Sherlock fic! The Problem with Personal Blogs, Part 1
For those of you who've yet to experience the pleasure of the new BBC incarnation of Sherlock Holmes in modern-day London, I'd highly recommend ordering the DVD. It's a delightful series. Technically, this story follows the second episode, "The Blind Banker," but it's not essential for you to have seen it to follow along.
The story is basically gen with a bit of wild het, plenty of laughs, and a real mystery to solve. Click here to enter into
Title: The Problem with Personal Blogs, Part 1/21
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, the BBC gang (Molly, Sarah, Donovan, Anderson)
Rating: PG to Strong Adult (check each installment) - this part PG
Warnings: Estrogen! Heaps of it. Minor spoilers for episode 2.
Summary: Sherlock finds himself the recipient of unwanted attention, thanks to the Internet.
Notes: Not slash, just funny and sexy with a bit of het. I'm going to pretend that John had the date set wrong on his computer, because I really need an extra week between this case and "The Great Game". References to John's blog http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/ which is a very cute read. Many thanks to winterstorrm for the beta and Britpick.
For a complete list of chapters, see: The Problem with Personal Blogs, chapter list.
For those of you who are interested, you can read my first Sherlock story here: What Friends Do.
The Problem with Personal Blogs, Part 1: The Case
It had started out to be such a
pretty problem. Jewelry theft of an exclusive store at midnight: limited video
of two thieves wearing masks, unremarkable in clothing or build, therefore able
to be identified only by the brief audio traces captured by the CCTV system inside
the shop. A power blackout that happened to coincide with their departure had rendered
a square kilometer of the city around the store dark and mysterious, cloaking
their escape. A very pretty little problem.
DI Lestrade had invited Sherlock
onto the case after Scotland Yard had failed to turn up any suspects. As the physical
evidence was minimal, Sherlock found himself resorting to what the police had
already been doing: asking residents of the area if-assuming they had been up
at midnight-between searching for torches and matches, did they happen to hear
anything that might possibly have sounded as if it could have been two jewel thieves,
dashing past them in the darkness?
This intensive personal work did not
suit Sherlock well.
It was bad enough that someone of
his potential should be reduced to knocking on doors, badgering housewives and
shopkeepers to please check their memories, and yes, it might not have been two
men, it may have been only one (had the pair split up), and they might not have
been running, they may have been walking or disguised-all avenues the police
were certain to have overlooked. Yet it had turned out that even this drudgery
was not brutal enough, for Sherlock had failed to reckon with the temporary
prestige that a newspaper article can bestow, and the baffling popularity of Dr.
Watson's blog.
Typical resident: "Ooh! Aren't
you the nice young man who stopped that serial killer? Bless you! You're even
younger-looking in person. You know, after I saw your picture in The Guardian
I looked you up online. You're really photogenic, aren't you? I read all the
accounts I could find-"
"Thanks for that. So, were you
up at midnight?"
"At my age? Such a dreamer. That
Dr. Watson who wrote you up, now; he seems such a nice young man, too. Isn't it
fortunate that you two found each other?"
"Terribly. Is anyone else at
home? Someone who may have been up around that hour?"
"I was telling my sister Gladys
when she came, 'Move to London!' I told her. 'We have the nicest young men
running round our streets here keeping us safe'-"
"Thank you. Should anything
come to mind, you know where to reach me."
"Oh, lord, yes. I have both of
your blogs bookmarked. I'll check in regularly, never fear!"
Next door.
"Good God, it's you! Mum, it's him!
The detective in the paper-Sherlock Holmes. You remember, the one who caught
the serial killer?"
"Yes, hello. Actually, I only
wanted to ask you about the other night-"
"Ooh, a case! You're asking me
about a case?"
"I'm attempting to. The jewelry
theft on Saturday night. Did you hear anything?"
"Oh, that again. The
police have already been through here, asking us all. No one's seen or heard anything.
I say, aren't you just a bit slow off the mark? I mean, for a consulting
detective, or whatever you're supposed to be. The regulars were here days
ago-"
"Thank you for your time."
Next door.
"Now, and very good to see you,
Mr. Holmes, very good indeed! Nice to know the younger generation hasn't
totally gone to rot."
"That remains to be seen.
However, as I am standing on your doorstep, would you be good enough to
tell me whether or not you were up last Saturday at midnight?"
"Well, now, that's just the sort
of problem you can help me with."
"I'm sorry?"
"This watch. Look at it! Older
than I am."
"And unreliable, I take
it."
"Unreliable! It's never missed
a tick."
