This chapter takes places immediately after chapter four of "Red-Handed". If you have not read "Red-Handed", I recommend at least reading the first and fourth chapter of that story or Sherlock's and Mycroft's reactions here will not make much sense to you.

000

She stepped from the taxi and approached St. Mary's Hospital with trepidation. Turning her back on the front entrance, she rummaged in her bag for her flask and took a long, fortifying swallow. She was not ready to face this. Last time John was in hospital, she'd fallen completely apart. Rushed home from Afghanistan, his shoulder shattered by a sniper's bullet and his body ravaged by infection, her brother had been at death's door and Harry had been utterly terrified. At least that time, she had thought she had Clara's supporting presence. But Clara had deserted her after that first horrifying visit to John's bedside. Clara was gone. Mum was gone, Dad was gone. If Harry lost her little brother, too, she did not know how she could go on.

She finally forced herself to enter and made her way to the room number DI Lestrade had provided her on the phone. The DI had been very kind each time he had called, gently informing her that John had been stabbed in the back while on a case, explaining the surgical procedures he was undergoing, giving her updates on John's condition. It had taken her twenty-four hours to find the courage to go to the train station and buy a ticket to London, but now she was ready to stand by John's side as he recovered from his oh-so-nearly-fatal injury.

Looking through the observation window in the door to his room, she saw to her dismay that Mary Morstan was sitting on John's bed chatting amicably with another man. And she was smiling, that little minx! How dare she! Face like thunder, Harry approached the desk and addressed the ward sister who was sitting there.

"Excuse me, Nurse, I'm here to see my brother, Dr John Watson," she said, irritated. "Could you tell those people to leave his room? I've been on a train for ages and I want to see him immediately!" This was a slight prevarication. The train journey had been an hour and a half long at this time of day. But she needed to see John now!

"I'm sorry, miss," the ward sister began, but just at that moment the door to John's room opened and the tall, elegant man who had been visiting emerged. Closing the door gently behind him, his eyes found Harry's, registered mild interest, then slid past her to the nurse at the desk. As he stepped towards them, Harry mused that the man's immaculate suit probably cost more than she earned in a year.

"Nurse Pym," he began grandly with a glance at her name badge, "my name is Mycroft Holmes."

"Sherlock's brother?" Harry yipped in surprise before she could stop herself. He raised an irritated eyebrow at her, then continued addressing the ward sister.

"Dr Watson's well-being is of great interest to the British Government, which I represent. He will receive the best of care and will want for nothing. Anything he needs will be provided for. Send the bills to this address." He conjured a card, seemingly out of thin air, and presented it with a flourish. "I hope I am making myself clear."

Ms Pym looked at the card and her eyes grew wide. "Yes, sir, Mr Holmes!" she said, clearly impressed. "Ten Downing Street, yes, sir."

"Thank you," Mycroft Holmes inclined his head in a regal gesture and then turned to Harry. "Ms Watson," he acknowledged her with another courteous nod and then strode down the corridor to the lifts.

The nurse gave Harry an awestruck look. "Your brother is an important man, Ms Watson," she said respectfully. "I've heard that the queen herself reads his blog faithfully. You can go right in now. It's a two-visitor limit, but only Dr Watson's fiancée is with him now."

"Go and tell her to leave," Harry insisted, a whine in her voice. "I want to see my brother alone." Ms Pym hesitated. Harry raised her voice, "I insist you tell that woman to leave! I need to see my brother alone! Mr Holmes just told you to give him whatever he needs, and he needs me!"

"But, Ms Watson, I can't ask Dr Morstan to leave," the nurse said uncertainly. "She's not only his fiancée; she's also his patient advocate and has medical power of attorney. She has every right to be there."

Harry's felt her heart catch fire in a flash of rage. "I am his only living relation! He's my brother! I'm all the family he has!" she fumed. "That woman needs to get out of my brother's room!"

Ms Pym rose from her chair. "Miss, you must calm down or I'll have to ask you to leave," she stated firmly.

Harry felt a shock in all her limbs, as if she were about to explode. But before she could respond, the lift doors opened and there was Sherlock Holmes and DI Lestrade. She did NOT want to speak to that horrible Sherlock Holmes! Harry ducked around a corner before they could spot her.

