Send me 'I want the K' and I'll generate a number.
It was a dreary night outside the warm confines of their shared flat. Rain pattering against the panes, a background to the crackling of the fire and the clacking of keys. John had been typing away at that thing for hours now; it was physically painful for Sherlock to watch him at it, mustering out his measly little sentences with two fingers. Who could possibly type with only two fingers? He pushed out a suffering sigh, turning his head away from the doctor who was staunchly ignoring the sleuth's presence, and the fact he was so unequivocally bored.
He drummed his fingers against his knee, though, unable to help looking over to the doctor once more, his eyes drawn to his jaw working in thoughtful circles, doing that weird..lip jutting thing that he always does. He had to admit..it had an appeal he'd entertained often. And it really wasn't fair for him to be appealing and ignorant and the same time.
So, naturally, the detective quietly closed the gap between them on the couch, hands gently pressing into thigh and shoulder. He leaned in close, glancing at the computer screen out of curiosity for the doctor's reaction in the faint reflection, breathing against his ear, "What are you typing?.." He glanced back at the blogger's skin, pressing a soft kiss just below the ear, with just a faint nibble to his jaw.