AN: Well, remember me? Ha.. well... Sorry about the long wait! I should be doing Art exam preparation, but this needed to be updated! So... here's the first part! It's short, I know, but I'll hopefully post the rest during the week..

Baker Street.
221b.
9:30am

Perhaps, John shouldn't have drunk as much as last night. His head hurt, and he felt sick. His back ached too, which was never a good sign, since he had passed out on the sofa. Life wasn't in his favour at all, it seemed. He sat up, pushing the empty bottles away from him. God, I haven't had a hangover since I was twenty. He thought, sighing, as he took in the mess he had left during his drunken rage. Poor Mrs Hudson, she'd have a heart-attack if she saw the state of it.
Making a half-hearted attempt to clear a space, John tried to reconcile the memories of the night before.

He was angry, so angry. It was his fault, it had to be, why hadn't he seen it before? Maybe if he realised it from the moment that person began commenting, then Sherlock would be here beside him, laughing, joking, and calling him - John Watson - an 'idiot'. Because that's what he was – an idiot. If he was here now, then John Watson 'the idiot' wouldn't be drinking himself to death with alcohol, crying, mourning over what he missed so much.
He had texted Mycroft jumbled messages, explaining his misery, telling him embarrassing things that he knew he'd regret once he was sober, yet he didn't care. He just wanted Sherlock back. His flatmate… Friend… Life wasn't fair. But never once did the older Holmes brother reply. 'To busy laughing, watching me, the bastard', John had thought bitterly, 'since when did he care about me?'

He had picked up bottle after bottle of beer, drinking it, savouring the moments of drunken pleasure to ease off the memories of the letter, the blog comments. Everything…

Not that it worked; it just brought them back, clearer, the images of Sherlock in pain flashed through his mind. And he hated himself, hated himself because of his ignorance. His ignorance lost Sherlock his sanity, his freedom. And it was. All. His. Fault. He threw the bottles against the wall, in rage, remembering how he believed the stories were faked; ignoring them, not putting the facts together. He was so angry, drunk, and crying. He wanted his friend back… He wanted…

"John! There's a delivery for you!" Mrs Hudson called from the doorway, breaking him from his memories. Delivery? I can't remember ordering anything… John slowly turned to face her, confusion beginning to weave across his face.

"What on earth have you done, John? The flats a mess! What happened to its clean state? Is Sherlock back?"

"N-no… Mrs Hudson, he isn't. The flat, I –er…"

"Oh, well, never mind dear. Here's your parcel, it's quite light, mind, and do tell me when Sherlock gets back, will you?" She handed the parcel to John, "Oh, and clean this up. I am not your housekeeper!" And with that, she left.

Examining it, he frowned, trying to remember why he had received a parcel. He turned it over to face the address, and the same chaotic handwriting, similar to the letter from the other day, captured his attention. Then he remembered. The Delivery. The one the 'unknownuser' had told him to check tomorrow. And that was today. The parcel was small, square, so what could be inside? What? Opening it carefully, John felt his stomach begin to unsettle. He removed the excess wrapping, and stopped, horror taking hold of him. It was a CD case, with bold lettering stating; "John, here's a present for you, I'm sure you'll enjoy watching Sherlock's little treat… We know how much you… adore him. Sherlock sends his love, Moran."

Gingerly, he opened the case, and placed the CD into his laptop, hands shaking in fear.

Oh, god, oh please, don't be what I think it is… Please…

And pressed play.

Is that ok? Hope it makes up a bit for the wait...

My plan is to update within 1-2 weeks... And after I go see Frankenstein, I'm sure I will have ideas rolling in more!