"Then I fail to follow-"
"It's me! Eyes are
going, half deaf-I can never find the bloody thing. Now, I was wondering if you-if
someone with your particular brain and experience, that is, would be able to
tell me where I can put this watch of an evening so's I would always be able to
find it?"
"I haven't the vaguest notion.
Good day."
Next door.
"Sherlock Holmes? Is
that your real name?"
Three days. He'd had three days
of this-three days of abysmal semi-celebrity status, half the world having no
idea who he might be, and the other half fawning over him for no reason other than
some wretched photographer from The Guardian putting his picture in the
paper (shock blanket and all) at the conclusion of the serial suicide business,
and dear John Watson, ever the conformist, innocently typing up and publishing
his disjointed thoughts in a bizarre attempt to please his therapist. The two
bits together had created a perfect storm of temporary interest. It was enough
to traumatize the hardiest scientific reasoner.
By Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock
desperately needed a break, a change-anything to perk him up. A trip to
the morgue was in order. It was just possible that he might notice something
amiss with one of the bodies-some insignificant but telltale sign that pointed
to some grisly little murder. He could clear that up and then come back to this
jewelry business, refreshed.
He went round to Bart's and straight
on into the morgue. In his first bit of luck in days, he saw that Molly was on
duty as he peeped through the glass window. Excellent. Molly was always ready
to do his bidding. Putting on his winningest smile, he pushed through the heavy
door.
"Molly!"
She started at the interruption,
then froze. Her eyes didn't leave him as he walked up. However, contrary to her
usual manner, her expression was wary, even resentful. Possibly... hurt?
Sherlock had no time to spare for
the vagaries of women's emotions. "Molly, how are you?" he asked in
his most ingratiating tone.
Her eyes studied his, her mouth a
hard line. "What do you want?"
He ignored her mood. "A body.
Any body."
She gave a little snort and turned
away. "That's about right."
Sherlock frowned. He understood that
Molly was in a bad temper and was fully prepared to let her have her way; after
all, it was entirely her right. But this little tantrum of hers was standing in
his way. Distasteful as it was, he supposed he should probe into the matter.
"Molly," he said with a
concern he didn't feel, but felt would help smooth the way. "What's
happened?"
He put a hand on her shoulder-which she
shook off, to his amazement. She turned on him, her dark eyes snapping with
anger. "You haven't a bit of shame, have you?"
Sherlock searched back. "I
don't think so."
"That's you all over. Never a
thought to spare for the other person. Never a moment to consider how your
actions might hurt someone else."
Sherlock was truly bewildered. That
he was capable of injuring others' feelings, he was amply aware. But he
couldn't recall any incident recently where he had done so-certainly not
one that would have affected Molly. Perplexed, he asked, "Would you mind informing
me what it is that I supposedly have done?"
Molly gave a laugh that was pure
exasperation. "Now, I believe it. I didn't, before. How you can come in
here, acting all innocent-"
"I am innocent!"
"Not this time, Sherlock! If
you want to play games, if you want to deceive the world-fine. Just... do it
without me."
Sherlock thought it over, and
decided this was the best offer he would get. "All right. I shall never involve
you in any games and will do any deceiving out of your sight." He caught
her eye hopefully. "May I see a body now?"
Molly looked shocked. Then her face crumpled.
"Oh, Sherlock!" She ran from the room, disappearing out the opposite
door.
Sherlock blinked in the sudden
silence. "I suppose this means 'no', then." Sighing heavily, he made
his way toward the main entrance.
The guard on duty at the front desk
frowned at Sherlock as he passed. "Well, if it isn't the great detective.
What's wrong? Run out of leads?"
Sherlock halted, puzzled by the
man's tone. "I beg your pardon."
The man glared at him contemptuously.
"Not much good are you, without your female help?"
Bewildered, Sherlock could only
assume that this was a friend of Molly's who, for some reason, had decided to
take umbrage over his rather frequent requests. He stepped closer. "I didn't
need anything in particular. I was only passing the time."
The man slapped his desk.
"Listen to you! No concern at all!"
Sherlock began to grow angry.
"I can't see how the matter is any business of yours."
"It's the business of every
decent person to watch out for young ladies being exploited!"
"That's rather a harsh judgment.
The lady never did a thing for me that she didn't want to do."
"And that makes it all
right?" the man snarled.
"Yes, it does."
The man jumped to his feet.
"Clear off! I don't want to see your face around here again!"
"I have every right-"
"Oh, they'll hear about this at
the Yard, they will," the man growled. "We'll see if they let you in on
any more of their cases then!"
