Hope I just shattered your feels now.

John kills himself. Harriet receives his suicide note. Sherlock comes back from the dead with one Irene Adler at his side.

Johnlock with a tiny, little bit of Harriene if you wear the pink googles.

This is unBETAed version! Sorry for the mistakes. English is not my first language, if that's any excuse.

Inspiration video: watch?v=f8N5UVQtMnk

Harry was sitting in her flat. It was strangely quiet. The last few days passed so quickly, she didn't even acknowledge it was exactly seven days ago when she buried her brother.

She still couldn't quite believe it – it was her big brother! He was always supposed to be here. He promised when they were children he would always protect her.

She was supposed to be dead now. She with her lifestyle should die young. It was her who was careless and stupid, and didn't have a care in the world. She was addicted to alcohol and a trouble-maker. He was an angel. Her very own guardian angel who never turned his back to her. He forgave her everything she did. And she loved using it against him, making him feel guilty for her life choices. But he was never far away, waiting for her apology, so he could help her some more.

Now her heart was heavy with guilt. She never apologised properly – not the way he deserved. She used to postpone it for later, thinking she will do it one day.

But that day is never to come now. John is dead. And dead don't care what living are doing or saying. They just lay there six feet under the ground in their wooden coffins. They rot until there's nothing left but bones and sometimes pieces of what were clothes once.

Harry didn't cry. Not at the funeral, not after, not now. What good would that do? Johnny is dead and her tears won't change anything, but make her realise just how much she's hurting.

It was a suicide, they said. He shot himself. A year after his best friend's death. Harriet never understood the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and her brother. They were like two sides of one coin. The true soul mates. While Sherlock was a fire – quick and burning, and difficult to tame, Johnny was water – chilly, crystal clear water of the mountain brook, calmly making its way to one's soul through the smallest cracks of your barriers. A pair like them should never be – they were too different, in her mind, but here they were.

It was strange her brother killed himself. And yet it wasn't – he was always too sensitive for his own good. He always loved too much, cared too much. She wasn't the only one who used it against him – it was their parents, his friends, exes… They hurt him and he was suffering, even though he would never admit it loud, because he didn't want bother anyone with his own problems.

Poor, little Johnny. Always surrounded by people and yet always alone.

She once painted a portrait of him – he was standing in her flat in a tux, with beautiful white wings. He stood beside her and she was laying on the ground with a bottle of vodka in one hand and the other reaching out to him. It was her very favourite painting. It was the only one time she admitted to the world who she really was and who her brother was.

She was looking at the painting now. Harry still thought she didn't quite catch his eyes – the sadness and compassion within them - but she knew she will spoil the painting if she tries to improve it.

'Johnny… Why would you do this? There are so many people who miss you, you jerk!' she whispered, her voice trembling. She remembered the faces she saw at the funeral. Molly Hooper and Mrs Hudson crying as if John was a part of their family, not hers. The broken expression on Gregory's Lastrade face, the sad, compassionate looks of some people from the Yard whose she didn't really care to catch. And there were also many "fans" and people he helped both as a doctor and a detective.

As if as an answer to her question someone knocked at her door. It was a post officer. He wordlessly handed her an envelope addressed to her. She knew the handwriting and she knew there was only one person old-fashioned enough to write letters.

She sat on her couch and stared at the delivery for a while. She knew her Johnny was dead, but there was some irrational hope that in this letter he wrote he's alive and it was all a stupid joke.

Harriet carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a small piece of paper and a picture of her and Johnny.

"Dear Harry,

You are probably wondering why did I do this? Why did I kill myself?

An answer to this question is and is not an easy one. I'm just hurting, you know? For many reasons. That I never protected you enough. I may have protected you from our father, but I didn't protect you from alcoholism. I didn't protect you from nasty relationships. I didn't protect you from yourself. I thought if I give you freedom you seemed to desire, I will soon have my little sister back.

It hurts me to know that I didn't do enough to protect Lance when we were in the army. I protected myself (the scar you always asked me about), but he died. I protected myself, but not him. What kind of a doctor am I? What kind of a soldier am I?

