A/N Nothing much to say~

Thanks to IamSHERlocked4ever ^^

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

[7/10]

It would be nice if John actually told him things once in a while. Didn't he have the right to know when his flat mate's sister was visiting, rather than having it cruelly and unjustly sprung on him in a time when it was the last thing he wanted? Naturally, the doctor insisted that he had, in fact, informed Sherlock of it multiple times, but, well, it was important enough that the detective wouldn't have erased it from his mind- probably- so that was impossible. Of course John had to be stubborn enough to deny that he simply failed to spread the time and date of Harry's arrival, though. And now, Sherlock had only- he glanced up at the clock on his dimmed computer screen to check- forty-six minutes until John would be back from the airport, sister in tow. She wasn't staying with them, of course, that would be ridiculous in a flat the size of theirs; but she'd still be nearby, close enough, as John had made sure to remind him forcefully, for daily, day-long visits. Apparently, he was expected to maintain an acceptable manner for the lot of the time, since this was her first time meeting him and all that. From the comments from her that Sherlock had seen on John's blog, he had a fairly good grasp on her personality and such, and he knew already that it was far from the sort he enjoyed dealing with. She'd definitely be snarky, most likely to the point of arrogance, and almost certainly more than a bit drunk on at least one occasion. John had mentioned something about trying to keep her away from her drinking this time around, but honestly, he doubted that anyone was up to that job. They'd just have to cope with her, intoxicated or otherwise.

Well, John would have to deal with her. Sherlock had no plans to get involved with the miniature family reunion himself, and his keeping his distance was probably what Harry would appreciate most, anyways. John would probably keep trying to force them together anyways, though, like magnets of the same polarity. Of course, he'd just have to give up before they repelled each other so violently that something truly damaging happened.

Forty-five minutes.

Unable to stand watching the row of numbers any longer, Sherlock impatiently slammed the lid of the computer shut and flopped back on the couch, raising his slipper-clad feet and balancing them delicately on the end arm. John had threatened—though, if anyone was to ask, he would most certainly insist that it was a mere request—that if Sherlock wasn't dressed by the time he returned, there would be some serious… something. Exactly what that might be, Sherlock neither knew nor cared. He wasn't intimidated—how could he be? Mostly, he was glad that John was feeling well enough to insist on such things. It made him feel better, to think that his flat mate was, well… living life properly again. It was about time, after all.

Slowly, he tilted his head back, letting it rest on the couch arm behind him, and gazed silently at the ceiling. Forty-three minutes, his internal clock told him. Forty-three minutes was an irritating amount of time, he decided. It lasted too long to do nothing, and yet was too short to do anything. A small slice out of the day, useless when isolated, like so many things in the world. Nothing in life worked alone. Everything was interconnected, woven into one another, forming a huge web, a single…

He shook his head. Forty-three—no, forty-two, now—minutes weren't enough to let his mind wander, not to a philosophical level. He'd only been moodier upon John's return if he'd worked himself into a truly thoughtful state, and that probably wouldn't help anyone, least of all he himself. The best thing to do was…

What?

Bored, an all-too-familiar part of his mind whined.

A brief smile crossed his face at the prospect of the expression on John's face if he were to return and find the wall riddled with bullet holes. It would be entertaining, to say the least. For a moment, he almost considered actually doing just that and shooting a month's worth of rent into the innocent, all-too-recently repaired wood... it wouldn't be worth it, though, because John wouldn't just be upset, he'd be... well, just that. Upset. It was odd, like there were two sides to the single emotion. There was the upset John that was a humorous occurrence, an entertaining factor to Sherlock, and there was the upset John that would leave a bad taste in his mouth, regret, pain... guilt.

There it is.

Stupid guilt. He hated it, hated it so damn much. What was the point of such an emotion? What... how did it benefit anyone? The answer was that, quite simply, it didn't. There was no point whatsoever to the frustrating thing implanted in every human on earth. Once, a long time ago (or so it seemed now), he had thought himself immune to such petty constraints, but now... it was all John's fault. John had changed everything, everything. Everything. Not one single aspect of Sherlock's life was left untouched. Things had changed. Changed so... vividly. Not quite painfully, it was just... like the world had been given color suddenly, a whole new depth, another dimension. And it seemed so unnecessary, yet so vital. So...

No. You're not thinking about all that right now. I thought we already decided that.

What he needed was something to do, something physical, something that would take his mind off of this stupidity. But there was nothing. Nothing that would fill only thirty-seven minutes.

He'd just have to keep waiting. Have one of those mental naps that he did so often, where he let everything subside, riding just under the surface of his consciousness, almost like a meditation of sorts. It was, often, in that sort of state that ideas came to him.. Not that he was expecting any sort of idea this time; there was nothing he was looking for an answer to, not really. Still, maybe he'd be able to brainstorm up an activity that could occupy his time. At the very least, it would stop him from obsessing over... things.

And things, even he knew, meant John.

John called him just three minutes before his and Harry's arrival.

"You'd better be dressed," his voice snarled from Sherlock's phone, which was on speaker. "She's in a good mood, and I don't want that changing."

"You know," Sherlock replied to the air, "most people would take that as an indication to lighten up, not become even more worked up."

"I'm not most people," was the clipped response.

A smirk formed on the detective's face. It felt almost as though they were switching roles. Apparently, having Harry around made John a lot less easygoing. It wasn't all that likable, in Sherlock's opinion, but still interesting, still amusing. "Just calm down," he advised, reaching up a hand and tracing loops through the air with a stray finger.

"Are you dressed, though?"