"I can't see how my independent
pursuits would make any difference to anyone at the Yard."
"You wouldn't." The man
snorted. "Now, out!"
"That's what I had intended,
before you stopped me."
"Out!"
Sherlock walked briskly away.
Descending the front steps, he wondered whether Bart's had fallen into some
sort of alternate universe where people, instead of admiring or fearing him,
despised him instead. He couldn't reckon why that should be; all he'd done for
the past three days was work on this jewelry business. Well, he'd had his
distraction, but it was hardly the kind he wanted-mysterious hostility over his
trivial habit of visiting the morgue.
Too agitated to work, he returned to
Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson greeted him in the passage.
"Sherlock, love. You just
missed them."
Sherlock perked up. "A
case?"
"No, two people from The Sun.
I think one was a photographer."
Sherlock's eyebrows snapped down.
"No. No papers. No reporters. And for heaven's sake, no photographers!
They've made my life a misery." He brushed past her and bounded up the
steps.
"But what's it about,
Sherlock?" she called up after him.
"I haven't the foggiest-and I
don't care enough to find out." He banged into his flat.
John was there, home from work.
Sherlock hadn't realized it was so late in the day. His flatmate sat on the
sofa, reading his laptop screen. When Sherlock entered, John looked up at him
with a curiously troubled expression.
"No," Sherlock said,
answering his unspoken question. "I have no idea why a bloody newspaper
would want to talk to me." He swept through to the kitchen. "I would
kill for some tea. Please tell me we have milk."
"You weren't expecting them?
Seriously?" John called from the other room.
Sherlock opened the cupboard.
"Why should I? I've done nothing to warrant notice of late."
"I take it you haven't seen this,
then."
Sherlock froze. Setting the tea tin
on the counter, he walked back to the sitting room. John was frowning at him in
a way that sent warning bells ringing through Sherlock's brain. Gingerly, John
turned the computer round so Sherlock could see. "Right there," he
said, pointing.
It was someone's personal blog-a
woman's, based on the frankly atrocious border of frogs and lily pads that decorated
the page. The screen was displaying an entry with today's date. The title
announced, in big, bold letters: I Slept with Sherlock Holmes.
Below it, the entry began, "I
can't believe this actually happened to me, but it did. The brilliant detective
who was recently heralded as 'the saviour of London' actually came to my house,
working on a case. He wouldn't leave until he got what he wanted-in my bed. And
I was a virgin."
Continued in Part 2
The story is basically gen with a bit of wild het, plenty of laughs, and a real mystery to solve. Click here to enter into
Title: The Problem with Personal Blogs, Part 1/21
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, the BBC gang (Molly, Sarah, Donovan, Anderson)
Rating: PG to Strong Adult (check each installment) - this part PG
Warnings: Estrogen! Heaps of it. Minor spoilers for episode 2.
Summary: Sherlock finds himself the recipient of unwanted attention, thanks to the Internet.
Notes: Not slash, just funny and sexy with a bit of het. I'm going to pretend that John had the date set wrong on his computer, because I really need an extra week between this case and "The Great Game". References to John's blog http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/ which is a very cute read. Many thanks to winterstorrm for the beta and Britpick.
For a complete list of chapters, see: The Problem with Personal Blogs, chapter list.
For those of you who are interested, you can read my first Sherlock story here: What Friends Do.
The Problem with Personal Blogs, Part 1: The Case
It had started out to be such a
pretty problem. Jewelry theft of an exclusive store at midnight: limited video
of two thieves wearing masks, unremarkable in clothing or build, therefore able
to be identified only by the brief audio traces captured by the CCTV system inside
the shop. A power blackout that happened to coincide with their departure had rendered
a square kilometer of the city around the store dark and mysterious, cloaking
their escape. A very pretty little problem.
DI Lestrade had invited Sherlock
onto the case after Scotland Yard had failed to turn up any suspects. As the physical
evidence was minimal, Sherlock found himself resorting to what the police had
already been doing: asking residents of the area if-assuming they had been up
at midnight-between searching for torches and matches, did they happen to hear
anything that might possibly have sounded as if it could have been two jewel thieves,
dashing past them in the darkness?
This intensive personal work did not
suit Sherlock well.
It was bad enough that someone of
his potential should be reduced to knocking on doors, badgering housewives and
shopkeepers to please check their memories, and yes, it might not have been two
men, it may have been only one (had the pair split up), and they might not have
been running, they may have been walking or disguised-all avenues the police
were certain to have overlooked. Yet it had turned out that even this drudgery
was not brutal enough, for Sherlock had failed to reckon with the temporary
prestige that a newspaper article can bestow, and the baffling popularity of Dr.
