A/N: Gosh, you guys said some very nice things! That's so awesome that two of you are reading this together, thanks for your reviews! I'm sorry it takes me a bit to upload, I'm falling behind in writing since I've got such a busy schedule consuming every waking minute. I wanted to get something up before the weekend as a 'Thank You' for the reviews and alerts though, so here.

Though John had spent almost an entire week shut up in the flat before that morning, he had kept his eyes averted. Staring at the ceiling, counting the threads of the blankets cocooning him. Now, he looked.

He was probably the only person who came away from a home invasion comforted. The only one anymore, of course. But the encounter with Slade had, undeniably, given him hope.

Rifling through the books stacked haphazardly throughout the living room, John's mind whirled, planning out how he could use the code to destroy the man who had taken everything away from him. An interesting twist that would be, if he, the pet, could take Moriarty's hubris and turn the man's greatest invention into the weapon of his downfall.

As his searching hands began to slow, John remembered that he wasn't the genius detective of 221B. He wouldn't even know what it looked like if he found it, probably. The world's only consulting criminal would not have hid the master key on a slip of paper under the sofa cushions. He checked anyway.

When he had made quite certain, twice, that the pillows weren't stuffed with secrets, John settled heavily onto the settee. The laptop he hadn't opened in days sat on the end table next to him. He had glanced under it at least four times, but now he lifted it for a different reason.

That therapist – if you could even call her that, had to be bloody awful to make even a thief with a gun more soothing in comparison – had talked about Jim Moriarty, or his alter ego, anyway, with the barely suppressed thrill of someone who had met a celebrity. Richard Brook didn't deserve any of that kind of regard, seeing as how he hadn't actually done much acting, not professionally. The only way he could suddenly have fans was if he had been doing a lot of public relations.

He was right. His computer was flooded with news stories about how "Richard Brook, rising star" was earnestly involved in charity work, children's enrichment programs, environmental clean-ups. The common thread in each piece, however, was that the benevolent actor was committed to atoning for the wrongs of his past, starting with healing scarred army veteran John Watson.

He had just finished listening to a chilling sound bite where Moriarty vowed to make him his "new project." Before he had a chance to shake off the frost that had settled deep in his stomach, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

'Christ, two in one day?' was his first, paralyzed thought, then he silently rose and crouched down behind the large leather armchair. His cane was propped against the fireplace, just out of reach. As John felt the presence of another person enter the room, he knew he couldn't risk moving to try and arm himself with the walking stick.

The footsteps came into the center of the room, muffled on the carpet. They somehow felt familiar, but a cramp in his leg was distracting him from placing why.

Weight shifting, clothes rustling, and then a women's voice called out, "John?"

"Oh, Jesus," he swore. Grasping the back of the chair, he pulled himself up and faced his sister. "Pass me that, would you?"

"John. Are you alright?" Harry ignored his gesture at his cane, alarm in her tone as she studied him critically.

She stood with her arms crossed, purse dangling from one hand near cocked hips. Waifish as ever, her arms seemed as thin as the heels of the stilettos she wore. Thick makeup circling her eyes exaggerated the judging glare she was leveling at him.

"Goodness, why wouldn't I be?" he replied drily.

Her answer was a flat, "You're hiding behind a chair."

"Only recreationally," John said quickly. "Can you please pass me my cane?"

"And you're bleeding."

Harry's fingers danced around her temple, and John's own hand flew up to his face in response. It came back touched with blood from where Slade had hit him. He hadn't noticed it sluicing down his skin, congealing there. All he said was, "Right. Sorry."

"We need to talk about something important," Harry said, not taking worried eyes from her brother as she handed over his cane.

His stomach lurched. "It's not something wrong with Dad?"

She snorted. "I still don't get why you even care, but no. It certainly isn't as if I'd know before you, anyway."

"I've just been a bit," John paused. What was the polite word for inconsolable grief so strong it made your lungs ache? "Out of it, for a few days." He wiped blood off on his trousers.

"I can see that," she said, eyeing the furniture. "That's mostly why I'm here."

"Mostly?"

Her eyes darted away from his face and back around the living room. Her voice pitched high, she asked, "Can't you wash that off?"

"Right, yes." Still stained, red painted the crevices of his fingerprints. Wrenching his gaze away, he moved past his sister to the kitchen. "Can I make you a cup of tea?"

Harry remained uncharacteristically silent, without a comeback, in the center of the room. Even though he knew it wasn't true, John told himself her reticence was just because she had never been to the flat before and was taking it all in. In fact, if she'd noticed the bullet holes decorating the walls, that wasn't actually such a farfetched explanation.

His temple stung as he scrubbed his face with a towel. He flung the crumpled fabric into the sink.

By the time he had finished placing the kettle on the stove to warm, Harry had swiveled in her spot to watch him. "You're limping again."

"Yes." Trying to hold his cane by his side with an elbow, John measured sugar into a teacup for his older sister.

"I thought you'd gotten over it already."

He had to remind himself that she was only talking about his leg before he snapped at her. Reigning in his chafed thoughts, he said simply, "It's back."

"It was never really there, though, was it." Her counter wasn't a question. "It's not real, you didn't get shot there, you know that."

"No, I know it's not, I know that." His teacup trembled and he couldn't raise it to his lips, so he continued under her penetrating glare. "It doesn't change the fact that it hurts. Every day, every time I move, every step forward, I –"

It seemed safer to put the cup down completely on the counter.

"And it doesn't matter," John continued. "What I know to be true, what other people think they know, it doesn't matter, because, what matters is that I can still feel it."

He gave his sister a barren smile. She looked repulsed.

"I don't understand you. You're a grown man, John. A soldier." Harry shook her head. "You've been through a war, through everything with dad, and this is what beats you? Even if he hadn't been lying to you the whole time –"

"Don't. Don't say that about him." John's jaw clenched as cold swept over him.

Harry stepped closer, purse swaying like a mace in her grip as he edged away. "I'll say what I like."

"You never even bothered to meet him, you can't say that."

"I can say what I like," Harry raised her voice, "when someone treats my little brother like he did, used you like he did. You're all broken up, and it's his fault."

"No." His voice shook with a strange sort of strength. "No, it's not his fault. He's not even here and you talk about him like –" Like his therapist, really. So many people, thinking they had Sherlock figured out, taking Moriarty at his word, though they'd never met either man. So much judgment.

"But you want to know what is his fault is that I was getting better," he said. "And I was happy, and doing important things, good things, helping people, and that was all due to him. And this," he banged his leg for emphasis, "this is my weakness, and it is my fault."

His fervor spent, he drooped, shoulders slumped. A ghost of a twitch in his fingers reminded him that another of his army scars was returning.

When he could look at her again, Harry's stance had softened from her argumentative pose into something he'd never seen his sister do before. She looked horrified. "You're sick, John. He destroyed you. You need help."

Distantly, he knew that laughter wasn't the right response to prove her wrong, but he couldn't stop. Not until she said, "I hope Brook makes good on his word." That stopped the distorted chuckles dead in his sore throat.

"An armed assassin was here today, just a few hours ago, actually. Stood where you're standing now, threatening me. Gave me this," John pointed at the gash above his eyes. "And he is more welcome in this house than you are."

He thought she would try and argue more, but she seemed to surprise them both by simply walking out. He though he should feel guilty that she would probably head straight for a pub to drink away his words. He thought that a dip into oblivion wouldn't be such a bad thing, permanent or not. He didn't know how to think about how much of his life was now spent listening to people leave.