A/N: Hey, remember John's sister Harry? I haven't addressed her so far, and I decided that I'd like to. It ended up not being at all what I expected it to be, but I really liked the way it turned out. If you like Harry, I'm sorry- I was not kind to her. The song is "When It Rains," by Paramore. Enjoy!
It was a relaxing morning in 221B Baker Street, and John had even managed to get Sherlock to eat some toast. Granted it was dry, and due to their distraction while it was toasting it was a little bit burned, but it was enough of a victory that John was smiling. Sherlock had moved from the table to gather up his violin and bow and was playing something soft and relaxed while John worked on his own toast.
Just then there was a sound from downstairs, and John heard a cheerful feminine voice calling up to them that had him biting down hard on his toast… and catching his tongue slightly, making him wince. He could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth as he hastily swallowed, not missing the surprised glance Sherlock sent him.
"Fuck." He mumbled, hastily gesturing Sherlock toward the downstairs bedroom. He looked even more shocked now, but ambled inside, shutting the door just as the door to their flat burst open, revealing a very exuberant Harry Watson.
"Brother dear! Hello!" Harry was smiling, and she looked completely different from the last time he'd seen her. She'd been drunk that night, very, very drunk, and she'd thrown a bottle at him when he'd tried to convince her to stop. It had been after one of her fights with Clara, one of the really bad ones, and John had barely gotten out of the way of the flying glass. He hadn't been to visit, after that, though he had shot Clara a text warning her not to come home that night. He knew, because they'd kept in touch, that she hadn't gone home until two weeks after that.
John had thought that Harry blamed him for Clara's leaving, from the way she'd acted, but the fact that she was here now, smiling, suggested otherwise. Apparently she hadn't meant what she'd been screaming at him.
"Harry. What are you doing here?" He realized he'd sounded harsh when her smile melted away, replaced by an extremely hurt expression. Wincing at his own callousness, he kept talking, hoping that Sherlock had gotten the hint and would be getting dressed. It was fortunate that they still had their clothes in their own rooms, though they'd been spending most nights curled up in Sherlock's bed, only having spent a week up in John's when one of Sherlock's experiments, which had been confined to his bedroom due to its nature, had exploded and left them needing protective gear to enter, until the air had finally cleared. It was now mostly back to normal, except for a few char marks on the floor and walls.
"I mean, not that it's not great to see you, but I certainly wasn't expecting you." Sherlock came back out then, fortunately dressed, and he'd schooled his expression into its usual cool indifference. From what he'd heard of Harry, he knew she was someone who would likely treat him much as Donovan and Anderson did, and he disliked he already because of everything she put John through. He quickly scanned her with his eyes, making sure not to miss a thing.
"It's it a bit early for alcohol, Ms. Watson?" His voice arch and chilly, Sherlock crossed the kitchen and took his seat again, reaching over to take a sip of John's tea. It was a deliberately possessive gesture, one he knew Harry saw by the narrowing of her eyes. He shoved down the urge to sigh. It had been such a lovely morning, but now, it was obvious he was going to have to gear up for battle.
"I wanted to talk to Johnny. In private. It's about… Clara." Making sure to sound lost and forlorn, a trick she used on her brother frequently, Harry bowed her head so he wouldn't see the calculation in her eyes. Sherlock, instead of leaving as would be polite, simply crossed his arms over his chest, making it obvious that he was going nowhere.
"Sherlock… do you think you could give us a minute?" John's voice was every bit as soft and sympathetic as Harry had expected it to be, and she bit back a smile. Yes, he was the same brother she'd always known, just as malleable to her will with the right words and actions.
"I'll be in the living room, then." Stiffly, Sherlock rose, and John knew he would have to apologize later. Sherlock had been trying to offer moral support in his own way, but if John was honest with himself, he wanted to deal with Harry on his own. The last thing he wanted to do was drag his lover into the craziness that was his sister, if he wanted him to even stick around long enough to get a chance to propose to him.