And then there's Sherlock. Once again, I failed. I wasn't thinking fast enough to save him. And God! I miss him so much! He was usually annoying and sadistic asshole with an ego bigger than Buckingham Palace, but he was also very clueless about other people's feelings and he was compassionate in his own way. He had his own faults, yes. But he was still the most human human being I know.

I can't live without him any longer. He gave me the purpose. He showed me passion, independence and love. I know I always said "We are not a couple!", but I guess we were. I was just too foolish to admit it.

I remember every waking hour I spent with him. Every adventure, every argument, every quiet evening at 221B.

And I remember when I met him. It was so clear that he was the only one for me. We both knew it, right away. And as the years went on, things got more difficult- we were faced with more challenges. I begged him to stay. Try to remember what we had at the beginning. He was charismatic, magnetic, electric and everybody knew it. When he walked in every woman's head turned, everyone stood up to talk to him. He was like this hybrid, this mix of a man who couldn't contain himself. I always got the sense that he became torn between being a good person and missing out on all of the opportunities that life could offer a man as magnificent as him. And in that way I understood him and I loved him. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him. And I still love him.

I love him."

Harriet barely held her tears now. The handwriting was shaky now and blurred from her brother's tears in some places. She took a deep breath and read on.

"I guess this is a goodbye, Harry. I gave myself a year to think this decision over. I wanted to do it right after Sherlock's death, but I wasn't sure if poor Mrs Hudson's heart would survive the loss of both of us. I know she will be hurting, but the time heals or so they say.

I'm not sure if there is an afterlife, but if there is – I promise I will watch after you as I promised to. If there's not… I can only apologise I didn't keep my promise and ask of you to take care of yourself.

Yours,

Johnny"

'You old fool… I always knew that this stupid, big heart of yours is going to be the death of you…' she laughed through her tears. She still couldn't quite believe that her brother loved someone this much. He died of love. This feeling… It killed him. It was not right. It really, really wasn't.

She visited her brother's grave very often. It was peaceful there and she seemed to always find the answers to all her problems.

Sometimes she found flowers there – two roses. One blue and one red. They always caught her attention in the ocean of different flowers and bouquets.

She wondered who left it there. The roses seemed to appear on certain days. There was some pattern to it and she confirmed it after two years of observation. But she still couldn't catch the culprit.

She was coming in different hours, sometimes few times a day. The person was sneaky – always two steps before her.

'Why would this person wanted to not get caught?' Harry wondered. It didn't seem all that innocent to her. And what were this person's connections to her brother? She had to know. If that was some kind of a stupid joke, she would find the wanker and rip his balls off.

With time she started to lose patience. The roses still appeared every now and then, but she was tired trying to catch the guy. Or the woman. Or whoever the hell it was. They seemed to care very deeply for her brother to patiently visit his grave and leave the flowers. Most people gave up by now. The hero seemed to be forgotten.

It was cold and rainy day. Harry was exhausted and angry. Her boss tried to harass her once again, but she wouldn't let him. She threatened to report on him if he didn't leave her alone. He seemed to take it seriously, because he left without any other word. She finished her job and went to the cemetery.

The allays were empty and some graves seemed to be abandoned. Leaves were laying on the ground. Crows sat in the trees, carefully watching the surroundings. Everything seemed to be reminding of death and decay. Just as every autumn.

She was reaching John's grave when she saw a man standing by it and putting two roses on the tombstone. By his side stood a woman in elegant coat, heels and a hat. The figure of the man seemed disturbingly familiar.

"Oh, God. It can't be." Thought Harriet and hurried through the allay.

'Hey, you! Who the hell are you and what are doing to my brother's grave!' she screamed angrily.

The people turned around, as if startled.

Harriet was right. It was Sherlock Holmes himself!

'You… You FUCKER! YOU KILLED MY BROTHER AND YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO VISIT HIS GRAVE WITH SOME HARLOT!' she roared. 'GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! AND DON'T COME BACK!'

'Miss Watson… This is misunderstanding. We were his friends…' said the woman. Or The Woman, more like. Harry had heard about her from Johnny.

