A/N: Say hello to the most meta thing I've written, everyone! I've been meaning to write this for ages, because I find the premise endlessly amusing-fanfiction within fanfiction, what's not to love?

Many thanks to my lovely best friend, Rachel M., for listening to me babble on about Johnlock for two years, and for inadvertently inspiring this story. Love you!

Make sure to let me know what you think in the comments, guys. Enjoy!

It was a Tuesday afternoon and Sherlock was scrolling through John's blog in search of cases. After finding nothing better than a four (the sister committed identity theft, clearly the boyfriend wasn't involved), he decided to take a look at the comments section.

Rather than being full of its usual overly-enthusiastic drivel from past clients (John Watson, U R incredible, thank you so much!), there was a disturbing number of comments speculating about John's love life. And, more importantly, about Sherlock's involvement in it. At the top of the screen there was one main comment tentatively broaching the subject, and then a seemingly endless string of replies right beneath it.

Prery_Sarma16: I don't want to presume anything, but the way John looks at Sherlock Holmes during cases is a bit more than platonic, wouldn't you say? Am I the only one who sees this?

MarianneW: Oh, I agree completely. I haven't seen them work together in person, but from the way John describes him, it's clear there's something going on.

Louise-Scott: When they helped me with a case, John couldn't keep his eyes off Sherlock's bum ;)

MrtnFrmn007: ^ Agreed. They solved a case for me just last week and I swear they spent half the time mentally undressing each other.

Beet-red and confused, Sherlock scrolled further down and discovered that, much like the pits of hell, the deeper he got, the dirtier and more vulgar things became. People were speculating on everything from the size of John's penis to which sexual positions Sherlock preferred.

He squinted his eyes at the screen, horrified and baffled by the endless list of filthy terms he'd never even heard of. "What the bloody hell is a reverse cowgirl—" he stopped mid-sentence, a bright blue link jumping out at him.

Winnie101: If any of you are TRUE fans of Sherlock/John, check out our site;)

Given that he'd just spent ten minutes scrolling through page after page of increasingly graphic content, clicking on that link did not seem like a wise choice. In fact, it seemed like a downright awful choice. If Sherlock knew what was good for him, he would just clear his history, shut off his laptop, and go purge his mind with classic literature or violin.

But, of course, he didn't do that.

The curiosity was simply too much to bear, so without a second thought, he clicked the link and prepared himself for the worst.

…

The homepage was surprisingly stylish. The background was a nice eggshell white decorated with brown Times New Roman text and a curlicue, dark-teal border.

Watsolmes dot com, read the title. Love nest to army doctors and consulting detectives alike.

"What the bloody…" Dazed, Sherlock scrolled down, surprised to find a veritable feast of 'Watsolmes' literature. The descriptions were as fascinating as they were disturbing.

Learning to Love [Watsolmes, Pining, Requited Love] Rated K+

Bedside Manner [Watsolmes, Doctor/Patient, First time] Rated M

Take my Hand [Watsolmes, Hurt/comfort, First Kiss] Rated T

This couldn't all be about them, could it? Were people really that bloody invested in his and John's life?

Sherlock knew what he and John were: friends, and then some. The 'and then some' was tacked on at the end, because it felt a bit demeaning to call John something that he also called Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, because while those people were extremely important to Sherlock, they were nowhere near as vital as John. John was on an entirely different level. He surmounted colleagues, friends, family, and even Sherlock himself.

Even calling him a 'best friend' felt wrong.

However, as ambiguous as their relationship sometimes felt, Sherlock was quite certain it would never bleed into the realm of these fictional stories, wherein both he and John appeared to be wind-swept romantic heroes, bursting to confess their love.

"You should know, Watson," Holmes began hesitantly, his teeth absently worrying his plush bottom lip, "that I've been saving myself. I-I've never done this before."

"Oh, darling, don't look away, it isn't something to feel ashamed of. You're so pure, so lovely, so chaste," Watson whispered, gently brushing a stray lock from the detective's forehead. "Perfect and untainted, like a white rose."

