A/N: Thank you for the positive response I received for the first chapter to this story. I hope I don't disappoint anyone when I say that this is only going to be a short, angsty fic. I'm saving my action/mystery for another Sherlock fic I'm currently working on. I've already written the end to this story already (at 2:30am. It just wouldn't leave me alone!) but there's going to be a few chapters before it reaches its conclusion. I'm really pleased with the ending. I hope you'll stick with it, and see it through.
I really enjoy writing John. God love him! Here he is...
Three days had passed. John lay dozing on the sofa. His arms were folded across his chest defensively, and his jaw was clenched tightly shut. The air around him was still, and smelled of polish and bleach, and coffee. He blinked his eyes open, and the afternoon light from the window washed over his face. Someone had come the day before to replace the windows which had been shattered in the bombing. John had since run the hoover around twice, and cleaned every surface until it shone. There was nothing out of place. Nothing, except the person sat huddled in the grey arm chair opposite him. When he'd first opened his eyes, his heart had jumped at the very thought of it being him. Sherlock. It had, however, been someone else. He let out a disgruntled huff.
Harry.
She had arrived two days ago, and John had so far managed to clean around her and keep his temper in check. She thought she was helping. She was, in fact, getting in his way.
"Get out of the chair," he growled, rubbing at his eyes. His sister looked up from her Heat magazine.
"What?"
"The chair! Get out of that chair." He stressed each word. His sister gave a snort of inconvenience and, instead of moving to the red armchair opposite, slumped herself down heavily on the wooden floor. She continued to read her magazine.
John lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His ribs ached. His head ached. He felt like he was falling apart at the seams. Harry wasn't the one to fix him. Of course she wasn't. John listened to the bouts of silence in between her overly-loud page turning. She cleared her throat. It irritated him. She breathed heavily as she read. That irritated him too.
Harry rose, and stretched her limbs before throwing her magazine down on the floor.
"Pick that up," he muttered, his eyes now closed. Harry flared her nostrils at him.
"Yeah, in a minute."
John's eyes snapped open and he sat up suddenly, glaring at her.
"Not in a minute. Now! I don't want your stuff all over the place. I've spent the past three days tidying up, so pick up your fucking magazine!"
"Jesus, chill out! Dick-head," she drawled before bending down and picking up the magazine. Harry began to stomp into the kitchen. "And for your information, what you've been doing here in this house isn't cleaning. You've gutted it. You need to get your head seen to Jay."
"Piss off!"
John heard her rattling around in the kitchen, looking through the cupboards. He leant forwards, his elbows on his knees, and flattened down his hair with his hands. The doorbell rang downstairs, and John heard Mrs Hudson's slippered feet shuffling to the front door. The woman's voice exchanged pleasantries with the visitor, and John heard feet approaching up the stairs.
"Are you decent, love? You've got a visitor."
John raised his head from his hands, and turned his body to regard the man in the doorway. The tall man entered the room and offered John a warm smile.
"Good afternoon, John."
John rose nervously from the sofa, regarding the man. His dark suit was immaculate, but seemed to hang off him in a way that John hadn't ever noticed before. His pale face appeared gaunt, which John knew was not a result of a diet alone.
"Hello...Mycroft."
He'd almost addressed him as Mr Holmes, but John couldn't bear the thought of the name in his mouth. The men shook hands briefly, and the smile faded from Mycroft's face.
"Uh...Please, take a seat."
John noticed the man studying the choice of arm chairs for a brief moment before choosing the red one. John lowered himself slowly back onto the sofa.
"Can I get you–?"
"You're most kind, but no, thank you. It's just a fleeting visit really. I wanted to see if you were on the mend."
John opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, his sister beat him to it.
"Who's this?" She stood in the kitchen doorway, a tea towel wringing in her hands. John wanted the sofa to swallow him whole. "No offense, but if you're from the press then he's not interested in talking to you. It's been non-stop aggro for three days now. Have you people no shame?"
Mycroft paused, regarding the young woman in front of him, before rising and offering his hand. His face broke into a warm smile, but his eyes were focussed and dark.
"Very nice to meet you, Ms Watson." Harry blinked at him, before shaking his hand with a wary sniff. "Your brother is a steadfast man. You should be very proud of him."
"He's a git," she replied, but smiled curtly at Mycroft before turning on her heels and heading back to the kitchen.
