John fished out Harry's spare key from his pocket letting his head rest on the door as he gathered himself. It had been awhile since he performed this ritual. He took a deep breath before swinging open the door and stepping fully in. The place smelled musty and John thought that Clara must not have been staying here. She would never stand for the place looking like this.

There was clothing dropped about. As if Harry had walked in the door and stripped. Which could very well be the case, she was known for stripping after binges. She'd complain that her clothing itched, or that it felt like sandpaper. John often found her in nothing but her underwear if anything at all.

On this occasion she was passed out on the couch in nothing but an old band shirt. One of Clara's if John remembered. She was wearing nothing else, her arse hanging out under the large t-shirt, her face pressed into the stained cushions. John found himself moving without thinking about it. His fingers instinctively checking her pulse though he could see her chest rising and falling. After draping an abandoned shirt over her to give her a bit of modesty he collected all the half full bottles he could find and moved to the sink. It felt ritualistic. After dumping the collection strewn about and the few left in the fridge he moved to the rest of her hiding places. The bottles hidden in the light fixture, under the sink, in the corner cabinet, the stash beneath her bed, he thought absently as he pulled the bottle from under the armchair, all the places their father used to hide his vice.

It wasn't until he was pouring the last of the vodka in the sink that Harry began to stir. He could hear her reach around for the bottles that were no longer there. She felt under the couch and gave a huff of disapproval. Then she was up looking through her bedroom her anger building as she found each room stripped. She clumsily pulled things off shelves and knocked over furniture. Harry had a temper like a gas fed fire. John's seemed tame in comparison. Harry would say dull. It was a Watson trait for sure, their mother being as timid as a lamb. At its best their tempers made them defenders at its worse it made them cruel.

"JOHN!" Harry shuffled her way into the kitchen catching sight of her brother dumping the last bottle. Her face reddened. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" John ignored her. He hadn't been afraid of Harry Watson since he was five years old. Suddenly she was at his shoulder looking at all the empty bottles. She ran about like someone possessed checking her kitchen stashes to find them gone. She whipped around to face John so angry her hands were shaking. "What gives you the right to come into my bloody home?" John hadn't turned around not justifying her tantrum with a response. She shoved him hard, his hip hitting the edge of the sink but he only sighed, weary. With a furious grunt she threw her arms into the pile of bottles grabbing the first thing that her hand landed on and swung. John wasn't expecting it. The bottle hit him hard in the cheek before he could grab her wrist. He felt his stomach clench at a sharp flash of memory and had to bite down the panic of an eight year old boy that crawled up his spine and had him clenching his eyes shut. With a gasp he opened his eyes and yanked the bottle out of her hand after gripping her a little tighter then he intended. He flung it away from himself sending it smashing to explode in the sink like shrapnel.

He was breathing heavy now, his hand over his face as he tried to get control over himself. Harry seemed to sober up. She was staring at the broken glass before turning matching blue eyes back to John.

"Johnny, I'm so sorry." Her arms went up to hug him but he swatted them away.

"Jesus Christ, Harry give me a goddamn minute." She nodded her head and began picking up the glass that had scattered on the floor.

"Where's Clara?" Harry asked the floor not daring to look up at her shaken brother.

"She went home."

"I need to talk to her." John sighed.

"You can't."

"What?" Harry's eyes were smoldering. "Don't tell me what to do, John."

"You don't get to see her anymore." John matched her pitch his anger rising. "You blew it Harry. God you had it so fucking good and you blew it. She was so good to you-" He was having trouble holding back his own anger now, his fists clenching at his sides. "I can't believe you."

"It's not over. We're working it out. The papers haven't been signed."

John looked at her incredulously. "So what, you don't remember?"

"We got into a fight." Harry shrugged. Her brunet hair falling in wisps about her face as she bent to pick up glass. "We always get into fights. It's my temper, I know."

"You hit her."

"No-"

"Yes you did." John's voice was softer now at the look on Harry's face. Her focus became distant as she struggled to grasp snippets of memory. And with a jolt she was crying, back sliding down the cabinets until she was sitting in the broken glass.

"Is she ok?"

"I think so."

"Did I hit her more than once?" John eyes closed at the question. It was one they used to gage their father's blame. Once could have been in the moment, a rash response that could be blamed on the drink, quickly followed by an apology like Harry with the bottle or their dad walking away. But more than once was unforgivable. More than once and they could place blame.

"You hit her a few times."

Harry clamped her hands over her mouth to cover her sobs. Her body tensed until she was rolled into a miserable ball, tears pouring over her clenched fingers.

"Come on Harry, you're sitting on glass." John bent to his sister, finally opening his arms to her. She flung herself into his chest, burying her face in his jumper.

"God, John . . . what the fuck is wrong with me?"

It was hours later that John was dragging himself up the stairs of their flat. He was exhausted. His shoulder ached, and his head was reeling. He intended to go straight to bed but found Sherlock sleeping on the sofa, stretched out on his back with his head on the arm. He was facing the doorway, as if he fell asleep waiting. John watched him silently for a moment before crawling next to the slumbering detective. Wrapping his arms around his slender waist, he buried his face into the other man's neck. He felt Sherlock drape an arm across his back and shift to look at him.

"John?" Sherlock's breath tickled the hair on his forehead.

"Hmm?"

"What happened to your cheek?" Slender fingers grazed the deep bruise before resting on his jaw.

"It's ok. Don't worry." John, snuggled against Sherlock, quickly falling asleep, missing his companions disapproving frown.