Bashful, Holmes averted his eyes and drew the sheets up higher, attempting to shield his naked chest from Watson's adoring, hungry gaze. "You don't mean that…"

"Oh, but of course I do, my love," Watson assured him, his smile as slow and sweet as honey. Music seemed to sing around them as Watson leaned in and captured the younger man's lips with his own, his hands finding purchase in Holmes's dark, lustrous curls. "Trust me, my darling. Let me show you the ways of lovers. Let me be your first."

"I'm not a virgin," Sherlock mumbled to himself, squinting at the dimly lit screen in the dark privacy of his bedroom. It was two in the morning and for some reason he was poring over an incredibly long, incredibly nauseating story called, 'A White Rose in the Sun', which glorified his 'purity' so much that it seemed to be his only valuable characteristic. Scowling, Sherlock skimmed through the final paragraph, wherein John spouted at least ten cliches as he finally 'deflowered' Sherlock, before finally giving up and exiting the story entirely.

...

Watson grabbed Holmes by the collar and hauled him in for a bruising, passionate kiss.

"You're mine, understand?" Watson hissed, nipping possessively at the detective's bottom lip. "Mine."

"Yes," Holmes replied breathlessly. "Yours. J-just touch me, please?"

"Not until you've had your punishment," Watson said lowly, his eyes as dark as midnight. "Now get down on your hands and knees and give Daddy the whip—

"Dear god no," Sherlock said in a hurry, exiting out of 'A Firm Hand' with his face burning. He firmly shut his laptop and crawled under the sheets, his eyes blown open in embarrassment and abject horror. "No, we are not going down that road. No, no, one hundred percent no."

To be fair, not all of it was terrible. Some stories had their charm and others had particularly attractive prose, but those select few were unfortunately in the minority. Most of the stories he found were inaccurate, nauseatingly maudlin, kinky and disturbing, or just poorly written.

Still. Sherlock could not seem to stop reading more and more and more. It was quickly becoming a worse habit than smoking.

Breathless with desire, Watson dragged Holmes in for another kiss, their tongues battling for dominance and their hearts thudding as one. The fireplace behind them seemed to roar in sync with the raging desire coursing through their veins. The molten-hot lust in the air was so palpable that—

"God, this is bloody awful," Sherlock said in disgust, slamming his laptop shut for the fourth time that hour. "Overly descriptive, filled with strange metaphors, and completely unrealistic."

"What?" John asked, walking into the sitting room, peeling the dishwashing gloves from his hands. "Looking through cases again?"

"Something like that," he muttered, reopening his computer to search for another link. As bloody terrible as these things were, he couldn't seem to stop looking for more. And Christ, was that an easy urge to fill; the internet was quite literally bursting with this addictive rubbish. Watsolmes dot com was merely the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

His next click led him to a story innocently titled Blue Eyed Boy. He skimmed the page for a moment before his eyes landed on a handful of highly disturbing words—collar, whip, leather, arse—and he exited immediately. Roleplaying as John's slave was a situation he would really rather leave unexplored.

"That doesn't look like a case," John commented, from directly behind him. Sherlock hadn't even heard him approaching.

Startled but proudly refusing to show it, Sherlock very calmly cleared his throat, subtly angled the screen downwards, and inquired, "Doesn't it?"

"Well, I just saw the phrase, 'oil-slicked arse', so for our sake, I sure hope it isn't for a case." Drily, he added, "Unless, of course, we're branching out and trying to reach a new demographic, that is."

"It's for an experiment," Sherlock blurted out, utilizing a phrase that had excused a myriad of odd behaviors over the years. Dissecting bats? It's for an experiment. Putting on a face full of makeup in the bathroom mirror? It's for an experiment.

Reading through poorly-written BDSM porn? It's for an experiment.

John arched a brow, but didn't comment, so Sherlock relaxed and considered this interaction a very small, very narrowly-gained victory.

Watson's brilliant green eyes glittered in the sunlight like twin emeralds, drawing the detective nearer and nearer with their hypnotizing beauty.

