Chapter 2
It was 2:37 in the morning precisely when John's peaceful slumber was interrupted by the quiet rapping of Sherlock on his door.
After rolling his eyes and cursing at Sherlock a few times under his breath, he slipped his black wool robe on over his burgundy pants and plain white t-shirt. His ash wand lay on the bedside table, but the half-asleep John left it there out of spite for Sherlock.
The knocking continued, but John opened the door and snapped, "Sherlock, I was asleep!"
"Don't you want to find out what's going on, John?" he replied in a hushed whisper. "Right now is the best time to start finding out." Sherlock had already prepared himself for the rest of the day, with a new set of robes and clean shirt, pants, and a warm, freshly pressed Ravenclaw tie. His wild hair from just a few hours before had turned back into the bouncy black curls that appeared every morning and seemed to disappear after dinner. Sherlock's left hand was suspiciously wrapped behind his back, but John was too incoherent to recognize. The young man secretly wished he had been able to sleep as John could, nightly and without interruption, but deep inside him he had another longing for adventure and a mental challenge.
"Whatever, Sherlock," John retorted drowsily.
Suddenly, out from behind Sherlock's back came a cup of cold water, which was thrown right into John's face.
"What on earth was that for?" he shouted within his whisper, now fully awake and quite irate at the grinning boy standing before him. He angrily rubbed over his face with his hands, and then shook them off, directing the water at Sherlock.
"John, you are such an idiot," he said rather loudly with the same familiar grin upon his face.
"When am I ever not for you, Sherlock? Why do you keep me around if I'm such an idiot? I'm always the bumbling idiot, obviously not able to think or act for himself, am I not?"
Sherlock was taken aback by John's sudden outburst, his body recoiling backwards as if he had been physically punched in the face. "I'm sorry," he replied, ashamed and feeling guilty, "I'm sorry I woke you up. Please forgive me. I'll leave now."
Just as he turned to walk away, John laid a caring hand on his shoulder and gave the young Holmes a half-smile. Sherlock shook his hand away and walked down the corridor, his head hung and eyes focused on the gray stone floor.
"Why do I always have to do that?" Sherlock thought to himself. "Why must I always ruin friendships like this? Why can't I have any sense of respect for them?" He felt extremely sorrowful for what he had said, and he looked back on all of the other occasions where he had insulted John. He was genuinely surprised that he hadn't snapped back at him before, and a lone tear rolled down his cheek.
"Why do I even exist?" he finally concluded as he flopped down onto his sloppy, unmade bed. Soon, he drifted to sleep, but his face was filled with pain, grief, and shame.