"I never, ever want to hear from you again. As long as I live." I speak softly, my voice croaking from all the yelling. Harry stirs, sits up on the couch, and puts her head in her hands. "Just stop interfering with my life, Harry."
"I'll do my best, John." Her speech is slurred, and her breath, no, her entire flat, reeks of alcohol.
I spy the boxes in the corner labelled "Clara", ready for her ex-wife's final arrival in the morning. Next to them lie the empty vodka bottles, crumpled beer cans, wine stains on her carpet. Her glass which she had slammed on the cabinet in the heat of our argument lay shattered. I sweep up the shards, place them in the bin, and storm out of her flat, out of her life. Maybe she would finally stay out of mine. The drizzle that was present before I'd arrived had worsened to a pelting rain. I use my jacket to cover my head as I spot Sherlock standing underneath an awning.
"Same as ever?" he questions me nonchalantly.
"Not exactly", I murmur. "I told her I wouldn't be visiting anymore."
"And?" is the reply from underneath the deer-stalker hat next to me.
"What do you mean 'and'? Telling your sibling that you have no intention of seeing them again is a pretty big deal, Sherlock."
He smirks, and turns his head towards me. "Yes, well, John...you're not exactly going to stick to that, are you?"
At this, I am livid. "We were in the middle of a case, Sherlock! I am not about to run down here every time it suits my deadbeat sister and clean up whatever mess she's made! I have a life of my own." I quicken my pace, leaving him several feet behind me, chuckling.
"We'll see, John."
At our flat, I slam the door behind me and pick up my laptop the moment he picks up his violin. I type forcefully on the keyboard, the clicking noises causing Sherlock to glare at me over his bow.
"Do you mind? Some of us have more important things to do than rant online about family member we dislike." I raise an eyebrow. "What?" he says defensively. "If I want to complain about Mycroft, at least I do it in person." I chuckle for a moment, and continue typing. He plays one of my favourites. Everything's peaceful until we're interrupted. The doorbell rings. It's Clara. The next few minutes are strange, confusing.
I don't even bother listening to the rest of her story. Sherlock is making phone calls, Clara sobbing to herself at the doorway. I feel like screaming at her, screaming at everyone. I don't want to hear a word; don't want to hear a sound. I just want to be alone with my own self-hatred.
From what I've gathered: when I left, Harry just drank. Drank herself to death. Clara had come around early to collect her things, and Harry was dead on the couch, killed by alcohol poisoning. Just over an hour after I'd told her that I never wanted to see her again.
Oh God. I can't cope with this. How the hell did it come to this...this stuff never happens to me. It happens in media, sure- the sad alcoholic story when the family suffer too, I've been through that. All the pain over her pain. But death is so final. So irreversible. I just saw her a while ago...and she's on her way to St Bart's, where tomorrow they'll take her apart on a slab in the morgue. Molly will probably be there...
Jesus, I've got to get out of here. Now. Lestrade's arrived, Mrs Hudson is consoling Clara. At least they've had the heart to leave me out of this. I slowly walk out of the apartment, down the stairs, out into the street. Rhythmically, like I'm learning how to walk again. Anything, I'll do anything, to keep my mind from what I've left behind. Sherlock's arm wraps around me. He takes me by surprise; I didn't know he'd followed me. But I just let myself fall into him anyway, melt into him, and let him hold me as my body trembles over and over again with bitter sobs.
"I don't know what to do."
My voice cracks on the last word. I feel his hand wrap around mine. He says nothing. He doesn't have to. I draw in a shaky breath as I see Lestrade pacing towards us. I nudge Sherlock and he spins around, inconspicuous as ever, masking all emotion he may have just shown. Greg looks towards me, about to say something, but a silent shake of Sherlock's head keeps him quiet. He points towards me, then back at his car. More nodding and I'm being whisked away.
"Come." I beg Sherlock. "No way you're leaving me to do this alone." The door shuts before he can respond, and all I'm left with is an image of him apologising as the car drives away. To make me do this on my own.
It's obviously her. Who could mistake the bleach-blonde hair and the tattoos? The once beautiful face that years of alcoholism have wrecked. It sends a pang through my chest to see her, looking like this. Reminding me of a lovely doll she had owned as a child. The dog has found it, of course, and a few hours later there was a scream from her bedroom as she found her most prized possession covered in teeth marks and destroyed. Something so wonderful cut short because of something so preventable. Molly is trying to make some sympathetic conversation with me, but I just thank her and ask for a moment alone. This kind of situation is not in her comfort zone, so she looks almost grateful. But who IS comfortable in this situation? I feel as if I'm about to be sick. I'm used to the morgue, obviously. It's almost a second home to me since I moved in with Sherlock. But suddenly the equipment on the walls and the jars of various liquids make me nauseous. I am wanted in the visitor's room, I am told.