"Watson," the tall, raven-haired man whispered, his pale blue eyes glazed with longing. "I want you more than you will ever know. My heart yearns for you with each passing moment."

Struck by Holmes's earth-shattering words, the strong, brunette doctor clutched his chest and took a step forward. "I've awaited those words for so long, dear Holmes. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days in your sweet, loving embrace and—

"It's like they're not even bloody trying!" Sherlock cried, shoving the computer away and standing up from his chair. "John does not have green eyes, nor is he brunette, and there is no way in hell either of us would ever speak so mawkishly!"

"Sherlock Holmes, why on earth are you yelling in here?" Mrs. Hudson admonished, popping her head in from the kitchen and temporarily abandoning her task of cleaning out the fridge.

"I'm yelling, Mrs. Hudson, because the Internet is a terrible place filled with disappointment and inaccuracy."

Posed in the doorframe, Mrs. Hudson put a hand on her hip and gave him an amused look. "Oh dear, what has the world done to offend you today?"

Sherlock flopped onto the sofa with a dramatic huff, his dressing gown whipping around him like a cape. Sullenly, he stared at the ceiling. "For one, I do not call John 'Watson'. Given our closeness, it's far too formal."

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson sympathized. She had learned long ago that it was much easier to just agree with Sherlock rather than to ask for context.

"And it's all so terribly unrealistic, too." He sighed. "If John and I ever did confess any sort of feelings for each other, John certainly wouldn't clutch his chest and start speaking in flowery prose."

"Certainly not, dear."

"Christ, and the brown hair. The green eyes!" Sherlock gave a derisive laugh. "These people claim to be fans yet they don't even know the basic facts of John's appearance." He shook his head. "It's deplorable, really."

"Absolutely criminal."

"So perhaps I ought to take matters into my own hands," he mused, rolling the idea around in his mind. "Isn't there a saying about that?"

"A saying about what, dear?"

"I've got it!" Sherlock sat straight up, a lightbulb all but popping over his head in revelation. "If I want the job done right, I'll simply have to do it myself."

…

The next day, after several hours of pondering, Sherlock decided that if he and John ever 'got together', they would pounce on each other. There wouldn't be declarations of love and devotion—not at first, anyway; that would come later. There would be lips and teeth and burning hot hands, years of bottled-up desire breaking loose and tearing down their inhibitions like a hurricane. John would pick him up and snog him against the wall, Sherlock's legs wrapped around John's waist and John's hands fisted in Sherlock's hair. Or maybe John would stalk up to Sherlock from behind and suck wet kisses all down the side of his neck, one hand clutched at Sherlock's hip and the other splayed possessively over Sherlock's chest. Feeling rather short of breath, Sherlock then considered the idea of John, sat in his chair, pulling Sherlock down into his lap, his hands running up and down Sherlock's spine and then impatiently tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel bare skin against—

"Christ, should I turn down the heater?" John asked in concern, ripping Sherlock rather violently from his reverie. "You're red as a tomato."

Before Sherlock could stutter an answer, John walked over and pressed a hand to his forehead. It took every last ounce of willpower to avoid leaning into his touch.

"Oi, did you go walking about London without a scarf again? Because it feels like you've got a fever."

Sherlock cleared his throat and subtly pulled at his collar, trying to ease the invisible flames currently engulfing him. "Er, the heater. That's what it is. Turn it down a notch, will you?"

For the better part of a week, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to start writing. It felt odd to just sit down by himself and write a thousand words about doing naughty things with his flatmate. So, for some indiscernible reason, his clever mind suggested that writing the story in John's presence—yet still without John's knowledge—would be the best choice. At least that way, it wouldn't feel as creepy.

(He wasn't quite sure if that line of logic was sound, but that was a question to deal with at another time.)

Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John's honey-blonde hair and brought their mouths together, their lips meeting in perfect harmony—

"John," Sherlock said, his fingers poised above the keyboard, "would you call yourself honey-blond?"

