A/N: I've gone back to the source with this one!
Writer's Block
The moustachioed man sat at his desk, hunched over a pile of papers covered with scratchings. He had specks of ink on his right sleeve and his hands bore testament to his livelihood. On the floor beside the desk was a bin filled to overflowing with crumpled pages. Wads of paper congregated on the floor and lay in a random trail that ended at the fireplace. It, too, was filled with torn and shredded vellum.
Arthur Conan Doyle's latest Sherlock Holmes story was not going well.
And the murderer is …., he wrote on a clean sheet.
Doyle leaned back in his chair and huffed. He scratched out the four words and rubbed his hand across his scalp and through his thinning hair. Leaning back in, he wrote: The culprit is …
He stared at the words for several long moments, tapping his pen on the edge of the paper and causing more dots of India ink to adorn his sleeve and blotter.
Doyle snarled and, once again, scratched through the words, hard enough that the nib pierced the paper and tore it straight across.
He crumpled the page and threw it to the side. Positioning a fresh sheet, he wrote: And the murderer is ….
"I have no bloody idea who the murderer is!" roared Doyle. "Damn this writer's block!"