Ms Pym's eyes followed Harry with a bit of alarm, but she greeted the new visitors with a relieved and welcoming smile. "Our patient is doing well, gentlemen," she said warmly. "Mr Holmes, I hope you got some rest this morning after your long night. And by the way, you just missed your brother."

Lestrade had lifted his hand in a friendly greeting and entered John's room, but Sherlock turned towards the desk. Oh, don't come over here, don't!" Harry thought desperately. But on he came anyway, and as she came into his line of sight, his eyes drilled into hers, cold and hard.

But he ignored her and addressed Nurse Pym. "My brother was here? Why?" he demanded suspiciously, looking annoyed.

Ms Pym smiled benevolently. John was clearly a favourite patient of hers already. Women always adored John, didn't they? Harry mused. Even when he was unconscious. "On behalf of our government, he wanted to ensure that Dr Watson has everything he needs, and said the bills were to be sent to him," she explained, obviously please her patient was to be well-provided for.

"Oh," Sherlock muttered, his irritation brought up short. "Well, good, then. That's . . . good." He then finally turned his attention to Harry.

"Welcome to London," he said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "So glad you could make it. At your convenience."

Harry was vibrating with impatience. "Yes, and I want to see John immediately," she snapped. "I would thank you to go and get those people out of MY brother's room."

Sherlock was deliberately slow in answering, looking her up and down as if she were a lab specimen. At last he replied, "You've waited this long to come to his side. You can wait a few minutes more, until Detective Inspector Lestrade has had time to greet his friend."

A heated flush burned Harry's neck and rose to her cheeks. "I came as soon as I was able—not that it's any of your business," she spat out through gritted teeth.

"Let's consider, shall we?" Sherlock challenged back in a mocking voice and then began rattling off a litany at lightning speed. "DI Lestrade telephoned you yesterday at 10 a.m., immediately upon our arrival here, and informed you that your brother had been stabbed, perhaps fatally, in the back and had been rushed into surgery. Two hours later, assuming you were on your way to London, he called again to ask if he could send a car to pick you up at the train station. Surprised to find that you had not yet left your home, he asked you to inform him when you'd made your arrangements as he wished to afford you every courtesy in helping you to come to his friend, John's, side. Four hours after that, concerned that he had not yet heard from you, he called to inform you that your brother had come through surgery successfully and was in recovery. He was amazed to find that you still had not departed from Old Alresford. Again he phoned you when John was brought to this room—again, you had remained ensconced in your own home. When you had still not arrived this morning, he called you once more to find you even than had not made arrangements to come to visit your brother." Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned those strange, penetrating eyes upon her. "It's a two-hour train journey at most, with a half-hour wait at most during daylight hours, and yet you took over twenty-six hours to arrive. You can wait a few more minutes for the man who helped to save John's life, and who has been diligently watching over his best interests, to speak with him."

Mortified, Harry opened her mouth to retort, but John's door opened at that moment and the detective inspector himself stepped outside accompanied by Mary Morstan.

"I'm all right, though, Greg. I don't want to leave him," Mary was saying anxiously. Her blond hair was dishevelled and her eyes red-rimmed. "I can rest better when I'm near him."

"You're exhausted, Mary," the DI insisted, his voice gruff with weariness himself and his handsome face clouded with concern. "You've not left his room since he was brought here. You need a break, some sleep, some decent food." At her continued resistance, he added gently, "He's going to need you, darlin', when he comes home. He's going to need you to be strong for him. You have to look after yourself or you'll not be up to the job, yeah? Let me take you home."

Mary nodded wearily and submitted to being led down the corridor to the lifts. Harry let out a little sigh of relief. She hadn't been seen. And now, John was alone at last. She marched towards his room with purposeful steps. But Sherlock was right beside her.

"I want to see him alone," she told him, her voice coming out in a whine. "He's my brother and I have the right to see him alone."

"No," said Sherlock Holmes firmly.

Harry's temper flared again. "You can't tell me I can't see him! It's your fault he was hurt in the first place! If he didn't live with you and follow you around like a puppy, he'd be safe at home with me! He'd never have been hurt if it weren't for you!" Seeing her words were hitting her mark, she raised her voice. "Damn you! This is your fault and no one else's! You're no better than a murderer!"

Sherlock looked stricken, his face growing even paler than usual. "Yes, I am aware," he said quietly, his eyes dark with pain and grief. She was amazed to see that his lip trembled a bit. "Nevertheless, I won't let you in there unsupervised."

