Title: All My Words
Author: hardboiledbaby
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John pre-slash
Rating: PG
Length: 433 words
Content notes: None
Author notes: Written for the "self-portrait" challenge. Beta'd by my darling FE, equusentric. Any weirdness subsequently added is my own. Set loosely pre-TGG
Summary: They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Are a thousand words worth a picture?

---

Therapist: Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.

John: Nothing happens to me.




They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Does that mean the converse is true? Are a thousand words worth a picture? How about ten thousand?

I've written that many words and more since I moved into 221B Baker Street, since I met the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Since the moment—if you'll forgive the cliché—my life changed forever.

This blog was supposed to help me adjust to civilian life, the 'ordinary' world. But there is nothing ordinary about Sherlock, and now that I am in his orbit, caught up in his gravity, my world isn't ordinary either.

It's extraordinary.

And so I write about it. I write about the cases, the people, the puzzles, the solutions, but most of all, I write about him: about his brilliant, restless mind, his amazing eye for detail, his incisive deductions. About how he unravels the things which mystify and tangle us mere mortals by plucking at a single thread, and suddenly the truth is revealed, writ large and plain for everyone to see.

Which is not to say that Sherlock isn't a mortal himself, of course. He is, very much so: with the kinds of faults and foibles, weaknesses and blind spots that plague us all. He stumbles, he pouts, he errs, he rages, he baulks. I daresay he even cares (not that that's a weakness, mind), although he'd rather die than admit to it. He is, in a word, human. One of the best, despite his flaws.

And so I blog, not about myself but about Sherlock, because he is everything that happens to me. All my words, they're all pictures of him. And yet, in a way, they're pictures of me, too. I do see myself in them: I'm there at his side, always.

Then again, where else would I be? He is my world, and gravity—the force of attraction—is a powerful force indeed. I couldn't fight it, even if I wanted to.... I wonder, has he deduced it yet? I know the truth is there for him to see. Or am I one of his blind spots? Maybe he




Huh.

Christ, I can't believe I just... it's late and I'm tired. Must be more tired than I realised, to have actually typed this. As if I could ever post it....

There. File deleted. It's gone.

Right. Definitely time to shut down the computer and go to bed.




Someday, must tell John deleted files are not really deleted.