Follow-up to 'Contact', though written to stand-alone. It won't update for the next two weeks (I'm at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, so no internet for me!), but I thought I'd leave you all chapter one for now. Thanks!

It's five to two in the afternoon when Sherlock gets a call from his brother. He ignores it the first time, but by the fourth he realises he either needs to throw the phone out of the window or answer. Appealing as the former option is, he opts for the second.
"What?"
"There's a delicate matter likely to be occurring in the next half an hour, I figured that with your lack of social skill you might appreciate the warning."
"What is it, Mycroft?"
"Harry's dead." Sherlock's brain is already racing ahead, but stops at the realisation that he knows that name.
"Harry?"
"John's sister."
"I know that."
"Then why ask? Listen, brother, John will be leaving work at two o'clock today, and he'll check his voicemail on the way home. Be nice, won't you?" And with that, Mycroft hangs up. There's a moment – a horrible, but thankfully short moment – were Sherlock's brain stops and runs blank. It's followed by the screaming noise of thousands of thoughts slamming in, and Sherlock physically jerks away from the phone. Not good not good not good his brain echoes, and he jumps to his feet, eyes glancing up and down and right and left for something, anything, to jumpstart his mind back into gear, to deduce what to do.

Forty minutes later, and John walks into a flat that's practically spotless. "Sherlock? Oh god they told you…" He slumps into his armchair, and Sherlock notices how painfully small the man can look. It's like a puppet with its strings cut, he thinks, and then slams a hand into his forehead to block out the inevitable trail that will follow. "John?" he says, as softly as he can manage, and John looks up to his flatmate standing over him, a hand on either side of the armchair.
"Sherlock," John whispers, unable to hide the shake in his voice. "Sherlock she's dead. And I…Sherlock, I didn't help. I…" He trails off, and wipes a rough hand across his face, but Sherlock doesn't move.
"John, I -" He stops for a second, wondering if he's worked out the right approach to this. "John, I am not very good at this kind of thing, and we are both aware of that. But I, I would like to help. So if you tell me to do something, I will do it." John laughs, and though it's cracked, his eyes glint with something other than tears.
"Cup of tea would be nice."
"Then a cup of tea it is."

They sit, John in the armchair and Sherlock on the couch, the only sound the occasional clink of nails against the side of the mug.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"It's wrong." Sherlock looks up, noting how John's eyes are red, how there's a slight tremble running through his hands, and how determined he is not to make eye contact. "Did…did they tell you how she died?"
"No," Sherlock says, and doesn't follow it with 'though I'm sure I can guess'.
"Suicide. Locked herself in her car and gassed herself." Sherlock lets the silence play out, knowing that eventually his flatmate will fill it. "She wouldn't do that, Sherlock, she just wouldn't."
"John…are you -"
"I'm not in denial, Sherlock. If they'd have said alcohol poisoning, I would have believed them. But suicide? That was – she wouldn't have. She just wouldn't." Sherlock looks then – really looks, like he has so many times, and every time the result is the same. John Watson is an open books, his thoughts spilling out of every line in his face, but Sherlock will never, truly understand him.
"Okay," he says, and John looks at him, eyes wide with shock.
"Okay?"
"If you don't believe she would do it, then I'll call Lestrade, and take a look myself."
"Sherlock…"
"John. This is something I can do, if you want." John doesn't reply, and Sherlock takes out his phone.
"Lestrade? Yes, yes this is about…no, it's not…please would you…" John starts at the unfamiliar word on Sherlock's tongue, and the reaction gains him a wry smile from the detective. "…that's great. No, really Lestrade, great." He hangs up, strides across the room and throws John's coat at him.
"If you're up to it?"
"Better than doing nothing."