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'I'm coming out
I want the world to know
Got to let it show
I'm coming out
I want the world to know
I got to let it show'

Diana Ross. I'm coming out.

John comes out.

John stared into the murky, lukewarm depths of his coffee, swirling in the chipped mug. His tanned hand lay restlessly on the battered, acid eroded kitchen table. His sister Harry – who he had not seen in over two years – had informed him about 10 minutes before she had arrived that she was coming to visit, and since then he had been in a frenzy, flurrying about the flat, trying to make it at least respectable. Of course, Sherlock had stayed in bed, lazy sod. And John hadn't managed to get any sleep at all last night, thanks to someone taking the entire duvet. When she had arrived, she just hugged him wordlessly, her eyes bloodshot, face red from crying. Oh god, John thought. Another bloody break up crisis. Normally he would be sympathetic, but he had seen so many with Harry now that it had become routine. Probably Clara this time. When would Harry ever learn? She had almost recovered back to her normal self now – which wasn't that normal – and had started to chat mindlessly about what ever first came into her head. He got bored after a while. He was so used to Sherlock's company, being with someone with mind blowing intelligence, he rarely spent time with any other person, so everyone else seemed dull and boring. That was worrying. He lost himself again in the depths of coffee. She had started off on a rather sensitive subject of his, his shoulder wound. He thought he was meant to be comforting her, not the other way around. Then another worrying thought popped into his head. How was he going to explain about him and Sherlock? God that would be difficult. They hadn't told anyone, no one in Scotland Yard, not his family, not even Mycroft. Though he probably already knew. Harry would never let him hear the end of it. And Sherlock would probably pop it into the conversation in his typical casual, innocent way. Just like he had read his mind, Sherlock sauntered into the room, in his pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown. Well at least he had worn clothes for once. Harry held out her hand and was about to introduce herself when he interjected, "Ah, you must be Harry, John's sister. I've heard so much about you!" Sherlock shook her hand, and then winked at John. Well at least he was being socially correct. Harry gave him a questioning look, John just shrugged.

"And you're Sherlock, John's flatmate, right?"

"I'm so sorry to hear about Clara. Messy break up. I hope you realise you were well over the alcohol limit whilst driving, but that's understandable." Okay, that wasn't so smooth.

"How the hell did you know about that?" Oh great, Harry's monster temper was flaring up. Everyone run for cover. But Sherlock carried on completely oblivious. John tried shooting him glares, but he wasn't looking. "Well I can smell the vodka from here, and you have a crumpled up picture of you and girl in your front jacket pocket, surrounded by used Kleenex tissues. Also the engraving on the back of your phone says 'love Clara'. Hardly a major leap. Didn't John tell you, I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world." Sherlock practically preened himself, chest bursting with pride. Harry's face looked up at him in awe. Oh God, this would bring her old CSI obsession back up again. She then proceeded to drag him over to the sofa, and began to question him relentlessly about all things criminal. He looked at John, his eyes pleading. John just smiled smugly, this was the perfect revenge. He wouldn't get out of there for a while.

John and Harry sat on the sofa later, Sherlock absently plucking away at his violin in the armchair opposite, staring into space. John had shown her the flat. She liked it, it was better than some places she'd lived in, she said cheerfully. John worried about her. Ever since Dad had died... she hadn't been the same, always too much alcohol, too many cigarettes.

"John?" Harry asked, looking up at him with those eyes she'd often used as a child to get what she wanted. John hated to admit it, but they still had an effect on him.

"Yes, Harry?" he sighed resignedly. The question was coming. She had asked it so many times.

"I know you're a bit crowded for space here, but because I was living with Clara, and we're sort of not together any more, I don't have anywhere to stay, so I was wondering if it was alright with you if I could just crash with you and Sherlock until I find somewhere to stay? I'll only be a few days, promise! I can sleep on the sofa." she looked up at him pleadingly. How could he refuse?

"That's fine Harry, sure. Sherlock, are you okay with this?" Sherlock nodded wordlessly, not even looking at him, eyes blanked out. He turned back to Harry. "It's alright Harry, you can have a bedroom."

"But where will you sleep? I only counted two bedrooms." she eyed him suspiciously over her cup of coffee. John's stomach twisted nervously. Here it came. "Umm, Sherlock and I share a bedroom now Harry," He had said this just when Harry had taken a large gulp of coffee, which was instantly spluttered over John's face. Well that had gone well. "What?" Harry yelled, and then started to laugh hysterically. Sherlock as usual being extremely helpful, still staring off into space.

"John Watson, my brother, gay?" Harry was wiping tears off her eyes, rolling on the floor. "Well I never!"

John just sat resignedly on the sofa, twiddling his thumbs. This would be a long few days.