A/N: Just another one-shot. It's true that writing is theraputic, Jam is therapy on steroids for me!
Tomorrow's a new day. Who knows, it might go away over night. When I wake up she'll still be next to me and I won't be feeling the way I am right now. Maybe I won't be gripping my glass with the protectiveness of a mothering tiger; maybe my mind won't be circling the crevices of my past and maybe, just maybe, I won't wake up alone.
I was used to it before. Too used to it. Those first few weeks were awkward; I couldn't sleep with her shallow breathing beside me. I actually went out and bought earplugs from an all-night chemist while she was in the shower once and slipped them in after she'd fallen asleep. Course, I slept like a baby and I hadn't anticipated her reaction the next morning when the only way she could rouse me was to… Well, I hadn't anticipated that. The next night I put in the earplugs again, just to be mischievous. She liked that. She always liked that.
But you do get used to having someone next to you at night. So much so that one night on your own seems like an eternity. She went away on a course about a month after we started getting serious and I swear I spent the whole night in the living room drinking endless cups of tea and doing a crossword puzzle. I never do crossword puzzles; not my thing. There was no way I could distract myself like that tonight though. Seeing straight's advantageous, so I've been told.
Better to just wallow and keep studying the pattern of the glass base every time it came into view, which was quite frequently.
My head was spinning. I was used to my alcohol, but this was different. I'd been determinedly drinking since I'd left the station at five-thirty. I checked my watch- it was almost ten and the only times I'd moved from the sofa were toilet excursions and the need to replenish my alcohol supply. The curtains were still open, even though it was pitch black outside and there were letting out the little heat the house contained. It didn't bother me so much. I'd live in the cold if she'd let me. Well, I suppose at least that was possible now. I could freeze to death if I really wanted to.
What is it about jealousy that plays tricks on your mind? I knew I was wrong the second it came out of my mouth but… Well, I suppose that's what you get for going out with straight women. It's why I'd never done it before. I meant to trust her, I honestly did, but it looked so damn incriminating! You shouldn't have your arm wrapped around a suspect, however innocuous you're trying to appear.
I blew the obbo. The bloke got away and I got a severe reprimand from the DCI. What was worse though was walking back into the office and having annoyed glances thrown at me from the likes of Grace and Manson. I saw her behind the blinds in her office and I knew it right there and then, from the way she briefly glanced up with disdain- I'd gone and blown it.
Another drink. I stood unsteadily then toppled back onto the sofa. I apparently wasn't going anywhere. I listened to the sound of my own uneven breaths for a while before I closed my eyes. Then my head was filled with vivid dreams of me beating up a certain 'helpful' witness with a stick of celery. No one ever said dreams were sane, but whacking him with that thing was quite therapeutic.
What was far from therapeutic, however, was waking up to a loud banging sound. At first I thought my brain was knocking, asking to be let out of my intoxicated head, but as I shook it I realised it was in too much pain to do anything quite that taxing. I grew accustomed to the bleariness my eyes insisted on incorporating into my sight then stood to answer the door.
The blonde, stood with her arms crossed on my front step knocked me for six. 'Sam?'
She pushed past me. 'How drunk are you?'
I blinked, closed the door, followed her swaying figure into the living room and shrugged. 'Not very.'
'Nice collection of bottles you've got then,' she answered. 'Month's supply.'
'Don't lecture me,' I warned, surprising myself with my tone. When she was in my front room I should surely be grovelling, not being defensive. But, I realised with a degree of shock, I was actually really annoyed at her for not defending me earlier, not even talking to me in the station, and for getting herself into that situation with the witness in the first place.
Perhaps she was thinking along the same lines. She sat down on the sofa and waited for me to do the same. I did, but I wouldn't sit close to her. I wasn't ready to forgive and she could cloud my brain quicker than all this alcohol I'd polished off in five hours. The combination of the two would be lethal.
'I thought you might have waited for me tonight,' she said finally.
I shrugged again. 'Well, I didn't get the feeling I'd be exactly welcome, Sam.'
'So you came home to drink yourself into some sort of black hole, is that it?'
'Yes! And I was quite happy there before you turned up,' I lied, my fingers itching for a glass. My eyes drifted over to her legs and meandered up her body, eventually resting on her face. The image had the same effect a drink would. 'I'm sorry,' I found myself blurting out. 'I overreacted. I just…' I trailed off and shook my head. 'I couldn't help it.'
'Jo, you're gonna have to in future. The DCI was all for you transferring to uniform for a while. I had to talk him out of it.'
I again met her eye. 'You did that?'
'Yes. This afternoon.'
I grimaced and closed my eyes. 'Right.'
'Oi,' Sam said, bringing me back to reality and my reddening cheeks. 'Help me get rid of these bottles.'
I stood, all too readily. Clapping my hand against my mouth, I had to bolt up the stairs and stumble into the bathroom. 'Yeah, won't be a minute!'