You might have noticed I've given up asking for reviews with every chapter. While I like them and other people's views and ideas give me inspiration, you as a reader are your own person. It's your choice. At this point I don't really care. This is the third story I've written in 2 weeks. I'm tired. So read and review, or don't.
The morning after.
What a horrible phrase, Sherlock thought. It was actually a rather normal phrase, but had taken on a bad flavour after a while. It was now used as a euphemism for regret. Regret for what you did in the night, in the darkness when everything was covered up.
And it was the phrase running through Sherlock's head right now.
Yes, he regretted plenty about last night.
Like breaking down like a child.
Like not asking why John had only showed himself now.
Like not forcing his best friend to tell him WHY.
Like not kissing him.
The detective frowned. Not kissing him? Why would he think that? He went through possible reasons, finally hitting on the one that rang true.
He loved John.
Yes, John was attractive. But it just wasn't that alone. No, it was the fact that John had put himself so many times at risk for Sherlock. And he cared. Nobody had ever cared about Sherlock before the doctor came into his life. At least not enough to make sure he ate and slept, even when his transport didn't need it.
But back to the problem at hand.
Sherlock had woken up alone. He clearly remembered going to bed with John last night. He clearly remembered John's promise to never leave him again. So why had he left without telling Sherlock?
Sherlock had always known John Watson was a man of his word, which explained why this betrayal cut so deeply. That mixed with his newfound feelings for his once-dead-but-actually-very-much-alive friend made the hurt so much worse.
Rolling over on the bed, the detective curled up, wrapping his body around one of the many fluffy pillows. They were his thing, pillows. So soft and cuddly, so squishy, so… nonhuman.
Pillows didn't judge you.
Pillows would wipe away your tears or muffle your laughter.
Pillows could kill, but only if you wished it.
Pillows would let you hide in them.
The genius felt something wet track down his face. He groaned. Not again. He couldn't cry again, so soon after the last time. He'd become dehydrated. If he was dehydrated, John would notice and scold him.
No, time to play the annoying, brilliant, and uncaring detective once more.
He picked up his phone and called Lestrade.
Okay yeah this one sucked. I tried to write without any ideas. And it really didn't work out. Sorry for those of you who were waiting for this. To be fair, it is the last week of school, so, finals.
Maybe I can write a few more chapters soon.
Anyway, loves to all of you!