'Are you deaf, stupid or BOTH!' she screamed. She wouldn't let them desecrate her brother's grave. 'I said GET YOUR ARSES OUT OF HERE!'

They wouldn't move. They both seemed to be more than surprised by her outrage.

'He loved you, you fucker. He fucking loved you and you used it against him, just like everyone else. You think you are better than the rest of us, but you aren't! You treated him just like all his friends, exes, family… And it is something, hearing that from me, because I was doing it almost every fucking day! But it was you… You who brought him to his grave. Stealing his heart, breaking it and leaving a hole in his life he couldn't live with. I told him… I was always telling him that his stupid heart will bring him to his grave. And I was right! Oh, God, I was right… Why did I have to be right?...' Harry started blabbing, and tears streamed down her face. Tears of anger, grief and exhaustion. She felt a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.

'Don't. Don't fucking touch me, you dirty slut.' She muttered angrily.

Irene immediately took her hand away. She didn't say a word just like Sherlock.

'Do you think he's a toy? That you could play your little games with him and nothing bad would happen? Or maybe your talent of observation failed you? Maybe you miscalculated his strength?'

'I did what was necessary. If I didn't fake my own death he, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would be dead now.'

' Well… Newsflash to you! JOHN WATSON IS DEAD!' she screamed. The silence fell upon the graveyard.

'But Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are alive, anyway. And John killed himself.' Sherlock answered in a cold tone.

Harriet couldn't stand this. Sherlock Holmes was a person John dedicated himself to. He gave him his heart and soul and this fucker didn't even appreciate it.

She punched him. Holmes fell to the ground and Harry started kicking him with all her might. She was just about to kick his face, but she felt John's presence. He wouldn't want this. Even if Sherlock didn't love him back, he wouldn't seek revenge.

'You are not worth it.' She spat. She didn't precise if she was talking about the beating or John's love. Sherlock thought it might be both.

Harriet walked away. She came back home and instead of thinking about Sherlock-motherfucking-Holmes, she thought about the moment she felt Johnny's presence. Was it her imagination? Or maybe he really was there? She will never know.

She looked at The Painting, as she called it. Every time she looked at it, she felt… protected. Safe. Familiar warmth ran through her.

Harry didn't know when she fell asleep. She woke up late that evening to the banging to her door.

'Coming! Just don't break the door, jeez!' she said as she walked to greet the uninvited guest.

It was Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler.

'What the fuck do you want?' she asked, her voice still rough from sleeping.

'May we come in?' Sherlock asked, now in gentler voice.

'No. Just out with it and leave me the fuck alone.' She barked. The man really had the nerve!

'You have really foul mouth for a lady.' commented Holmes.

'I don't give a shit for your opinion. You have 30 seconds to convince me not to slam the door in your face. Starting now.'

Sherlock took a deep breath.

'Did John leave any letter?'

'He did.' Was her only answer. Purposefully, unhelpful.

'May I see it?'

'No. It was addressed to me. It's a private correspondence.'

'Please, let me see it. I beg you. I must read it!'

She stared at the man's honest to God desperation. Maybe he hides his pain and loss behind cold demeanour?

'My… You made him beg. Even I never achieved it!' said Irene. Harriet thought it was supposed to be a joke, but she didn't find it quite so funny.

'Okay.' Harry said. 'You may see the letter. And then you leave.'

Irene and Sherlock entered the small flat. It was tidy, with little furniture or belongings.

"Just like something John would own." Thought Sherlock idly.

'Here's the letter.' Said a harsh voice behind his back. Holmes carefully took the envelope and pulled out the small piece of paper.

He couldn't quite believe the words that were written there.

In the meantime Harry and Irene observed him intensely. It was really strange to see this man crying like a baby. None of the women tried to comfort him. None of them said anything aloud as he started weeping quietly.

'Did you know…' started Irene slowly 'that he used to talk to John when he was thinking? Even when John wasn't at the flat?'

Harriet shook her head. Johnny never told her that.

'Do you know he still does it?' asked Adler in a serious tone.

