Trust In Me
Chapter 1
A/N – Thanks to my beautiful betas and everyone who gave me their support during my first fic endeavor.
Six hours. Six hours had passed from the moment Harry's ringing mobile roused her from her drunk stupor to being curled up in a chair by her brother's hospital bed wearing a green party dress and old trainers. Those six hours had also taken her from blissfully drunk to nauseatingly sober. Her only comfort was that John couldn't see her right now. It was their first meeting since she greeted him at Heathrow four months ago, awkwardly hugging his wasted frame (mind the shoulder) and wrestling his large army bag into the back of her jeep.
Looks better now, she thought. Well, as far as a coma patient went. Harry's sobriety was not helping her outlook on life. To be honest, she expected him to look a lot worse. A Detective Inspector Lestrade had called her to tell her that there had been an explosion at some swimming pool and that her brother had been in the building at the time, and that he was now in surgery. At first Harry thought she was hallucinating and promptly went back to sleep, but after sitting for five hours in a waiting room, there was no way she could avoid the heavy dread that everything was true, that they were going to roll John out in pieces and ask her to identify him. Afterwards, some nice lady would hold her hand and tell her to fill out some forms just like the ones they had for her mum.
When she finally entered the room, Harry had been pleasantly surprised to see her brother intact with minimal tubing sticking out of his body. Her heart did skip a beat when she saw the giant bandage around his head and the fresh sprawling bruises down his face and body. And that's the story of how she ended up being squashed into a small chair for the past hour in some vague approximation of comfort.
John's fingers gave a light twitch, jerking Harry out of her reverie. The first time she felt his hand flinch in hers, she had called the nurse and started to babble a bunch of nonsense to John in the hope that he would open his eyes. The nurse explained to her afterwards that random movements and even small sounds were common with coma patients, but were in no way signs of consciousness. Harry refused to hold John's hand after that.
Staring once again at the rise and fall of John's chest, she was lulled back into a light doze. Her head drooped awkwardly onto the back of the chair.
Suddenly, she was back at her apartment, sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal. Except instead of milk, there was Kahlua. Had she run out of milk again? Someone was knocking on her door. Fuck off, Harry thought, I'm eating. The knocking persisted. Harry flung the bowl away from her and stood up...only to find herself once more by her brother's bedside. The knocking hadn't stopped though.
"Come in?" Harry ventured to say.
The first thing to enter the door was an umbrella, followed by a man dressed in attire entirely too impeccable for 8 a.m. on a Saturday.
"Hello, Ms. Watson." He smiled a shark-like smile. Harry stared, her hand making a move for the call button.
"I assure you that won't be necessary. Your brother and I are well acquainted." His smile did not waver.
"Forgive me if I don't believe you," Harry retorted. She and John had grown apart in the past five years, but she liked to believe that she still understood her brother enough to know the company he kept. Sleazy politician types did not factor in there.
"Ah. I believe it is I who must ask for forgiveness, for I haven't properly introduced myself. "Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother," he explained, extending his hand. Harry shook it gingerly."
"Nice to meet you. How's your brother doing?" Harry couldn't hold back a note of bitterness. Sherlock had been in the same building as her brother and had escaped only a broken leg. As soon as she heard that he was involved, she was much less inclined to buy Lestrade's bullshit story about investigating gas leaks. As far as Harry could tell, Sherlock's brother was just as trustworthy as the man himself.
"Sherlock is...back to his regular self," Mycroft said, grimacing. "And how is Doctor Watson?" He turned his scrutinizing gaze to John's prone form.
"He's in a coma," she said hollowly. "The doctors are optimistic that he'll make a full recovery, though," she added as an afterthought. Harry hoped she sounded convincing.
His face softened in sympathy. "I'm truly sorry to hear that, Ms. Watson. I have every hope for his quick and speedy recovery.
"It's always so difficult with younger siblings, don't you agree?" Mycroft continued, taking a seat next to Harry. "You compete and you argue and you fight for affection, but in the end, it is always you who watches out for them and keeps them out of trouble. And it is a sad day when you realize that despite your best efforts, there are some things you cannot keep at bay." He lapsed into thoughtful silence.
"John never needed taking care of," Harry chuckled sadly. Mycroft turned to look at her with curiosity.