Harry saw red! The nerve of the man! He had been rude to her since he arrived, but this was the last straw! She stamped her foot impatiently and shrieked, "You have no right to tell me what to do! He's MY brother, not yours! You have no rights whatsoever!"

"Miss Watson, I will have security remove you if you cannot keep control of yourself," Ms Pym intervened swiftly and sternly. Harry turned on her, wanting to tear the woman's eyes out!

But, "May we have someplace to . . . speak in private, Sister Pym?" Sherlock said quietly before Harry could react.

The ward sister looked uncertain, but seemingly against her will showed them to an empty consultation room and shut them in.

As soon as they were alone, Harry lashed out with both fists and struck her adversary in the chest. "You have NO RIGHT. . . ." she began, infuriated.

He grasped both of her fists in his hands and easily subdued her attack, calmly holding her still as he spoke quietly but vehemently. "I have every right and every responsibility, as his friend, to protect him. After what transpired the last time you were left alone in a hospital room with John, I will not allow you to visit him unsupervised."

Harry felt all the blood drain from her head. Her legs went wobbly and she found herself dropping heavily into the nearest chair. Still, she was proud that her voice remained strong and steady. "So you've been chatting with Clara, have you? Whatever she said to you, she was wrong about what happened. She didn't understand."

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "I've never met Clara, nor have I ever spoken to her. She moved away to Dublin, didn't she, soon after John was released from hospital—as soon as he no longer needed her help. No, I pieced together the truth from bits he's told me about that time."

Now she felt a coldness in the pit of her stomach. What did John know about that day? "You're lying," she hissed. "You don't know shite!"

"I know that John was puzzled that you never came to visit him once the entire time he was in hospital, nor whilst he was in rehab, even though Clara came faithfully every day at first, and then whenever she could get off work. He said that after a good deal of questioning, she admitted that you had come the first day he arrived in England, while he was still unconscious, but that you had been too traumatized by the sight of him to feel able to return."

"You don't know what it was like!" Harry exclaimed defensively. "John was always the strong one, the responsible one. To see him lying there, pale as death, utterly helpless and in such pain. . . . It was unbearable! I couldn't handle it. John understands that. We've talked about it since. He knows I have a delicate nature."

Sherlock's eyes were filled with contempt. He ignored her outburst and continued. "He also found it curious to discover that you and Clara ended your relationship the same day as that one visit. It made no sense to him: Clara had always had the greatest patience with your moods, your drinking problem, your severe personality disorder. He couldn't think why she would suddenly leave you and she never explained. It is plain to me, however, that her reason must have had to do with that one visit you made to John."

Almost too infuriated to speak, Harry managed a strangled growl in reply: "You don't know anything! You're making things up!"

Sherlock was inexorable. "Did I invent the fact that Clara clearly left you after that hospital visit? When John was strong enough, he questioned the ward sister on his floor, and she recalled that a woman of your description had to be bodily removed from his room that day, screaming and struggling, and was deposited outside by security. Would you like to explain what happened that day?"

The coldness in Harry's insides now spread throughout her body. She spoke desperately now, pleading with him. "Clara didn't understand. You don't understand, either. He was in such pain. So much pain. And the doctor said he might suffer pain the rest of his life. Or he might lose the use of his arm. Or he might just die! I couldn't bear it, I tell you! I couldn't stand to watch him die in such agony, helpless and useless. . . ."

Sherlock's relentlessly piercing eyes bore into her; his cold anger was electrifying. "And so you decided to disconnect the machine that was managing his morphine dosages, thereby ensuring that his pain was truly unbearable to him!" he accused.

Harry gasped. Her chest ached with the turmoil of this confrontation. She began to sob. "How was I to know? The stupid machines don't have labels, do they? How was I to know that's what the machine was for?" she mewled defensively.

"Of course, you didn't know," Sherlock snapped, relentless. "Because you were trying to disconnect his life support!"

"He's my brother!" Harry insisted, whimpering in the face of his fury. "I'm all the family he has! I had to make the decision for him. He wouldn't have wanted to go on that way. I know him—he wouldn't have wanted to live a life in constant pain. He wouldn't have wanted to live after losing his ability to do his job. He couldn't make that decision, so I had to do it for him!"