They were in the sitting room and John was browsing the football section in the London Gazette while Sherlock sat across from him, typing on his computer. Shafts of afternoon sunlight spilled from the room's large windows, casting a lovely golden hue over the right side of John's face.

"Dirty-blonde, maybe," John replied without raising his eyes from the paper. "Why?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Just curious."

Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John's dirty-blonde hair and brought their mouths together, their lips meeting in perfect harmony. The doctor's strong, rough hands clutched at the small of the detective's back, pulling their bodies flush together—

"John what is a good simile for two things within very close proximity?"

"I dunno, peas in a pod?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. That was far too juvenile for this context. "Something else."

He glanced up at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Okay then, vines maybe? The kind that wrap around each other?"

"Perfect."

Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John's dirty-blonde hair and brought their mouths together, their lips meeting in perfect harmony. The doctor's strong, rough hands clutched at the small of the detective's back, pulling their bodies flush together, like two vines interwoven beneath the sun. John growled lowly, the hunger and desire in his tone as apparent as the bulge of his—

"John, what is a euphemism for an erection?"

John practically choked on the tea he was in the middle of drinking. "What? Sherlock, what the hell are you writing over there?"

Realizing his mistake (why the bloody hell had he asked John something so blatantly suggestive?), Sherlock froze.

"It's nothing."

John, unfortunately, did not seem to buy that. "You've been typing nonstop for an hour, and you never write for that long unless A) you're writing angry Yelp reviews to places that don't serve 'the right biscuits' or B) you've hacked my blog again and are currently pretending to be me." John folded the newspaper shut and gave him an expectant look.

"So, which is it?"

Sherlock's eyes darted down to the screen, where he was presently in the middle of describing John's crotch pressed against his thigh. Hot blush travelled up his neck like a rash.

"Um," was his intelligent reply.

"That's it, I'll just take a look for myself then," John decided, standing up from his chair.

Panicked, Sherlock grabbed the laptop and stood as well, ready to dash away at a moment's notice. "It's really nothing, John."

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's obvious discomfort. "Okay, now I'm really curious."

"John…" he backed up a few steps.

John just crooked a brow. "Sherlock…"

"Really, it's just a dull experiment I'm working on, nothing that would interest you," he babbled.

"An experiment that involves erections," John deadpanned, stepping forward.

"Um, yes."

"Well, if it's just a dull experiment, then you won't mind me looking, right?"

"Um, well, actually, there is a very important reason why you can't look, and I'm sure you'll agree with it, because, you see—" and with that, Sherlock turned on his heel and darted down the hallway to his room.

Unfortunately, John had anticipated this and sprinted to the hallway entrance at the same time as Sherlock, which resulted in a collision of limbs and a mad scramble for the computer.

"Just—let me—see!"

"No! None of your—business!"

Sherlock was finally starting to gain the upper hand, when his foot moved off the rug and onto the slippery wooden floor, sending him plummeting to the ground like a felled tree. John went right down with him, the laptop narrowly saved from destruction by it's cushioned place between their bodies.

"Give it here!" John demanded, trying to wrestle Sherlock into submission.

Sherlock fought quite valiantly, but John, being the stronger of the pair, managed to pin Sherlock down by the hips and pry the laptop away with ease.

"Now what could you possibly not want me to see?" John asked as he opened the computer.

Sherlock groaned and threw a forearm over his eyes. "John, I really don't recommend reading that while you're straddling me. Might make things a tad bit awkward."

John gave him an odd look. "What does that me—" he stopped short as his eyes trailed over the content on the screen.

There was a long, long beat of silence. Hesitantly, Sherlock moved his arm.

"John?"

"Sherlock, what is this?" John asked slowly, staring at him over the top of the computer.

"Um, well, it's just, er, a bit of creative writing…" he fumbled for a minute and then made things even worse by adding, "but it's not what you think!"

"Oh, really? Because to me, it looks like several paragraphs describing the two of us getting ready to shag."

"Well, I mean, yes, that's technically what it is, but to be fair, John, I needed to write it. It was a duty, really."

"Why on earth did you need to write this?!"

