Because I feel like it, here's a teaser:
Right. I'm not even up to the part where John really comes in--you must be thinking, "12,000 words and no John?" Yes, I ramble on that much--but I'm getting there. If I hit 15,000 words (not an impossibility at this point) I will both scream and flail and hit my head against the wall.
For hours he worked at his palette, trying to find the right combination of whites, browns, yellows and gold to match the shade of John’s hair. He wanted to recreate it, to immortalise it in a way far better than a camera or his razor-sharp memory. Except he couldn’t find it; he couldn’t make the colour of John’s hair. Frustration at failure seized Sherlock, gripping his heart and he just screamed.
There was never any prior need for perfection in his art. Erratic and flawed was his style, clumsy handwriting scrawling and marring whatever was done. He was a good artist, Sherlock didn’t believe in false modesty, but for some reason he couldn’t paint John.
This was a fascinating development.