John
I was brought gradually back to myself by the most appallingly tasting cup of tea I have ever drunk, obviously prepared for me by Sherlock himself. I suppose I should have felt honoured. The sofa had been cleared of several A3 sheets of paper, covered in Sherlock's tiny, slanting scrawl. The papers were shoved unceremoniously under the coffee table and I took their place on the faux leather, worn to a greasy looking smoothness by the arses of generations. I stared uncomprehendingly into one of Mrs Hudson's flowery mugs at the grey tea. I couldn't get anything straight in my head. I wasn't cold but I was shivering and breathing unevenly. There had been the phone call, the nicotine patches, the coats, the house, the stairs, the door, the blood, the phone and then nothing. Of course I knew what had happened but it wasn't real, Harry wasn't dead, she couldn't be dead and the bomb- well that was just plain ridiculous. What sort of a weirdo planted bombs in the phones of people who were already dead? Then it dawned on me; this was a joke, it was one of Harry's practical jokes. She had embroiled Lestrade and Sherlock into the elaborate plot to fool me, things had just got a bit out of hand; that was all. It was typical Harry, always trying to get one over on me, well she'd succeeded this time, she'd really had me fooled for a few minutes. Don't be stupid John, you studied the body, you knew it was real. Shut up, it's a joke, it's just a joke. None of this is real.
Sherlock took my hand when I lifted the phone to call Harry and gently guided me to put it back on the coffee table. I hadn't even noticed he was sitting next to me.
"Leave it." He said in a soft, strained voice.
"No, it's just a joke. It's one of her jokes."
"No it's not, John, you know it's not."
Sherlock was right but I didn't trust myself to speak. I nodded, watching the floor blur as my eyes filled with stinging tears. Sherlock enfolded me in the warmth of his skinny arms and I inhaled the smell of smoke from his coat until I had shifted the lump of pain in my throat.
"How did this happen?" I asked, and was surprised to hear how empty my voice sounded, "I thought things were getting better."
There was a long silence in which I realised that I'd have to phone my parents and tell them. They'd say it was my fault. It was my fault; she was in London because of me.
"Sometimes things just happen," Sherlock sighed finally, "Maybe Harry was caught up with the wrong people, maybe she was randomly attacked, and maybe she's not really dead."
"What?" I said, standing up and looking down on Sherlock where he sat, clenching my fists to control the anger which had just flared hot within me.
"There's only a slim chance, you understand, but you found her phone. That doesn't mean it was her body. She may have had her phone stolen, she might even have sought revenge-"
"Are you saying-?"
"I'm not saying anything for sure, John, calm yourself. I doubt we shall ever know; all evidence was destroyed in the explosion; whether that was the bomb-planter's intent or not I don't know, I need more evidence before I can found any substantial opinions but from my initial assessment of the body I can tell it was a female between the ages of twenty and twenty three, with short hair dyed black, wearing heavy eye makeup and that, as far as I can ascertain, all the injuries but the skull fracture were inflicted immediately post-mortem."
"Why didn't I notice that?" I said dimly, "It sounds like Harry, all those things. She's twenty two, she's got short black hair and she wears a lot of makeup. It's her, isn't it?" Despite the anguish roaring through my body, I felt a tiny glimmer of hope; most of her injuries were inflicted on her after death. She put up a good fight and died almost instantly and painlessly.
Sherlock
I'm not accustomed to feeling things other than frustrated at the smallness of other people's minds, enthralled in the game of a case or bored with existence but witnessing John's phone call to his parents made me feel many things I'd never felt before. It made me feel sad and it made me appreciate that other people do have lives and thoughts even if they're not as complex as mine, it made me feel defensive on John's behalf and angry for him because his parents showed him such distain. I heard the whole conversation because John couldn't bear to use his phone as the last text he'd received was from Harry, there was no question of him using my phone as it's only used for business and besides, we couldn't quite locate it at that moment and Mrs Hudson insists on keeping all the landlines on speaker for 'security' or something ridiculous like that. Here is what I heard:
RING RING, RING RING, RING-
WOMAN: HELLO?
JOHN: HI, MUM, DON'T HANG UP, PLEASE
WOMAN: NIGEL!
JOHN: LISTEN, YEAH DO GET DAD
MAN: JOHN, WE TOLD YOU NOT TO PHONE HERE
JOHN: I KNOW BUT I HAVE SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT TO TELL YOU. ARE YOU SITTING DOWN?
MAN: JOHN, WHAT IS IT? IS SOMETHING WRONG?
JOHN: YES
WOMAN: HANG UP ON HIM
MAN: CAROL, IF SOMETHING'S WRONG THEN WE SHOULD LISTEN TO HIM; FORGIVE AND FORGET YEAH?
WOMAN: OKAY, WHAT IS IT JOHN, HURRY UP BECAUSE I HAVE BROCOLLI COOKING
JOHN: ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE SITTING DOWN?
WOMAN: YES
JOHN: IT'S ABOUT HARRY…
WOMAN: SHE FOUND YOU THEN?
JOHN: NO. SHE'S, I'M SORRY…MUM, SHE'S…SHE'S… DEAD.
MAN: THAT'S A LIE.
Then the receiver was replaced and John sank to his knees by the phone table and cried.