I loved these reviews from last update. Its great to know that people are reading this and liking it. So keep the reviews coming!
I hope that you like this one. I really like seeing a more vulnerable side of Sherlock, and I love writing John, so I am really hoping that you enjoy it too.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Chapter 16
Sherlock groaned as the light hit his face, hurting his eyes. The alcohol had been a mistake, he thought. If this was the hell Lestrade put himself through every time his wife had cheated, he was in awe that the Detective Inspector still actually had a career.
He decided he would never doubt Lestrade again. Obviously a man who could handle this on a fairly regular basis was strong enough for anything that Sherlock could possibly throw at him.
John smirked at his flatmate who was curled up on the sofa. He closed the blinds and placed a morning after concoction on the table, throwing a spare blanket at the moaning form. He couldn't stop himself from chuckling quietly to himself.
Sherlock had always had an extremely low tolerance for alcohol, and for pain in general. It was something that John had always been amused by about the man. Brilliant, superior, and mysterious, yes, but give him two beers and he turned into a 6 year old with a toothache.
"So... " he said quietly when his flatmate finally turned towards him, an amused look on his face. "How did it go?"
Sherlock moaned again at the sound of his voice, although this time John could feel the frustration mixed in with the pain. "I still don't understand. She isn't engaged anymore, and all night she was laughing and seemed to be enjoying herself. We were drunk, both of us, and her more than I. And I pulled her in, and we danced for what seemed like hours. She was so close, and all I wanted was to feel her lips against mine, to be even closer. But then…"
It was a few moments before he spoke again, and this time it came out in a ragged whisper. "..then she pulled away. And it ripped me apart, it physically caused me pain to feel her leave. She came back with this in her hands," he gestured to the box in front of him, which John took and started looking inside, "and said something about Thomas, and it was all that I could do to take it from her. John, I don't know what to do."
It wasn't a cry for help. Sherlock really didn't need advice now anyway, and he definitely wasn't asking for any. He had seen this happen too many times before, and had even been through it himself a few times, but with Sherlock it was different.
Sherlock was having enough trouble coping with all this newly discovered emotion, and adding new data before he could process it would only make things worse. No, it wasn't a time for words at all.
John put down the box, not making any effort to understand what the random items meant, or why they had been the final touch that had broken Sherlock's heart. It didn't matter now anyway.
John sat next to his best friend and turned on the television, letting the white noise of the news fill the empty space until it drowned out Sherlock's thoughts completely.