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John doesn’t know that Sherlock has discovered Tumblr.
It began innocently enough, and that right there is enough to signal very big, bad trouble to anyone who has known Sherlock Holmes for any length of time. It had all started when Sherlock had been browsing his “fan” websites on an off day, because he was just that bored and hoping, in all honesty, for a murder, or even a threat of one.
Instead, he stumbled across a link that an anonymous poster had left on his blog—Moriarty again? The Woman, perhaps? A new adversary?—and cautiously followed it.
Nothing so interesting as puzzle pieces in a dangerous game, but the link did hold something with a more domestic appeal: a set of pictures demonstrating the distinct resemblance his flatmate had… to a hedgehog.
An involuntary grin spread across his face, which caught John’s attention from where he was watching Sherlock from across the room. Sherlock quickly dismissed his inquiring expression, right-clicking to save the pictures to his hard drive. John might have been suspicious, but he didn’t pry any further.
Ever since then, Sherlock would take great pleasure in noting John’s everyday mannerisms that do, indeed, resemble the habits of hedgehogs, and adding them to the ever-growing file of Fascinating Things NOT to Delete about John he keeps in his Mind Palace. He never mentions it to John, even though there were so many delicious opportunities for teasing. The more he thinks about it, the more he agrees that the hedgehog is a very fitting animal persona for his friend. Mostly because of the hair. That makes him happy.
There have been a few close calls, on crime scenes and such, when a member of the Yard or a flighty fangirl will mention something about hedgehogs to John, and Sherlock will send them a death glare meant to keep them from ruining his secret. It’s not like it’s any of their business, anyway. John always looks confused, his brow furrowing and his tongue flicking out as he thinks, but he never makes the connection, and Sherlock happily files away another mental snapshot of erinaceous proof.
He thinks it’s all rather fitting, and obviously highly complementary, because “adorable” is a compliment, isn’t it? Aesthetic appeal is one of those things people want to have, or at least be considered to possess. And hedgehogs are just as steadfast, defensible, and competent as his partner, so therefore John should be proud to be compared to such an animal.
Finally, though, there is one night he can’t stop himself, his walls having been lowered by a post-case high; an adrenaline crash; a stomach full of Chinese, biscuits, and warm tea; and a sleepy John slouched against his shoulder on the couch.
Sherlock crosses one arm over to absently card his fingers through John’s hair. It really is so amusing when it sticks up as he brushes it the wrong way. “My brilliant hedgehog,” Sherlock murmurs.
“Do you have a death wish?” John asks, tone as relaxed as if he is returning a compliment, and Sherlock can’t be sure if it is hiding annoyance or not.
“I am only stating the facts as I see them.”
John fixes him with a no-nonsense stare. “Hedgehogs do have spines, you know. Good for stabbing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You’d better.”
Sherlock smiles to himself, believing the exchange to be part of the comfortable banter they always engaged in. He forgets, though, that John H. Watson is not a man to be trifled with.
The next morning, John’s blog has ninety-seven comments on his latest entry, a carefully-crafted set of juxtaposed pictures which proved scientifically that Sherlock is, in real life, an otter.