Chapter 10: Re-union

14:23

john, call me! – H.

15:52

i have news….;)

16:00

Pick up ur phone or im going act like u dont want to know.

16:14

im coming over.

As John climbed the stairs to their flat that evening after work, he heard Harry's voice, light and appeasing. She was talking to Sherlock, then. So Sherlock would be pleased; he had wanted to meet Harry.

'John!' Harry said, with exaggerated pleasure. 'You didn't tell me your roommate was so charming!'

'You must not remember the first time he posted about me on his blog,' Sherlock drawled, smiling up at John. He was slouched in the Corbusier, in grey dress trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a salmon-coloured cravat. '"Strangely likeable," he called me, and "charming." I wonder what he'd say about me now.' Sherlock's smile grew sultry, private.

'Are you going out tonight?' John asked, business-like, nodding towards Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to push himself out of the chair.

'Apparently,' Sherlock said, tucking the back of his shirt into his trousers. 'How do I look?' He spun around and winked at Harry.

'Don't leave on my account,' Harry said.

'Oh, I wouldn't leave on your account, Harriet,' Sherlock said. 'I have a previous engagement. Now, you must excuse me.' He smiled at her with his mouth and not his eyes, the kind of smile that made John want to take a step backwards and blink a few times. It wasn't right, seeing Sherlock like this, with Harry.

'A case?' John asked.

'Of sorts,' Sherlock said. He retrieved his coat from the rack and slung it casually over his shoulder. 'A pleasure to meet you at last, Harriet.' That smile, again. He nodded good-bye to his flatmate. 'John.' Then Sherlock was out the door, his footsteps fading as he descended the stairs. They heard the door slam below, and John was alone with Harry.

'I've been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon,' Harry said.

John put down his satchel and removed his jacket. 'You sent me texts,' he said calmly. 'I can't answer texts when I'm at work.'

'That's not what Sherlock said,' Harry replied. 'You answer his texts.'

'Would you like some tea?' John asked, heading towards the kitchen before she could answer, before she could head him off.

'Tea?' She rolled her eyes. 'I'm sober, John. So tea it is. Unless you have diet soda.'

'Nope. Tea it will have to be,' he said firmly.

Harry followed him into the kitchen. She looked better than he had seen her in several months; her face had filled out a bit, and she was dressed smartly.

'Your hair –' John started.

'I highlighted it,' Harry chattered. 'And got a fringe. D'you like it?'

'You've always been a blonde,' he said. She frowned. 'But I like it. It – suits you. It's nice, like that.'

'My roots get dark over the winter,' she complained. 'I bet your hair was gorgeous when you were in Afghanistan. All that sun. You lucky arse.'

He remembered his short haircut, the difficulty he had cleaning his hair and ears and eyes of dust. He didn't care much about the colour of his hair, then or now. For the first time, the war felt like it was very far away.

'Your flatmate's quite plummy, isn't he?' Harry asked.

John signalled for her to sit as he put the teakettle on. 'Just – uh, push some of that stuff over to the other side, it's Sherlock's,' he said. She cleared a spot for them and kept talking.

'He said he knew it was me from my voice,' she said. 'How would he know what my voice sounds like?'

John froze. 'Did you ask him how he knew it?'

Harry tossed her hair over her shoulder. 'No,' she said. 'Why?'

'Because he probably hacked into my voicemail,' John said. 'Again. That rotter.'

'Oooh,' she said in a confidential tone. 'He must be exciting to live with.' John began to wash the dishes in the sink, his back turned towards her. She raised her voice so he could hear her over the din of china and water. 'But you're getting along with him all right, aren't you?'

'Fine,' he said loudly.

'If you don't mind me asking, how much is the rent here?' He turned around and wiped his hands on his trousers. She was looking up at him, her green eyes even larger than he remembered, lined in kohl.

'The landlady gives Sherlock a good deal on the place,' John responded, calmly. 'He solved a case for her, once.' He would be calm with Harry, no matter how large her eyes grew, no matter how sweetly or cruelly she spoke to him. There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead… She didn't have curls – her hair was as straight as his – but apart from that, the rhyme might as well have described Harriet Watson.

'That's nice for you, isn't it?' she asked. And then, suddenly, 'He's going on a date.'

'Who?' John asked, confused.

