It was easy to say, looking at John Watson, that he had been an only child. Completely independent, unreliant on anyone, and completely against dependency in any form (though he didn't object anymore to Sherlock's brand of it, for some odd reason the Yard had yet to define). If asked about his parents, you would likely say without batting an eye, "Dead," or "Estranged."
On the latter point, you would be right. But the former was a completely different matter.
Sherlock was on his way home, wearing his typical purple shirt and scarf paired with a scowl to match the storm clouds literally gathering over his head in preparation for a downpour. He had been called on a case that morning and had instantly called John, only to remember his flatmate wasn't there and wouldn't be for two days. Some conference or something like that – he hadn't been listening, and, honestly, wished he'd been paying attention. At least he'd know where he was.
The day had only gotten worse from there.
Sherlock's scowl grew even darker and he kicked uncharacteristically at a stone on the street. Not only had John not been there to fend off Anderson and Donovan (meaning Lestrade had been forced to intervene), verify his theory on the victim's demise, or help him chase down the criminal, all of which had cost him forty precious minutes, but without John on his tail Sherlock had also forgotten his wallet and so was forced to walk home instead of taking a cab.
His sharp eyes caught a movement and he glanced up, his irritation abating slightly at the slight destraction. His eyes lit on a slightly weaving figure just approaching him.
Female, not straight by a long shot, formerly married, spent the day traveling, changed her mind at the last minute and headed for a bar instead, drunk nearly senseless. Sherlock wouldn't have given the woman more than a passing glance except for the nagging feeling that he should know her, so he kept his analytical gaze focused on her as he approached. The woman sat abruptly on the curb and by her posture had no intention of moving anytime soon.
He caught a glance of her face and drew a blank for a moment. Then it clicked. Of course...
"Harriet Watson, what are you doing in London?" he demanded, glaring at her. In reality, he was too intrigued by this second (un-supervised) meeting with John's estranged sister to be irritated, but he was also genuinely curious.
"Harry, not Harriet," she groaned, putting her face in her knees. Identity confirmed. Now that Sherlock looked at her more closely, he could see that, behind her short cut brown hair and baggy men's clothing, she actually had the potential of being what people called 'attractive.' With the harsh lines carved into her expression by habit, the obvious addiction to alchohol (which Sherlock confirmed after one glance at her watch), and her initial abrasiveness, however, she had mostly obliterated whatever natural visual attributes she had originally possessed.
Sherlock's face became impassive, though inwardly he frowned for an entirely different reason. He couldn't, in all conscience's sake, leave her out the rain, given that the area would be drenched within the next thirty minutes. Besides which John would never forgive him.
"Here." Sherlock abruptly stuck a hand in her face.
Harriet tried to swat at it. "Go 'way."
"John would never forgive me if I did," he replied truthfully.
Her head jerked up. "You know... John?"
"And you know me, though I doubt you'll remember given your state at the moment. A storm's coming and our flat has a roof right now, so unless you're going to stay out here in the open I'd suggest we run for it. It should only take ten minutes." He had already calculated all the necessary shortcuts.
She didn't respond, so Sherlock jerked her brusquely to her feet and left his hand on her arm to make sure she didn't fall over as he directed (all right, pulled) her in the general direction of 221B.
To be continued...