AN: This is one of my favourites, hope you like it :)
This Christmas was John's worst, so far.
He was only 18, and he'd had his fair share of bad Christmases even so, with his sister and parents always, always fighting.
Where John was quiet, Harry was a rebel, through and through.
John had a goal and he was prepared to work hard for it.
Harry, on the other hand, just seemed to be floating without much of a purpose. She didn't know what to do with her life, and it drove John's parents crazy.
Harry had always been a bright kid, but never overly invested in anything that didn't hold her immediate interest. John suspected that to be one of the reasons why she liked partying and drinking so much: Everything seemed better and worthy of attention when seen through the haze of alcohol. Their parents had always been kind and loving, but also interested in good marks: They weren't paying for their children's education to watch them throw it all away, after all, was what Dad liked to say.
Christmas was a problem because the grandparents apparently thought along the same lines: Effort should be rewarded, laziness not.
So even though John and Harry got the same amount of presents from their parents for Christmas, John would always have a multitude of packages and presents to unwrap from their grandparents while Harry got chocolates and a stern note that advised her to finally apply herself.
John could understand now that it had made Harry hate him, but at the age of seven he couldn't understand why she was angry with him for something that wasn't his fault.
Unsurprisingly, they didn't get along very well. And now, John and his parents were on their way to arehab centre in London, because Harry had managed to drink herself into a coma.
From what John had understood while listening numbly to his parents explanations, her life wasn't in danger any more, but her body showed all the signs of physical addiction and she'd have to stay at the centre for a considerable amount of time.
His mother had cried while telling him, and she was crying again when they entered the big building. Even though it was festively decorated, it had a cold, clinical air about it, and John shuddered at the thought of people spending months of their life there, trying to get better.
They were greeted at the reception, and then led up to a room on the first floor.
John's parents had been there before, when John was at school, and they talked quietly to the nurse. "Harriet is asleep, I'm afraid", she told them before opening the door to Harry's room.
She was. John walked over to the bed, feeling strangely far away and detached. He wondered at how small his sister looked, how young, lying in the big bed, her skin almost as white as the sheets. His mum and dad sat down next to him.
Mum took Harry's skinny hand in hers, stroking her fingers over it shakily, still crying.
Dad patted her back in a try to comfort her, but was obviously on the verge of tears himself, which John found more disconcerting than anything else.
They sat there for at least half an hour, till John felt like he was suffocating.
He stood up abruptly. "I think I need some air", he said, his voice thin in the quiet room.
His parents just nodded, so he slipped out of the door and down the stairs, breathing in deeply once he stood outside.
The air was crisp and cold and perfect for clearing his head a bit.
When he went back inside, he did so very reluctantly, shoulders hunched and staring at the floor.
It was only when he entered the room and didn't see his parents when he noticed he'd gotten the wrong door. "Excuse me", he said, turning red.
There was no answer. John peered further into the room carefully.
It seemed to be empty, no one occupying the big bed that was similar to Harry's. John was turning around when a movement caught his eye.
He turned back, heard suddenly a pounding, and saw a figure lying on the floor behind the bed.
It took him four steps to get to it, kneeling down.
It was a man, very young, not much older than John himself, with a mop of dark curls and skin so pale it seems transparent.
John swallowed hard, praying the guy wasn't dead, and carefully touched his shoulder. The man didn't move or open his eyes.
"Oh, shit", John groaned, feeling himself starting to panic but beating it down quickly.
He reached for the pulse and sighed in relief when he could feel the steady beat of a heart beneath his fingers.
"Alright. Nurse. I need a nurse or a doctor, someone to put him back into bed..." he thought aloud. "No, you don't."
John almost screamed when the man's eyes suddenly opened, piercing him with an icy stare.
"Shit!" he said with feeling. "Why'd you have to scare me like that?" - "Why did you just come into my room without knocking?" - "Why are you on the floor?" John felt that that one really needed an answer first. "That's none of your business!" the man snapped. "Fine, I'll just call a nurse then", John shrugged, half turning around, when a white hand caught his sleeve. "Fine", the man said sulkily. "I was just thinking, if you needed to know." - "Can't do that in a bed?" - "Obviously." "Well, whatever", John said bewildered. "I'm John Watson." - "Sherlock Holmes."
They were silent for a moment, but John was growing curious. "What are you thinking about then?" he asked, half expecting to be ignored.
"How to kill my brother very slowly and painfully", Sherlock answered without hesitating.
John laughed. "I thought this was a rehab centre, not the psych ward." Sherlock glared at him. "You don't believe me." - "Not really", John admitted. "What are you here for?" - "Cocaine addiction. My stupid brother had me sent here." - "Well, being a junkie can't be a lot better than staying here now, can it?" John asked, although he knew that wouldn't really be an argument for some one addicted. "Don't be so sure", Sherlock huffed. John smiled. "Why are you alone on Christmas eve, anyway?" - "My brother visited this afternoon, but I suppose he did get bored after two hours of silence", Sherlock replied with a sniff. "My parents always areon their estate in the South of France this time of the year." - "Wow", John said, sitting down more comfortable and wrapping his arms around his knees. "And I thought my family was bad."
Sherlock looked at him with a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "You're here for your sister, aren't you?" John nodded quietly, not particularly interested in discussing it, not even to find out how Sherlock knew.
"That doesn't sound very joyful, either", Sherlock murmured. John could only agree.
The sat in silence for a few minutes.
"Don't your parents expect you there?" Sherlock asked at last. John shrugged.
"Probably. Do you want me to go?" - "No", Sherlock answered immediately, looking like it surprised himself. John smiled widely. "Okay", he said. "You want to take a walk or something? You don't look like you get outside very much. Unless you're not allowed?"
Sherlock snorted. "As long as I stay on the grounds, it's fine". - "Alright then."
John watched Sherlock shrug into a coat that had been lying on the floor nearby.
He got up and stretched out a hand to Sherlock, who hesitated for a second and then took it, skin surprisingly warm.
They walked down the stairs and past the receptionist, who only raised an eyebrow at them.
When they stepped outside, John could feel Sherlock breathe in deeply and his shoulders relaxed visibly.
"So, what do you usually do when you're all alone the next days?" John asked lightly while they set off onto the small path that wound through the park of the centre.
Sherlock immediately started telling John about various experiments he was conducting at the moment. John listened intently but couldn't help notice that Sherlock hadn't let go off his hand once.