An Apology-
I am so, so, so sorry for being such a crappy author. I never update, and always make excuses. I'll try from now on to update more frequently, but we'll just have to see. I know it's been even longer than normal, but (excuses) I was in Vietnam essentially the whole month of May with my school, where the only internet we could access was our school emails. Anyway, I'm really lazy about this fic and I'm sorry. But I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Apologies,
vermillionpoppies
"I hate you! All you ever do is screw up!" A door slammed as one royally pissed off John exited Baker Street. Sherlock sat in shock for a minute, tears running down his face. Smoke lingered in the air, filling his lungs with failure. After a full three months without slipping, he had suddenly fallen back into his pyromaniac tendencies. Well, not really suddenly. The detective hadn't told John, but a particularly demanding case involving kidnapped children had caused him to go down the rabbit hole, so to speak. His dark thoughts had returned, bringing a torrent of depression and anxiety along with them. He would do anything to fight the pain, even if it meant breaking his clean streak. And so he did. He screwed up. And Sherlock didn't know if he could ever repair the damage he had caused. Emotion overwhelming him, he grabbed his coat and headed out the door and to St. Bart's.
Elsewhere, John was nursing a drink. It was shitty pub, full of loud, obnoxious blokes whose sole purpose was to pick up prostitutes. But John had chosen it for its crowded atmosphere. He could blend in here, and not be stand out. He was just one among a sea of faces. His anger had simmered down at this point, and he was more disappointed in Sherlock than anything. How could he? Throwing away his progress, just like that. And why? God, he was the smartest idiot John knew. Observing things John never could, yet so irrational when it came to his own well-being. John buried his face in his hands. Why?
The wind whistled in Sherlock's ears, drowning out his thoughts in static. He stood still on the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, all of London spread out before him in miniature. People swarmed like ants at his feet. For a moment, everything was crystal clear, and then the tears came and fogged the world up again. Tears quickly became ice against his face, blown into oblivion. Oblivion. Oh how he wanted oblivion. How he wanted for his mind to be silent, for all the emotions that plagued him to disappear, for the fire to be put out. He just wanted to jump, to be free of all this. Just one more step and it'd all be over…
