Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I know, I know. I've been suffering from writer's block, and ended up writing about writing block. Sue me. I needed a way out.
The world is not ready
The blinking dash is mocking him. John was intimate with writer's block, before Sherlock, but that was logical. What was he supposed to write? If he followed Ella's suggestion in its entirety – putting his thoughts out there for everyone to read – it'd amount to nothing but 'whining'. At least that's what his parents would have said. For all the faults he has, he's not a whiner. Heck, if the army hadn't forced him to see his therapist, he wouldn't have. His troubles are his own to solve. (Ella is still trying to work on that mindset.)
But then came Sherlock, and the words flowed. Okay, a thesaurus was a necessity after a while, because there are only so many ways you can say "amazing" off the top of your head. The posts themselves, though? He couldn't write fast enough. Chases, crimes, brilliance, and the funny quirks – well, they were funny quirks when he wrote about them - , that actually gave him the distance he needed not to explode when nothing was sacred in their flat. How could he not be eager to share?
He's still as eager as ever. The case is an 8 by Sherlock's standards. But still, the screen remains obstinately white. Not one of the words flitting through his mind seems right. How can explain what seems impossible even after having lived it? Blink.