Still The Addict

Morning Has Arrived

Surprisingly the reply is immediate.

Sherlock Holmes? John's flat mate? Xx.

Yes.
SH.

K, why do we need 2 talk? Xx.

John fucked me last week.
SH.

The phone begins to ring, and I curse. I quickly and probably very comically dance out of John's room, begging whatever intelligent designer I'm supposed to believe in that he's still sleeping. I answer the phone, and it's Sarah. I knew it would be Sarah. I have to hold the offending object  away from my ear as I hear her scared, desperate whimpers down the phone. "What d-do you me-mean he slept with you...?" she asks, and I am grateful for my supersonic hearing. 

She can't say fuck. She doesn't want to believe it. "John and I had sex," I explain in a bored tone. I shouldn't have to repeat myself like this, she should have understood by now. "It was a mistake but I thought you should know," Maybe it's my sister's influence, but for some reason I find manipulating this situation to be delightfully amusing.  "I'm sorry. Please don't blame John," I sigh dramatically before hanging up the phone as she begins to cry, putting it on silent and tentatively placing it where I found it before on the bedside table. Can't have it ringing in the middle of the night can I? I slink back downstairs and wait in my room, wide awake for hours, for morning to come.

"Fifty nine missed calls?!"

Morning has arrived.

(John's POV)

I frantically search though the calls. All of them are from Sarah. I can't help but assume the worst. She got in a car accident. She died. SHE'S MARRIED AND HER HUSBAND'S GOING TO MURDER ME! I open my phone and before I can dial her number she calls for a sixtieth time and I answer immediately. "Sarah I-"

"John. Just listen to me...I know what you did..." she sounds awfully calm for someone who just phoned me sixty times. Her words reach me and I almost scream. There's only one thing she could be talking about. 

The phone call lasted an hour. Her weeping, crying. Telling me I betrayed her. That I hid, that I don't care. The thing is I can't even argue with her. She's right. I betrayed her. I threw away a great relationship for a one night stand with Sherlock. Sherlock of all pe-

Sherlock. Fucking Sherlock told her! I check my messages, and he didn't even bother to delete the texts!

I hang up on her and run downstairs, knocking pictures off the walls which fall with a clatter. Some fall on my feet; I'm too enraged to notice. Getting to the sitting room I see Sherlock, well-dressed and calmly sipping a cup of tea. "You absolute bloody tosser!" I insult through gritted teeth, stalking up and ripping his copy of The Telegraph out his smooth hands. He looks at me in confusion, but behind that is a knowingly smug satisfaction.

"What?" He asks with furrowed brows. I grip my hair in my hands, knowing he can't help not understanding what he did wrong, but that doesn't really matter to me wen my rage takes over. When my instincts take over. Before I can even register what happens my first flies and I crack Sherlock in the jaw. He falls backwards onto the floor and looks up at me in shock. He now seems to get why I'm upset. "I thought...you'd be happy with me..." he stammers out. "That we could be...together..."

"Fuck Sherlock," I hiss under my breath. "We will never be together, okay? I told you last week was a mistake. I'm not gay, never will be. I was horny and I made a mistake. I never thought you actually...loved me... I never knew you could love!"

Sherlock, at this, just stands up, glaring t me with such an intensity that for the first time I am afraid of him. "Of course I love, John Watson. You taught me how," Sherlock states, making me stop everything I was thinking and just look at him. "And now you taught me how to hate as well..." My brain is blank, I can't think of a single thing to say. To know he's been keeping such a huge secret...such a burden...I suddenly feel enlightened. Able to make a deduction of my own.

"That's why you cut yourself, isn't it?"  I ask, my voice quiet and husky, afraid to speak louder.

"Rather obvious isn't it?" Sherlock asks bitterly. He begins to walk down the stairs out of our apartment, me following close behind. He stops at the door and begins to put his coat on.

"Where are you going?" I ask, still in shock.

"Out," he says, nothing more. He closes the door behind him as he leaves, and I open it back up to go after him, to stop him from doing what he is probably about to do. But as I reach the door and look around, the street is deserted, I immediately call Mycroft.