"I don't know why we don't talk anymore," Harry slurred as John dug around in his pocket for his keys. He felt disgusted with himself for the regret he had for answering his phone. It was his first day back in surgery, and everybody was acting odd around him. It was as if he was the new kid in class again, and John hated it. He had a long day doing rounds and only helping minor injuries. Nobody wanted to put him back into the big surgeries. After he picked up some milk from the grocery, he got a call from Harry. It was the first he had heard from her since the third week after the funeral. It was not the first drunk call he had ever received from Harry, nor the first time he had ever picked her up drunk.
"We talk enough, Harry," John said. He was feeling buzzed by just smelling Harry's breath. He banged on the door. "Sherlock," He cried. He couldn't figure out where his keys were, and Harry was draping over the left side of his body.
"Sh'lock?" Harry giggled. "The pretty boy from Mom's funeral?"
"Yes," John felt annoyance twinge at him. "Who evidently isn't here right now."
Harry let out a humming noise. "You just called him pretty." John pushed Harry away slightly, and dug into his left pocket. The keys were there, and he quickly unlocked the door. He grabbed the bag of milk from off the floor and pulled Harry into his side tightly. He guided her into the apartment, and kicked the door shut after him. "It's messy in here, John. You're not messy," Harry laughed.
"Yep," John sighed. His back hurt from supporting Harry, and his feet hurt from work all day. He was a bit thankful Sherlock wasn't home. He didn't want to deal with running across London for a jewel thief or having to smell some human experiment.
John set the milk down beside the door, and began to steer Harry towards the stairs. "Sh'lock's mess?"
"Yep," John said again. One step at a time, he carefully dragged her up the stairs to her room. He didn't care if Sherlock would be mad at him, but he was going to claim the couch that night. The couch had been silently claimed as Sherlock's just as the red armchair was silently his.
"Do you think that he-" Harry hiccupped. "Knows?"
"He knows a lot of things. Narrow it down, Harry," John said.
"That you think he's pretty," Harry rolled her head onto his shoulder. He sighed, and stopped on the stair. "You're mad," Harry giggled again.
"I'm tired, not mad," John sighed, and began to move again. Another five minutes passed before they finally reached the top of the stairs, and another ten before they reached John's room.
"It smells like you in here," Harry mumbled. She was beginning to go, and was becoming dead weight on John's shoulder.
"It is my room," John sighed. He carefully laid his sister down onto his bed, and went to his dresser to pull out a spare blanket. He draped it over her body gently. "Harry," He sighed, and pushed her hair away from her face.
"'M sorry I dis...appoint you," Harry rubbed the bridge of her nose.
"You don't, you don't," John shushed her. "You know I love you. I'm just worried about you," He wiped some smudged makeup off her face with his thumb.
"...love you, too, brother," Harry sounded drowsy. John stayed beside her until her breathing evened out and she was passed out. John sighed, and went to his desk. He put the bin from beside his desk to beside the bed, just in case. He pulled off his jumper, and tossed in into the laundry bin. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, and watched his sister sleep. It was his second drunk person to watch over in the past month. Since Sherlock's little bender two weeks ago, John had been a bit on edge.
He quietly slid out of his room, and wandered back downstairs. He wanted a cup of tea before he drifted off. Lord knows he needed sleep more than tea, but tea before bed usually made him sleep better. He already knew that he would be up half the night worrying about Harry, but lying to himself about possibly getting sleep felt a bit reassuring.
John put the kettle on, and rubbed his eyes sleepily. He leaned on the counter, not thinking anything besides how much he wanted a cup of tea. His mind was beginning to turn off for the night. He looked over at the couch and felt desire to be asleep on it.
A noise in the night made John feel startled. John wandered over to the edge of the kitchen. The light from the kitchen was the only light in the flat. It dimly lit the living room, and John could see that nothing out of the ordinary was in the living room. It calmed John to a degree, but the noise came again from Sherlock's room. Perhaps Sherlock was home after all. John turned back to the kettle, and realized he should probably warn Sherlock that Harry was in the flat, and that John would be on the sofa for the night.
