A/N: I watched the Reichenbach Fall. Sandor= pretty much my reaction.

Sansa rushed home was fast as she could after she heard the news. Drogo had texted her while she was at work, saying that Sandor wouldn't talk to anyone and the door to their apartment was locked. Sansa told her boss she was leaving due to an emergency and caught the first cab home. The whole ride there, she did nothing but fret. What was so wrong with Sandor that he was having, what was essentially, a temper tantrum?

The last time he did this was when Sansa gave up red wine for lent. She didn't want it in their apartment, lest it tempt her, so she got rid of it all. He didn't speak to her for days. All he did was hole up in their closet and swear at her any time she tried to talk to him. He eventually stopped, but the memory was forever implanted in Sansa's brain.

To be honest, she wasn't sure why she was as worried as she was. Sandor was pretty well known for these fits of emotion, be it rage or sadness. Drogo probably just told her to be polite. It wasn't anything to fret over. Sandor would get over it, eventually, whatever it was.

Sansa stood nervously in front of her apartment door. Pressing her ear against the red paint, she tried to listen for any clue that could indicate what sort of mood Sandor might have been in. Hearing nothing, she went ahead and unlocked the door. The living room was a mess. Lady sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by the corpses of what used to be Sansa's beloved throw pillows. Feathers littered the floor, chairs overturned. There were empty beer bottles everywhere. Since Sandor was nowhere to be seen, Sansa turned her attention towards their bedroom, choosing to ignore the mess for now.

Her hand hovered over the doorknob. She was worried about the mess that she might stumble upon. Cracking the door open to make sure it was safe, she saw that the room was completely dark. She opened the door all the way. The room wasn't messy, thank the gods, although the bed was unmade. The huge lump on the bed could be nothing else than Sandor himself. Before passing out in a drunken stupor, he'd taken the time to cover the windows in Sansa's grandmother's priceless quilts. Sansa stumbled on another beer bottle, trying to find her way to the bed. Sandor sat up, without warning.

"Sansa, is that you?" he whispered. She could hear the slur in his voice.

"Yeah, it's me. What are you doing?"

"I'm grieving. Can't you tell?" He chuckled, humorlessly. He threw the covers off and rolled out of bed. "I'm grieving Sansa. Do you know what year this is?"

This could only be a trick question. "2012?"

"Yes. It is 2012."

"I don't understand." He was confusing her.

"No, you wouldn't. Sansa, I fucking hate Sherlock. I can't stand that fucking show."

"Sandor, you recorded all six episodes and kicked me out of the house so you could watch them all. I thought you liked it." Now, she was really confused.

"No. I hate it. Who ends a season like that, huh? What the fuck kind of a season finale is that? I'll tell you. A SHITTY ONE!"

Sansa jumped. He was shouting. She glanced at the door, hoping the neighbors wouldn't hear and get angry at them for being loud. He sat back down on the bed.

"Do you know how it ends? Sherlock jumps off a fucking building. He calls John, pretends that he's this asshole who faked being Sherlock Fucking Holmes, and jumps off of a goddamn building. Then you find out that he isn't even dead! He faked his fucking death! That's bullshit! Now I have to wait until season 3! Do you know when that is, Sansa? Do you?"

"I have no idea." It was best just to let him get it all out at once.

"2014."

"That's a long time, Sandor. I'm sorry."

"I am too, Sansa," he sighed, then crawled back under the covers. "Now, leave me. Leave me here to die."

Sansa fought the urge to laugh. She hadn't really understood much about his explanation of the show, but he was being melodramatic. All over a show? Why didn't he just wait, like a regular person? She'd waited years for Toy Story 3 and it hadn't killed her. She patted the lump that was Sandor.

"It'll be alright. Season 3 will start before you know it."

"No it won't, Sansa! God, women don't understand anything," he moaned from under his covers. Before she could reply, she heard a knock on the front door.

"Hold on," she told him and left him to his grievances. Pulling the door open, Sansa was surprised to see Arya standing there. She looked awful. Her mascara had run down her face, smearing itself across her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying. She was wearing sweat pants, for seven's sake! Sansa would never be caught dead wearing sweats in public.

"Is Sandor here?"

"Yeah…" Arya pushed Sansa out of the way.

"Sandor! I just watched it! I couldn't last night, because I had to go to bed, but I recorded it and I watched it and -and -and" she broke down sobbing. "2014!"

To Sansa's shock and horror, Arya opened the fridge, took out a beer and chugged it. Sandor waddled out into the sunlight. Sansa saw he looked as bad as Arya had.

"I know, Arya. I know."

"It's not fair!" she wailed. She finished the beer, and tried grabbing another, but Sansa blocked her way.

"Arya! You're underage! Father would kill me if he found out-"

"I don't care! Can't you see I'm horribly depressed?"

"Yeah, Sansa. Can't you see we're depressed? Go buy more liquor. I drank it all."

The pair made their way into the living room, where they turned on the television, chatting about this show that they both watched.

Sansa wanted to tear her hair out. First, there was Sandor, who was currently acting like a child. Now, Arya too? What the hell kind of a show was this Sherlock? Sansa thanked the gods that she'd never sat down and watched it. Giving up entirely, she let Arya have whatever was left in the fridge and phoned their father, telling Eddard that Arya would be sleeping over.

She heard the opening theme of Sherlock being played and groaned. Did these two enjoy being miserably? She marched out into the living room to shout at the pair, but something stopped her. On screen was what probably had to be the most beautiful man Sansa had ever seen. His eyes were incredibly lovely, almost as nice as Sandor's, not that Sandor ever let Sansa tell him that.

"Who's that?" she asked Arya.

"Sherlock," Arya and Sandor said, simultaneously. Sansa sat down.

"Yeah, Benedict Cumberbatch is one sexy man," Arya said. Sansa was intrigued. When he started his analysis of John Watson, Sansa was ashamed at being almost aroused.

"We're on the first episode, so you can join us in our misery," Sandor said, the smugness dripping in his voice.

"Okay," she agreed, eyes never leaving Benedict's face.

And join them she did. Somehow, by the time dawn broke over King's Landing, the trio had reached The Reichenbach Fall. Sansa understood their pain as she watched Sherlock jump from the building. She wiped her tears as the episode ended at Sherlock's grave and reached for the remote to play the next episode. Sandor gave her a strange look.

"That was the last one, Sansa."

"Well, when's the next one coming out?"

"2014. That's what we've been telling you."

Sandor laughed at the expression on Sansa's face.