"John, you should've seen how inaccurately they were writing about you and I! I had to do something, okay?" Sherlock insisted, trying to defend whatever dignity he had left. "What, was I just supposed to sit idly by while they described your blazing green eyes and light brown hair? God, John, and the metaphors they used! I can't even tell you how many times our bloody tongues battled each other!"

John gave him another baffled look. "Who the hell are 'they'?"

Sherlock sighed. "Your fans, John. Well, our fans, I suppose. Don't you ever check the comment section of your blog?"

"No, not since you started using it to criticize my writing and demand that I run errands for you."

"First of all, John, I only asked you to get supplies twice. And secondly, I 'criticize' you because your writing has always been far too romanticized for my tastes—"

At that, John outright laughed. "Hold on just a minute. You're saying that my writing is too romanticized? You're the one currently writing porn about us!"

"With good reason!" Sherlock cried. "Our fans' accounts of our supposed romance are abysmal. They're either too dramatic or too maudlin, or simply too…graphic. I had to write something realistic to balance it all out."

John gave him an incredulous look. "And how is what you wrote realistic? I don't bloody growl! And if we kissed, our lips would not meet in 'perfect harmony'."

"Well, since you know so much, what would they do?"

"They would, I don't know, sort of hesitantly bump into each other," John blurted out. His eyes widened immediately and he cleared his throat, an embarrassed blush working its way across his face. "It'd, um, be awkward at first, but then we'd settle into it, you know?"

"What then?" Sherlock prompted, curious as to where this was going.

"Don't know," John replied stiffly.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Well, then I suppose that means you agree that my account is the most accurate, John."

John knew he was being manipulated, clearly, but he seemed content enough to go along with it. He made a rather insincere scowl and dropped his gaze to Sherlock's chest, pretending to be absorbed in the buttons of his plum-colored shirt. "Fine. I suppose I would drag my hands through your hair and pull it a bit, because you're very sensitive there."

Sherlock blinked, his own face warming now. "How do you know that?"

"Because whenever I brush your hair after tending to a head wound, you hum and close your eyes."

"I do?"

"Yeah." A slight smile tugged at the corner of John's mouth, but his eyes remained downcast.

"And after that?"

John ran his hand absently over the row of buttons on Sherlock's shirt. "After that, I'd hold your face in my hands and tilt your head a bit, maybe brush my thumb along your cheek."

"Would you?"

"Yes. And then I would…I would…"

Sherlock was starting to feel all melted at the edges, his insides aglow with something unnamable. "You would…?"

John swallowed, his throat bobbing with the motion, and finally met Sherlock's eyes. "And then I would kiss you."

Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest like a drum. "How?"

Without looking away, John closed the laptop and pushed it aside, raising his free hand to the side of Sherlock's face. Looking dazed and fascinated, he pressed his thumb against Sherlock's lush bottom lip, firmly enough to leave the detective's mouth rosy and agape.

"I'd kiss you here first," he said softly.

"Mm." Sherlock fought the strange urge to suck John's finger into his mouth. "Where else?"

"I'd kiss you here," John ghosted the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's high-peaking top lip. "And after that, I would kiss you right here, and leave a dark love bite for everyone to see," he brushed his knuckles over the smooth, pale arc of Sherlock's neck.

"Yes?" Sherlock exhaled, his entire body buzzing like a raw nerve.

"Mmhm," John replied absently, settling his palms over the artful jut of Sherlock's collarbones. His fingers danced across the ridges, explorative.

Feeling drunk and simultaneously more alert than ever, Sherlock placed his hand over John's, where it was flattened possessively over his clavicle, and asked, "And you're sure that's how it would go?"

John nodded, his eyes bright with resolve—clearly, he'd just made up his mind about something. "But, you know, I could be wrong. Perhaps that isn't what would happen…"

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip, catching John's drift. "Yes, yes, there's really only one way to find out who's right, isn't there?"

…

"The fans have spoken, I win," John announced several hours later, the computer perched triumphantly in his lap like a trophy. Sherlock huffed and let his forehead fall dramatically against John's shoulder.

