Sorry, this is a short chapter, isn't it? Harry's perspective! I'm basically turning her into an OC, aren't I? Oops. Anyway, I figure it'll be a bit easier than writing Sherlock and it's about time we got some emotion up in here. That is, unrepressed emotion. Bonus points to anyone who gets the reference to one of the original Arthur Conan Doyle stories. Preferably without the aid of Google!

Harry knew that it wasn't exactly 'responsible' to abandon her fiancé the way she had. Particularly since the only note she left behind was a brief text message: wnt to londn family emergnc sorry sorry sorry! b back soon. Then again, she had a right to this sort of behavior…Angela had dragged her to Cork, hadn't she? And when she finally agreed to come, Harry had realized too late that she would be spending Monday through Friday holed up in Castletownshend by herself, trying desperately to get some writing done. A trip to London would do her good. Only it's not exactly a holiday, is it? Harry glanced over at Sherlock, who was resting his head against the window of the plane. He wasn't quite asleep, but he didn't look responsive. Harry had an annoyingly strong maternal instinct, and it flared up at the most inopportune moments.

He wasn't well. What would John say if she showed up with his friend in this condition?Did it really matter? John would be overjoyed (most likely) no matter what Sherlock looked like, and then he could take care of the health aspect. He was a doctor, after all. But when was the last time Sherlock ate something besides crisps and toast? God, stop it. It isn't important.

"Hey. You asleep?" He didn't say anything, but his eyes were open. Against her better judgment, Harry shook his shoulder. "Oi. You want something to drink?"

At that he sat up. "Hmm? Where?"

She had to repress another sigh. It was like talking to a child. "From the trolley. It's coming round."

"What are you—"

"Never mind, I've got it. Jesus." To the attendant she simply said, "two Bloody Marys and a gin and tonic please. And some of those little dry biscuits."

"I'm sorry ma'am, it's one drink per passenger."

Why was the world trying to fight her at every corner she rounded?

"The gin and tonic is mine. The Bloody Marys are for him." She jammed her thumb towards Sherlock and tried to muster as much outrage as she could. "Do you happen to have fresh tomatoes on this flight? Because we're connecting from Venezuela and my boyfriend is very clearly suffering from malnutrition."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this, but the flight attendant was already digging through her cart. She held up a can of tomato juice uncertainly. "Will this do? I'm sorry, but we simply can't allow more alcohol. It's a safety concern."

"It's fine, Harriet."

"You can't be serious. Do you honestly expect him to—" she was interrupted by Sherlock reaching over for the can. "Sherlock!"

"It's fine," he hissed, "leave it."

The flight attendant hurried off looking slightly ruffled as Sherlock struggled with the tab of the can. Harry stared in disgust as he swallowed nearly half of it in one go. He finally lowered it and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his ratty jacket.

"When I say 'it's fine', I mean shut up. You can't say my name. If you hadn't noticed, my passport is registered to a Neville St. Clair." His voice was so low that Harry could feel its vibrations better than she could hear it.

"I thought they finished clearing your name a year ago. You're not a criminal anymore, are you?"

"I'm still legally dead. Not sure if that lands you on the no fly list, but they shredded my passport."

"If I have to call you Neville, than you have to slow down on that tomato juice. It's revolting."

Sherlock flashed a sarcastic smile at her and drained the rest of the can before speaking again. "You were lying to that woman. You wanted two drinks." "So what if I did?"

"Believe it or not, I do have malnutrition. So thank you very much for the vitamins." He dipped his biscuits in the Bloody Mary, and Harry thought she might throw up.

God almighty. They would be landing in London in half an hour, and it still seemed like an eternity stretching before her. The sooner I pass him off to John, the better.

"You know," she said, unable to contain it any longer, "he really glorified you."

"Who did?"

"Who do you think? John."

"Hmm," he muttered, "I did warn him against that."

"Yeah, well. It's more than that. I mean, you really are unbearable. I don't…understand. It's not…forget it."

She didn't want to make eye contact, and when she did she felt her throat catch. He was looking her with complete confusion, unable to comprehend what she was leaving unsaid. With anyone else, the implications could be picked out, and they would leave it at that. Harry could only hope that Sherlock existed within a sort of buffer zone, and that the words that sounded so hurtful to her wouldn't bruise him so easily.

"I told you already…he's a wreck. And it's been three years."

"You did mention that. Although I'll have to see for myself what sort of 'wreck' you mean."

"It's only…now that I've met you, I don't understand why. Why's he so torn up over you?" It sounded more spiteful when she said it out loud.

As biting as they were, her words couldn't have been more painful than Sherlock's reply, murmured to himself as though he were puzzling through a case. Devoid of any emotion save for mild curiosity.

"Yes. I've been wondering that myself."