Sherlock didn't know how to handle what happened. He hadn't calculated the odds of it happening, it hadn't even crossed his mind. He definitely hadn't expected the way it would make him feel.

John had brought a woman home with him.

The night was clear, and Sherlock was having a quiet night in. He had a particularly interesting new book about sleep and different theories on why dreams occur. He also had John's quilt that they left on the couch from the previous night, and a cup of light tea. John was out with some of his college buddies, at a bar from what Sherlock deduced.

After about an hour or two, Sherlock could hear John's keys jangling and bumping and scratching against the doorknob, then muffled laughter and finally he bursts into the living room. Some petite girl in a tight black dress and red high heels was clinging onto him, trying to suppress giggles and failing miserably at it. John's cheeks were slightly pinker than usual, but only Sherlock would've noticed. John was obviously tipsy, as was the dumb little thing in black.

"You mind, mate?" John licked his grin, nodding back towards the girl. Sherlock closed his book cautiously, his eyes scanning John's goofy face for answers. 'What the hell?' he wanted to ask. 'Who is that? Why is she here? What does she want with you? She'll just leave in the morning.' Sherlock's lips were tight with concern. He turned away and grabbed his phone, but John knew that Sherlock had only two contacts. He took it as indifference and jogged down the hall excitedly, pulling the tramp along behind him.

Sherlock glared. He would have to kiss those lips after her. He would have to kiss John after all the disgusting things he does with that little screw up. He would have to make sure that John was clean inside and out after her. Sherlock's chest ached as he heard the bedroom door close, heard more distant giggling, and heard the creak of bedsprings as the two fell onto John's bed. Sherlock listened to the thumpthump, thumpthump of shoes being tossed to the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut when he heard her squeal with delight at whatever John had started doing.

Sherlock searched frantically for the remote, flipping the television on and turning it up as high as he could without seeming so obviously bothered. He tried his best to drown himself in the senseless dance competition, but he could still hear them. He could hear the stressed screams of John's bedsprings, and every now and then, soft feminine cries. Sherlock turned the television up louder. No matter how loud he made it, she would get louder still. Were they trying to bully him? Was that the goal from the start?

She must have come to at least three climaxes before Sherlock heard the most heart-shattering thing -- John's own strangled grunt of pleasure. The crowd on the telly went wild, and Sherlock fell silent, staring in horror at John's bedroom door. He slowly curled up, having grabbed "The Rain" from the side table, holding it against his chest like a teddy bear. He didn't think he was this frail. He never would've thought that something like this could've broken him. He yanked John's blanket over his head and fell asleep, a deep throbbing pain in his chest.

This had to stop.