Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer.
John was angry. No, that didn't quite cover his emotion. He was frustrated and hopeless. He tried writing detective novels to disastrous results. His first few stories had been published in The Thread, the local literary magazine. It was published by the local academy of literature. He had been so happy. It was great. Reviewers raved about his books. They loved the atmosphere and the descriptions. John made them feel like they were in the story. But, he had shortfalls. He was a naiveté and optimist. His plots were altogether too simple. Too predictable. "Predictable makes the world go round." His mother had told him every time he asked for something exciting. Predictable didn't pay the bills.
He looked at his blog screen. Nothing. His editor had been adamant that he keep his blog since most of his readers were part of the college community. But, he had nothing to say. John opened the word document. He had written only five lines of text in the past week. In other words, he was seven thousand words behind schedule. They weren't flowing. The words weren't flowing. He wanted to bang his head on his desk. But, he needed the brain cells to write. John wanted to slap his editor for rejecting his previous manuscript. He was given a month to write a new one. Or he was done.
John sighed deeply. Why? He had given up his practice. His brother had lost all faith in him. His parents considered him a loser. This was not what he wanted. This wasn't what he wanted. "Anger doesn't get nothing done." His mother's sayings again. John cradled his head in his hands. Who was he kidding? He would never be a great writer. He would never be famous for wordsmithery. The only time anyone would recognize his name was when they called him for his order. He would be plain old John Watson. Doctor. Writer. Loser. Nothing.
He got up and opted for the alternative to writing. Taking a long walk. A very long walk. John opened the door of his hotel room. You can't afford a place of your own with a writer's advance.