Chapter Three

John and Harry

Mycroft and his parents continued to discuss Sherlock in the large London hospital whilst not too far away, in an almost empty and run-down flat within an old tower block John Watson wriggled about in his short, narrow single bed. Harry Watson was snoring loudly from her uncomfortable position sprawled over the only bit of furniture in the living room: an armchair.

The siblings had argued about who was sleeping where – John maintaining he would be fine on the floor and Harry insisting he wouldn't get up again if he did. As usual Harry had won and been correct; she still really could sleep anywhere while he found it ever more difficult to sleep.

She was just under a year older than him – eleven months and three days to be exact and his half sister. Their mother had been young and naïve and lost her virginity in a one-night stand with a happily married, middle aged, middle class lawyer who had been bored but happy with his wife and children. Harry's father refused to even meet her and declared he would not be paying for her upbringing. Broke and abandoned by her religious family Mama Watson had abandoned her beautiful two-month-old baby girl to a neighbour and gotten drunk. That ended up in a one nightstand this time with a stranger and … John, who never even discovered his father's name.

With two babies and no support system Lynn Watson was quickly given a small council house in a Northumbrian village just south of the Scottish border. Money was tight and John and Harry didn't make life easy but she grew close to another single mother in the village and grew into her role as mummy. Harry and John had a happy childhood – although John often found the peaceful village dull. Just before her thirty-first birthday, Ms Watson re-married and became Mrs West. Mr West (at the age of twenty-nine) wasn't too happy to become 'dad' to two teenagers and when a baby West appeared less than a year later the two teenagers found themselves ignored in their own home. Harry had just turned sixteen, John fifteen so they already had a plethora of emotional challenges to navigate.

Two years later Harry left for London and almost immediately found love – unexpectedly female she was instantly person non grata to their mother who over the years had gone back to her religious roots. John, unwilling to stay alone in a house where no one wanted him, joined the army at just seventeen. There he trained as a medical doctor, and then five years later, was sent to serve abroad; first to Northern Ireland, then a brief spell in Iraq before a much longer period in Afghanistan.

He sent postcards twice a year to his mother and her burgeoning family and called his sister at least once a month. It was to London, then, that he went during his leave. His social sister always had a mate with a spare room for him to rent for the short weeks he stayed and her friends easily became his friends. Too busy enjoying life for a permanent girlfriend some of these friends shared more than just a room with the good-looking, easily going army doctor. Life was good for both of them for the first time in years.

Then Harry lost her job, started drinking heavily and split up from her partner, Clara, all in the space of just three months. During which time John was getting shot at and near enough blown up every damn day and … he loved it . . . the adrenalin surge of a near miss could leave him shaking for hours. He began to crave the rush, going out of his way to risk his life. He became so absorbed in this quest for danger and excitement that he stopped calls to his sister and even worked through his leave. Whenever nervous feelings of apprehension stirred he would remind himself that every time he risked his own life it was to save another; a comrade or innocent villager.

After six months of increasingly careless behaviour his teammates recognised his actions as dangerous to himself and them and tried to talk with him about it. He stubbornly ignored them for another four months. There was no easy way for them to deal with his behaviour – head doctors didn't go to the front lines and the bosses weren't willing to recall the man who had saved so many lives.

As his teammates feared his behaviour ended with a terrible result; one soldier dead, four more injured irreversible and John with barely a scratch. By rushing in where only fools dared John had forced his team, his friends … no his family to follow. And one of them paid the ultimate price. It was the guilt more than his injuries that crippled the young doctor. The entire incident was labelled a terrible accident and after six months coped up in a military hospital John was ejected head first out the army the week before his twenty-sixth birthday. There had been plenty of time to reach out to his sister recovering but John found he couldn't. Not with the reminders of his failure lying in the beds around him.

That was one of the worst parts – they didn't blame him; when he had bravely stood by their bedsides ready for their hatred and torrents of abuse he found they easily forgave him, one refused to even hold him responsible.

"It's just who you are – we all accepted that. You care and hell you're the reason a lot of us made it home with your nimble patchwork." John couldn't accept their kindness and fled. But when he turned up at his sisters' door after nearly four years of no contact John had found only Clara and more guilt.

Clara told him that if Harry didn't get drunk enough to be hospitalised she would often make her way to stand outside the house and beg for forgiveness. John asked her to call him the next time that happened – he had no other way of getting in contact with the only family he actually wanted to see. The half an hour sat with Clara revealed she still loved his sister and John resolved to help them (he didn't have anything else to strive for).

It was three months later that he got the call, two more before she would agree to even have a coffee with him. Three weeks after that he had convinced her to call him when she needed him. This was the fourth such occasion in just over two weeks and John had begun to despair at ever being able to help. She refused to even let him know where she was staying.

