Thursday, December 24th, 2009

"John? John, I am so sorry."

John fiddled with his cup of coffee, turning it a bit on the tabletop. He looked up from under his brows at his sister, who was looking small, huddled up in her seat. John had agree to meet her at this café because she had insisted. The tone of her voice, so shamed, so - defeated, had pierced the smothering depression that had covered him since yesterday.

"Well?" he asked, not unkindly. He knew her usual pattern. God knew he wished he didn't. "What was all that about then? When you called?"

"I didn't mean to... be cruel, I know you try to be there for me. I was just... "

"Out of it. I know."

Her pale face scrunched in acknowledgement. God, she looked dreadful, worse than she normally did after a binge. Her blond hair was lank, her skin translucent and bruised with tiredness. Not just a hangover, then.

"I was just... acting out."

"For god's sake, Harry. I know that. What happened?"

To his horror, a tear ran down her face, to be quickly swiped away. "It was... I saw Clara. She was out having dinner with - with another woman. I mean, I know I was the one that left, but... " She looked up at him, hazel eyes direct and wounded. "I think... I think I made a mistake."

"Oh, god. Harry." He covered her hand with his, and squeezed.

"Look at me, I'm a mess. I've screwed it up. I couldn't stop drinking, and I let it pull us apart. Why am I such a fucking mess?" Harry's voice quavered, and John abruptly dragged his chair closer to hers and gathered her into his arms, pulling her head against his shoulder. He rested his head against the top of hers, hair ticking his cheek, and rubbed her back.

"Sh. Harry. Harry... Don't take on so. Sh. Sh."

She trembled, and snuffled back the tears. Her voice was a thread of sound but attempted to be light-hearted. "Of all the things I've thrown away, I'm glad you at least got the phone out it."

He chuckled because it was expected and needed. "True. Thank you again, Harry. If you ever want it back -"

She pulled free, rubbing her eyes. "No. I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this."

"Do you want to?"

"I want to not feel like my life is out of my control, John." She smiled, and it hurt him to see it, because he knew how it was to have a face that smiled and smiled while you were dying inside, a mask between you and the world. "And... I want to have Christmas dinner with my brother tomorrow."

John blinked. "Uh... my place?"

She snorted. "Not bloody likely. Mine. Five o'clock be all right? Bring some Christmas crackers, that'll cheer me up."

He smiles. "Perfect."

She sighed, and her gaze was distant. "I think she loves.. loved me, John, but I couldn't trust it, trust her to stick it out. So I sabotaged it. I drove her away."

John felt a twinge, but nods understanding.

"Why do we do the things that hurt us most? How did I ever end up like this, John?"

He said nothing, only gripped her shoulder, squeezing gently.

I know. I know how you feel.

Sunday, December 27th 2009

A deep voice shouted something incomprehensible in a rude tone, but Lestrade took it as an invitation to enter Sherlock's small flat. He pushed open the door, and his face twisted up. The room was dim with smoke, the smell of cigarettes thick in the air. Coughing, eyes squinting, he moved past the prone figure on the sofa and pushed up the window.

"Christ, Sherlock, it's toxic in here! How the hell can you breathe?"

"Breathing? Overrated. Close the window, you're letting in a draft."

Lestrade eyed him in bemused irritation. "Put some bloody clothes on, man. It's three in the afternoon. Why are you still in your dressing gown?"

A languid hand waved a cigarette at him. "Not going out. Busy."

"Busy? Doing what?"

"Thinking."

Lestrade rubbed the back of his head, and blew out a breath. Christ. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Every encounter gave him three more grey hairs, Lestrade was sure. The man was staring at the ceiling as if all the answers he had ever desired were written thereupon. His gaze was so intense, Lestrade half-expected the smoke came from where the man's gaze seared the cheap ceiling tiles.

"For the love of... You better not be using again, Sherlock..."

The pale eyes flicked to him, then up again. "Don't be stupid." The voice was cool and dismissive. Lestrade scowled.

"I came here to collect something you took, you shit."

There was no reaction from the pale-faced figure, aside from a hand curving up to his lips. Dragging deeply on the cigarette, Sherlock blinked slowly, but didn't look at the DI. Lestrade's temper flared.

"Took me about a week to notice my card was gone. For Christ's sake, Sherlock -! My credit company said you'd been calling -"

"A gay phone sex line."

"A phone sex..." Lestrade's ears were beginning to feel hot. "You called - excuse me. What?"

"Gay. Phone. Sex. Line.Are you incapable of understanding even single syllable words?"

Too much information, Sherlock! thinks Lestrade. Didn't need to know that about you, thank you!

"Yes, all right! You... Never mind. You called... a gay... a phone sex line. Four times. Four... times! For... I don't even want to get into the charges. Sherlock, what the hell -!"

"It's over there."

Lestrade looked where the thin hand gestured, seeing a brown envelope stuck to the door frame between kitchen and living area. Suppressing a sigh, he walked over. It was stuck to the woodwork with... he eyed the flesh-toned thing.

"Is this a nicotine patch?"

"No. Detox. Told you I was clean."

Lestrade carefully pulled the envelope free, glancing beyond into the kitchen as he did so. He paused. The kitchen was a disaster area - cupboard doors flung open, shards of glass glinting, the table top split open, deep dents in its surface. He turned to Sherlock. "Your kitchen. What happened?"

"It's not important. I'll be looking for a new flat regardless. The window, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade was beginning to feel wrong-footed. He'd come here to deal with Sherlock, who behaved more often like a recalcitrant child than a grown man in his thirties. But instead of having a good long shout and getting his frustration at Sherlock's antics out of his system, Lestrade was getting worried. Sherlock's tendencies towards self-destructive behaviour weren't unfamiliar to the Inspector.

"You're not going mad on me, are you?" Lestrade's tone was meant to be humorous, but it came out sounding more concerned. He wrinkled his brow.

A deep sigh of utter distilled boredom was his only answer.

"Fine. As long as you're sure." Lestrade moved to close the window with an emphatic thump. He pulled a pen from a pocket, and used the tip to slit open the envelope. Within was his cancelled credit card, along with a wad of five pound notes. Far too many to cover the charges that were made to his credit line. He shook his head. He knew Sherlock well enough not to expect an apology.

"Are you even going to explain? Why? Well, not that, none of my business, I guess but - no, never mind. You know what? I do want to know. What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Sherlock's hand froze mid-way to bringing the cigarette to his lips again, the smoke drifting into his tousled curls. Abruptly he reached down to a mug lying beside the sofa that was over-flowing with cigarette butts. He ground the smouldering cigarette out with a vicious twist. "Something regrettable."

Lestrade half-laughed. "You? Regret anything? You're putting me on."

The fever-bright eyes rested on him for a second, the full mouth twisted, and then Sherlock went back to staring at the ceiling.

And that was all that Lestrade got from him.