A/N: I wrote this because I can't seem to write anything. Odd, ain't it?
John is sitting on the sofa with his laptop in front of him.
He has been sitting there for...
Frustratingly, John checks his wristwatch.
3 hours.
Despairingly he runs his hands through his hair. He has been trying, to no avail, to write up his and Sherlock's last case.
He can't even think of a title for the case.
He glares angrily at computer screen for a solid 5 minutes before he closing the laptop in irritation and gets up to make himself a cup of tea.
When he returns he sits down in his chair and picks up the newspaper that had been lying on the floor next to it in an attempt to forget about the abandoned laptop and blog post.
After re-reading the same sentence 8 times he concedes defeat and drops the newspaper back onto the ground.
He chances a glance at his laptop again.
It feels like the machine is mocking him. Sitting there so calmly on the sofa. Peacefully.
All he feels like doing is writing up the case. That's the only thing he wants to do.
And he can't type anything!
He gets up and opens the laptop again, this time just writing all of his frustrations down and, without letting himself think about it, posts it on his blog.
It doesn't help his writer's block.
But it makes him feel a little better, so he considers it a win.
Until Sherlock rushes into the room saying something about an 'interesting murder' and 'urine samples' and drags him away from his laptop.
He really, really doesn't want to know.
I hate writer's block. At least I can make John suffer my pain too *evil laugh*