Johnny sat on the couch, more sober than he had been in months. He didn't know why. The Rocknrolla looked around the dingy apartment he shared with Pete. The other junkie was no where to be seen. Johnny stood, sweatpants hanging from his slim hips, and loped over to the window. Despite being in a rather bad neighborhood, okay it was a shit-hole, the singer had a rather good view of the city. His city.

He had a clear, if somewhat muggy, view of River Thames and the industrial district on the other side. It was beautiful, really, especially since none of it was controlled by one Lenny Cole. Johnny spat out the broken window as the thought of his step-father crossed his mind. He heard the door open and close, but didn't bother to turn around.

"What's up, Johnny?" a smooth voice asked.

"Nothn', love," he mumbled, turning from the view to his lover.

"You sure?" she asked.

"No," he answered truthfully.

"Tell me what's wrong, sweet. You're not high. You're not drunk. As much as I love it when you're sober, Johnny, it's not a normal occurrence."

The brunette shed her jacket and took a few steps toward him, avoiding old news papers, dirty clothes, and used needles in the floor.

"You like it when I'm sober?" Johnny asked quietly.

"As much of a dickhead you are; yes, I like it when you're sober."

She wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Why?"

"You're not you, when you're high. You're not the Johnny Quid I grew up knowing. You're somebody different and sometimes you're just down right unpleasant."

"You've never told me that before, love."

"Would you have listened?"

He was silent for a long time before he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. Her warm breath on his chest made Johnny realize how cold he actually was.

"So what's wrong?" she asked again.

"Nothin', love. Just feel like bein' me right now."

She smiled and kissed his collarbone.