Notes: Hey everyone! So two days ago on Miyajima island, I made the mistake of trying the 'meibutsu' (famous/specialty food of the area), which happened to be oysters. I'm guessing they weren't cooked enough or were not good in some other way, because this choice lead to an exciting bout of food poisoning from which I'm currently recovering. This story is the result of it. It came out way more serious than I thought it would. So here it is: family bonding and vomit.
And yes, I am still working on Matchmaker, Matchmaker, but something about puking out your guts for 24 hours does not incline one to writing a romantic comedy.
Disclaimer: Still don't own BBC Sherlock, their characters or sundry. Just using these guys for personal catharsis. You have been warned.
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Purge
Even as a child, Harry had possessed a cast iron gut. She'd swig sour milk out of the carton, only complaining when it got chunky because 'it's gross to chew milk' (the same reason she refused to eat cottage cheese). Once, in second grade, a boy dared her to eat his snot. It was green with a string of blood, but she licked it off his face anyway, and didn't get sick, though John soon after caught the flu and coughed and hacked for close to a week. In middle school, Harry ate a chicken leg raw just to prove she could. After the booze, she became insufferable. Raw oysters, week old takeaway with a flowering of mold, and cat food once, a bet with another drunk who ultimately ended up paying the tab. (She called John about the last, bragging in a too loud voice until he hung up on her) A week before John's deployment, the corner pub had given John yet another call to collect his sister, and as they stumbled home, she slipped from his arm and stumbled over to the corner trash bin to pick up a potato crisp that had fallen. Before John could snatch it away, she had shoved it in her mouth.
"Spit it out," John ordered.
Harry swallowed and licked her lips with a rebellious grin before sticking out her chin like a two-year-old preparing to throw a tantrum. (Later, John would recognize the expression in his flatmate and it would fill him with the same cocktail of affection, exasperation and loathing).
John said, "You're like a dog."
"If I'm your dog, will you name me Gladstone and take me on walks everyday?" Harry asked, echoing John's childhood promises to his parents who had gotten him a hamster for Christmas instead. "And feed me good dog food and rub my head until I drool?"
"Just stop it," John said. "You're a grown woman. Older than me though nobody would know it to see us together."
"Don't worry, doctor John, doctor, brother, doctor mine," Harry sang off key to no discernible tune, "Alcohol makes it sterile, sterile, steriiiiile."
"I'm going to be in Afghanistan next Tuesday," John said, and hated himself for the gratitude he felt at having an excuse to cut himself off so completely. "You're going to have to take care of yourself better than this."
"Sterile. Sterile." Harry blinked rapidly, and her lashes grew damp. "Like sterilizing a wound," she said, "a fucking gash spilling blood and ash."
And now John hated himself. He knelt and extended his hand. "Harry? Come on. Get up."
"Fuck off." Harry drew herself up with the slow dignity of a barge before linking her arm in his.
They walked back to her flat, Harry's blond curls a stiff fan over the shoulder of the beige jumper she'd given him two years prior, after her first sale, when the wine and merriment took on a party air that had barely touched on the maudlin.
Harry didn't see John off to the airport, and John pretended he was glad.
After her infant years, Harry had never thrown up, or at least never admitted to it, not until her first court ordered rehab. Harry had listed him as her next of kin, the only reason he was informed of her whereabouts. When John called, she asked in a fit of tearful cussing, "Is this what it's like for you, brother mine? All this upchucking, it's worse than the bloody, goddamn disease."
"You can do this," John said, hoping his doubts didn't travel across the line. "Just stay clean," he said, and then there were incoming wounded from a roadside bomb and John and his sister didn't talk again for three more weeks.
Harry managed to hold it together for nine months. Long enough to love and lose Clara, long enough for John to get shot, for wound infection to damn near kill him, long enough for him to be discharged with a pointless medal for valor for failing to save the lives of three other men who had been shot in his the same raid that ruined his shoulder. When John returned to London, he didn't look Harry up immediately. He was too tired, too flat inside to deal with her shit, but after the third time he put the barrel of his service gun into his mouth and let his finger toy with the trigger, he decided he'd at least better say something to her before he worked up the guts or the stupidity to finish the deed.