The violin music began again, the tone this time vaguely mournful, a touch angry, and John knew that Sherlock was composing as he played. It was something he did when he was trying to express his feelings without words, and John decided that he would be doing something sweet and romantic to make it up to him later. And he would explain his feelings on the matter as well. For now, however, he had a sister to deal with.
"What about Clara, Harry? Where is she?" John had a feeling he knew what had happened, but he couldn't help feeling a little disgusted when tears began to track theatrically down her cheeks. Harry had gone from being his sweet sister to being a manipulative monster about the time she'd started drinking heavily, which she blamed on the fact that their parents hadn't been supportive of her being a lesbian.
John had cut ties with them in favor of supporting his sister, but it still saddened him to see what she'd become, even with him being there for her. Harry was now a user of more than just alcohol, and John had little doubt that she'd driven Clara away once again. As she put her face in her hands, probably so she could stop faking the tears, he simply made two more cups of tea and waited it out.
"She's left me again." When Harry was satisfied that her brother was going to play right into her plan, she dried her tears and accepted the tea, barely resisting the urge to request an additional ingredient. John didn't like it when she drank, she remembered.
"What happened this time?" John knew his voice wasn't as warm as it usually was when dealing with his sister's drama, and could tell by her quivering frown that she'd noticed.
"What do you mean what happened? She said… she said she doesn't want to love me." Turning the volume of her theatrics up, because that usually helped, Harry started fake sobbing in earnest, putting her head on her arms on the table and letting her whole body shake. Instead of coming around to hug her, however, John remained in his seat. Distantly, he heard the beginnings of rain outside the flat through the open window, and he wondered why it always seemed to be raining, when it came to his sister.
"Were you drinking again?" John's blunt question stopped the tears instantly, outrage jumping up to take their place. It was the first honest emotion Harry had exhibited in front of him the entire morning, he knew, and it was a sad commentary on their relationship.
"What are you talking about? Why would you just assume something like that? Don't you care about me at all, Johnny, that you would ask such a horrible question when the woman I love's gone and left me again? She jerks me around something fierce, and all you have to say about it is 'was I drinking again?' If I was, it's not your fucking business!"
Harry had jumped up from the table sometime during her little speech, but neither of them realized that the violin music had stopped until Sherlock was suddenly there, hand wrapped around the wrist of the hand she'd been moving to smack John with, glaring at her with fury boiling in his eyes.
"You will not touch John. Get out." Sherlock had been fully prepared to let John work things out with his sister on his own, but he'd been watching, and had seen the indicators of violence. He might have let John get yelled at, since that was obviously something he'd been prepared for, but he wasn't going to watch Harry hit him and do nothing. It was in his nature to protect those he loved, though it was a side of him people rarely saw, and those protective instincts rose to the fore when he considered the fact that John hadn't moved at all, and would have let her hand make contact with his face.
Harry attempted to wrench her fist out of Sherlock's grip, but he was surprisingly strong for his build. He held on as he escorted her to their door, then shoved her out in the hallway and shut and locked the door between them. She'd smelled of booze and stale cigarettes, and Sherlock had no doubt that she would be going to a bar to spill her sob story out to some bartender, somewhere, who wouldn't see it for what it was—an act.
He didn't understand why she would behave as she did. She really didn't have such a bad life, all things considered. But she was one of those people who always wanted more, and couldn't be content with her own life. In addition, she couldn't let anyone in her life be happy if she herself wasn't, and her problems were never her own fault, but always someone else's. Sherlock had always considered such people contemptible, but it occurred to him only after the door was firmly locked that it should have been John's decision, not his, whether or not she stayed or went.
Turning carefully, worried that John might be upset with him, he was surprised to find his arms filled with army doctor as John wrapped his arms around him and buried his face against his chest, breathing deeply. He wasn't crying, or even shaking, but he held Sherlock tight for a long moment before letting go and moving to sit on the sofa. Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock followed, tugging him into his arms when he sat stiffly. He went willingly into his lover's embrace, taking comfort in the soothing scent of lavender and tobacco that would have let him identify the taller man even in the pitch dark.