Watson's blog.
Typical resident: "Ooh! Aren't
you the nice young man who stopped that serial killer? Bless you! You're even
younger-looking in person. You know, after I saw your picture in The Guardian
I looked you up online. You're really photogenic, aren't you? I read all the
accounts I could find-"
"Thanks for that. So, were you
up at midnight?"
"At my age? Such a dreamer. That
Dr. Watson who wrote you up, now; he seems such a nice young man, too. Isn't it
fortunate that you two found each other?"
"Terribly. Is anyone else at
home? Someone who may have been up around that hour?"
"I was telling my sister Gladys
when she came, 'Move to London!' I told her. 'We have the nicest young men
running round our streets here keeping us safe'-"
"Thank you. Should anything
come to mind, you know where to reach me."
"Oh, lord, yes. I have both of
your blogs bookmarked. I'll check in regularly, never fear!"
Next door.
"Good God, it's you! Mum, it's him!
The detective in the paper-Sherlock Holmes. You remember, the one who caught
the serial killer?"
"Yes, hello. Actually, I only
wanted to ask you about the other night-"
"Ooh, a case! You're asking me
about a case?"
"I'm attempting to. The jewelry
theft on Saturday night. Did you hear anything?"
"Oh, that again. The
police have already been through here, asking us all. No one's seen or heard anything.
I say, aren't you just a bit slow off the mark? I mean, for a consulting
detective, or whatever you're supposed to be. The regulars were here days
ago-"
"Thank you for your time."
Next door.
"Now, and very good to see you,
Mr. Holmes, very good indeed! Nice to know the younger generation hasn't
totally gone to rot."
"That remains to be seen.
However, as I am standing on your doorstep, would you be good enough to
tell me whether or not you were up last Saturday at midnight?"
"Well, now, that's just the sort
of problem you can help me with."
"I'm sorry?"
"This watch. Look at it! Older
than I am."
"And unreliable, I take
it."
"Unreliable! It's never missed
a tick."
"Then I fail to follow-"
"It's me! Eyes are
going, half deaf-I can never find the bloody thing. Now, I was wondering if you-if
someone with your particular brain and experience, that is, would be able to
tell me where I can put this watch of an evening so's I would always be able to
find it?"
"I haven't the vaguest notion.
Good day."
Next door.
"Sherlock Holmes? Is
that your real name?"
Three days. He'd had three days
of this-three days of abysmal semi-celebrity status, half the world having no
idea who he might be, and the other half fawning over him for no reason other than
some wretched photographer from The Guardian putting his picture in the
paper (shock blanket and all) at the conclusion of the serial suicide business,
and dear John Watson, ever the conformist, innocently typing up and publishing
his disjointed thoughts in a bizarre attempt to please his therapist. The two
bits together had created a perfect storm of temporary interest. It was enough
to traumatize the hardiest scientific reasoner.
By Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock
desperately needed a break, a change-anything to perk him up. A trip to
the morgue was in order. It was just possible that he might notice something
amiss with one of the bodies-some insignificant but telltale sign that pointed
to some grisly little murder. He could clear that up and then come back to this
jewelry business, refreshed.
He went round to Bart's and straight
on into the morgue. In his first bit of luck in days, he saw that Molly was on
duty as he peeped through the glass window. Excellent. Molly was always ready
to do his bidding. Putting on his winningest smile, he pushed through the heavy
door.
"Molly!"
She started at the interruption,
then froze. Her eyes didn't leave him as he walked up. However, contrary to her
usual manner, her expression was wary, even resentful. Possibly... hurt?
Sherlock had no time to spare for
the vagaries of women's emotions. "Molly, how are you?" he asked in
his most ingratiating tone.
Her eyes studied his, her mouth a
hard line. "What do you want?"
He ignored her mood. "A body.
Any body."
She gave a little snort and turned
away. "That's about right."
Sherlock frowned. He understood that
Molly was in a bad temper and was fully prepared to let her have her way; after
all, it was entirely her right. But this little tantrum of hers was standing in
his way. Distasteful as it was, he supposed he should probe into the matter.
"Molly," he said with a
concern he didn't feel, but felt would help smooth the way. "What's
happened?"
He put a hand on her shoulder-which she
shook off, to his amazement. She turned on him, her dark eyes snapping with
anger. "You haven't a bit of shame, have you?"
Sherlock searched back. "I
don't think so."
