Sherlock stared vacantly at a boiling test tube before shutting the burner off with a huff. He had managed to make an impressive mess in John's absences in the search for a distraction, having found nothing. Lestrade was useless, which wasn't surprising and John hadn't texted him all day. He was positively jittery with energy. He considered pulling out the laptop and pulling up every file he could find on John. It would be easy. Then he could piece together his history, perhaps find the source of those dreams and that would occupy him until John came back and then he could confront him. But he had made a promise never to invade on his privacy in that way. Though of course that promise was made under the assumption that John would tell him so he wouldn't have to. He considered tracking him down but pulled out his phone again instead, sending another message to his unresponsive companion. And then blessedly there was a knock on the door. Sherlock's head shot up from the screen and with a swish of fabric he was off the couch and down the stairs taking them two at a time. Flinging the door open to find a blond woman, hair pulled back in a sloppy pony tail, glasses perched on her nose and a jacket pulled tight around her. Her eyes were red rimmed telling him she'd been crying though she was smiling kindly now. And he noted the bruise, not fully covered by her foundation stretching along her jaw. It seemed Harry was making a mark on everyone these days.

"You must be Sherlock." She said presenting her hand.

"And you're Clara."

"Good on you, you got it in the first try." She smiled. "I'd be more impressed but we all know John keeps few acquaintances and with the current Watson drama I was likely to turn up." Sherlock blinked a bit surprised at the woman. Despite her appearance (the bruise marking her in a way) Clara was not a weakling. "Is John in?"

"No." Sherlock nearly pouted but restrained himself. "I'd don't know when he'll be in."

"Didn't say when he'd be back or where he'd gone hu?" Her teeth clenched through her smile. "Typical Watson in crisis behavior. One person armies, the lot of them." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the woman and open the door wider.

"Would you like to come in for tea?" He asked, surprising himself. He felt a strange desire for company and more so for answers.

"Love to." Clara walked up the remaining stairs. "And I'll answer what questions I can." She said reading Sherlock's intension. Sherlock stared at her intently, at her easy submission of information. She turned at his silence and shrugged. "Hey I wasn't sworn into secrecy. I'm free to say whatever I like. And God help me I remember being desperate for someone to talk to me when I first started seeing Harry. We've got to stick together now, Sherlock, if we have any hope at all of surviving the Watson siblings."

"You checked yourself out?" John had stormed through the front door to find Harry sitting on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, boxing items around the living room.

"I can just as well sober up here."

"Damnit Harry! The rehab is meant to ease you through it, keep you away from temptation!"

"I don't need it."

"Right, 'cause this has worked so well before." He stretched his arms out to indicate the mess of empty bottles and take away containers, of strewn laundry and boxes.

"I can do it this time."

"Harry-"

"You've never taken me to a rehab before." Harry looked up from her box accusingly. And that was the truth. They had never taken their father either. It was an unspoken rule, an unconscious reflex, to not involve anyone outside the family. John focused on the box she was packing, noting it was filled with Clara's things.

"And it never stopped did it?" John swiped a weary hand over his face not sure if he was talking about his sister or his father and realizing there was little difference. "Besides. You've never been violent before." Harry froze, her hand trembling a bit where it was holding that wrinkled band shirt before dropping it into the box.

"I'm not dad." Harry said softly. More to herself than John. "I don't need rehab." She said finally, focusing on closing the box. "I can do it myself. And I don't need my baby brother looking after me so you can run home to your genius detective and forget I exist. That's what you want to do, isn't it? Well, I free you from your responsibilities here, Johnny. Go home." There was a viciousness in her voice, her temper rising as John attempted to stem his own. "But before you go can you take this with you? I imagine Clara has no intention of seeing me again." She kicked the box fiercely sending it sliding across the floor to bash into her brother's feet. John sighed and dragged his tired limbs to sit beside Harry on the couch.

"Fine." They sat in silence a moment, that one word hanging in the air as they both examined the opposite wall. John sighed. "We'll stay here." He reached out, entwining his fingers with his sister's. "But this has to stop Harry. It has to work this time." Harry didn't respond.

"So what do you know?" Clara sat with her legs crossed, the mug held in both her hands, warming her palms.

