Chapter Summary: Sherlock is dead and yet John finds himself in front of his laptop. Post-Reichenbach character study. Prompt: Monitor
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Moffat, Gatiss & SACD.
A/N: Even though I haven't updated in quite some time I still got a message from this site every few days, telling somebody had added one of my stories to their favourites or someone had left a review for me. This chapter is dedicated to all these lovely people, but especially to my newest reader Rastabanana, who left me a few very nice reviews at just the right time to get me to write : this prompt came from oneword(dot)com.
He's sitting there, staring at the blank screen in front of him. His life used to be filled with all sorts of activities, but the biggest amount of his time used to be taken up by Sherlock's escapades and the solving of their cases. That was just a week ago. He misses it so much he can't even bear to think about it. But he also spent a lot of time writing his blog, trying to update it for his fans.
He'd love to say he doesn't have the time to write anymore, but that's a lie and everyone knows it. There's nothing left to write about – plain and simple. His life has become the same boring mess it was before this whirlwind called Sherlock Holmes entered it.
As ridiculous as it sounds he misses writing. This feeling he gets when he sees the white 'sheet' on the monitor slowly filling with words, his words. He liked it, not just because of the positive feedback he used to get, but also because it simply felt good to write it all down, get his thoughts in order,
His therapist suggested he'd write fiction instead, short stories perhaps. He is a doctor, a veteran, an ex-internet phenomenon. Surely he'd have a lot of great observations about the world to share in a fictional context. It could help him cope with everything, could give him the opportunity to say everything he otherwise can't bare to even think. She just doesn't understand.
All his writing had been so closely linked to Sherlock Holmes that there is simply no way he could go on without him. He has nothing to write about, nobody to criticise his work, nobody to sneer at the comments he'd get on the street, nobody to bicker with in the comment section while they sit in the same room. Really, what would be the point of putting any words of his own out there without Sherlock Holmes to inspire, read and belittle them?