Well, at your insistence and such here is the next chapter which I hope you quite like... though it's quite angsty (I just can't get away from the stuff!) so you'll have to bear with me because the next few will be quite... something to behold (and read obviously).
Now, I will shut-up and let you people read to your heart's content, though if I may say this; REVIEW!
The lack of reviews is getting me down people... seriously.
Anywho, now that's sorted. Enjoy
Kasey
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CHAPTER TWO
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DROWNING IN MY SORROW, BURNING IN YOUR EYES
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"There's one sad truth in life I've found
While journeying east and west -
The only folks we really wound
Are those we love the best.
We flatter those we scarcely know,
We please the fleeting guest,
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best."
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The simple fact that Sherlock and John were now actually a couple, as most people had commonly assumed upon first meeting them, didn't really change any of the dynamics between them; sure Sherlock was a bit politer and considerate of John and his opinions but he still insulted him and ordered him about like he before, and John for the most part didn't just stand there in silence whenever they were at a crime scene he would get inbetween Sherlock and everyone else, tempering the man with tantalising promises and promiscuous gazes along his long, lean figure. Essentially, together they were exactly the same, if a little more relaxed, and Anderson and Donovan, whose relationship had crashed and burned spectacularly after they pushed Sherlock too far, constantly prodded and poked at them trying desperately to gain a response because their insignificant lives were so very pathetic and mundane.
And, like any other couple, they had arguments. Oh heavens did they have arguments! Most normal couples would probably shout and scream at one another for a period of time before making themselves scarce but they always seemed to argue about inconsequential things; 'Who left the back door open!' 'Why is the cat in the shower?' 'Are you cheating on me!' and so on. John and Sherlock however did not constitute as being a normal couple and so their arguments were anything but simple; mainly because Sherlock always seemed to win.
But for once Sherlock didn't feel like he'd won, for once Sherlock felt like he'd lost, an epic fail, as John glared at him and said quietly, venomously, "Well, since I'm not important in your little world I'll just be going," before turning on his heel and striding from the sitting room, down the stairs all seventeen steps, and out of the front door, slamming it for good measure. He wanted to go after him, he wanted to run along the streets looking until he found him, he wanted to hold him in his arms and shake his head and say that he was sorry, so sorry, and he wanted to hug him and show him that he didn't mean it, that he was just being a stupid arse because he couldn't figure it out, he couldn't solve it and that it wasn't John's fault. But he didn't do any of that.
He rose from his armchair and moved over to John's ratty-chair where he stood and stared at it in silence for such a long time before slipping into it and curling his legs up beneath, laying his head on his folded arms and whispering quietly, brokenly, "I'm sorry..."
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John stomped out into the rain that was lashing down, not really caring about it or the fact that in only his jacket he was likely to end up getting a cold, he didn't care about anything because he was so angry and so hurt. He shouldn't be though, and he knew that, he knew that this was the way Sherlock was and there was no reason for him to react like because he'd never done this before... before they'd... you know.
Looking up into the streetlight that hadn't been smashed up by youths, yet, he blinked rapidly as the little droplets of cold indifference rained down on him, reflecting the orange of the streetlight that blinded him, and tried to clear his mind and heart of the anger he could feel coursing through his veins as surely as his blood did. He'd always quite liked the rain, the way in which it could drain you and drown you in something other than yourself, the way it could wash away everything upon which you dwell, the way it muffled the world and drowned the noise of life whilst it poured down from high up above the pointless existence of man. But it wasn't doing anything other than soaking him tonight and he cursed Sherlock for that fact as well.
Deciding that he needed a drink, and this was proof of how far Sherlock had finally pushed him because he hated drinking, he made his way through the streets of London towards the nearest pub where he non-too-graciously ordered a screwdriver aka Vodka on ice with an orange slice. He kept on ordering them, throwing money at the barman who just shook his head and kept the drinks coming.
After the first three he began to feel more relaxed and he had always cursed the fact that he could hold his liqueur better than his sister, or his father, because it had always meant him paying more and having to drink more so he could approach the 'completely-wasted' stage, but he didn't care about how much he could handle because all he wanted to do was run away from reality and drown in oblivion because he was pretty sure Sherlock wasn't there so he'd be safe.
It had only been nine-thirty when he'd stomped through the doors of the pub and when midnight came around and the pub was baron save for him he stumbled out of the door and into the cold London night. He should probably go home, back to Baker Street, back to Sherlock, but he didn't want to so he began walking; and kept walking further and further away from home and closer to the Thames and Westminster Bridge. He liked London at night, it wasn't as hectic or desperate as it was in the day but it still wasn't entirely dead and silent like towns and villages where the occupants all go to bed at ten o'clock and wake at six. London was alive with activity, tired and drawn out in the evenings, energetic and passionate in the dark, calm and collected in the day, it was like it lived a life in the same way everyone else did. This city lived because of the people who existed in its buildings, walked its pathways and drove its roads, and John was just another story that kept London's heart beating.
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To Be Continued...
I was going to make this chapter longer but I felt like being evil :P