"He's the sensible sibling, believe it or not," she continued. "Gets it from our mum. God, I would drag him into the worst sort of trouble because I knew he would always stick around to bail me out. Not that he would shy away from anything dangerous. I remember that when he was nine, I yelled for him to jump from the roof of the barn into the pile of hay. I didn't even have to taunt him. He just stood at the edge for a minute, disappeared from view, and then came hurtling through the air like some sort of bird of prey. He hit the hay and rolled onto his feet, laughing like nothing had happened. Believe me when I say that my brother has never attempted anything he wasn't sure about and has never met a dare he didn't attempt."
Harry hadn't realized how much she had said, until she looked over to see Mycroft staring at her with an unreadable expression.
"This explains why my brother seems to find his presence so invaluable," he said thoughtfully.
Harry snorted. "Yeah, John's not big on the self-preservation instinct thing." She patted his arm for emphasis. "Your brother probably knows that already. The things he wouldn't do for other people, though. God, you know I never understood why he did them. I thought he was looking for praise or had some sort of saint complex. I mean what kind of little boy tries to cheer up crying babies? He gave those twins his good toys, you know. Not my hand-me-down crap. It was the fire truck mum bought him for Christmas. I think she bought it hoping that it would inspire him to start acting like a regular kid."
"But after twenty-odd years of watching him sacrifice so much for the sake of others," Harry continued, avoiding adding 'especially me' at the end, "I realized that he doesn't do it for the attention or gratitude. I think he does it because he genuinely cares, and that he somehow feels responsible to solve all their stupid problems. I mean, for fuck's sake, that kind of attitude can't be normal human nature."
She took a deep breath and rubbed her tired eyes. A lump was beginning to rise in her throat, threatening to make her cry. She couldn't care less that she had just cussed up a storm in the company of someone who probably knew the Queen.
"I do believe I can relate," Mycroft said suddenly. "Sherlock has never been one for taking care of himself, and neither does he bear any of Dr. Watson's admirable qualities. Getting him to do anything remotely sensible is a struggle to say the least." He gave an exasperated sigh. "In fact, the person that has come the closest is your brother. I have rarely seen Sherlock take to anyone so quickly. Perhaps he sensed Dr. Watson to be a kindred spirit - a thrill seeker much after his own heart." He gave Harry a thin smile and stood to leave.
"But, Ms. Watson, before I leave, I do believe it would only be appropriate for me to share a story about Sherlock," Mycroft said, turning back to face Harry. "When he was seven, our mother, in a fit of normalcy, decided to get him a puppy. It was a friendly little thing and it followed him everywhere. Sadly, Sherlock was going through a very intense period of rebellion at the time, a period defined by an incident in which he freed all the horses from the stable and chased them into the woods. He did not even name the dog, much less acknowledge its constant search for affection, though that did not seem to deter the pup from bounding behind him no matter where he went."
"It was March when Sherlock and his dog were out in the woods by the stream, collecting bugs. I had been back on a small holiday and went out to call him back to the house. After a few minutes and more than a few threats, he finally ran across the stream back towards the house. Tragically, his puppy, ever loyal, followed suit. The strong spring current must have swept and drowned the little dog, because Sherlock had greeted me alone. When he realized this, he sprinted back to the woods and plunged into the freezing waters. He returned, sodden and freezing, with the pup's body cradled to his chest. He ignored all of our pleas to let the gardener bury the dog in the back garden. When I went up to my rooms later that night, I passed by his door only to hear a very queer sound. In my surprise, I stopped to look through the key hole. Sherlock had bundled the puppy in his winter jacket and was sitting on the floor next to it, crying and stroking the wet fur. It is a rare occurrence, I admit, but my brother does care. Even if it does come too late." He gave Harry a curt nod and disappeared through the door.
Harry's goodbye stuck in her throat. What the hell was she supposed to make of that morality tale? John is Sherlock's puppy and it's only a matter of time before he drowns in the proverbial stream? Make that a swimming pool. If that happened, no amount of crying was going to save Sherlock Holmes' head from being neatly ripped off of his shoulders by a certain Harriet Watson.
"Fucking hell, I could do with a drink," she sighed aloud. Harry would have loved to crawl into a gin bottle right now and never come out. She needed some food and sleep first, though. And John needed some better blankets. Maybe she could swing by Baker Street and get his pillow too. That would be a nice big sister thing to do.
When Harry went to sleep that night (slightly tipsy, but who could blame her), she dreamt that she was standing by the edge of a roaring river. Next to her was a little boy and on the other bank stood John. She and little boy were calling out to John to come across and join them. John just offered a sad smile and stepped into the torrential waters.