Now he apparently had a job, decent accommodation and all the help for Harry that she could stand. It was slightly overwhelming unless it was a cruel trick. He thought despite the unusual family interaction the family seemed to genuinely care about each other. That might be cause for worry in itself though –he was confident in his skills as a doctor but he hadn't seen that boy … Sherlock's chart and had no idea what might be involved in caring for him.

These thoughts swirled around his head as he tried to sleep. The company of his sister was smoothing in more ways than one; he didn't have to worry about where she was or what she might be doing and also after so many years sleeping with a bunch of rowdy soldiers a quiet room unnerved him. It took less time than usual for him to fall asleep. Unfortunately that meant it took less time for the nightmares that plagued him to disturb his sleep. They ripped through his rest three times, and after the last one he simply got up.

He stood in his kitchen in the dark, with a cup of tea held tightly in both hands, remembering his nightmares. The first and second were hazy but the third was unusually clear. Not the battlefield with his comrades all dead and dying around him as usual but the medical hospital in the UK. And instead of his injured army friends, Sherlock and Harry lay in the beds either side of him. They had the missing limbs and scars of those who had been in Afghanistan as they compared which of them he had let down the most as if they had been fighting alongside him. It was a deeply disturbing dream, for many reasons, but the most troubling aspect of it to John was that it raised this boy he had only just met to the level of his sister. Had the teenager made that much of an impression on him?

John puzzled over the question as sunlight slowly lit the living area. He was pulled from his thoughts suddenly,

"No … Damn you … Stop!" Harry cried out still asleep. John near enough threw his mug on the counter and raced to her side,

"Harry, Harry its John, wake up!" he placed a hand on her shoulder to shake her but didn't get the chance as she bolted upright … fist first!

The surprise and force of it pushed John backwards onto his bad leg, which didn't hold his unexpected weight. As Harry opened her eyes, John crashed to the floor. She hurried out a sorry and raced to the bathroom. John caught his breath and crawled to his feet. She was still kissing the toilet when he got his crutch and went looking for her.

"Harry?" he asked hesitantly from outside the door,

"Be a minute," she called back so he went back to the kitchen and got a glass or water and put the kettle on. He waited patiently until she joined him. One look at him and she half smiled,

"Gonna have a real shiner there Johnny,"

"What were you dreaming about?"

"I don't wanna talk about it,"

"Harry come on . . ."

"Shove it! Should I ask you all about your nightmares?"

"…" John turned from where he stood making two cups of tea to give her a questioning look,

"Yea I heard 'erm last night knew better than ta get in ya face bout 'em,"

"You're my sister I want to help,"

"You won't let me help you – not told me nothin' bout why you got that thing," Harry pointed down at John's crutch.

"You could do – is that what it'll take to get you to talk to me?"

"Some things are better left unsaid,"

"I don't understand,"

"Well that figures," Harry moved closer to grab a cup of tea.

"Harry . . . "

"Leave it John!" she shouted spinning round to look at him spilling hot tea over the floor and her hand,

"Dammit. Our lives aren't all peaches and cream I learnt to accept that why can't you,"

"Did something happen . . . that started the drinking?" John had never wondered why his sister had become an alcoholic until now,

"Oh for foks sake Johnny!" there was real tension in her voice so John fell silent; knowing if he pushed she would run (probably after throwing her tea mug at him).

She moved to the armchair, shoved the coat she had used for bedding onto the floor and sat down. John put down his mug and knelt to wipe the floor.

Harry held her mug under her nose and watched him struggle to his feet. If he had been facing her he would have seen the guilt on her face but it had gone by the time he turned around. He leant against the counter facing her.

"You going for the modern art, bare look or something Johnny?" she asked referring to the lack of furniture, decoration and personal stuff.

"Until now I didn't need anything else," When the two spoke alone their childhood accents returned as usual. Harry's was much more pronounced since John had mostly lost his while working abroad.

"Your pension can't really be this bad?"

"Most of it goes on therapy," John admitted,

"Do you really need it?" as quickly as her temper had arrived it was gone again,

"It's not helped so far," he muttered,

"I never really asked what happened." Harry's question was tentative and John thought if he could open up to her about the most devastating part of his life maybe she would open up to him … maybe they could help each other . . .

"There's a café on the corner – I'm going to need breakfast for this," he said standing up straight.

Uncaring that she hadn't showered or changed, Harry got up off the sofa and slipped on her pair of high heeled sandals.

"You're buying right?" Harry asked with a grin.

tbc

Author's Note: A poll now on my profile – name Sherlock's parents 8)