"Forty-eight favorites in less than an hour, Sherlock. Even you have to admit that's pretty impressive."

"John, my story had thirty-six favorites, so it's not as if you won by a landslide."

"Mmhm, whatever you need to tell yourself, Sherlock."

"No need to gloat."

"Oh, but it's so rare that I get to do this," John insisted, his eyes bright and playful. "I just want you to admit that I beat you. Just once, I'd like to hear, 'You win, John. I was wrong'."

"I wasn't wrong!" Sherlock protested. "People simply prefer to read your tasteless smut rather than my classy, well-developed romance."

John pressed a loud kiss against Sherlock's cheek "You're just a sore loser."

"I am not," Sherlock mumbled sullenly, fighting the urge to pout.

John laughed. "Oh, just come here."

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's bare waist and dragged him back down into bed, humming appreciatively when Sherlock resumed his position tucked against John's chest. Sherlock snuggled in closer and latched his arms possessively around John's torso.

"You did growl, by the way," Sherlock muttered. "So I was right about that bit."

John dragged a hand leisurely through the detective's forest of curls. "And you like having your hair pulled, so I was right about that."

"A tie then?"

"Sure." John smiled against the top of Sherlock head. "Or, we could attempt to gather more data…"

Sherlock groaned in complaint. "John, I refuse to write any more stories about us. The Internet has more than its fair share already."

"Mm, I actually meant we should gather more practical data." He ran his fingers along Sherlock's jaw, then down the long line of his throat, his touch hypnotizing and featherlight. Sherlock shivered. "You know, as silly as those stories are, some of them had some fairly interesting suggestions."

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, as John's hand began its journey down Sherlock's flushed chest, over his ribs, and further still down his trembling abdomen. The other dragged through his hair, tugging deliciously at his curls.

"Oh, I can hardly remember," John replied airily, his hands continuing quite innocently in their ministrations. Sherlock purred and arched into his touch, silently begging for more.

John hummed in mock contemplation as Sherlock finally got sick of his teasing and climbed into his lap. "It was something about cowgirls, I believe?"

THE BLOG OF JOHN H. WATSON

[new entry]

March 5th

Hello, perverted readers of mediocre writing, it is I, Sherlock Holmes. I come bearing news.

John and I have properly kissed and had sex and whatnot, so you lot can finally stop speculating. If you'd like a highly realistic account of what transpired, please click the link to MY story below, which John foolishly attempted to compete with by writing a story of his own. It is the second link listed, and surely, the second-best in terms of quality. Kindly favorite mine.

Side note: for future reference, John's eyes are BLUE, his hair is BLONDE, and never in one million years would he shed a tear while comparing me to a white rose.

SH

UPDATE—March 7th: John apparently gets quite maudlin post-coitus. He just said I look like an angel from heaven, so I am no longer certain that he will not compare me to a flower one of these days. Therefore, I retract my above claim.

SH

UPDATE—March 9th: Yes, hello, this is John Watson and I will no longer allow Sherlock carte blanche access to my blog, because apparently he only uses it to spill secrets about our love life and make me look bad. The password has officially been changed to something he will never guess.

(And just to even the score, you should all know that he won't let me out of bed until we've cuddled for at least an hour each morning. So there.)

JW

UPDATE—March 9th: Really, John? 'BuggerOffSherlock' is your idea of an ironclad password? At this rate, you deserve to have your blog infiltrated.

And in response to your parenthetical comment: it is not my fault that you are a rather huggable person.

SH

UPDATE—March 10th: Sherlock's privileges on here have been reinstated because I am a very kind, very patient man who does not mind that his partner refuses to respect the sanctity of passwords.

JW

UPDATE—March 11th: With a password like 'I-Love-You-Git' it's no wonder I guessed it.

(I love you too.)

SH

A/N:Thanks for reading, everyone! Feedback would be glorious, so feel free to let me know what you think in the comments. Your reviews are food for my writer soul :)

Find me on tumblr at: sienna-221B.

Much love! xo