John takes off his jacket, folds it and places it on the neighboring seat, settles into his own seat, and leans his cane on the wall next to him.

Across from him, Sherlock stretches legs and more legs, arms and more arms. Sometimes, John thinks, if you squint, the man seems to have additional limbs because it's just not possible for a regular human to go on and on like that.

John yawns. Though he did sleep last night, it was interrupted repeatedly. May as well nap on the train. He starts to recline his seat when suddenly Sherlock's computer lands in his lap.

"What?" he asks, taking the laptop but narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Write," Sherlock replies with a dismissive wave of his long fingers. His eyes are closed and he's already reclined his seat and put up his feet.

"About what?"

"You can't be serious. We just finished a case full of all the sensationalistic romance you adore. Illicit affairs! Unrequited love! Crimes of passion! Secret identities! Exclamation points! There's so much sordid material, you can easily ignore my methods and everything else of consequence. It's perfect."

John rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to defend himself but shuts it, and just stares at the laptop instead. "I don't know," he says, finally. "You know that I haven't written since you died."

"I'm blissfully aware." Sherlock opens one eye and fixes it on John with a cold blue stare. "But you are still my blogger, aren't you?"

John tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in response.

"Then blog."

Sherlock closes his eyes again and clasps his hands across his chest. John waits a moment, then opens the laptop, finds a wifi signal, and logs into his blog. The moment he enters his password, he hears a faint snort and looks over the screen to see Sherlock's crooked smirk. John shakes his head and begins typing.

You've all heard by now that Sherlock Holmes is alive. So much has happened, I hardly know where to start. So for now I'll start at the end, with the case we just finished. So much has changed since I last wrote, but in some ways it is just like old times.

John peers over the laptop again at Sherlock's face. The smirk is gone, his features relaxed, his breathing even, but his fingers are still twitching. He's not asleep just yet, his boundless energy not quite exhausted enough for the crash. John has gone to sleep so many times to the sound of Sherlock's violin. He wonders if it will be helpful for Sherlock to drift off to the soft sound of John's fingers taptapping on the keyboard. He turns back to the computer.

The case came in two days after I came home from hospital. I was resting my leg on the sofa when Sherlock came bounding into the living room, saying "A case, John! Dimmock's got something for us at the Yard! Get up!"...