"You had NO RIGHT!" Sherlock roared at her, losing all vestige of composure at last. Harry gave a little shriek and tried to scoot her chair away from him in sudden terror. "You had no right to take his life!"

It was the argument with Clara all over again! Harry felt her heart exploding in her chest. Why couldn't anyone understand? She covered her face and wailed.

In the meantime, Sherlock was gathering himself again. Regaining his calm, he continued, "I happen to know that John's last thought when he was shot, when he thought he was dying, was 'Please, God, let me live.' So as I say, you had no right to make the decision to take his life away."

Harry froze and raised her head to meet his eyes. "I didn't know that. How . . . how do you know that?" she whispered.

"He told me that himself, the day after we first met. And he was right to want to live. Life is precious. His life is precious, and would be even if he were no longer of any use to his sister." He turned his back in disgust and walked towards the door as if to leave her. Surrealistically, she saw in her mind's eye the image of Clara leaving her in just this way; and suddenly, finally, she understood why.

"Wait!" Harry rose from the chair, inexplicably longing for absolution from this man. "I never meant. . . I didn't think of it as killing him. I thought . . . I just wanted to . . . ."

"Put him out of his misery? Or put him out of your misery?" Sherlock drawled sarcastically. He whirled back around to face her. "Whatever you meant, it was idiotic. Whatever you disconnected, an alarm would have gone off alerting the staff and the matter would have been quickly resolved with little harm done. There are safeguards in place in case of accidents. However, that was not necessary, since Clara walked into the room and caught you in the act, didn't she? John was, in fact, never in any real danger from you. Nevertheless, I would be grossly negligent to allow you to be alone with him for even a moment, given your impetuous and utterly narcissistic nature."

Harry rushed to him, grasping his arm in supplication. "Please," she begged. "Don't tell John what I did! Please!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "I'm sure there's no need. John is no fool. He had possession of the same facts I used to deduce what happened—and he had the additional input of Clara's expressions and tone of voice as he tried to find the truth. He can put two and two together. You can assume that he already knows everything."

She began to wail again, sobbing against his shoulder as he looked at her with revulsion. "No wonder he hates me! He hardly ever comes to see me! It's because he knows, isn't it? He'll never forgive me, will he? Oh, god, I wish I were dead!"

"Harry," Sherlock said impatiently, but using her name for the first time and putting a hand on her shoulder, "John has a temper—no one knows this better than I do. But at his core, he has the most forgiving nature of anyone I've ever known. I do not believe he is capable of holding onto unforgiveness towards anyone he cares about for any great length of time. I should know," he added, his voice growing hoarse with sudden emotion, "he's forgiven me time and again, and for things that perhaps he should not have forgiven."

She tipped her head back and looked up at him in amazement. Sherlock Holmes had tears in his eyes. He looked away from her with a gesture of impatience and opened the door.

"You can be sure," he added as he led her down the corridor back to John's room, "that John's new reluctance to rush to your rescue has nothing to do with you. Your brother is also a first-class enabler. He is very aware of that fact and is attempting to correct this perceived flaw in his character. Much to my chagrin, I must say: he has so often enabled me to do all sorts of outrageous things." He looked back at her with an almost mischievous smile.

"Will you. . . will you let me have a moment alone with him, then?" Harry asked breathlessly, wiping her face with a sodden sleeve.

"No," said Sherlock Holmes ruthlessly, and held the door for her.

They entered the darkened room together, hushed and repentant in the presence of one from whom they both craved absolution. He lay on his side, back swathed in bandages, and the machines bleeped rhythmically with his heart. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

"He's always looked after me. Always," Harry whispered, gazing in dismay at her little brother. "I don't know how to look after him."

"He has plenty of people who love him who'll look after him," Sherlock rumbled softly in reply. "Myself and Mary chief amongst them. You will help him best now by learning to look after yourself and give him one less thing to worry about."

Blue eyes opened and John looked around blearily.

His searching gaze found his best friend first. "Hey, Sherlock. Get some sleep?" he murmured fondly.

"Yes, mother," Sherlock griped, but his voice was warm with affection.

Then John noticed Harry. He held out his hand to her and smiled. "Hey, Harry. You okay?" he asked in concern.

Harry sank down by his bedside, hid her face in his blankets, and wept.

000

Humble thanks to my beta Wynsom and my Brit-picker mrspencil, who helped me out when they certainly had better things to do!