"Well, this is awkward." Sherlock smiled tightly across the table at Harry.
"No!" John said quickly before the word could resonate against the growing silence. "Not awkward', Sherlock. You've done it again. Got your words mixed." He pasted on an earnest expression and hoped his sister would believe him rather than Sherlock, even though Sherlock was the one who said flat out what they were all thinking. "He meant, 'nice'. You wouldn't believe how often that happens, Harry. I suppose it comes from thinking about too many things at once, but Sherlock is always getting his words confused."
John felt, rather than saw, Sherlock's piercing glare rake over him before his partner grudgingly conceded. "Yes, of course, I meant nice," he agreed, sounding almost prim. "It's very nice that you agreed to come out with us tonight, Harry. I must say, you're looking well. Sobriety seems to agree with you. Judging by the fit of your clothes, you've lost ten, no, eleven pounds."
"Would anyone like another lemonade?" John shot to his feet and snatched up his still half-full glass. "I would. Sherlock, it's your shout, but I'll go with you. You remember what happened the last time you went to the bar on your own." He smiled again. Harry looked at him like he'd lost his mind and Sherlock seemed equally confused as John blurted, "Solved an insurance swindle just by looking at the beer mats. Bolted out of the place, and left me and Mike Stamford completely dry." He tugged Sherlock to his feet. "We'll be right back."
John hustled Sherlock past the snug's bar and into the alcove that in former days had held a cigarette machine and pay telephone. The phone remained, but there was a handwritten 'out of order' sign taped across the number pad. "Look," John said in an urgent whisper. "I know you like putting people, especially ones you don't know well, off balance, but she's my sister. The sister who isn't exactly thrilled that I've taken up with you again. Can you please make an effort to be nice?"
"I thought I was being nice." Sherlock seemed visibly put off by John's rebuke. "I complimented her appearance."
John pushed his hand over his face as he tried to mentally regroup and explain the situation in terms Sherlock would understand. "Yes, but it's the way you went about it. We're in a pub and you made her self conscious."
That only seemed to perplex Sherlock even more. "It was her idea to meet here, not ours."
Which John had to admit was a fair point, but he knew that Harry was testing her limits by putting herself in the face of temptation. So far she'd done well, resolutely sticking to lemonade and insisting that they not make any special allowances on her account. It had been John's idea that they make it soft drinks all around, much to Sherlock's apparent irritation. He'd taken one sip of his drink, given it a death glare, and left it to bubble disconsolately on the table whilst John and Harry spoke in stilted sentences at one another about her work and his adventures moving house, until interest on both sides had died out and they'd resorted to discussing the weather.
"She doesn't like me."
John huffed out a frustrated breath. Once again, Sherlock was right. Harry didn't like him. It was bad enough before when she'd make scathing comments about the blog entries detailing Sherlock's cases, but now that they had rekindled their relationship and were sharing a flat again, Harry's disapproval had flared to new heights. "It's because she doesn't know you the way I do."
Innocence practically radiated off him as Sherlock suggested, quite sincerely, "Carnally?"
"Sherlock!" The blood rushed to his face so quickly that John's cheeks actually burned. "That's not what I meant and you know it. You can be charming. I know you can. I've seen you lay it on when it suits your purpose. So just this once, for me, charm my sister. Please?"
A stubborn expression started to settle over Sherlock's features that didn't bode well for a speedy meeting of minds. "Why? Tell me, John, why I should be nice to someone who doesn't like me. Why is her approval so important to you? It's your life. How you live it and with whom you share it is your concern."
John reached out and touched Sherlock's hand. He looked up, met his eyes, and saw honest confusion in their depths. "Because she's family. My family. She worries about me and I'd like to give her one less excuse to drink. Is that so wrong?" Sherlock nodded grudgingly, and John felt the first small sliver of hope that the evening wouldn't end in tears. "Besides, if I can make the effort to mend fences with Mycroft, I think it's only fair that you do this for me."
Sherlock seemed startled. "Have you, John? Have you mended fences with my brother?"
