There was, of course, the issue of the stuck pig.

Sherlock had explained it John at one point before rushing off. Perhaps several months before, John might have been shocked, appalled, and concerned that Sherlock owned a harpoon, more so that he was planning to use it on a pig. It had to be inhumane. Sherlock, of course, wasn't particularly concerned about people much less pigs, though, so John wrote it off as another quirk. If severed heads in the refrigerator, bullet holes in the wall, and a jar of some unknown viscous liquid quietly congealing on the mantle could be called quirks.

Pigs, Sherlock had explained in the pseudo-patient voice he reserved for his teaching moments, were very similar to human beings in several important biological ways. It was why students dissected pigs before they reached an age and stature where people would allow the bodies of their former loved ones to pass under the knife. The skin, the vascular structure, the organ arrangement – it was all surprisingly like that of the human being.

That was why he had to go across town to a farm-to-table butcher shop. He had apparently once saved the butcher from some kind of heinous, life-ending charge, and the butcher was skilled enough that he could salvage the parts after Sherlock's experiment. Sherlock had taken up his harpoon, and John had resisted the urge to call him Captain Ahab. He'd taken a taxi, the harpoon carefully wrapped in butcher paper so as to not draw attention to it.

That had been several hours ago. John was contentedly reading the paper, drinking tea, and blogging. He was becoming a bit of a blogosphere star these days, and he admitted on the edge of his consciousness that he enjoyed the notoriety. People read his blog, he had fans, the police even read his retelling of their cases. He wondered if he should throw in some romantic speculation to combat the persistent notion that he was a confirmed bachelor. What was it that his dates had been saying lately, that he was a fantastic boyfriend?

He frowned when he remembered that it was in regards to Sherlock's summons. Perhaps it would be better to leave out all romantic inclinations. His name was all over it, and one had to retain some level of privacy.

His therapist had been right, though perhaps not in the way she had expected. The blog did help him, but it had been Sherlock who got rid of his psychosomatic limp. The blog was less a way of processing normalcy than of reveling in the extraordinary life that he had come to live with Sherlock. He was deep into a blog post about his latest case involving a missing child. Those were always heart-wrenching, at least for him and his audience. It was this type of case that brought John the closest to thinking that Sherlock did have a heart underneath that tin can chest of his. He was more sensitive, kind, and almost seemed to care whether they lived – these were not things he was during other cases.

If Sherlock was out sticking pigs, he would probably need the PR boost.

Mrs. Hudson stopped in at one point to drop off a few groceries she had picked up for them. She seemed to love Sherlock like a son. The woman had to be a bit dysfunctional on her own, because there was little to no reciprocation from Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson was quite content with that. She paused to discuss daytime telly with John for a moment before leaving him with his thoughts.

Thank heaven she did, because that was the moment that Sherlock decided to reappear. John sputtered on his tea. "You got on the tube like that?" Sherlock was covered in blood. Apparently the harpooning had been successful, because John could almost see the gears spinning inside his friend's head.

"Had to. No taxi would take me." John thought about asking, but decided against it. There were some parts of Sherlock's life that it was just safer and more pleasant not to know.