'Sherlock,' she said. And when she was good, she was very, very good; and when she was bad, she was horrid…

'I sincerely doubt that,' he said. The kettle was whistling and he rushed back to the stove. If only he knew where Sherlock had stowed the tea… 'Give me a second,' he called over his shoulder.

'So what's it like living with the great detective?' she asked him, once he had cleared off some space for himself next to her.

He forced a smile. 'Good,' he said. 'You know – keeps me on my toes.'

She cocked her head. 'Fit bloke,' she said.

'Meaning?' He looked inquisitively at her.

'Whatever you want it to mean,' she said.

'You said you had some news?' John was too eager with his tea and he scalded his tongue.

'I've met someone,' Harry said, with a tone of great confidentiality.

'Oh,' he said. 'That's – great? I think? What's her name?'

'It's a man, John.'

His teacup rattled as he set it in its saucer.

'A man?'

'Yes,' she said, smugly. 'First time in ten years.'

'Wait – you didn't tell me you'd – you mean, you've been with men before this?'

'Don't be so narrow-minded, John. You're not the only one in the family who can try it both ways, you know.'

'Harry.'

'John. I've surprised you, haven't I?'

'You make it sound like I'm having my cake and eating it too. It doesn't work that way, you know,' he said. 'It's not that easy.'

'All I know is that I'm having a fantastic time, John. It's not that I missed anything before, but I'm discovering there's something quite nice about cock, too. In its own way.'

John let out a groan. 'I can't believe we're having this conversation,' he said. 'You're gay, Harry. You've always said men were disgusting…You hate cocks. You think they're – oh what was it you called them? "Useless appendages" ?'

'I fell in love with Jared, not with his penis, John. You of all people should know that.'

'What is that supposed to mean?' he asked, irritated.

'I thought you would be more supportive,' she pouted. 'I thought you'd understand.'

He took a deep breath.

'Harry, excuse me. I'm sorry. You're right. I – I reacted badly. I should have let you tell me everything before interrupting you.'

'Yes, you did. I wanted to be able to share this with you. You should have been happy for me. I didn't think you're react like this – like – like –'

'Harry, I'm sorry,' John said contritely. 'I'm really sorry. That was shitty of me.' There were footsteps on the stairs. Mrs Hudson?

'John!' cried a familiar voice, decidedly not Mrs Hudson's. 'I need you to come with me. Right now.' Sherlock paused at the entrance to the kitchen, looking at Harry. 'She has to stay here,' he said, back to his usual blunt self. His hands went to his neck as he quickly unknotted the cravat and threw it down on the table. 'Are you coming, John?'

John turned to Harry. 'You said he had a date,' he said to her.

Sherlock frowned at them both. 'We don't have time for this. There's a body at the morgue. I need your medical expertise, John.'

'Date must have been called off,' Harry said smoothly, rising from the table. 'I told you he was going on a date, John. He didn't deny it, so it must have been cancelled.'

'John?' Sherlock said with irritation. 'Come.'

'John's busy tonight,' Harry told him. 'We're going out.'

'We are?' John asked, surprised. Then, 'No, we're not. We're really not.'

'John,' Harry said in her most winning tone. 'I finally track you down and you're going to spend the night at the morgue?'

'Yes, he is,' Sherlock snapped. His eyes were dark, radiant. He was alight with a case, John knew; impatient and manic, strung high on the possibility of murder. 'I'm very sorry to inform you, but John is busy tonight.'

'Wait – wait a second,' John said, turning first to Sherlock, then to Harry. 'I haven't agreed to anything yet.'

'Molly won't be happy about letting me in the morgue by myself, John. You know what she said last time. You have to be there.' Sherlock glanced around the table, picked up a teacup and drank it dry.

'Oy!' Harry complained. 'That was my tea, you know!'

'Oh – sorry,' Sherlock said, insincerely.

'You know, Sherlock,' John said. 'It really wouldn't be an issue if you'd stop stealing – ' he coughed meaningfully. '—You-know-what from the morgue,' he muttered, looking at Harry.

'I don't steal,' Sherlock said. 'I borrow. Or I would, if you didn't insist on throwing out my samples.' He glared at John.

'What samples?' Harry asked. 'Can I come with you and see? I've never been in a morgue.'

'No, you can't,' John said quickly. She frowned and he apologized. 'It's just – no. We're not even technically supposed to be there. It's just that the pathologist has a crush on Sherlock and lets him in.'