John dropped his eyes to the worn and tired carpet. The pub was iconic, dating back to the heady bustle of the Victorian era and had seen London through its best and worst days, but it was long overdue for a refurbishing. "Not completely, no. But I'm working on it. If you trusted him enough to help you … "
It was Sherlock's turn to reach out and offer a small, conciliatory brush of their fingers. "John, I've explained – "
"I know," John interjected before Sherlock could apologise again. He didn't want to rehash the past. What was done was done, and nothing could change it. But it would always hurt a little that the Holmes brothers had colluded to keep Sherlock's plans a secret and let him suffer so publicly. "Which is why I'm making the effort. But it's hard, all right? He lied, repeatedly, to my face."
Sherlock nodded, a short, curt bob of his head, acknowledging that he understood a string of little lies could be more hurtful than one large one. "He's good at that. John – " There was a heaviness to the way Sherlock said his name that suggested he wasn't entirely comfortable with what he was about to say. "Thank you. He might not be entirely trustworthy, but he is my brother."
"And Harry is my sister, Sherlock, which is what this is all about," John said, grateful to be off the topic of Sherlock's protracted disappearance. "We're family. And with family you have to take the hand you're dealt. I know Harry's not the easiest person to get on with. We've had our ups and downs since we were kids. But she's always been there for me, just like Mycroft was there for you. And you and me – " It was John's turn to hesitate. His relationship with Sherlock was a complex thing. He doubted they'd ever do anything as conventional as signing the register, but that Sherlock was the most significant person in his life was something he no longer doubted. "– we're as good as. Is it too much to ask that we all get along?" He looked up at Sherlock again with the most earnest expression he could muster, hoping that honey would be more effective than vinegar in swaying his partner's mind.
Sherlock's expression softened. A small smile curled at the corners of his mouth as he regarded John. "All right! You win. I'll play nice. Though I may feel a need to exact some small reward at the end of the evening."
John breathed a sigh of relief. Their not-quite argument had ended and he had emerged the victor. "We can negotiate that later. Right now, we should get back. Harry's going to think we've done a runner."
"John," Sherlock said rather hesitantly. "I've never had a sister. What's it like?"
That Sherlock was asking for his opinion was a good sign. It meant he was willing, at least for the short term, to be open-minded. John considered his tack as he thought about his complicated relationship with Harry and opted to keep it simple. "Well, for starters, you should never bring up her weight. At least not unless she mentions it first. She's self conscious about it."
Sherlock nodded, "Like Mycroft."
John nodded back as he put his hand against Sherlock's arm and nudged him towards the bar. "Exactly like Mycroft. I suppose it's not much different from having a brother. Except sisters talk more about hair and frocks."
They made their way to the front of the bar queue. Sherlock ordered three lemonades, two of them with double vodka. "Did I ever tell you about the time I found Mycroft wearing our mother's best evening gown? It was for some sort of fancy dress party."
John cringed as he visualised Mycroft Holmes in feathers and sequins and took a hefty swig of the drink Sherlock handed to him. "I'll keep that image in mind the next time he threatens to drop the weight of the British government on our heads."
They both chuckled and the remaining tension between them evaporated in their shared mirth. Then Sherlock got a look that John had learned to dread. His discomfort grew exponentially as his partner handed Harry her drink and he settled comfortably across the table from her.
"I was just relating an amusing anecdote to John about my brother Mycroft," Sherlock began, "– and it occurred to me, that I've been remiss."
"Oh?" Harry replied guardedly as Sherlock settled comfortably into the booth.
"John has some rather peculiar idiosyncrasies and it occurred to me that someone who knew him as a child might be able to shed light on how he acquired them."
Harry sipped her lemonade. Her eyes darted towards John and back to Sherlock. "For example?"
"Has John always been fussy about cutting the crusts off his soldiers, and aligning them just so around his egg cup? I thought that a strange sort of habit for one who can slap leftover Chinese on bread and call it a sandwich."
John sunk into the worn velvet cushions as Sherlock leaned across the table and smiled conspiratorially at Harry, and she, to his abject horror, smiled back.
end