Greeting Earthlings! So, here marks my first official venture into both writing for Sherlock and writing in present tense. I'm not entirely sure where the idea for this came from, but I like it.

Disclaimer: I neither own BBC Sherlock, nor will I ever. *sighs* But I can dream... Write fanfiction and dream...

And on that note: enjoy!

:::

Big Brother's writing is that of a prince, a young Sherlock declares to himself one day.

It's a bit of an odd, sudden declaration. It's not like he'd been studying royal signatures recently or anything. But Big Brother had been out for the day and Sherlock had gotten curious, so he had walked into Big Brother's room and taken a peek at the papers on his desk. They aren't very interesting, Sherlock thinks to himself, skimming the words written on the pages with disinterest. Just correspondence with a person from some school or another. Sherlock doesn't particularly care about the words themselves though. He finds his eyes drawn to his Brother's writing.

Big Brother's writing is tall, and neat, and the letters are just a bit too skinny for their own good, but they look like they've been written with care; each character picked specially to get the reader to think and feel what Big Brother wants them to think and feel (which, knowing Big Brother, they probably have been). The 'g's and the 'j's and the 'y's all curl in on themselves at the bottom, looking almost like Mummy's writing, and the upper case 'T's have sloping roofs, and Sherlock notices all this in around three minutes and decides that Big Brother's writing is that of a prince, all careful diplomacy and elegant script, and nothing anyone says is going to change that.

Of course, that's when Big Brother returns home, and, arriving to find Sherlock in his room staring at his papers, merely shakes his head resignedly and offers to go outside and play Deductions. As Sherlock skips out of the room to follow his Brother, he makes a vow to himself to not forget that odd, regal script, and a note to himself to start looking at other people's handwriting too.

:::

Lestrade's writing is that of a merchant, a much older Sherlock thinks to himself one day at Scotland Yard. He's not sure why that comparison springs to mind (it's been years since he's thought of the vow he made to himself as a child, back when Mycroft was still Big Brother to him) but it's true.

He had glanced at Lestrade as the elder man had been writing up a report of the latest case (double murder; it had been the maid. Dull. Obvious) Sherlock had cracked for them - by hand. When Sherlock had asked him why he hadn't just been typing it up and submitting it online, the man had replied, "I've been part of the Yard since before computers were part of the process. There's something nice about doing this the old-fashioned way, even if everything else's gone digital", before returning to his work. So Sherlock contents himself with watching Lestrade scribble down his report and thinking.

Lestrade's writing isn't pretty. It's rough and even and easy to read, much like the man himself, and it doesn't seem to know the concept of lower case. The letters are large and spiky, with so much space between them sometimes it's difficult to tell when one word ends and another begins. He presses too hard on the pencil when he writes a part of the report he doesn't want to talk about but has to, so the paper ends up littered with holes punched through it and eraser mark from having misspelled words. It's the writing of someone with things to do and places to be - a quick, truthful scrawl that somehow says so, so much. And yet, there's something almost homely about this writing. Something warm. Something comforting.

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously, because that's too much sentiment by half, and leaves Scotland Yard.

(But not before thinking to himself that that was slightly interesting, and maybe he should see what handwriting says about a person more often.)

:::

Molly's writing is that of a teacher, is what clicks in Sherlock's mind months (or is it a year?) later. His lips twitch up when he makes the connection (he has been looking more at people's handwriting in his spare time as of late), and Sherlock nods to himself because it just makes so much sense.

It comes during a quiet spell alone in the mortuary. He had sent Molly to get him coffee, and, once she had left, (with no real idea of what to do with himself besides poke around the lab) Sherlock had found his gaze being snagged on a notepad that had been lying idle on an unassuming countertop. Picking it up, he scans its contents, quirking an amused eyebrow as he catches a word here and there, but mostly seeing what he can make of Molly's script.

Molly's writing is interesting, considering what he knows of her. It is tall, and loopy, and connected, and legible, but it is strong. The letters stay uniform (even if, when written in the margins, they tend to slope downwards without lines to guide them), and the pressure with which they are written rarely varies. The 's's and 'q's and 'r's are those of the cursive variety, and there's a vaguely unnerving tendency to forget to dot the 'j's (though the 'i's somehow seem exempt from this fate). But there's an air of certainty around the way the letters are formed, an unshakable sense of this-is-what-I-do-and-I-do-it-well that Sherlock's never seen come from the woman herself (and maybe he should note that for further investigation, because he's onto something there).

Sherlock's lips form an amused half-smile as he snaps the notepad shut and leaves the lab just as Molly returns, grabbing his coffee from her with a nod and telling her to let him know when his results come back in, and walks out.

(And thinks that if he's found a hidden side to Molly through her handwriting, maybe he could do the same with others.)

:::

John's writing is that of a knight, Sherlock thinks to himself in something almost like awe one day late at night after a case, when they're both crashing from caffeine and adrenaline (because this is, traditionally, the time that Sherlock's mind will invariably wander into uncharted territory).

John had left the sitting room breathless from laughter (laughter Sherlock is somewhat pleased to take credit for) to make tea, and, with the other man bustling around in the kitchen, Sherlock had strolled over to John's laptop to see what ridiculous title he had (surely) given their case this time. Carefully opening the piece of technology, Sherlock stares in bewilderment (and vague amusement) at the multitude of handwritten notes stuck to the screen of the device.

John's writing is absolutely fascinating. It isn't anywhere near the doctor's scrawl Sherlock had expected from him. Instead, it's a careful, neat script that seems much too organized for the man himself. The first letters of sentences are written with a heavier pressure than the other characters, and the 'e's are almost always connected to whatever letter comes before them. There are no brackets-only parenthesis-which perturbs Sherlock slightly, but still makes his lips twitch up in amusement whenever he spots that kind of error. The letters are slanted, as if they are written so quickly that the speed makes them flutter to the side in its wake. The 'a's are childlike, rounded and plump, but the 'w's and 'v's are sharp, almost reflecting the man's military history in their crisp lines. The contrast of each individual character is such that they shouldn't fit together, but they do; mixing and melding until they create an amalgam of childish laughter and adultly responsibility, of warm lines and cold edges. It's frustrating. Both noble and rough; inviting and crisp. Impossible to figure out. So very John.

Sherlock is transfixed.

"What are you looking at?"

John's curious voice from behind him startles Sherlock; he'd been so intrigued by trying to figure out John's writing he hadn't noticed the man himself approaching with two mugs of tea. "Your handwriting," Sherlock replies. John hums for a moment before he jokingly asks, "What do you make of it?"

"It looks like the writing of a knight," Sherlock blurts out before he can stop himself. John looks to him for a moment before collapsing in a fit of giggles, placing the mugs down just in time to see Sherlock join in. "And what?" John manages through his laughter. "Is Lestrade's writing like a merchant's? Molly's like-" his eyes flicker up for a moment as he thinks "-like a teacher's? What's Mycroft's writing? A prince's?"

And as Sherlock picks up his tea, he grins at John. "Precisely, John," he says, winking. "Precisely."

And, as it is, (with both men in fits of laughter that won't subside until Mrs. Hudson comes in and sees them, smiling, and asks them what they were going to do next, and if, if they don't have plans, maybe they could watch something together), that seems to be that.

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So, what do you think? Horrible? Any good? Leave a review and let me know!

Man this took a while to write. I kept writing bits and pieces and never really stitching them together (all the while slipping into past tense; tell me if you guys spot any mistakes on that front, would you? Thanks).

Hope you enjoyed.

See ya!

-Unconscious Again