Harry felt as if hit by a train. Was it really? Did Sherlock Holmes loved her Johnny back? If so, why would he leave him? Why would he rather be on the run with this whore than her brother?

'He wouldn't care all that much if something happened to me.' Responded Irene. She seemed to be okay with this statement, but Harriet saw that she really wasn't.

'Sherlock was fascinated with me. Once, long ago. He even saved me and helped me fake my own death. But it was then. Now he has me solved. I'm just a tool.'

'Why are you here, then?' asked Harry. She still was quite suspicious towards The Woman. And not without a reason.

'Sherlock was just a pretty boy to me. I may have been infatuated with him, but then I understood he would never let me have him. Not even for one night. He belongs just to one person who happens to be your brother.'

'My brother is dead.' She reminded her harshly. He was dead and it was better if Irene talked about him in past tense.

'He is.' Irene agreed. 'But not to Sherlock Holmes.'

After few minutes of unnerving silence, young Holmes collected himself and stood up.

'Do you still have some of his belongings?' he asked in what supposed to be an emotionless voice, but Harry heard it trembling.

'Yes. They are in my bedroom. You can take a look, if you want.' She said. Harriet saw how shaken this man was and she couldn't refuse him to look at her brother's stuff. She even planned on giving some of it to Sherlock.

They went to her bedroom. Harriet pulled out a big suitcase from under her bed. She didn't have any other place to put it and throwing it out seemed wrong every time she thought of it.

'Very nice painting. You caught John's nature just right.' Praised Sherlock, carefully seeing through the content of the suitcase.

Harriet did not answer to that. She stared simply at him, her own heart grew heavy from simply looking at the man's misery.

'May I take some of his things?' asked Holmes politely after few minutes of… investigation?... Reminiscing?...

'Yeah. Take whatever you want. You might as well take it all. It's not like I have any use of it, right?' she answered. Saying this felt so right. She also hoped that if she dispose of the suitcase, she will be able to fully get over John's death. And Sherlock seemed to need this stuff to move on himself.

Holmes rose to his feet quickly, closed the suitcase and fled the room with a quick, grateful smile.

Harriet shot Irene a surprised look. The other woman just shook her shoulders, not understanding Sherlock herself. Not even after over two years spent with him on the run.

Harriet closed the door behind them. She felt light, as if she was about to fly up to the sky. Light, and yet tired, so she went to the bed again. She fell into a dreamless sleep.

Next few days passed peacefully. Harriet found herself happy and smiling. Yes, she was aware she was just too happy and something bad was about to happen any minute, but she ignored it. They were her first joyful days in a very long time.

Harry was just drinking her tea when someone knocked to her door. She rolled her eyes, but she went to see who dared to disturb her relaxing time.

To her surprise, it was Irene Adler.

The Woman's eyes were glassy, but she wouldn't cry. She was too proud to be seen crying.

Harriet, on the other hand, looked very much shocked. She didn't even had to ask what had happened.

The second funeral of Sherlock Holmes was a very quiet one. Mycroft, Harriet and Irene all agreed that it wouldn't do any good if the media found out anything. They will clear Sherlock's name when the time is right, though.

John's and Sherlock's graves were neighbouring very closely, but Harriet did not comment on that. She didn't say anything really through the whole ceremony. Once again, she observed people crying and mourning.

'Stop this, already.' Said Harriet quietly, but all eyes focused on her. 'They are together now. As they should be. Can't you feel it?'

No one said anything to that. Few minutes later she was left alone by the graves.

'You lied. He was never just a pretty boy to you, was he?' asked Harry. She didn't need to look around to know that The Woman was standing right behind her. 'You loved him.'

'I did. I knew my feelings were one-sided, but I couldn't help it.' Irene responded so quietly, Harriet barely heard her.

'What will you do now?'

Adler thought for a while.

'I don't know. Maybe you have some ideas?' she asked, cheekily.

Harriet just smiled. Two lonely sinners who lost the most important men to them. Some pair they were... Harry still couldn't find herself trusting or even liking The Woman, but she had this strong feeling that Irene will work on that. They both will.

But this is entirely different story.