On the way to Harry's flat John stopped at a pub. By the time he'd worked up the courage to leave, he was stumbling drunk. He pounded on the door to her flat, "Harry! Harry," and when there was no response, began singing some random lines from a Kabul hip-hop song that had been popular just before John got shot.
Someone shouted, "Shut up or I'll call the police."
After a minute, John had just about decided Harry must have moved and asked himself if it was worth trying to look up her number in the phone book or call their Aunt Gheraldine when the window to the second story flat was pulled open. "John?" Harry leaned out, her palms on the ledge, swaying a little. She wore an aqua night robe and had cut her hair so that the curls were tight cropped and none fell in her eyes. Her face broke into a wide grin. "My God, John you're back!"
John belted out. "An G flow dara! An G weed dara!"
"What in the hell are you saying?"
"Damned if I know," John said, and flipped his cane in a circle around his hand.
Harry burst out laughing. "Let me ring you up. Elevator's on the fritz again, so you're gonna have to take the stairs. Flat 203."
"I remember."
The pain in his leg made ascending slow. His cane tapped the floor in funeral shots as he limped up. Harry could have afforded better, John mused, noting the flickering lights, scuffed green carpeting, the leaning banister and sagging stairs. Even a year and a half ago, when John had left, Harry could have upgraded. She sold homes for a living, for Christsakes, but she had said she hated change even then. "At least this way, I don't have so far to fall," she'd explained, which was the philosophy of Harry's life. John had the opposite view. He took falling as a given, inescapable, so he threw himself off cliffs with the expectation of falling spectacularly. Mostly he did.
Harry's living room looked like it had been picked over by collection agents. The sofa had survived, but on the hardwood floor to the left of it was a darkened splotch in the shape of a loveseat's base. The TV was also missing, and there were no end-tables. Where a coffee table would have sat were two orange crates bridged by a board. Harry had thrown a brocade tablecloth on top. Scattered over the top were six wine glasses, pools of dried red clotted in the bottom.
"Sit," Harry pointed to the couch. "And take your shoes off. You know we do it Japanese style in la casa Harriette."
John kicked his shoes at the wall and padded in stocking feet over to the the sofa. On the wall above it hung a bamboo calendar advertising a Chinese takeaway place called Jade Garden. The room was spinning. He flopped onto the cushions.
"I'll get some music," Harry said, and took off for the bedroom. She returned a minute later with an iPod CD player and set it in the middle of the floor, cuing up eighties romantic pop songs.
"You know I hate Boy George," John said.
"So do I," Harry stretched her arms over her head. Her back cracked. "Red or white? Pick you poison."
"Is that why Clara left you?"
"So why'd you take two weeks to look me up, brother mine?"
They stared at each other until John averted his gaze. "Whatever you're having," he said.
"Good man." Harry gathered the errant wine glasses from her impromptu coffee table and dumped them in the sink. Next she took a bottle from the cabinet beneath it, and opened the dishwasher and pulled out a pair of mugs. She filled both to the brim. "Mickey Mouse or Winnie the Pooh," she asked, when finished.
John said, "You realize this is sacrilegious."
"Sacrilicious," Harry said, crossing back to the living room and placing the Winnie the Pooh mug in front of him. There was a chip along the rim. John ran his finger over it as Harry ran back to the kitchen, retrieving the wine bottle and a package of chocolate digestives. She put both in the center of the tablecloth and raised her mug. "To family."
They tapped their mugs together. Harry gulped the wine. John took a solemn sip. A stab of pain went through his leg. He placed the mug on the table as the music changed to Dancing Queen.
"Clara loved this song," Harry said. She rubbed her fist under her eyes, dampening her knuckles.
"I should have visited earlier," John said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Harry drank again. "I was out of town last week for a real estate conference."
"Still."
