Human Error - Sherlock Fanfiction

Chapter thirty one - writers block

My alarm rotated between about six different annoying noises of varying pitch and volume. It sounded like a disco for the anti-christ. I extended my arm and switched off my alarm, mentally making a note to change the annoying tune it blasted every morning.

I had a habit of sleeping in late, so I always made sure to set my alarm for ten in the morning -- except for when I have work at an earlier time, that was the only other time I would change it.

With a yawned I climbed off my three seater sofa, making my way towards the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. While waiting for the kettle to boil, I gazed outside of the window. The sun filtered through the clouds, signaling the end of the rain that must have occurred earlier this morning. I've always loved the rain -- the pitter-patter of rain drops helped to make me feel more relaxed and creative for some reason. The kettle clicks, and while letting out another yawn I pick it up and pour it into my mug, scratching my previous thoughts from my mind.

I then go back into my plain living room, filled by only one couch, a small brown coffee table and a draw/TV unit, but it wasn't accompanied by a TV yet. I was slowly adding more furniture as the days went by, it wasn't something that bothered me too much at the moment.

I placed my mug of tea on the coffee table and sat down on my couch, grabbing Sherlock's laptop as I did so. I had asked if I could use it about a week or so ago, promising him to give it back a couple of days later. Obviously, I've had it for longer than that -- but he hasn't complained or asked for it back.

I had been using it to plan my story. Sure, I could have handwritten it. However, I haven't handwritten for what seems like a long time, that I've probably forgotten how to. Besides, I'm much faster at typing than writing.

So far I had planned out some kind of crime/mystery story. I thought a romance was too cliche, and writing a fantasy one seemed too complicated for me. At the moment, I was getting all these details and inspiration by helping Sherlock with his cases, so I took advantage of that. I like the idea of having a serial killer as the main antagonist, and then I'd have a detective or a team of investigators to solve the murders.

I stared at the monitor, expression blank -- my task clashing with what I wanted to do. Arms crossed and brows knitted, the millionth heavy sigh escaped my still lips. And so I did ended up writing nothing, the document garishly white. My brain bashed my thoughts, my fingers remained tucked away. I should have just written something... but then I realized it wasn't the "walls" blocking my thoughts.

It was laziness.

A knock on the door forces me to get up and to procrastinate. I open it without thinking, then come face to face with the one and only Sherlock Holmes. I cross my arms, waiting for him to speak.

"Morning." He started, voice low with the slightest hoarseness.

"Morning." I say back.

"About the other day... I just wanted to say that I'm not sorry because I was only expressing my thoughts on the matter and I still don't think any differently. But I hope you're still not mad at me."

I let out a sigh. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but I knew he wouldn't say sorry. Not that he had to, because it was perfectly okay to have an opinion. I just wish he wasn't rude to me. "Whatever." I shrug, moving away from the door but leaving it open as an invitation for Sherlock. He walks in after me, shutting the door behind him.

"I see you've got some furniture." He observed, standing in the doorway.

"Yep. Want a cup of tea?"

"No." He shook his head.

I met his gaze and raised my brows, a little confused. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I'm not feeling particularly thirsty at the moment--"

"No," I jump in, shaking my head gently. "I mean, what are you doing here?"

"Lestrade called me a few minutes ago, he says that there's a murder that he and his team can't quite figure out so wants me to come and have a look. John already left for work an hour ago so I can not ask him. I'm perfectly okay with going by myself, but I just came to see if you were interested in joining me." He explained, before clearing his throat. "You know, for your writing. I take it that because you haven't given me back my laptop that you haven't got much written down. You have writer's block."

"You could just say that you wanted me there, you know? That you love my company and I'm a joy to be around." I vocalized with a chuckle.

"But that would be lying." He playfully said back, pulling a face that read he was serious but I could tell by the tone in his voice that he wasn't.

"You're an ass." I commented, walking towards him. "I'll go and get changed, I won't be long. Make yourself at home."

He gives me a small nod, showing me that he had listened and understood what I had said. I stride sluggishly into my bedroom and stare at my simple suitcase of folded clothes, then glance at the messy piles of worn clothes scattered over the brown carpet. It's a tough decision, I think to myself, not sure on what to wear. I was in need of a clothes shopping spree, but maybe it was more responsible for waiting after I buy more furniture and sort out this bloody damp issue.

I throw on a thin, black sweater that had a white collar poking it out, making it look more formal than what it was. I then put on some skinny, black jeans and a pair of boots before walking back out of my room, and noticing that Sherlock hadn't even moved from the doorway.

"Well, you look right at home." I commented sarcastically. Sherlock just narrowed his eyes at me, unsure on what my tone implied while I just let out a light chuckle at him.

With a gentle shake of my head, I grabbed the keys to my apartment and my coat before heading towards the front door, looking over my shoulder at my friend. "Come on, the crime scene awaits."

With a smirk, he walks out and leads the way.