’ve got a proper boyfriend, and I don’t care if the whole world knows this now. I love long walks in the rain or evenings at home by the fire, especially if Sherlock’s got his violin out. But my idea of a perfect date is a fancy Italian dinner out followed by puzzle-making and cuddling on the couch.”
He slowly turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze, eyes wide and bugging and mouth slightly agape. “…And I haven’t even pointed out the atrocious misspelling yet.”
“No one will take it seriously,” Sherlock said calmly, lifting a pipette up to the light to examine its contents. “Just delete the post and change your password.”
“Sherlock, this post has been up for two weeks. Do you know just how many people have already read this? Lestrade, Sally Donovan, my sister, Sarah, Anderson-”
“I thought we agreed to never speak that imbecile’s name in this flat.”
“The whole of Scotland Yard reads my blog, Sherlock!” John ran a hand through his now rather shaggy hair (he’d been meaning to get it cut, just as he’d been meaning to update his blog, but obviously he had had no time for either), an expression of panic taking up residence across his face. “They’ve probably been laughing about it for days!”
“Don’t put any stock into what those incompetent flat-foots think or say,” Sherlock advised. “I never have, and look at how happy I am.”
“…Happy? You’re never happy unless you’re up to your knees in dead bodies.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Donovan.”
“I’m being serious here, Sherlock.”
“God, John, it’s pointless to get wound up about this!” Sherlock snapped peevishly, setting down a beaker with a sharp clack of glass against the wood tabletop. “So some teenaged idiot hacked into your account and wrote up a silly post insinuating that you’re homosexual-”
“Insinuating?” John spluttered in disbelief. “Ballet? Duran Duran? They even said you were my boyfriend, Sherlock! I think you should look up ‘insinuating’ in the dictionary, because you clearly have no idea what it means.”
“Are you going to witter on all night or are you going to delete the post?” Sherlock said.
John turned back to his computer and began pecking at the keys irritably, hitting ENTER on the ‘Are you sure you want to delete this post?’ box rather more forcefully than was necessary.
---
THREE DAYS LATER…
“Could Lestrade trace an IP address and find out who’s been hacking my blog?” John demanded without preamble as Sherlock sat down at the table with his plate of toast.
“There’s no need to involve Lestrade-I’ll have Mycroft do it.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s not bother a Detective Inspector who already owes you a hundred favors. No, we should waste the time of a high-ranking official in Her Majesty’s government instead,” John said sarcastically.
“You’re awfully sensitive about all of this,” Sherlock commented neutrally.
“You wouldn’t be so nonchalant if they’d hacked into your website and started posting slanderous allegations.”
“No one would believe posts like that if they appeared on my website.”
“Why? Because you’re Sherlock Holmes?”
“Precisely. Anyone who knows the slightest thing about me would immediately know that anything like that was fraudulent.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” John muttered under his breath. He felt Sherlock staring at him and glanced up. Something about the oh-so-superior look on his face, that familiar look that practically shouted ‘I’m so far above all of this petty human bullshit’ made him speak without thinking. “I’m pretty sure everyone excepting Molly thinks you’re gayer than a monkey with a banana,” he said spitefully. “And I think you’re enjoying all of this because you’re-”
Jealous that I have Sarah. He stopped himself before it slipped out, because he realized two things: one, that that statement was technically untrue. He didn’t really have Sarah. He kept trying because she was the only woman he’d met since returning home who had flirted with him, who’d encouraged him, and who had the nerves to still answer his calls after a very close call with death. Sarah was pretty and nice and interesting, and he was attracted to her-but he’d also begun to accept that their relationship had irrecoverably stalled. He could keep trying for months, but it would never go any further. They’d hit a dead-end somewhere near the ‘friends that flirt’ stage, and there was nothing for it now but to be satisfied with it or turn around in the opposite direction.
And the second thing was that part of him wished it actually was true: that Sherlock actually was jealous of him because of Sarah. Why else would he have practically sabotaged their first date, why else had he been so snarky and moody whenever John mentioned spending time with her rather than with him? He realized suddenly that he wanted Sherlock to be jealous.
“Were you going to finish that thought?” Sherlock asked dryly.