Harry cocked her head. "You're still wearing that old thing?" she said, pointing at his jumper. "It's got holes in it."
"I like the holes," John said. "My mates kept telling me to toss it, but..."
"They were right." Harry smiled. "I'm going to buy you another one."
John leaned back on the sofa and sipped his wine. "You ad I, we're such a mess, you know that."
"Says my brother the doctor, the decorated war hero."
"I couldn't save any of them," John said. He closed his eyes and took a long drink of the wine. It warmed his stomach and made his limbs feel loose. The pain in his leg didn't fade, but he simply didn't care as much. Maybe if he drank enough, he would stop making the effort and thus cure his self created wound. "I can see why you like this so much," John said.
Harry slammed her mug on the table. Wine sloshed over the sides. "Don't you fucking dare, John Watson."
"I kept my gun." John said. "They thought it was lost in the firefight, but I'd shoved it in my trouser pocket to work on Willowby." The eighteen-year old's jugular had been nicked by a shard of glass, and the blood had spurted even as John attempted to pinch the boy's wound shut, too late. Always too late. "Later on, before the fevers got too bad, I hid it in the bottom of my rucksack. There's only three bullets. More than enough."
"For what?"
John shrugged and took another drink of his wine.
"Are you seeing a therapist?"
John burst out laughing. "Harry, coming from you?"
"You've been through a fucking war, and now you're talking about stealing a gun and I don't know what."
"I'm fine."
"Mum would never forgive you."
"Mum's dead."
"Still."
John's stomach roiled. He finished the wine in an attempt to settle it, then held the mug out to his sister.
"How much have you had to drink?" Harry asked.
"Less than you."
"Yes, but I'm the expert here."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." But Harry refilled his mug. "Cheers."
They toasted, and John asked. "So, how was the conference."
"Boring. Pointless. I made the highest gross sales of our area."
"Congratulations," John said, with genuine admiration. It never failed to impress him how his sister could compartmentalize. Her life might be falling apart from the inside, but she could still be the best, and revel in it. "You're amazing, you know that."
Her cheeks flushed. "It's easy. All you have to do is figure out a person's dream and then find the property that fits it. Most people just think about the houses. But people don't buy a house, they buy a future. Or some such bullshit." She refilled her glass. "It works better with property than relationships, as evidenced by us."
"You and Clara?"
"You and I."
John sighed. "I don't have any dreams." Not anymore. He had nightmares, but that was not the same. "I just try to get through each day. To be useful, somehow." As a surgeon, he'd been useful, but that had been ruined with his arm.
"We're too young to be this old, brother mine."
"Yes." John's mouth filled with spittle and there was a hard lump in his stomach accompanied by stabbing pain. "Toilet?" He raised his palm to his face, swallowing.
"Hurry up," Harry said. He followed her through the bedroom, a shadeless lamp above the bed, its single bulb a too steady eye that made John's head pound. The bathmat was pink with fluffy hair like yarn. John lifted the toilet seat and leaned over it as his guts rebelled. First came partially digested fish and chips floated in brown, the beer, the sharpness of the wine. Next was his afternoon snack, yogurt with banana slices, the banana's taste still distinct as the bits passed over his tongue, acidic yet smooth. The rest was an indistinct orange brown.
When John was finished, his sister handed him a wad of toilet paper. John wiped his mouth, threw the paper in the bowl and then reached up to flush the toilet.
"You'll want to rinse when you're finished," Harry said. "Clear the taste. I learned that in rehab."
John closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. "Thanks."
"That's the difference between you and me," Harry said. "You can get this stuff out."
"No, I can't." John rubbed his palms over his eyes. The acid taste of his vomit was almost comforting. It burned a little, like the wine in his stomach, and he liked discomfort. Was this how Harry had felt when she ate some disgusting substance on a whim or dare?
"You know how to move past things, John. When mum and dad's car was hit by that drunk driver, I couldn't talk for a week. I couldn't cry at the funeral. I just couldn't accept things. But you-"
"I went to the train tracks behind the shipping yard and laid down like we saw in that video they showed us in school, you know, where the kid's head flew across the screen, but when the track started to vibrate, I realized suicide wouldn't get me into heaven, so I ran."