"I don't know how she can do that," he said, voice soft. Sherlock held him a little tighter, but didn't speak, knowing he needed to let it all out. "She does this to herself, then blames everyone else. And she won't let those of us who still care, despite everything, help her. She's always running away from people who love her, and it's always everyone else's fault, as far as she's concerned. It's like she doesn't even understand that she's the only one standing in her way of being happy. It's always rain with her, never sun, and all she would have to do is open her eyes. She has more than a lot of people, and she acts like she has nothing at all."
John closed his eyes then, cuddling closer to Sherlock. He was surprisingly good at cuddling, considering he was all arms and legs, but instead of feeling like he was cuddling with an octopus, John just felt comforted.
"Some people can't see what's right in front of them, John. How many murders have we seen committed that were driven by misunderstandings or things that should have been completely irrelevant? There are those who simply can't trust happiness, even when it's handed to them and tied up in a bow. I think your sister's just one of those people. And I am sorry that hurts, you, but… she's made her bed, John. If she now has to lie in it, at the bottom of the hole she's dug for herself, that's not on you, but on her. Don't blame yourself or think it's anything to do with you."
"Part of me knows all that. But she's my sister, too. I just… I don't get it. She does this every time, and it's like I never see it coming, because a part of me always thinks that maybe this will be the time she changes, the time she gets over herself and all the imagined sleights that make her act like she does. I wish she could just… be the sister she used to be. Or at least explain to me, in a way I could understand, the reason she acts like this."
"There may never be a way to fix your relationship, John. I hate to say it, but… even when Mycroft and I were at odds, I never doubted that he did the best he could by me. He never used me as a pawn, and never treated me like a convenience. Even when he was doing questionable things, I always knew he had my best interests at heart. I don't think… I don't think that you can trust Harry to not use you."
It hurt, knowing Sherlock felt that way, because he was rarely ever wrong. It obviously wasn't a deduction he'd wanted to make—his whole body was tense as he prepared himself for John's rejection—and John knew he wouldn't have voiced the truth if he hadn't thought it was something he had to hear, regardless of what it did to their relationship. Knowing he cared enough about John's happiness to put him first like that melted the ice that had formed in the doctor's heart when his sister had come to the door that morning.
Turning so he could look into Sherlock's eyes, John looked at him for a long moment before nodding, pressing their lips together gently in a kiss that sought reassurance, above all else. And Sherlock, who'd never even known how to offer comfort, offered it easily, something no one else would ever experience. Knowing that soothed the ragged edges in John's mind, let him relax into the kiss and allow it to soothe the pain from his heart, at least for a while.
There was passion, yes, but it was a slow smolder that allowed both of them all the time in the world to just work slowly into it, letting it build instead of simply exploding in them like fireworks. They stripped one another down slowly in the living room, the heat rising even as the rain grew harder. It lashed in earnest as the two of them reached their climax, John following close on Sherlock's heels, and John laughed a little as he curled close against his lover, head on his shoulder while his fingers danced absently over his chest before settling palm down over his heart.
"What's so amusing?" Though Sherlock could easily deduce most people as if it was nothing, he frequently found himself surprised by John, and he had also been trying to let him be honest, instead of simply figuring out what John was thinking and feeling for himself. He never wanted his lover to feel inferior or like he didn't have the choice of being honest when he chose to be. He was entitled to his secrets, even if it drove Sherlock crazy sometimes to not know exactly what was going on with him.
"I was just thinking that when it rains, it really does pour. But I'm not sure I think of that as a bad thing, when I know you'll always be here to shelter me from the storm and hold me even when everything else is terrible and a complete mess. I love you, Sherlock."
"I love you too, John. And I am happy to be here to hold you." And he was. It was strange, Sherlock realized, that he could be so happy and maintain that happiness. There was a little voice in the back of his head that warned that things wouldn't be perfect all the time, and that he shouldn't get complacent, but he waved it off for the moment; John made him feel incredible, and he would hold onto that, no matter what the world through at them.