Okay, can i just say... wow! over 1,000 reads?! Thank you guys so much! And I actually have followers...3 of them! so thank you too! Here's chapter eight!

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The next morning when John woke up the entire flat was silent as usual. Slowly he raised himself up from his bed and stretched, letting a yawn escape from his slightly chapped lips. He swung his feet around to the side of the bed and stood up slowly, still a bit groggy from his long slumber. John shuffled over to retrieve his robe from the wardrobe. He slipped the garment on quickly, then opened his bedroom door and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but at the moment John didn't care. He was still a bit upset with him after his comment about his blog. He knew he shouldn't be so unsettled by a single remark, but for some reason he was.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee John went into the living room and sat down in his chair and tried to relax. He had yet to wake up fully, and hoped the caffeine would help. He sighed and rested his chin in his hand while he stared out the window. Every so often he would raise the mug of coffee up to his lips and take a sip. The hot beverage singed his taste buds, but he didn't care. He picked up a newspaper off of a nearby table and began flipping through the pages. Nothing really caught his eye, so he put it back down and went to go wash out his cup. After that he went to his room to find something to wear, then popped into the bathroom for a quick shower. About a half hour later John was back in his armchair, fully dressed, hair still slightly damp, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.

John heard muffled sounds coming from behind him and turned around. Sherlock had emerged from his room, wearing a house coat and loose pants. He yawned and scratched the back of his head. His eyes landed on John and he gave him a warm smile. John just looked away and took a sip of his coffee. Sherlock stood still in the middle of the room for a bit, then slowly began making his way to the sofa.

"Are you alright John?" Sherlock asked after laying down. John didn't respond, but instead took another sip and attempted to be nonchalant. "John." He sighed.

"I'm fine Sherlock." Sherlock got up from the couch and began to walk into the kitchen, throwing John a sideways glance as he walked by. John ignored the strange feeling he got in his stomach and took another sip of his drink. Sherlock disappeared into his room, and John didn't see him again for another few hours. He spent some time browsing the web and watching TV, but soon became incredibly bored. As mad as he was, John still wished Sherlock would come out of his room. Things were never boring when Sherlock was around.

He got up and went to go wash out his cup, then returned to his chair. His eyes were fixed on the television screen, but the only thing his mind was focused on was what was behind Sherlock's bedroom door. He considered going to it and knocking, asking him to come out, but he knew that was absurd. Still, John found himself looking over in that direction more than at the TV. John felt like he was going crazy sitting in that chair, but he had no idea what to do about it. He just hoped desperately that Sherlock would return. Why, he had no idea. He had no intention of even speaking to him if he did come out, so why did it matter if he was in the living room or not?

After what felt like an eternity of hopeful glances and aggravated sighs from John, Sherlock emerged from his room and began searching for something in the kitchen. John tried not to make it so obvious that he was watching him but failed when Sherlock turned around to face him and caught him staring. He didn't say anything, just turned back around. John blinked a few times before turning his head to look at the TV, hoping Sherlock wouldn't say anything. He didn't, and continued on with his search in silence. John wondered what exactly it was he was looking for; It's not like he was eating much these days. The only times he was in the kitchen was to work on an 'experiment', but lately he hadn't been doing much of that either.

"Sherlock," he called over his shoulder, as he refused to look in his direction for fear of being unable to tear his eyes away. "What are you looking for?"

"Nothing, really," was Sherlock's reply. John heard him rooting around a bit more in the kitchen before Sherlock finally came to sit on the sofa. He stretched out his long legs and leaned his head back. John willed himself a single glance, then turned his head again. Not even a minute had passed before he found his eyes back on Sherlock's face. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was set in a firm, straight line. His curls flopped away from his face, and for some reason John found that he couldn't look away.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened and he stared directly at John. Neither of them said a word, or moved a muscle. They just sat there, in a surprise staring contest. John's palms began to sweat, so he rubbed them on his thighs. Yet, he still didn't look away. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, his eyes squinting just a little, still maintaining eye contact with John.

John pursed his lips and his eyebrows scrunched together, creating a crease between them. When he did this Sherlock looked away, out the window.

"Are you angry with me John?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. John, who up until this point had kept his eyes on Sherlock's face, looked down at his lap and shrugged.

"I…I don't know."

Sherlock's head whirled around and he gazed at John with a look of bewilderment on his face.

"You.. you what?" John sighed and thought about the comment he'd made the previous night. He had yet to apologize, but knowing Sherlock that would never happen. Perhaps that was why he was so angry; Because Sherlock didn't even seem to care that he'd obviously hurt his feelings. He felt a frown forming on his face.

"Actually, yes. I am angry with you." The inner parts of Sherlock's eyebrows turned upwards, and the corners of his mouth did the opposite.

"Why?" His voice was barely above a whisper. He seemed to be in thought for a moment, then he sighed and dipped his head down as if he'd remembered. "Oh, the blog thing yesterday."

"Yes, the blog thing." John said in a mocking tone. Sherlock glared at him, but he didn't care. "Seriously though Sherlock, it's not just the blog. It's…it's just…sometimes it's like you don't care about how your words can affect people. Like you don’t care about anyone or anything but yourself. It gets kind of hard to live with."

"What are you saying?" Sherlock, asked, leaning forward slightly, his facial expression becoming sadder with each passing second that John didn't respond.

"I'm not… saying anything," he finally managed. He refused to look over at Sherlock, for fear that his despondent facial expression would break his heart. He stood up. "Just, that it would be a lot easier if you would..consider someone else's feelings once in a while. And by someone else I mean, mine." Sherlock snorted and waved a hand in the air.

"Oh, feelings. What are they good for?" John's jaw dropped slightly. He was completely offended that Sherlock would say something like that after what he'd just told him. It was like he really didn't care. Maybe it was because he really didn't. John hated how he kept forgetting that Sherlock was Sherlock, and to him feelings and emotions didn't exist, or if they did they were a weakness. It did make him quite hard to be around so much. Sherlock had been right when he'd told Mike Stamford he was a difficult man to find a flat mate for.

"John, what are you thinking?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, as if you need me to tell you. Can't you deduce my thoughts or something?" John asked, waving his hands around in the air like a mad man. Sherlock scrunched his nose up and his eyebrows furrowed together.

"Now John, don’t' be absurd."

"I'm not the absurd one here." Sherlock turned his entire body to face John, who was standing beside his armchair, hands unknowingly clenched into fists. Sherlock noticed it though, and a look of confusion flashed in those multicoloured eyes of his.

"What are you talking about John?" John shut his eyes tightly and took in a deep breath.

"You know what. It's not worth it. It's not like you'll listen to anything I have to say."

"Don’t say that-"

"No! You never do, Sherlock." And with that John turned and went upstairs to his room. He changed back into something more comfortable to sleep in, shaking his head when he realized he'd gotten all dressed up and spent the entire day in the flat. Well, most of the day. The sun was still out, which meant it was still early, but it had begun to set, which meant it couldn't be too early. As he turned off the lights and settled into bed, he heard the sound of a violin coming from downstairs. He sighed and rolled his eyes. So the violin playing would start early that night. John tried to ignore the song, but as usual he was unable to tune out the music. He laid in bed for hours, watching the sun set through the window and listening to Sherlock play. This song wasn't unlike the others; It was full of despondency and distress, yet it sounded so beautiful John almost didn't mind it. Almost.