It's a Harry Situation

Hello! I am so glad you made it here! This is my attempt at a case out of my own head. There is quite a bit of character development that goes on in this story, so if you skip it, you may get a bit confused, however, it shouldn't interrupt the flow of the cases according to the show much should you choose to wait until I start on The Great Game. Up to you!

The prequel to this story is A Small Change, which covers the A Study In Pink and The Blind Banker, so if you wish to start from the beginning, that's a good place!

In the meantime, please enjoy, and remember reviews are my favourite!

John spent the next two days avoiding Sherlock. Not on purpose, he told himself; Sherlock had disappeared to her bedroom before John got home from his talk with Mycroft, with a note on the coffee table instructing John to not touch any of the petri dishes in her kitchen and not to wake her on pain of death. Frankly, he could believe that wasn't just an idle threat.

John was fine with that, considering - well. What did he have to say? Because, frankly, he didn't have a fucking clue.

Besides, life was catching up with him. Sherlock's disappearance was well timed, because the clinic needed him for both days, and he had sixteen voicemails from his sister on his phone.

The third day, she called and he answered before checking the name. "Hello?" Oops.

"John! Hiiii. Look, I'm round Barts today and I was wondering if you'd meet me?"

"What makes you think I'm near Barts?" John hedged, wishing desperately he was busy, and that he could lie effectively to Harry. Harry had grown up with him, though, and he knew she'd never fall for it. He'd lied one too many times about stealing her candy as a kid. She knew all his tells.

"Of course you're near Barts, it's the only place you know people!" Harry giggled on the other side of the phone. "So are you meeting me or not?"

John sighed. "You know the little cafe I used to go to during finals?" He fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, trying to ignore his hand's tremour.

"The one with the funny name and the good cinnamon buns?"

"Speedy's isn't a funny name, it's just the name of the owner. And yeah, that one."

"Who names their kid Speedy? Totally weird. Kay I'll meet you there! Fifteen minutes?"

John looked at the clock. "Yeah, that'll work."

"BRILLIANT! I will see you soon, Johnny boy."

Hanging up, John looked round for his jacket, internally bracing himself. Harriet went up and down - ever since Mum had died, John never knew if she was going to show up drunk or show up, well, just fine. And that was the most annoying bit about it, probably; that she could throw off the addiction when she wanted to, and be nearly completely normal (as normal as Harry could get, which was still pretty weird, if you asked John). But she wouldn't. It was like thinking of Sherlock on drugs. Why did people insist on ruining their perfectly good brains for no reason?

John rolled his eyes at no one, caught himself, and wondered if this is what Sherlock felt like when she had to deal with Anderson.

The walk to Speedy's was brisk, but nice. It wasn't windy, but everyone John passed had red noses, and the air was crisp. The clouds that always seemed to cover London were keeping to their regular schedule. John let himself enjoy it, understanding that his peace was about to be interrupted and that he couldn't possibly expect Sherlock to behave for much longer either.

Also, it was lovely to walk, just walk, with both legs working properly. John hadn't been on a walk in ages, hating the way his cane made him look like an invalid.

So when he reached Speedy's he was in a good mood. Which Harry enthusiastically mirrored the moment she saw him.

"Johnny!" A figure at one of Speedy's outdoor tables got up and practically launched itself across the sidewalk, stumbling just before it rammed into him. When it stopped, it was easily identified as a brash, red-haired woman, who grinned at him easily. "Hi."

"Ah, right. Hi," John said, grinning back despite himself. He and Harry didn't get along - he knew that within the half-hour they would be angry at each other - but they loved each other, and every so often he remembered it.

"I," Harry announced, "brought you a present." She bounced on her toes and brought her hands out from behind her back, holding a small package.

Groaning internally, John let her press a gift into his hands. "Present" was Harry's code word for "Please take this, it is an emotional time bomb, but if you get rid of it I will murder you." Which explained half the stuff he'd left in storage when he'd joined the army. At least if he got rid of it now, he knew someone would figure out who killed him.