John shuffled over to Sherlock's door. He knocked once, and opened the door rubbing his tired eyes. "Sherlock, I-"
John didn't finished his sentence. The sight before him was... indescribable. Sherlock was naked on all fours with Ismael behind him. No lights were on in the room, but streetlights from outside were giving the room a tiny glow. Sherlock was incredibly pale and his body was full of sharp points. His hair was more messed than usual, and his eyes were scrunched shut. For a split second, John wondered if it was consensual. Ismael had his hand covering Sherlock's mouth, but when Ismael pulled Sherlock up so they were back to chest, Sherlock never pulled away like John oddly wished he would have. Ismael muttered something in French, and Sherlock let out a very loud moan and John saw how hard Sherlock was.
"Dr. Watson," Ismael panted. John wondered why he was still standing in Sherlock's doorway. His eyes met Ismael's, which were clouded over with lust. Sherlock was watching John through half shut eyes. "You can join if you won't shut the door." Sherlock let out another moan as John met his eyes. He had never seen Sherlock look so defenceless. He didn't know if it was out of embarrassment or pleasure, but Sherlock moved his hands to cover his cock. Ismael only chuckled at the whole situation.
"I, uh, s-sorry," John stammered.
John hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He went back upstairs to his room, and shut the door behind him. He sat down on the floor, his back to the door, and rubbed his face with his hands. He couldn't believe that he had actually seen Sherlock naked, Sherlock's impressive cock, and Sherlock having sex. He tried to push the image of his naked roommate out of his mind. He felt a bit ill when he heard a noise from downstairs, now that he knew what it was.
He knew deep down inside he shouldn't care about who Sherlock had sex with, but he had already dealt with an emotionally hurt Sherlock because of Ismael. He didn't want Sherlock to do it again, especially with Harry on the bed as a reminder of what Sherlock when he was drunk. Sherlock really seemed to be enjoying it, but John couldn't shake the sick feeling from his stomach.
John remained seated on the floor, watching his sister sleep while he wondered if he got sick in the bin if Harry would know if he had done it or she did it passed out. John heard Sherlock walking up the stairs. He looked at the clock, and realized he had been sitting on the floor for almost forty-five minutes. A timid knock on the door made John's nauseous feeling increase.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was quiet and muffled from the door. When John didn't answer, Sherlock tried to open the door. John's weight against it barely moved the door past the frame. "John?" Sherlock spoke again.
John remained silent. The only noise in the room was Harry's soft and steady breathing. John heard Sherlock sigh, and the sound of Sherlock sliding down against the door. "If you want to be difficult, I can wait," Sherlock said.
John didn't speak again, and Sherlock sighed once more. "It was a closure shag, if it makes you feel better. He and I both needed it."
"Sure you did," John mumbled under is breath.
"This would be so much nicer if you didn't mumble, and if we could speak face to face," Sherlock said. John was silent, trying to simultaneously will his sick stomach away and figure out why he felt so sick. It could have been because of anything during his day, especially since he was running on such little sleep with little food. "John," Sherlock said in an oddly playful voice. "I'm sorry you had to see me in such an undignified light. I didn't expect you to... open the door," Sherlock said.
John watched Harry sleep instead of replying to Sherlock. She looked so calm and peaceful when she was asleep - just like Sherlock did when he fell asleep on John's lap. John felt a twisting feeling in his stomach, and he placed his head in his hands. Why couldn't the world just stop for a moment until he felt normal again?
"I'm not good at this kind of this, John," Sherlock sounded frustrated. John kept silent. He didn't want to see Sherlock or speak to him. He wanted Sherlock to go away so he could fall asleep. He heard Sherlock sigh, and his weight lifted off of the door. John waited until he heard Sherlock slowly pad his way down the stairs, almost regretfully. John walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a spare blanket. He wrapped himself up in it, and grabbed a third as a pillow. He laid back down in front of the door, and tried to urge himself to sleep.
A.N.
The plot! She finally progresses! JOYOUS DAY.
I have the next part already half-written, so it should be up by Saturday night.
Also! Thank you to all of you who are taking your time to give me your feedback. I appreciate every single review I get. It warms the cockles of my little heart to hear from you guys.