John
That night Harry's body haunted me. I had fallen asleep almost immediately because I was so emotionally exhausted.
I was in our parent's house, sitting in the kitchen with mum and dad. They were speaking about how sorry they were for disowning me and how proud they were of all I'd achieved. Dad told me that it didn't matter that I'd been discharged from the army, that he understood me and that I could stay with them for as long as I needed. Mum said that I had always been her favourite and that Harry had nothing on me. Just then the door opened slowly and the faceless, blood plastered body of Harry staggered into the room and reached out for me, her rotting fingernails were falling off and she was caressing my cheeks with them. I felt her accusing me for murdering her and stealing her place in the hearts' of our parents. I felt her hands and arms fill my mouth and choke me, snaking down my throat. I resisted the urge to vomit or fight back. I welcomed my own death. I deserved it.
Sherlock
I was engrossed in updating my website, The Science of Deduction from my bed when the scream perpetrated the wall and filled my head. I left my room and ran to John's, wrapping my dressing gown more tightly around me as I did so. John was writhing in his bed yelling Harry's name then omitting a loud, sobbing gulp for air and then another yell, over and over, louder and louder until it seemed the walls might collapse from the grief. He was asleep with his sheets strewn about him, shouting and sweating so much that his hair and pyjamas were stuck to him. His fists were clenched and his teeth were making an unpleasantly loud sound as they grinded together. The tendons in his neck and the veins in his forehead were raised significantly and his face was red from the effort of hollering so loudly.
I climbed into John's bed and used a method I'd learnt from Mycroft to wake him. I pressed my fingers hard to the pressure points on the top of his head and the back of his neck and twisted. John sat bolt upright and grabbed my shoulders, leaning forward and breathing heavily, probably partially because he was frightened and confused and mostly because his found the way he had been woken considerably painful. I could deduce nothing of any importance from his appearance. Only that he had a date that evening he had forgotten about, he had been dreaming about his parents before Harry came into the proceedings and that he was pleased to see me, something I wasn't used to.
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" He said, "Thank you."
"I've been called many things," I quipped back, "But never Jesus Christ. I like it; it makes me feel powerful and important."
"I am not going to start calling you Jesus Christ."
"Okay, just a thought."
John smiled at me and looked less like an eighty year old who'd seen too much and more like something approaching his own age.
We sat up all that night because John didn't want to go back to sleep and he needed me. I was needed not for my competency in the science of deduction but for my merits as a person, as a friend. The feeling was unfamiliar but beautiful, it made something inside me swell with pride and wash out my veins with warmth. We drank endless cups of coffee and watched endless reruns of depressingly predictable American dramas while the sky lightened and I held John Hamish Watson's hand. At 5.32am John asked me what was happening with Harry.
"Lestrade has closed the case." I replied, "He says all the evidence was destroyed in the explosion."
"I bet you could find some though, right? You'd work it out?"
"Maybe, there's a small chance. It has rained since yesterday so-"
"We better get started then."
"No, John, I've told Lestrade we weren't taking this case. You're too involved-"
"All the more reason-"
"The case is closed."
"So reopen it."