"Thanks," he murmured, then sneezed. "Sorry."

"It's too cold out here, I've been waiting for you, open that inside," Harry ordered, and John remembered one of the reasons why they didn't get along as kids - she was bossy. Still, it was cold, and John let himself be bundled into the warm cafe while Harry ordered him a coffee with everything he hated in it, because that was how she thought he'd liked it as a child. He sat and set the present on the counter, waiting for her to bring it over.

"So, how have you been?" she asked as she sat down across from him and handed him the coffee.

"Good," John replied, suprised by the truth of it. "I've been... good."

"What have you been doing? Not calling your sister, obviously."

"I, ah, well, I got a job," John offered, taking a sip of the coffee as he tried to rearrange his brain, deciding what he wanted to tell Harry and what he didn't. He tried to keep himself from making a face at the taste - she'd put creamer in it instead of milk, the horrible syrupy stuff that was meant to taste like hazelnuts. John gulped to get it off his toungue, hoping his tastebuds weren't too traumatized.

"Where is it?"

"Tiny clinic down the road," John replied, waving in the general direction. He didn't want Harry getting it into her head to 'surprise' her at work. She'd done that before, and his boss had never forgiven him.

"Good! That's good. Isn't it?" Harry replied, and John smiled, setting down his cup and turning it on the counter with a finger. Harry was trying so hard to be supportive; he wondered if it was physically exhausting. Still, he appreciated the effort.

"Yeah, I guess it is," he replied. "Nice boss and everything."

"Oh! Speaking of which, you have to open your present," Harry said. John couldn't understand the logic, but she pushed the present across to him and he took it anyway.

The gift was simply wrapped, and it only took him a moment before he was staring at a small window box, the type used for displays.

"It's for your dog tags. And your bullet, if they gave it to you. I didn't know if the whole bit about them giving it to you on a chain was real or not, but I got two hooks put in it anyway, just in case, and if they didn't give it to you, you can use it for the bullet, was what I thought, anyway -" Harry broke off, twisting her napkin and blushing.

John was honestly stunned. Harry never gave him gifts; not ones originally meant for him, anyway. He turned the box in his hands. "They didn't give me the bullet," he blurted without thinking.

"Oh," Harry said, her eyes falling to where the napkin was starting to come apart.

"But," John said, realizing he'd said the wrong thing, "I can put the dog tags in it. It can go on my wall."

Heaven knew his wall needed something on it; it was completely bare.

"Really?" Harry looked up, and he felt the tips of his ears warm. "I knew you'd like it," she proclaimed, confidence restored, and took a sip of her coffee.

"Really," John confirmed, and set the box down carefully, turning his cup with two fingers again. "How are you?" he finally said after a moment, and Harry grinned at him, flashing a peace sign.

"I, my dear brother, am brilliant, and am now the head of my department, thanks much for asking!"

Ah. A promotion. The new reason for sobriety. John leaned back, wondering how long it would take for Harry to get bored and start drinking again.

"...And my boss is brilliant, she's the one who noticed the window box. It was in Mr. Browning's bedroom, and his dad's ex-military, you know, so it had a flag in it, and she said, 'Your brother just got back, didn't he?' and I said, 'Yeah,' and she said, 'What about something like that?' and I thought it was brilliant, but yours wouldn't be a flag, of course, Johnny, 'cause you're not dead, and so I got this one, and -"

John let Harry ramble on, knowing how things stood very quickly. A crush on the boss, and thus, buying the suggested present. Silly, of course, for him to think Harry would buy something simply for him. Maybe he could keep the box in his closet and pull it out if she came over.

"...And I've taken up swimming! Samantha got me into it, and I've got half-off at her pool. I go Wednesdays and Fridays, which works perfectly for me, and - oh." Harry stopped and blushed. "Sorry. This was supposed to be brother-sister time, right? What are you doing? You can't spend all your time at work."

