Disclaimer: As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.
A/N: Time keeps slipping away from me as the semester goes on, but soon enough it will all be over, one way or another. So how about an update? Yay, new drabble. Read, review, and enjoy!
Idea: Writer's block.
His face rests against the keyboard, deep growls of irritation emitting from his throat. The keys cluster against his skin, and mash a few of the letters against the pristine page. He lays there for a moment, hands curled into fists on his lap and pressing nails grooves into his palms. It's absolutely intolerable, he muses, just insane that this should happen. Angrily he sits up again, wrenching the paper from its place and crumpling it up in sheer frustration.
It's such a trial, one that he has dealt with before, but the battle never gets any easier.
A thumb hooks in his direction. "Whatever is the matter with him?"
His flatmate snorts, lowers his newspaper and allows the smoke from his pipe to swirl around as he examines the poor fellow. Another sheet is put into the typewriter, a few sentences tapped out before the page joins the growing sea of crumpled whites on the floor. The ones tacked on the walls are completed, part of the ongoing project, with new ideas juxtaposed next to them. His movements are ragged, sharp: indicative of impatience and being at the desk working too long. When he turns his head, his roommate notes the exhaustion in the creases and frantic look in his eyes. For the most part, his back is to them, but he can hear them. He just refuses to answer, instead retrieving a notebook and pencil to scratch out another outline idea.
The flatmate chuckles under his breath, grateful that he never had the horrible condition of his friend. His pamphlets are precise and coherent; it rather helped that he wrote about facts, rather than to entertain an audience looking for cheap, dime novel thrills.
Holmes nods at Watson's hunched back and turns his attention to their mutual friend.
"Writer's block. He's been at it for five hours, stuck on page twenty-three." He directs the next comment to the struggling doctor. "You about to give up scribbling your nonsense biographical input on my life? About time, old chap."
The journal leaves John's hands and smacks Holmes in the face, right before his head connects with the keyboard again. The doctor sighs, not defeated but weary from the torment.
"Shut up, Sherlock."
A/N 2: I definitely know how Watson feels. Staring at a blank page, idea in mind with no idea of how to write your way there...it's like the page mocks you for not knowing how to fill it up. He'll find inspiration soon, he always does...