Chapter Text
While he would never admit it, Sherlock was quite pleased that John’s blog was so popular. He didn’t always appreciate the extra attention it earned him. He was arrogant, but he wasn’t vain. The two character traits didn’t necessarily go hand in hand. And he would be lying if he said that he wasn’t flattered by John’s attention, but that wasn’t it either. He was...honored that John had found him a source of inspiration. He did his best to keep things interesting so that John would have plenty to write about.
Over the years, the blog had attracted quite a following. John spent a few hours every morning answering emails and responding to comments. He had asked Sherlock to help out with that on one occasion, when he was in bed with the flu and wasn’t able to focus on the computer screen for more than a few minutes. They had just finished up with a particularly intricate case, and Sherlock was in a generous mood. He had also been especially difficult during the case, so he felt that he owed it to John to look after him and some of his more mundane responsibilities.
Normally, the commenters on the blog were quite civil. They asked questions and made little jokes at Sherlock’s expense about his “spectacular ignorance” regarding simple things, but nothing too harsh. There were a few trolls that worked their ways in now and then, usually family and friends of the criminals that Sherlock helped catch and convict.
He had brought John a bowl of the soup that Mrs. Hudson had left simmering on the stove late that morning. John had eaten a few bites and finished most of the glass of water before falling back to sleep. Sherlock took the still open laptop from John’s lap, and sat down at the desk with it. He could have gone downstairs, but he wanted to be stay close by in case John needed something.
John had been in the middle of a very patient response to a comment on “The Proof is in the Paint.” The respondent was questioning the particular chain of reasoning that Sherlock had used to deduce that the callus on trigger finger of the victim had come from endless hours of playing paintball and not from firing a gun that shot actual bullets. John had been very politely explaining the different materials used in the manufacture of the paintball gun. Sherlock, however, couldn’t believe that anyone had needed to ask a question with such an obvious answer. He wanted to delete John’s patient (and very thorough) explanation and call the woman out for her idiocy, but, instead, he finished the sentence that John had been writing and posted the comment. He then quickly signed in under his own name because he couldn’t resist adding his own little postscript - “Obviously.”
The next few comments were mostly compliments, which Sherlock either ignored, or, as was John’s habit when he encountered a particularly thoughtful reply to his post, dashed off a simple, but sincere “Thank you for your kind words. They mean a great deal.” This, of course, soon began to bore him. He started responding as himself, but he did make an attempt to be civil. Out of respect to John, of course. He tried to be brief, and he tried to keep his disdain for the commenters to a simple “Obviously.”
When he had gone through all the comments on the current post, he decided to look back over some of the older posts. John was still asleep, and he thought that it might help stave off the boredom.
When he stumbled upon a recent comment on a very old case, one that John had given the unfortunate name of “The Conflicted Corpse” -
“What were you thinking, John? Really?” he whispered.
-he was more than a little irritated. He was livid. Some “Anonymous” commenter was insulting Sherlock. That irked him, but it was only a brief comment. Insignificant, really, when compared to the attack targeted at John.
You write these posts as if you are an integral part of the process, as if you actually contribute something meaningful to any of this. That’s if any of it is real. You’re useless. It is your responsibility as a doctor, and as a soldier, to work for the common good. You’re a fucking selfish prick. You’re an adrenaline junkie that’s just lashed himself on to the coattails of someone who MAY be a fraction of as brilliant as the papers claim he is. You’re a fake. You both are. And you’re shit for a writer.
It’s not a particularly violent assault, but Sherlock doesn’t take it well when someone calls John’s honesty, integrity, or bravery into question. He likes it no better than John does when someone dare suggests that Sherlock is a fraud. The pair are a bit protective of each other in that way. In most ways, really. He dashed off what he intended to be a biting response, but when he read back over it before hitting post, he realized that he sounded more hurt than angry. His threats had come off sounding more childish than menacing. He sounded sentimental, much more so than he had realized.
He deletes his response and re-reads the comment. He’s surprised at the sentimentality it provoked, but there’s something more going on there, something that he’s missing. Instead of drafting another, more vitriolic response, as he had intended, he decides to see if he can find any other entries from this particular anonymous commenter. He finds another on the post before this one, and both were left sometime late yesterday evening. He can see that there are a number of other anonymous users that John has banned or comments that he has deleted.
Sherlock isn’t quite sure why the troll has gotten under his skin, but he doesn’t see a logical reason to continue looking for things that will only make him angry. He doesn’t delete the comment, but he makes sure that it shows up as “read” so that John will be less likely to stumble onto it himself. He wants to be able to track it should he be given a reason to later on. He makes a mental note to check back in a day or two and see if this particular commenter returns.
He closes the laptop and is about to go downstairs to make some tea when he hears John stirring in the bed behind him.
“Sherlock? What were you doing on my laptop?”
“I was just trying to be helpful. I took a look at your blog comments, and did some responding. I promise that I behaved myself.”
John smiles weakly. “I’m sure you did. Thank you.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes. And maybe you could help me downstairs? I think it might be good to walk around a bit, get out of this bed.”
“Are you sure that you’re feeling up to it? I don’t mind bringing the tea back up.”
“No, no. I’ll be fine. I’ll just relax on the couch, maybe watch some telly, read a book.”
Sherlock helped him put his robe on, and went ahead of him down the stairs, ready to catch him if he stumbled. John found his way to the toilet while Sherlock put on the kettle. He came back down the hall, wondering aloud about the contents of the bucket in the shower, and stretched out on the couch. Sherlock launched into a description of his current experiment while he made the tea and was explaining that the kitchen sink was too small, hence the bucket. When he brought John his tea a moment later, he found that John had fallen asleep again. Sherlock left the tea on the coffee table, fetched a glass of water to place beside it, and covered John with the afghan from the back of the sofa.
“How could anyone doubt John?” he asked himself quietly, looking down on his sleeping friend.
Sherlock shook his head. Then, remembering his experiment, he turned to go down the hall and check on the contents of that bucket.