"Um," John evaded, "I drink tea?"

Harry blinked at him. "John, you've got to get yourself a hobby. Or a boyfriend. Or possibly both, if you can handle it."

John shook his head. "I can't handle it, then," he said, remembering how well that had worked out. Hell, he'd lost his boyfriend two days ago. To his hobby. Or flatmate. And it hadn't really been his boyfriend.

He turned his cup. Bloody hell, his life was complicated.

"Have you got any friends?" Harry demanded, and John looked at her.

"Ah - there's Simon, that's my boss - and Mrs. Hudson - that's my landlady - sort of - ah. And there's my neighbor. Flatmate, sort of." John looked down again, tracing a crack in the table.

"John." Harry's voice was firm. "You know three people. That does not count as a healthy social life." She gave him that dangerous look, the one she'd given him before trying to squeeze him into skinny jeans and drag him to a gay club.

"Right, well," John gestured at himself. "I'm a washed-up ex-soldier with a shot shoulder. I'm hardly society's type." Hopefully that would put her off.

Rolling her eyes, Harry gave him a firm look. "What about your old mates? Mike Stamford still works at Bart's, you know. Saw him when Katie had to go in because she'd dropped a toaster oven on her toe."

John didn't really want to know the whole story, and didn't ask. "Mike was nice," he nodded, "But we don't really run in the same circles much."

"Well, call him!" Harry insisted. "You don't get to know people by sitting at home with your tea."

John smiled in a vague way and took another sip of his coffee before he remembered it was horrid. Mike had been nice - a round-faced, genial sort of friend who was always ready for whatever you wanted to do.

Exactly what he didn't want right now.

He blinked. When had he gotten so used to Sherlock dragging him round on cases that he didn't want to do anything else? He'd only had two cases so far, it wasn't like she'd said this was going to be a constant thing. He was in trouble if he was beginning to count on it as 'normal'.

Which was too bad, because he liked that sort of 'normal'. It was a good sort of normal. Not for anyone else, of course, but for them.

"Right. Well, that settles it. Next time I see you, you have to have a hobby or a boyfriend. Or I'm going to take you swimming."

John shuddered inwardly, gripping his coffee cup. He was not going swimming. Especially not with his little sister.

When he got home, John took off his coat and turned on the kettle, then stopped once he realized what he was doing and turned around to lean back on the counter, his head dropping back to thunk against one of the cabinets.

Tea really was his hobby, wasn't it?

He turned back around and made the tea, deliberately, telling himself he deserved it to get the aftertaste of the still-awful coffee out of his mouth.

And then, once he'd drunk it, he realized he had nothing to do.

He swore inwardly, setting his mug in the sink with a bit of extra force. He'd been fine until Harry had to mention it. Well, he'd been fine until Sherlock had decided to disappear. He wondered if this happened often, and remembered her comments when she'd unlocked his side of the flat. How long had she slept that time? Three days? Shit.

Well, today was the third day. He looked at the clock. Half four. He looked at the tea he'd just drunk. Non-caffeinated.

Early bedtimes were fine, right? Or naps? Naps were good. He'd take a nap. Naps were a totally sensible way to pass the time. He'd just make naps a hobby. Right. Yes. Good.

Ugh. Smells like beer going off. Or moldy bread. Or- John blinked himself awake, the smell growing stronger as he grew more coherent. He rubbed his eyes and started to yawn, only to begin coughing halfway through.

And then he noticed the door that connected his bedroom to Sherlock's kitchen was open. Why...?

He got up, trying to breathe as little as possible, and stomped into the sitting room, not caring if his hair was still awry. Sherlock was sitting on his sofa, painting her toenails. She looked up at him, unperturbed.

"Morning, sleepyhead. Don't go into my kitchen, I'm trying to ventilate my experiment."

John blinked at her, once, twice, trying to decide if he wanted to kick her out or hug her for finally waking up. He settled for going in to start the kettle for a cuppa. Back to normal, then.