He wasn't, of course. His nightclothes were comfortable, after all, and he didn't quite feel that John had the right to instruct him to change. After all, he hadn't even agreed to having a guest in their shared flat. If John was going to make arrangements without informing him first, he'd have to suffer the consequences. It was only fair, after all.

"I suppose you'll just have to come and see, won't you?"

"Sherlock-"

"Don't want to hear it," he grumbled. "I'll hang up on you if you keep whining at me."

"You're about to anyways, aren't you?" John's voice was weary and resigned. He clearly knew perfectly well that they'd find the detective in his robe and slippers.

"Right on. Your deduction skills must be improving."

"Shut-"

Not even bothering to look over at the phone, Sherlock tapped the end call button. He did hate talking to people over the devices. What was the point, when one could simply text? The latter seemed like a much more reasonable option. It required less effort.

Any time now...

Moments later, there was a slam as the front door opened and closed, and the shuffling murmurs of more than one body. Harry's voice, though undoubtedly feminine, was actually lower than John's, a bit husky and rough.

Great. She smokes, too.

As long as she didn't attempt to inside the flat. That might just be enough to drive Sherlock over the brink to madness. John would probably try to control that particular behavior of hers, as well- with any luck, she'd keep it to where she herself was staying.

No, not luck. He didn't believe in luck.

He slunk into his bedroom just as the stairs began to creak with the sound of feet ascending them, closing the door precisely as the other opened and flopping back onto his bed.

"Sherlock?" John's questioning voice dropped into the air, and he didn't bother to respond. A noisy sigh came from the main room, and a few mumbled, hasty apologies. "I'll just- sorry, here, why don't you... would you like some tea?"

"If it's the best you have to offer," the other voice agreed reluctantly. "This place is a mess, do you realize that?"

"Yeah... here, you can sit down on the couch... I'll be right back." There were some more rustles, the sound of a kettle being set on the stove, then footsteps approaching Sherlock's door. He made sure to be looking at the ceiling when John slipped in, pulling on a vaguely bored expression specially for the doctor's benefit.

"What the hell are you doing?" John hissed, shutting the door behind him and standing against it as if to barricade it shut.

"Lying on the bed. Wishing that your precious sister wasn't here right now."

"I thought I told you to get dressed!"

"You did. Didn't feel like it."

"You couldn't just do this one tiny thing for me?"

"It's not for you," Sherlock pointed out, throwing an arm over his eyes. "It's for her, and I don't like her, so why should I exhaust my energies in making her happy?"

"You haven't even met her!" John exclaimed with a mixture of exasperation and impatience. "Please, she's my sister. Just give her a chance, why don't you?"

Well, at the moment, the only good thing that Sherlock could identify about Harriet Watson was that she was keeping her brother from thinking about Sarah, and that, of course, was one of the best things that a person could do. Still.

"...Fine. I'll be out there in five minutes. Now go on and make your guest comfortable, if she can survive the messiness of our flat." He flapped his hand in John's general direction.

"You'd better," John grumbled, making no response towards the second thing Sherlock had said. The detective lifted his forearm from his eyes just long enough to see the doctor shaking his head in apparent frustration and slinking out of the door, shutting it behind him a bit more loudly than necessary.

It was, indeed, exactly five minutes later when Sherlock, now clothed in his usual sleek suit, emerged from the bedroom. His pattern of walking seemed almost as if he didn't want to be noticed- like that was possible. As much as he would have liked to play along and behave as though he and Harry were the only ones in the flat, John hurried over and took hold of Sherlock's arm, pivoting him around to face his sister.

"Harry, Sherlock," John introduced stiffly, "Sherlock, Harry."

"Well," Harry drawled, watching with dark, almost black-brown eyes so unlike John's own. "So here he is, the famous Sherlock Holmes." The corner of her mouth curled up into a narrow smirk. "Bit skinny, aren't you? Oh, well." Ignoring John's half-mouthed protests at her attitude, she straightened up from her slump against the back of the couch, continuing to speak. "You know, my brother here absolutely adores you. Says that the last few months since he moved in here were some of the best of his life, and I'm quoting that."

"Did you enjoy your flight from Reykjavik?" Sherlock questioned in response, seemingly not feeling the need to bother with introductions. "No, apparently not. Only a half hour of sleep at best, and you didn't eat any of the... spaghetti with alfredo sauce that they served. Shame. I don't blame you, though, that air food really is awful. Let's see... oh, you did go for the breakfast, though. It is hard to go wrong with a blueberry muffin. And... a bag was lost in the transition from New York to Reykjavik. Don't expect to be supplied with replacement luggage, the airline that you flew with is really awful about that sort of thing."

"Just as impressive as I've heard," Harry purred, seemingly unfazed. John gritted his teeth, eyes flickering between the casual-looking woman and the icy man. "Oh, I can tell we're going to get along well. Very well, indeed." No one could have missed the thick layer of sarcasm distorting her tones. "And don't bother to explain how you knew all of that- though it was entirely accurate, of course. I really don't have a taste for show-offs."

"Could you just try to get along?" John offered half-meekly, abandoning all pretense. "I mean... this doesn't have to be totally hellish..."

"But it's going to be no matter what," Harry pointed out amusedly, running a hand through her sandy, shoulder-length hair. "Might as well acknowledge that early on. I came here for you, not Mr. Cold here. He's just going to have to suffer the consequences."

"It is my flat," Sherlock growled, his voice low and irritated.

"That it is, Holmes," Harry laughed. "But I'm afraid that I'm a guest, darling, and that means that you have no choice but to behave in a way that benefits me. See, manners aren't really optional in today's society."

"They are for me," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, I can't wait to see you fulfill that little declaration."

Undoubtedly, these few days were going to seem endless.