"So how are you John?" Mycroft asked again, as he sat back down. "Really."
"Fine," John lied. "I'm fine." He cursed himself inside. There was absolutely no point in lying to Mycroft Holmes. The man could see through him like fragile glass.
"Good. That's good," Mycroft replied simply. His tone suddenly changed. "I'm here to inform you of the memorial service that's being held next Wednesday."
"Oh," said John, taken aback.
"The past three days have not been easy John, as I'm sure you are aware, but regardless of his own opinions on the matter, my brother was very dear to me." Mycroft let this statement hang in the air. John realised his mouth hung open, and he snapped his jaw up, clacking his teeth together. He nodded dumbly and Mycroft continued. "I had hoped that you'd do him the honour of speaking at the memorial ser–"
"No." It was Mycroft's turn to look dumbfounded. "Uh...sorry. I mean, thank you. It really means a lot that you would ask. But I'm afraid I can't do that."
Mycroft's puzzled features eventually found their way into his trademark tight smile.
"Of course." He rose from the chair and John did the same. "You will be there though?"
"Yes, I'll be there."
"Thank you."
The men regarded each other in silence. A significant moment passed between them, but John couldn't quite be sure of what it meant. Mycroft was such a guarded man at the best of times. Of course there were obvious resemblances between the two brothers, most evident being their shared skills of observation. But this man, though Holmes in name, held no essence of Sherlock within him. To John, Mycroft was just another man.
John walked him downstairs to the front door. He wanted his voice to speak up with words of condolences which flooded his mind. This man had just lost his brother, for God's sake. But John couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he offered his hand, and Mycroft shook it fondly.
"I meant to thank you."
"What for?"
"For your help in the Bruce-Partington case. It was very much appreciated."
John shrugged away the gratitude. Mycroft still had hold of his hand. He held it firmly.
"You were a good friend, John. The very best I could have hoped he would make. And you have my thanks for that, also."
And with that, Mycroft Holmes exited 221b Baker St. John watched him climb with liquid grace into the back of a black car. He pushed the front door shut, and spent a moment tracing the wooden grain with his fingers.
"Who was that?"
John physically jumped.
"No-one. God, you're nosy." He pushed past his sister, and made his way quickly to the stairs.
"Don't be like that, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call you a git."
"And a dick-head."
"Yeah, that too. Look, Jay, I just want to help you. Being cooped up in this big, empty house isn't good for you." She took his hand and he stopped his ascent of the stairs. "You're grieving. It's going to take time. Don't let it destroy you too, otherwise that psycho has really won."
John regarded her for a moment, before pulling her into a hug. He rested his chin on her head.
"Why did you guys do?" she asks into his chest.
"Hmm?"
"You know, when you weren't chasing mad men down darkened alleyways. What did you two do?"
She was asking about Sherlock. John didn't think he could answer. His mind was a flash of bright white where any memory had been moments before. He wanted to pull away, to run to his room, slam the door and bury his head under his pillow to drown out her question. But it was already in his ears, and her eyes were looking up at him quizzically. Maybe it might help. He took a deep breath.
"Uh...we sit."
"Sit?"
"Yeah. It's weirdly... calming. There's no awkward chit chat. I'm me and he is him... Was..." He falters. "Uh...sorry."
Harry took him by the hand and led him to the sofa.
"So let's sit."
The siblings lowered themselves onto the sofa, Harry resting her head on her brother's shoulder. After a while, her voice breaks the silence.
"Ok, this is dull."
John laughed, and the noise surprised himself. It never seemed dull. Not with Sherlock Holmes. Harry began playing with the cuff of her sleeve and John spoke up quietly.
"You should go, Harry."
"But I just got here."
"I know, and I appreciate you trying to help in your own irritating way." Her mouth opened in indignation but he continued. "But I think I need to be on my own. To deal with this on my own... Watson-style."
She gave a snort.
"You mean bury your head in the sand in the hope that it'll all go away?"
"That's exactly what I mean."
"You're an idiot, John." He knew it was true. He'd been called it before. Harry rose from the sofa, and picked up her magazine from the coffee table.
"I love you," she murmured. A sure sign that she had out-stayed her welcome. John didn't know how to respond. He wasn't sure his heart was there anymore. Instead he simply smiled at her, and reciprocated in the only way he could show her how much he really loved her.
"Bugger off."
He wouldn't tell her though.
Thanks for reading.