My feet are sluggish, my brain too tired to respond. I sit down. They want to know the story of Harry's alcoholism. I am not very responsive. "Just a few quick facts, please, John." The middle aged woman in the overalls is persistent. Lestrade's sitting silently beside me.
"It's alright, Julie. I know most of it." I don't even have to glance over to know the speaker who's just appeared. That hat and scarf confirm my guess.
"I don't know..." Julie stutters. "It says family members only..."
"Let him talk, nurse." Lestrade's voice is gruff. "Sherlock Holmes...he's practically family." Sherlock gives an acknowledging smile as he sits down and begins. I'm in awe. I never really understood this man's brilliance, how he remembers every detail. I realise with a jolt that he only remembers things that are important to him. I'm important to him...
"She's drinking since...2005, was it, John?"
I nod feebly.
"Yes, well. She'd stopped a few times, relapsed about twice every year, four times in 2009..." He answers all the questions perfectly, cool as a breeze.
"And her last relapse?"
I'm the one answering this. "Five months ago. When Clara split up with her, she just started drinking, and never stopped." Julie smiles gently. She hands Sherlock a leaflet.
'Coping with bereavement,' screams up at me in bold letters.
Oh, God.
I'm sent to out to get a hot drink for the shock, but I just tell Lestrade to take me to Baker Street. He doesn't object, his face stiff and professional. I arrive on the street and slump against the wall. The rain is hammering down and hurting me, but I just lean there. I don't feel like myself, I feel broken. Mrs Hudson is talking to Lestrade, handing her umbrella to me. I don't take it. Clara appears, and I just look her in the eyes for a moment. I see what I feel in them- the raw pain and guilt. I feel sorry for her, in that moment. I've never really liked her; whenever I'd be over at Harry's, she'd try to cover up her drinking. She was in denial. And what a cruel wake-up call this is.
The next few days aren't a blur. They register sharply in my mind as they tick away. Tick away at me, like a metronome. I'm in no mood for any visitors; all I want is Sherlock. And Sherlock is what I get. He answers phone calls, talks to guests, organises funeral plans. And every night he makes sure he's the last thing I see when I fall asleep. It comforts me, knowing that at least something hasn't changed. That he's there. One thing that has changed is that he's always there when I wake up. Beside me, holding my hand or resting my head against his shoulder. There are no boundaries between the two of us anymore, nothing too personal or too strange. If I want to be held, he's there. That's what keeps me happy. Should I feel guilty for being so glad to have him when all this is happening around me? Maybe I should, but that's a worry for when all of this is over.
We keep this up for a few days, the steady routine of me laying around, helping around the house, being relatively content, until the funeral. It comes with a bang, and I'm on the front lines. Having to smile and shake hands with everyone with no Sherlock to do it for me. Its ten o'clock, the funeral's on at eleven. The sweat is beading on my forehead. I fix my tie as Sherlock's pulling on his jacket behind me. He strides towards the door, hand on the knob. "Are you ready?" he asks me. I lean against the wall, frantically shaking my head.
"I'm not."
"This is too strange for you," he informs me, matter-of-factly. I slowly nod. How he knows exactly how I feel, I will never know. Sherlock and emotions never really went hand in hand. But he could tell that I was out of my depth in this one; I was lost. He isn't finished amazing me, however.
"John. You're running away from this. I can do all the planning, but you'll never be content if you don't face this. I can't let you slip away into this...this shell of yourself you're becoming. It's like alcoholism. You hurt..." His voice is lowered to a whisper. "Then I do. You're only person who hasn't left when you saw...how I act."
"Mycroft..." I begin.
Sherlock waves away his brother's name with a flick of his hand. "You know he doesn't count. You're a part of me now...in my veins, John. So I guess I'm being selfish when I involve myself with your business. Because when you're in pain, I am."
He walks over, takes my head in his hands, and gently presses his lips against mine. I don't feel all the built-up tension go away and feel like everything is better, but I feel good. I know that he's here and isn't going anywhere. After Afghanistan, I thought I'd suffered enough. After Harry died, I knew that wasn't true. But I realise now that Sherlock is that weight that balances all this out. When something happens to me, something I can't deal with, he comes in and makes everything make sense again. Makes me come back to myself again. So as I stand there and kiss Sherlock Holmes, I finally come back as John Watson.
After the funeral, there's a lot more order to my life. I visit Harry's grave every Sunday, the same day I used to visit her when she was alive. I'm back working, and I'm getting used to the idea of Harry being in a better place. And Sherlock and I...well, I don't know what to call us. "A couple" doesn't quite sum it up, and "boyfriend" just sounds strange. I guess we are- together? That seems the right way to say it. Holmes and Watson- together. Detectives. Best friends. Soul mates? Whatever. We don't need a label. We're happy, that's what matters to me. -JW