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John's finger hovered over the mouse pad, millimetres away from deleting his blog. He's read through the cases countless times, memorised every word. Broken down in tears reading Sherlock's irritable comments and often death threats that he'd left there. John, fetch me my revolver. John, really? What is the point of this post. What I do is an exact science and should be treated as such. I. AM. BORED. And I'm wondering what temperature I'd need to create to blow up your cans of beer...
Sometimes he lost himself in the comments and would turn around in his armchair to shout a witty reply to them back at Sherlock. Then he'd look and the kitchen would be empty. No science experiments, no exploding cans of beer, no Sherlock wielding a revolver that John was sure he had locked away. Just John. Just lonely, broken John.