“Oh, never mind,” John said quickly, looking down at his bowl of now soggy cereal, rather confused. Why did he want Sherlock to be jealous? It wasn’t as if he-no, that was impossible. He wasn’t-no. He was straight. He fancied girls, always had and always would. And even if he were gay, he certainly wouldn’t fancy Sherlock. The man was too infuriating and strange and-
“John? Is there something wrong with your cereal?”
“What? No. Why?”
“You’re staring at it rather intently,” his flatmate observed.
“Just thinking.”
“What did your hacker write this time?” When John looked at him blankly, Sherlock only just refrained from sighing. “The way you’re carrying on today, I gather that he’s posted again.”
“Oh. Yes. He went on about how much I enjoy musical theatre, particularly The Phantom of the Opera.”
“I’m familiar with that story. A talented young diva is torn between a handsome nobleman and a mad but brilliant musical genius, both of whom are passionately in love with her, and it all unfolds with a predictably melodramatic inevitability,” Sherlock said. “Yes, I’ve seen a musical, don’t look at me with such disbelief, John.”
“…You’ve seen The Phantom of the Opera but you-”
“Shut up already about Copernican theory!” He rubbed at his temple with a groan. “If you want the hacker taken care of, I’ll speak with Mycroft today.”
“Thought you weren’t on speaking terms with each other at the moment.”
“No, we’re not. But if it’ll keep you from complaining every morning, I’ll try to make peace with the supercilious bastard.”
“Isn’t calling your brother a bastard also an insult to your own moth-”
“Shut up, John, and finish your cereal.”
---
TWO DAYS AFTER THAT…
“I thought you said you’d handled it!”
“I said nothing of the sort. I said I’d gotten Mycroft to handle it. Call him up and whinge about the incompetence in our exalted and hallowed government.”
“Now the bastard’s written up about how I collect china kittens and enjoy knitting pink cardigans!”
“There are worse things to be accused of.”
---
AND A DAY AFTER THAT…
“That’s it. That’s the limit. I’m deleting this entire blog.”
“Your friend seems ridiculously determined. I predict he’ll have created a new one in its exact image by tomorrow morning.”
“You’re not helping matters, Sherlock.”
“I’m sorry John, if I don’t have the energy or time to spare for your current little melodrama. I’ve got more important things to concern myself with. Such as the viscosity of blood after a botched embalming when exposed to intense heat.”
“This latest post is all about you.”
“You say this as if it means something to me.”
“About you. And me. In bed. Together.”
“And?”
“And? And? You sit there all unruffled and act like this is nothing! It’s bad enough that everyone we knew thought we were shagging-now they’ll think they know it.” John glanced back at the computer screen and groaned, his forehead bumping against the top edge of the laptop. “Harry just commented on the post and said I’m being crude for airing all of our ‘naughty laundry’ on the internet. And then she added a grinning emoticon at the end with a ‘thumbs up’ in between some asterisks.”
“I think the real question here is why you’re allowing this to bother you so much,” Sherlock said quietly. He folded his hands in his lap and looked up at the ceiling.
“Maybe because this blog is supposed to be mine,” John said angrily. “It’s an invasion of privacy, and I don’t appreciate people that spread lies just to be spiteful and get a laugh at someone else’s expense.”
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair with a quiet sigh, ruffling his hair in that frustrated gesture John knew so well by now. “Don’t delete your blog.”
“Like it matters to you, anyway,” John said, forehead furrowed. “Every time I write up one of our adventures, you just deride me.”
The lanky man stood up sharply. He actually looked unusually rumpled today, his black slacks creased and his blue buttoned-up shirt wrinkled from a day spent hunched vulture-like in his chair. He’d rolled his sleeves up and unbuttoned his collar; combined with his disheveled hair, he looked rather wild and unkempt. He took the two steps necessary to bring him beside John’s chair and leaned over. He laid a hand over John’s, sitting just next to the enter key. The long, surprisingly soft fingers pressed against his skin.
“I’d be lost without my blogger,” he said firmly. “Don’t delete it. I’ll sort this out tonight. You won’t have to see another fake post. You have my word.”
John somehow managed to swallow-his throat had suddenly gone dry and he felt rather flushed. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.”
He turned his head and met Sherlock’s eye. A devilish grin slowly twisted the detective’s lips and he winked cheekily.
Oh bloody hell, John thought to himself, somewhat despairing. I do fancy Sherlock Holmes.