ahaha, I wanted to write something so here. it's a bit crappy but yeah whatever. enjoy :)
John Watson could remember the death of his parents distinctly.
He was seventeen, young and innocent enough. He worked hard and had the potential to do great things. He surrounded himself with a small group of friends, got along with teachers and, most important of all, his parents. The only person he despised was his older sister, a useless alcoholic who hadn't even tried to turn herself into a university. Sometimes John looked at Harriet Watson and wondered whether she was actually related to him by blood.
It was one night when their parents had gone out – leaving John home alone, which he was quite relived for, seeing as he could concentrate on coursework that he had to hand in the next day – when he heard the front door slam shut and a drunken Harriet walk in to his room. He briefly looked up and rolled his eyes.
"Get out," he snapped, annoyed that he had lost his count.
"Mum an' Dad ain't pleased with you," she slurred, leaning against the wall and trying to gain balance again.
John didn't look up and kept his eyes on his work as he wrote the answer down to the question in a neat scrawl. "What?"
She started to giggle hysterically. "You stupid bas'ard, that's what they said –"
He ignored her, careful to keep his eyes on the paper. She was drunk. She didn't know what she was saying. The stupid girl was always drunk, so she should just be ignored…
How ironic that their parents died in a car crash that night.
As they sat in the police station together, side by side in silence, John tried to understand what was happening. Harry hadn't the slightest clue, and it would hit her later when she was sober once more, but John was still confused. He tried threading the words he was told together, but he always ended up failing and going back to the start.
I'm sorry for your loss.
They died earlier this evening.
The other driver died, too.
We're sorry. It was too late.
Too late.
Perhaps when Harriet leaned in and whispered you stupid bastard was when it hit him.
As Sherlock typed away at the laptop at an abnormally fast speed while John sat and watched him with narrowed eyes, the younger man paused for a moment and turned to look at John. His eyes were curious, as if he was inquiring something.
"Why did you and Harry never get along?"
It was such a random question it startled John. And suddenly the memories of that night came flooding back into his head, how tears starting streaming down his face after the words were whispered in his ear spitefully. Even after all those years, he couldn't hold back the tears that were prickling his eyes when Sherlock had asked the question.
"Uhh… John?"
John looked away, trying to hide those god damn tears. God damn, in front of Sherlock, too, this is ridiculous, I haven't cried over this in years, Christ…
By the time Sherlock had stood up, strode over to John, bent down and pressed his lips against John's, the tears were gushing down the elder man's cheeks, unstoppable.
