Harriet
Harriet kept him up at night sometimes, too.
There were those nights where John was in bed, knackered but wide awake, and his phone would light up. He would roll over and reach for it, see the caller name and debate whether or not to answer.
And he would, because what if she was hurt? Or lost? Or worse?
And sometimes she would be. He'd speak quietly, timidly at first, afraid of what had caused her to call. Then he'd hear her speak and, depending on that, he'd probably know why.
She called him rarely – never to just say hello, or to wish him a Happy Christmas – but when she was lost, or sick, or drunk, or high on who fucking knows what.
And John would always listen, always guide her, always help her, because wasn't that what brothers were supposed to do?
And then, after the call, Sherlock would either wake or watch as John paced back and forth for a while before sitting in silence. He'd never asked before. Likely because he already knew.
This time, Harriet couldn't get a word out to him without her voice breaking. He heard her trying to stifle her cries. He hushed her; soothed her to the best of his ability. Of course, he addressed her as Harry at these times. She usually never remember ever calling him except when her phone bill came 'round.
She was crying still. He could hear her heat on. Horn in the distance. She was in the car, then. Going somewhere. Not safe.
Had she taken anything?
"Harry. Harry, where are you?"
She sniffled. "Headin' towards Maldon," she said. Her voice was steadier this time.
"Maldon? Why are you...what happened?" John asked. There was a lump in his throat. His sister was sober and clean, at least at the moment. He could tell.
She'd never drive all the way to Maldon unless it was important. Especially not at half past three in the morning. John was hoping he hadn't jumped to the right conclusion. For both Harriet's and his own sake.
"It's...it's Clara, John."
The lump in his throat swelled.
"She's dead."
It exploded.
He stared at the floor, feet dangling over the edge of his bed. He allowed himself a few seconds.
One breath.
Two.
Out, in.
"I'll meet you at the shop near her parents. Six at the latest." A tinge of Doctor Watson peered meekly through. He knew Harry could hear it.
He heard her hair brush against the speaker for a moment. A nod.
"I still loved her, John," she whispered.
"I know."
The line went dead.
When Sherlock returned from the Yard that morning, there was a note atop his microscope.
Sherlock,
I'll be back...try not to burn a hole in the kitchen table again.
I left you pasta in the fridge.
Don't forget.
-JW
At least Sherlock managed to get some sleep that night.