'You're a consultant at Barts now,' Sherlock said, avoiding Harry. 'That's why I need you to come with me. I need to have a consultant with me.'

'I thought you were a consulting detective,' Harry said.

'Not that kind of consultant,' Sherlock snapped. 'A physician consultant. Don't you know anything about medicine?'

'I'm just a locum consultant,' John interrupted, hoping Sherlock wouldn't say anything else. 'A formality more than anything, so I can refer my patients to Barts,' he explained to Harry. 'Mike set it up for me.'

'Who's Mike?' Harry asked. 'Is he the bloke at the morgue?'

'Him?' John laughed. 'No, Molly is the pathologist who works in the morgue. Mike's a lecturer in trauma medicine.'

'Oh,' Harry said, smoothing her hands over her blouse. She had neat, red nails.

'Don't you read your brother's blog?' Sherlock asked.

Harry looked up at him from the stool. Her eyes were very, very large, and if John hadn't known better, he would have suspected her of batting her eyelashes at Sherlock. Then again, maybe she was.

'I love John's blog,' Harry said. 'He's always been such a good writer.'

Sherlock scoffed. 'You clearly haven't read his blog,' he said. 'Don't pretend you have.'

'I have,' Harry said.

'So, what is it, then?' Sherlock asked. He leaned forward, bracing his arms against the table, bringing his face close to hers. John watched, fascinated and a little fearful.

'What is what?' Harry asked.

'Do you read his blog when you're drinking?' Sherlock continued. 'Is that why you can't remember what he's written? Mike Stamford is the man who introduced us; he knew we were both looking for flatmates. Molly, a female pathologist, is the one who works in the morgue. Listen, I know you read John's blog – it was hyperbole to ask you if you've read it, of course you read it if you leave comments on it. But you don't remember what you read, do you?'

'What—' John began. He didn't understand what Sherlock was getting at.

'So either you read it drunk,' Sherlock went on. 'Or your short-term memory is shot from extensive alcohol use. A third possibility: you don't pay much attention to what John writes, anyway. You're too distracted with your own life. So which is it? Drunken blogging, Korsakoff's syndrome, or narcissism?'

'Sherlock!' John said.

'Fuck off,' Harry said. 'I've been sober for almost fifty days.'

'Harry, ignore everything he said to you,' John said. But Harry had begun to cry.

'Fifty days when you didn't bother to get in touch with John or read his blog, then,' Sherlock said.

'What does that have to do with the morgue?' Harry asked. Then, to John: 'I knew you didn't want to spend time with me. And I was so, so happy to be able to share this with you tonight. When are we going to get a chance to talk? You've been here nearly nine months and this is the first time you've even invited me—'

'Harry—' John began.

'Don't bother answering her, John,' Sherlock commanded. 'It's just a ploy to get you to stay with her. Harry – he didn't invite you. You invited yourself, in case you've forgotten.'

'I got in touch with him because he hasn't called me, written to me, anything, in months.'

'Last time I did,' John said quickly, 'You told me you needed time to yourself. You told me you were going sober and didn't want to see me during withdrawal. I respected that.'

'You do this to him,' Sherlock said slowly, turning to look at Harry. 'You get in touch with John when you want to. Always on your own terms. Am I right?'

'Sherlock—' But John's attempt to hush him was half-hearted. He wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say.

'John returns from Afghanistan, war veteran, decorated, injured. The good son.' Sherlock paused. 'He doesn't have a place to stay in London. But you don't offer to let him stay in your flat, do you? Though with your salary I expect you can afford quite a nice one. Not to mention, it would have been a bit empty after Clara left. But John's too uptight for you, would insist that you stop drinking. You can't have that, not then, not with Clara just gone; you need your drink. So you don't offer. Yet you feel guilty about not giving him some sort of welcome, so you give him your phone. Pawn it off as a kind gesture, something he can be grateful to you for, but you wouldn't have kept it for yourself, either. The engraving - an unpleasant reminder of things that went wrong. And, I suspect, you wanted a newer model for yourself. So, second-hand gift, but expensive gift. John can't complain about you not giving him a place to sleep, not when he's using your phone and the last six months of the phone plan.'

