Clara
She'd been there for John and Harriet since the beginning.
She'd been there when John had trouble in school, with those Dillinger kids. She'd seemed like a twig to them – short, thin, brunette. So when she'd knocked one of the stupid boys, Michael, flat on his arse, they'd developed a different attitude about her.
She'd been there for Harry when she'd worked all those awful jobs to save up money for University – enough for the both of them, she had promised. Clara had been there for her when she'd come home, night after night, exhausted and drained far beyond what a nineteen year old should have been. When John didn't know what to do to help her because he couldn't find anyone to hire him at fifteen.
She'd been there for both of them when their father had gone off the deep end less than a month later. It was something that John occasionally dealt with. His father had never gotten over their mum's death. Harry hadn't been at home, thankfully. She'd been around him once when he got like that, and John made sure it never happened again. He faced the injuries he received during his father's drunken rampage knowing it was better him than her.
He'd packed Harry's things for her that night, after father had fallen asleep. He knew she'd be at Clara's flat for the night anyway, and he showed up without any of his own belongings except a pendant and a picture of his mother. He hardly spoke, and he didn't explain. Clara'd been there, putting two and two together, hushing Harriet and her questions in his place.
Clara, who had offered her home up to them without a single moment of hesitation.
Clara, who, after Harriet had been properly tucked away in bed, came to help him clean the bleeding and scarring wounds from the belt on his back.
Clara, who was...
Clara had been there for Harriet near John's seventeenth birthday, when they got the call that their father had died. Alcohol poisoning. John hadn't been there for her that time; he'd left for a few days. Visited mum's grave. Wandered, for the most part.
But Clara had been there to put back together the pieces of Harriet like John never could have.
John was so in her debt that he'd never had a way to repay her.
He hadn't been there for Clara when she needed it. That had been Harry. He'd never seen Clara as anything other than strong. So now, looking at her, wrapped up in the red cashmere sweater that he and Harry had saved up to get her years and years ago, he had nothing that he could say.
Her injuries were well-hidden, her lower body entirely shielded from view. The gashes that killed her, he knew, stayed covered by her hair. It almost looked like the traffic accident had never happened.
Her eyes were closed, the lovely chocolate and green that had grabbed Harriet's attention so quickly, concealed. The normal rose dusting on her cheeks was long gone. Her wedding ring was still on her finger, just as Harriet's was.
He breathed deeply. He did not approach her casket. The wind blew softly, and he rubbed one hand on Harriet's still shoulder, knowing she'd prefer to be alone.
And when he turned to walk away, he was unsurprised to see Sherlock leaning against a tree not far away. Leave it to him to figure out what happened and come anyway. John felt no irritation.
They got in a car – the one John had borrowed from a friend to get to Maldon, and the remainder of the daylight was spent driving back to London. They stayed up that night watching films – about which Sherlock did not complain – and drinking tea. Sherlock did not speak. Neither did John.
It seemed that words weren't needed.