Sherlock squinted where he was lent against the doorframe. The truth was he didn't know much besides what he had deduced the first time he used John's phone. His fists clenched at his side before he shoved them in his pockets. It never mattered before John- people, and feelings and pasts unless they directly related to some criminal motivation. And now he cared and it mattered and it was . . . . aggravating. "Both parents dead, one living sibling." He started. "Harriet Watson, older sibling by at least two years, married but undergoing a divorce," He paused to eye Clara's reaction, she didn't so much as flinch. "an alcoholic. Father died before John went to war. By John's distaste of alcohol I imagine his father was also an alcoholic. Mother was out of the picture much earlier than that, having either died or left."

Clara nodded, the mug still pressed to her lips. Realizing it was her turn to jump in she brought the warm tea to rest on her knee. "Died. Suicide." Sherlock's eyebrows rose at that. He was leaning toward dead, though he hadn't considered suicide. That seemed like something that would mark someone, show up clearly on their face and Sherlock wondered if he was missing something. And again found himself frustrated by how little he knew about John.

"I wouldn't be too upset." Sherlock's focus returned to Clara who was looking at him understandingly. "I only know a bit more because I've got six years on you. And six years ago Henry Watson was still alive. And things only get said when their being dealt with." Clara shrugged and took another sip of tea.

"Susanna Watson was a manic depressive." She continued. "I only know that because we worry Harry is too. It seemed it was manageable until after she had John. Harry was about five when john was born. Susanna would have episodes locked in her room for days, Henry was working or sat in front of the telly, so Harry was taking care of John. " Clara went to lean her chin in her hand and winced at the pressure on her bruise. She sat back instead hardening her face and continuing. "It was a pistol. Harry was eight John was a little over three. Harry was in school. John was in the room." Sherlock's head shot up and his chest tightened. Clara had the decency to look guilty for saying it and Sherlock felt a sudden jolt of shame at not having waited for John to tell him.

A dozen questions raced through Sherlock's already overactive mind as his heart ached painfully. It was a terrible feeling really, this caring business. When he spoke his voice was rough. "Harry told you all that?"

"Harry's favorite topics when she's drunk are her parents and Kate Winslet. And Harry is drunk a lot." Clara's hands tightened around the mug. "Anyway. Harry and John spent their adolescence taking care of each other. Their father was a drunken, abusive bastard. And Harry seemed to inherit the worst of both parents. Though she wasn't violent until recently." Clara said in a breath. "Makes you want to forgive them anything hu?"

Sherlock was scowling. John wasn't to be pitied. And Sherlock was sure that was the reason he never told him. John didn't want sympathy and Sherlock wasn't going to give it to him. He did however wish Henry Watson was still alive, if only so he could murder him. "So what's happening now?" Sherlock asked between gritted teeth.

"Now?" Clara finished her tea with a gulp. "John's probably trying to get Harry to detox."

"Why, if it's never worked before?"

"It worked once." Clara corrected. "After Henry died we had a sort of intervention. Harry was good for nearly a year. Really good. The best I'd ever seen her. Then John went to Afghanistan and she fell apart." Clara set the mug on the only uncluttered corner of the coffee table. "It seems John's doomed to be the catalyst to the mental instability of all the Watson women." Clara's eyes widened as she realized what she said. "That was terrible of me to say. Please don't tell him I said that."

"What do we do?" Sherlock cut in. He didn't mean to sound so desperate. He had hoped that after knowing what was going on he could help but this was beyond him. People aren't simply fixed. They can't be worked out and corrected. He felt even more helpless then when this started, juggling all this damning information. He regretted talking to Clara. He should have waited for John but a part of him argued John would have never said anything.

Clara was smiling sadly at him. "We wait until they need us."

"That is hardly a solution." Sherlock bit back a growl of frustration.

"If we rush in there with our arms open they will bite our fingers off like cornered dogs. They need to know they need the help before they'll take it."

Sherlock wanted to punch the wall, he wanted to throw his mug across the room but he was the epitome of control and instead only gripped it tighter. "If we are to do nothing then why bother to tell me?"

Clara considered him carefully, taking her time to answer the question. "So you don't leave him."

Before Sherlock could argue his phone buzzed at his side.

Won't be home tonight. Don't wait up.
JW