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:iconmidnight-sorrows: More from midnight-sorrows

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Submitted on
January 18, 2011
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It'd almost got to the point where Sherlock no longer registered as human in John's mind; he was something alien, cold and crystallised.

Fingers caressed the pen, gripped it and pulled it to the page, forming the letter in one smooth, flowing line, flicking out at the end before moving to create the next with a gentle hand.

It was something he was quite proud of; something he had always been proud of. It was the memories of being seven years old with a crop of sandy blonde hair and a quietly sunny disposition, only just tall enough to sit on the high stools in the library practising over and over on reams of paper until home time when John would trudge home, handwriting book tucked firmly under one arm. And then, one day in late November after several months of gruelling practice and calloused fingers, a beaming smile had graced the face of John Watson. He had snatched up the sheet of paper and dashed out of the room as quickly as his legs could carry him to thrust it proudly into his mother's hands and hear her praise at the precise little lines and squiggles.

The novelty of joined up handwriting had disappeared soon after, but even in the clinical sterility of Bart's wards or the heat and dust of Afghanistan it had given him a small shot of pride to see the strong clear script he had worked so hard to achieve.

So it had been a warm smugness that curled up in his chest when he caught first sight of Sherlock's scrawled longhand that splattered across the page like a paraplegic spider. It could have been from a desire to do things quickly, but John had often caught the younger man peeking a glance across the tabletop at his paperwork, a small crease forming between the brows as he took in the handwriting.


'Hmmm?' John pretended to look up as if puzzled.

'Your handwriting- very neat. Excessively so. You evidently practised a lot when you were a child, but you previously mentioned you weren't very academic, so it must have been something you worked particularly hard at. You also take great pride in it- something no average child ever would, so it's a source of pleasure to you. You were dyslexic when you were younger weren't you?'

The happy little feeling popped suddenly and fell. Watson looked down angrily, blinking at the page. Holmes turned back to his laptop, smiling slightly.

Take page. Screw it up. Walk away.

With Sherlock, you could never win.
Okay, stupid subject but one that caught my attention this morning. I have a ...friend who is dyslexic and taught himself how to read and write, and I was watching him write out of the corner of my eye. His writing is atrocious, but he takes so much pride in forming every letter that it makes it beautiful.

And so, I decided to study people. Writing. Dull, I know.

But this led me to Sherlock having terrible handwriting because a young Sherlock would never have had the patience to develop a better calligraphy and John having strived to perfect his, because it was something to be proud of, something he had overcome.

It's a very....boring piece I suppose, but one that is getting me back on track....a dash of Mycroft methinks....
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Rowlingson39 Apr 19, 2011   General Artist
Nice-same reason I have bad handwritting. John's a doctor, but one would avoid the sloppy handwriting stereotype with him.
TheInscrutableHolmes Jan 30, 2011  Student General Artist
This is brilliant. I love your writing! This makes perfect sense! :D
midnight-sorrows Jan 30, 2011  Student General Artist
xgrinsx thank you so much...
TheInscrutableHolmes Jan 30, 2011  Student General Artist
Your welcome love!
alihay Jan 27, 2011  Student Writer
so, so clever.
midnight-sorrows Jan 28, 2011  Student General Artist
xgrinsx thank you very much
alihay Jan 28, 2011  Student Writer
no worries!
BloodKalasin Jan 18, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
This makes sense. ^^
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