Quick Author's Note: I would just like to say thank you to all you readers out there, and even more so for the reviewers. Your response is what makes me write.

"Never ruin an apology with an excuse." - Benjamin Franklin

Chapter II

It took John all of a second to realize just how bad things looked. And then Sherlock was turning around, the very picture of abrupt, stepping past Adler and stalking down the corridor. The Woman turned on the lights, stepping into the room, and it was more than shining some light on things - John's entire thought process, all the decisions he'd made since they stepped into Adler's base… It was like a scientist focusing ultraviolet light on all his fuck-ups, examining them and dissecting them in front of a crowd of med school interns.

Somehow, the pounding in his head and the sharpness of the light and the hurt on the Woman's face brought him a clarity he wished he'd had the night before. He extricated himself from the sheets, flushing shamefully as he had to untangle himself from Kate (who was, unbelievably, still asleep).

He found his pants crumpled up on the floor, his jumper on top of a lamp, and got dressed as quickly as he could. He managed a mumbled, "I'm sorry," to Adler, who was still standing in the doorway, eyes wide and breathing labored. There was a joke somewhere there about the dominatrix being in pain, but John wasn't bitter enough at her to make it.

He had been bitter, though - he'd liked ranting about the bloody Woman last night, and he'd had more than a few fantasies of her disappearing off the face of the planet for good, this time. Now, all of that was gone, and he felt quite empty.

He fumbled his way through the corridor, which was dim except for a few occasional Zen-looking wall sconces. Sherlock couldn't have gotten far, could he have? John somehow found his way back to the entrance, passing by the white sofa, immaculate but for a small wine stain, with a cringe.

He climbed out of the brick door with some trepidation; he could find his way back, certainly, and he wouldn't fault Sherlock if he had, but surely he'd waited for him outside…?

The doctor let out a small sigh of relief when he saw the detective's silhouette, leaning against the other side of the alley, staring off into the street. John made his way over slowly and cautiously, for a man with a hangover. He stumbled a bit, but thankfully managed to straighten up when Sherlock turned to look at him.

"I- I'm sorry, Sherlock."

And John absolutely hated to apologize; he was a man of action, what were words when you'd done something that needed righting? But what could John say, really? He was a writer, but even he couldn't think of anything that might make Sherlock forgive him. Hell, he didn't know if he was going to forgive himself.

Sherlock exhaled loudly, holding his blue coat around him tighter, as if against the cold. John could certainly feel the chill, but it wasn't because of the weather.

"Of course you are," and Sherlock was using his detached deducting voice, the kind he used in front of Anderson and Donovan. It felt wrong to John, that Sherlock was in battle mode when it was just the two of them. It was wrong that Sherlock felt like he had to defend himself against John, and it left a sickening weight in his throat that hurt when he tried to breathe.

"I can see you've had too much to drink – a good wine, judging from the stain on the sofa, not something that modest mouse of a girl would own herself so the Woman's. Even if it was, it would have been a gift from her - why drink something so connected to her lover with you, a stranger? Because you'd found something in common, something about Irene Adler, and what would you two have recently in common about her besides the Woman and I, your partners, spending time together?"

Sherlock was looking John in the eyes, but his had lost the spark they usually had when rattling off deductions. His eyes were frosted, and glassy, as if Sherlock was hiding himself behind the windows of his Mind Palace and they'd fogged over.

John wanted to say something, but couldn't think of anything that felt like it could even halfway make up for sleeping with someone else.

"Jealousy, then, and neglect - I apologize for not spending enough time with you, John. Sex - when was the last time we had it? Perhaps we should come up with a schedule, yes, that's a good idea - "

"No, stop right there, Sherlock," John interrupted him, bringing one hand to rub at his eyes frustratedly. This was not a conversation he wanted to have hung-over, but it looked like he was going to have to.

"Sherlock, we haven't been spending enough time together; you've been busy with cases, yes, but I've been putting in more hours at the surgery, too. It goes both ways, I could've told you I missed you - "

"Very well then, since you're so eager to take your share of the blame," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Why did you do it, John? Why didn't you tell me we needed more time together, why didn't you tell me you were this upset at me, that all you needed was to get yourself drunk and you'd be falling over yourself into the arms of whatever woman happened to be convenient?"

When Sherlock put it that way, John felt even more horrible than he already did. And trust him, between the copious amounts of alcohol he'd drank last night, eating only one meal the day before, and waking up with more repercussions from drinking than an already sizeable hangover… Well, John felt pretty damn terrible.

"I'm sorry, I… I didn't want to make you think I was insecure," he said in a small voice, feeling more like a schoolboy than a retired soldier. It sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud, but that was how he felt -

Sherlock made a small disbelieving noise, so John went on, struggling to get his words out the way they made sense in his head. "You're always going on about how attachment is a weakness, Sherlock, and I was trying to show you that in this case it wasn't. I thought if we could do it without you being distracted from cases or me from surgery that… That… "

John wasn't quite sure what he had been planning to say next, as he'd actually been making up most of what he was saying on the spot. It didn't matter, though, as the next thing he did was to throw up on Sherlock's shoes, and pass out.