"John?" Harry stroked his hair. "You never told me."
"I didn't tell anyone." John closed his eyes. He'd hated himself then for failing. For giving up. For wanting to die. He didn't know which he hated more, but now the nightmare of it mixed with his memories of Afghanistan and when he woke, dripping sweat, his heart pounding with incoherent images and emotions, he reached for the gun. "Fuck, but I need another drink."
"No, you don't."
"Harry."
"Clara wants me to go into rehab again," Harry said. "She isn't even promising to take me back."
"You should do it."
"Will it stop you from killing yourself?"
"I'm not planning to kill myself.
"I wasn't planning to trade the love of my life away in order to get pissed alone on the floor of my substandard flat," Harry said. "We don't have to plan to do stupid things."
"Rehab is a good idea," John said, rubbing a chunk of regurgitated banana over the roof of his mouth. "If it's your own decision, it'll work."
"Promise me you'll give the gun back."
"Jesus Harry," John rubbed his eyes. "I'm seeing a therapist."
"That's not what I said."
"I can't sleep without it."
"Then we're more alike than I had realized."
John opened his eyes. "Harry?"
"Are you finished?"
"Yes."
"Good. Move over."
John scooted towards the door. Harry leaned over the toilet and shoved her finger down her throat.
"What are you doing?" John asked, as if it wasn't completely obvious.
Harry glanced up at him with a withering glare. Then she added a second finger. After the third, she was coughing, but her guts refused to purge. She slammed the side of her fist on the edge of the toilet bowl and let out a wash of tears and curses.
"Stop it, Harry." John said, drawing his sister into his arms.
"I can't," Harry sobbed.
"Yes, you can."
"I can't love her enough. There's too much poison in me. I can't get it out. I can't love anyone."
John squeezed her tighter. "That's not true."
"I'm a terrible sister."
"You're not."
"Liar." Harry twisted in his arms, drew her arm back and slugged him in the chest. "You ran all the way to Afghanistan to get away from me."
"I signed up for a lot of reasons. It rounded out my medical training. It seemed exciting."
"You hated your life in London."
"I never hated you."
"Do you really think I can do it? Stop the drinking? Get Clara back?"
"Stop the drinking, yes," John said, rubbing his finger in a circle over her arm. "Clara, that's up to her, but if she can't see how much more amazing you are once you've gotten yourself together, then you can do better."
"You sound like a fucking talk show. The one with that woman who solves everyone's problems by giving them face and body makeovers."
"I'm no good at this."
"No shit." Harry laughed, leaned into the sleeve of his jumper and used it to wipe her eyes. "If I do this, you have to promise you won't leave me."
"I'm not going back to Afghanistan."
"Or putting a bullet in your head, or jumping in front of a truck, or into the Thames or some other crazy shit."
John hugged Harry, pressing her head into his chest so she couldn't see his face. "I promise."
"Liar."
"I'll do my best."
"Better." She pulled away, and standing held out her hand. "Can you make it up?"
"I think so." John's leg had settled into a dull throb. With his sister's help, John struggled to his feet.
"Good," Harry waved him to the door. "Now I have to pee, so give me a minute. You can have Clara's half of the bed."
John woke with Harry's cold hands and feet wedged under his body, as they had slept as children when he'd sneaked into her bed after a nightmare.
John stretched and rubbed his eyes. "I'll make breakfast," he said. When he sat up, Harry grunted and curled up into a ball, pulling the blanket over her head.
That morning they drank weak tea and ate white toast with butter, the shades drawn to block out the sun. Neither mentioned their promise to the other.
As he was leaving, Harry handed him a mobile phone. "I want you to have this," she said. "I've put my number in. It's the third on the speed dial."
"Thanks," John said, shoving the phone into his pocket. A month later, in a taxi, a madman named Sherlock Holmes would use it tell a story of John's life.