'Sherlock—'

'I was wrong about one thing, though,' Sherlock said to Harry, ignoring John. 'I thought you wanted him to keep in touch with you. But it's the other way around. You want to be able to keep in touch with him. You want him at your beck and call. You give him a nice phone, and he can't make excuses to not talk to you. But you haven't used it as much as you thought you would.' He looked Harry up and down. She appeared too stunned to speak. He narrowed his eyes, looked more closely at her, pushed himself away from the table and circled around her, examining her closely. 'New clothes. Expensive, too. You say you've been sober for almost fifty days. I'd put it closer to forty. You still have that desperate look in your eyes. And it's Friday night. Need a companion, then? Someone to keep you from drinking tonight? Sponsor not available? So you text John, whom you haven't talked to in several months. Must be your new girlfriend is out of town, too.'

'Boyfriend,' John interrupted.

'What?' Sherlock cocked his head and looked to John for an explanation.

'Not a new girlfriend. A new boyfriend.' John threw his arms up in frustration. 'Don't ask me, Sherlock. I can't keep it straight.'

'No pun intended, I'm sure,' Sherlock smirked.

'What?'

'You said, "I can't keep it straight, either." Referring to whether your sister is currently dating men or women. Not that you're on the straight and narrow, either. But quite the Freudian slip, if you ask me.'

John sighed. 'No comment,' he said. 'You're really impossible, Sherlock.' He looked towards Harry, to see how she was taking things. 'It wasn't intentional,' he said pleadingly.

'And you live with him?' Harry asked. 'You put up with this all the time? You don't deserve this, John.'

'He lives with me because his family wouldn't take him in,' Sherlock said.

'I don't see you complaining about John being here!' Harry said, almost in a shout. 'You like having a doctor around, don't you? Someone to get you into the morgue, make your little enterprise look legitimate. I wouldn't be surprised, either, if you like having a man at your side who can wield a gun.'

'I don't have a gun anymore,' John lied. 'I'm just his doctor.'

'Dual diagnosis,' Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing at Harry. He refused to back down. 'She likes to shock, doesn't she, John? Always pushing people away and then complaining that no one loves her. Intentionally setting others up for failure where she is concerned. Personality disorder and alcohol dependence. No wonder you avoid her, John. You can never win with her, can you? Someone else is always to blame.'

'What are you saying?' Harry cried. 'You don't know a thing about me!'

'Oh, don't I?' Sherlock asked. 'I know you have a drinking problem. I know you work in philanthropy – fundraising, perhaps? Gift of gab, stylish, persuasive when you want to be; helps you professionally, even though your personal life is a mess. You just got a new job—a job that pays well, from the look of your shoes and your makeup—' But before he could open his mouth to say more, John interrupted both of them.

'Hold on, you two,' John said. 'Sherlock, do we have to do this tonight?'

'I can deduce your sister any time you like,' Sherlock said smoothly. 'But preferably on her time, not mine. And we still haven't left for the morgue.'

But Harry had already risen. 'I'll come back when I'm invited,' she said imperiously. 'I'm certainly not going to waste another minute on this. John, you can judge for yourself. But someday you are going to have to choose whether to listen to him' – she pointed at Sherlock. '—or to your sister.' She extended her hand to Sherlock. 'I can't say it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes, despite initial appearances.' She looked to John, then back to Sherlock. 'But then again, we've met before, haven't we?'

'I don't believe we have,' Sherlock said. 'I have quite the memory for faces, Harriet.'

'Yes, we have,' Harry said, smiling brightly at him, then at John. 'My memory doesn't fail me when it comes to time spent in rehab. I hated every minute there.' She turned to John. 'Don't you remember?'

'Remember what?' John asked, more puzzled than ever. 'You mean you two have met before?'

'We have,' Harry said smugly. She picked up her purse and coat, tied a silk scarf around her slender neck. 'Blakely House. Eight, almost nine years ago. You remember now, don't you, Sherlock?' Sherlock looked at her blankly; only his nostrils twitched. She smiled again, that ingratiating smile that John hated. 'But now I must be going. You two will have a lot to talk about, I imagine.' Harry threw her head back and laughed. As she passed them on her way out, John could smell her perfume: green mangos and musk rose. Brilliants hung from her ears, sparkling in the low light of the kitchen. Her heels tapped on the steps as she made her way down to the door.

John turned to Sherlock, but Sherlock had pulled on his coat.

'The morgue, John,' Sherlock urged. ''I'll explain later. There's no time to lose!' His voice was quick and light; elated, buzzed, brilliant - Sherlock at his most Sherlock-like.

And John had to follow.