"That's you all over. Never a
thought to spare for the other person. Never a moment to consider how your
actions might hurt someone else."
Sherlock was truly bewildered. That
he was capable of injuring others' feelings, he was amply aware. But he
couldn't recall any incident recently where he had done so-certainly not
one that would have affected Molly. Perplexed, he asked, "Would you mind informing
me what it is that I supposedly have done?"
Molly gave a laugh that was pure
exasperation. "Now, I believe it. I didn't, before. How you can come in
here, acting all innocent-"
"I am innocent!"
"Not this time, Sherlock! If
you want to play games, if you want to deceive the world-fine. Just... do it
without me."
Sherlock thought it over, and
decided this was the best offer he would get. "All right. I shall never involve
you in any games and will do any deceiving out of your sight." He caught
her eye hopefully. "May I see a body now?"
Molly looked shocked. Then her face crumpled.
"Oh, Sherlock!" She ran from the room, disappearing out the opposite
door.
Sherlock blinked in the sudden
silence. "I suppose this means 'no', then." Sighing heavily, he made
his way toward the main entrance.
The guard on duty at the front desk
frowned at Sherlock as he passed. "Well, if it isn't the great detective.
What's wrong? Run out of leads?"
Sherlock halted, puzzled by the
man's tone. "I beg your pardon."
The man glared at him contemptuously.
"Not much good are you, without your female help?"
Bewildered, Sherlock could only
assume that this was a friend of Molly's who, for some reason, had decided to
take umbrage over his rather frequent requests. He stepped closer. "I didn't
need anything in particular. I was only passing the time."
The man slapped his desk.
"Listen to you! No concern at all!"
Sherlock began to grow angry.
"I can't see how the matter is any business of yours."
"It's the business of every
decent person to watch out for young ladies being exploited!"
"That's rather a harsh judgment.
The lady never did a thing for me that she didn't want to do."
"And that makes it all
right?" the man snarled.
"Yes, it does."
The man jumped to his feet.
"Clear off! I don't want to see your face around here again!"
"I have every right-"
"Oh, they'll hear about this at
the Yard, they will," the man growled. "We'll see if they let you in on
any more of their cases then!"
"I can't see how my independent
pursuits would make any difference to anyone at the Yard."
"You wouldn't." The man
snorted. "Now, out!"
"That's what I had intended,
before you stopped me."
"Out!"
Sherlock walked briskly away.
Descending the front steps, he wondered whether Bart's had fallen into some
sort of alternate universe where people, instead of admiring or fearing him,
despised him instead. He couldn't reckon why that should be; all he'd done for
the past three days was work on this jewelry business. Well, he'd had his
distraction, but it was hardly the kind he wanted-mysterious hostility over his
trivial habit of visiting the morgue.
Too agitated to work, he returned to
Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson greeted him in the passage.
"Sherlock, love. You just
missed them."
Sherlock perked up. "A
case?"
"No, two people from The Sun.
I think one was a photographer."
Sherlock's eyebrows snapped down.
"No. No papers. No reporters. And for heaven's sake, no photographers!
They've made my life a misery." He brushed past her and bounded up the
steps.
"But what's it about,
Sherlock?" she called up after him.
"I haven't the foggiest-and I
don't care enough to find out." He banged into his flat.
John was there, home from work.
Sherlock hadn't realized it was so late in the day. His flatmate sat on the
sofa, reading his laptop screen. When Sherlock entered, John looked up at him
with a curiously troubled expression.
"No," Sherlock said,
answering his unspoken question. "I have no idea why a bloody newspaper
would want to talk to me." He swept through to the kitchen. "I would
kill for some tea. Please tell me we have milk."
"You weren't expecting them?
Seriously?" John called from the other room.
Sherlock opened the cupboard.
"Why should I? I've done nothing to warrant notice of late."
"I take it you haven't seen this,
then."
Sherlock froze. Setting the tea tin
on the counter, he walked back to the sitting room. John was frowning at him in
a way that sent warning bells ringing through Sherlock's brain. Gingerly, John
turned the computer round so Sherlock could see. "Right there," he
said, pointing.
It was someone's personal blog-a
woman's, based on the frankly atrocious border of frogs and lily pads that decorated
the page. The screen was displaying an entry with today's date. The title
announced, in big, bold letters: I Slept with Sherlock Holmes.
Below it, the entry began, "I
can't believe this actually happened to me, but it did. The brilliant detective
who was recently heralded as 'the saviour of London' actually came to my house,
working on a case. He wouldn't leave until he got what he wanted-in my bed. And
I was a virgin."
Continued in Part 2