This is a sequel to "Intransigent" and "In My Place". I recommend you read them first.

NOTES: We didn't see much of Sherlock during "In My Place". This third (and last) instalment will certainly remedy that. Plus we get to meet the elusive Harry. I couldn't call this the Sisterverse unless I gave the mic to Sister Watson at some point, could I?

Lykke Li's album "I Never Learn" served as a soundtrack for this piece.

I am honoured and grateful for all kudos, comments, reviews and other kinds of encouragement received. I'm glad you have enjoyed the ride so far.

This is dedicated to the wonderful man who has decided to share his life with me and who will probably facepalm so very hard when he hears that I'm writing Johnlock again.

—-

Anything

The kitchen table at 221b Baker Street's upstairs apartment was often full of clutter. Unwashed teacups, experiments gone awry, mechanical bits and pieces of whatever contraption Sherlock had decided to dismantle in a bout of boredom. This morning, however, it was filled with the labours of love of the British media.

"You've bought all of them, then?" Sherlock enquired calmly, leafing through the Morning Star. "And yesterday's tabloids as well?"

John slumped down onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Pretty much, yeah."

"And what, if I may ask, is the point of this exercise in masochism?"

"I just, I… Really don't know. I thought we need to know what they're saying. Or if they actually are interested. Celebrities gone and go, you know. Interest wanes."

"You could have deduced the general level of interest by the number of gossip column reporters Mrs Hudson has had to fend off with her broomstick during the last 24 hours."

John gave Sherlock a dirty look. "Are you suggesting that anyone who finds themselves suddenly famous would NOT want to see what's actually being written about them?"

"I don't see the point. At least 65 percent of it will be lies and conjecture."

Sherlock picked up another specimen from John's collection of papers. "Any particular pet peeves, then?"

John passed him a clipping. He had no idea why he was thinking about sparing any of this garbage.

Maybe he kind of liked that one picture of them together. The one where he was talking to Anderson and Sherlock was intensively staring at him when John didn't notice. That was from a year ago. Sad, really. They could have realised certain things a bit earlier, really.

Sherlock straightened the paper. "'Consort' John Watson. I really don't see why you might find that so offensive." His expression was deadpan. That, or he actually didn't understand. John couldn't tell which.

John snorted. "It makes you sound like the bloody regent and me like some sort of an appendage you deign to drag around."

"I would say it's more of a play on the classical archetype of a hero and his trusty companion."

An image suddenly flashed through John's mind of Sherlock dressed as a Greek warrior. Sometimes he felt his mental acuities had flown out of a window the minute he'd allow himself to succumb to the charms of his lunatic flatmate.

"I need more coffee." John left his chair to make some.

Sherlock tucked his shirt into his trouser waist. "I received an email this morning from an H. Watson."

John abandoned his coffeepot to stare at Sherlock. "Harry? Why?"

A smirk played on Sherlock's lips. "You had disabled the comments function on your blog."

"Wonder why?"

No reply.

John cut his finger opening a new packet of coffee. Sherlock was standing next to their cardboard box of plasters and other assorted medical supplies but made no move to pass it to John who had stuck his bleeding forefinger in his mouth. "What did she want?" he mumbled.

"She wishes to enquire if we were available for dinner?" Sherlock looked more expectant that John ever would have predicted.

"Why would you want to go to dinner with Harry? You were quite adamant that you had no interest in meeting my other relatives."

"Relatives we cannot choose. Harriet you obviously share some kind of warm relationship beyond being siblings so I guess I was intrigued."

John wrapped a wad of tissues around his finger. Sherlock stepped closer, took hold of his hand, pulled off the makeshift bandages and inspected the injured limb. "You'll need stitches."

John reclaimed his hand. "I don't."

"Yes you do. I could do it. You're always telling me I should have a working knowledge of first aid."

"No I really don't need stitches you creep. You can go practice with Molly at the morgue if you like."

Long, slender fingers snaked around his waist possessively from behind. "I don't want to practice with Molly."

John leaned the back on Sherlock's shoulder. "I know I'm your favourite subject to torture."

Minutes passed in silence. The warmth radiating from Sherlock almost made John forget about the papers. Almost.

Four hours later they were standing on the curb outside. Sherlock was preoccupied with his phone, and John was growing increasingly irate at passing taxis who weren't noticing his hailing. "We could actually take the tube, you know."

Sherlock did not bother to look up from his screen. "No stops nearby. Kensington is not exactly well covered by the tube network. Most occupants drive or more accurately, are driven."

"It still doesn't quite compute why Harry would be living there. She's usually more of a Soho commune type girl."

"She's your sister, not mine. You'd be much more qualified to answer that."

Finally, a co-operating cab. They settled into the backseat and Sherlock gave the address in southern Kensington.

"Isn't Kensington where Mycroft lives?" John inquired absent-mindedly, watching London float by.

"Mayfair."

"I still don't get why she wouldn't just email or text me instead of you."

"Curiosity, John. It's quite obvious. Since you have not been forthcoming in introducing us, she decided to bypass you to see how I would react to such an invitation."

John leaned his palms onto his knees. This ought to be much easier than meeting anyone's parents. Still, Harry was all that was left of his immediate family. Even though they did not see one another often, blood was thicker than water and so forth.

Sherlock finally pocketed his phone. "She seemed quite vivacious. Less guarded than you."

"You mean she's a nosy blabbermouth."

Sherlock leaned back on the seat, fiddling with the edge of John's coat sleeve. Maybe it had not been such a good idea to brew Sherlock the pot of coffee. An irritable, fidgety Sherlock was less likely to behave. John covered Sherlock's fingers with his hand.

"You still like her." A statement, not a question. "You have a high tolerance for demanding individuals."

"I do, don't I. Of course I like her. Not much she hasn't done to test that but I do. I hated the way in which she has always deliberately thrown her bad choices in everybody else's faces and expect them to pick up the slack. Still, at least she's honest and isn't afraid to ask for help."

"I'm honest."

"You're a prat. Still love you, though. Anyway, what's with the questions? I thought you could deduce all you needed when you actually met her."

"True. But that would not necessarily offer me any tools in discerning how to approach her in an agreeable way."

"You mean you're actually going to try and be nice?"

"Is that surprising?" Sherlock seemed perplexed.

"Sort of. What do you care if she likes you or not? You never care otherwise."

"She is evidently important to you."

John was taken aback, slightly embarrassed that he still could underestimate Sherlock after all that had happened. Sometimes the way in which everyone else regarded him as a sociopath automaton was contagious to even John. "Sorry, Sherlock", was the only suitable reply that came to mind.

"Mm." Sherlock was staring absent-mindedly out the window, not really listening anymore.