I am coming to realize that I am not necessarily the writing type. I haven't written much since school and that was many many years ago. Texting is more my thing, short and gets the point across without the need this incessant and pointless rambling.
John won't even let me type this up! He went out and bought me a special notebook with a leather cover and silk bookmark. Rather tacky if you ask me.
John is in bed now so I thought I might try it. Just as I suspected, pointless.Chapter One
In Which Sherlock Doesn't Understand Journals
Tuesday, March 18th, 2014. Approximately 1:58 am.
I have been back for about two months now and John has… insisted that I write in this journal. I don't exactly know what he expects to come of this or what he expects of me, but I concluded that it would be best to at least appease him. After all I did fake my death for two years. Apparently it is "the least I can do" John's words, not mine.