John

Once I had reassured Sherlock that I would be fine revisiting the bomb site and we had shared a slice of toast smeared liberally with Mrs Hudson's marmalade we went outside and hailed a cab. The morning was now sunny but I felt like cold and misery had seeped into my bones, I felt as if Sherlock was my life support machine, without him I would die of a broken heart, of trying to be strong for too long, of the suffocating pain that had settled itself like a lump of lead in my stomach. Throughout the journey Sherlock shot concerned glances in my direction but enveloped my hand in his pale, long fingered one and squeezed it. His touch told me that he was going nowhere and that I wasn't either, that I was a strong person who could stay sane. I didn't know what I felt but every time I looked into the void of his all-seeing eyes I couldn't help but smile.

Sherlock supported my waist with his arm when we left the taxi, keeping me standing proud and strong and indestructible. When we were together, no one could knock us down. Some police officers were vaguely wandering around in the rubble behind a line of blue and white tape. I followed Sherlock as he confidently ducked under said tape and strode up to the nearest police officer; a young woman with red hair pulled back into a loose knot at the bottom of her neck, her face was pale and freckled.

"Hello!" Sherlock said, "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same thing."

"Oh, sorry, so rude of me; Sherlock Holmes, this is my colleague, John Watson."

"So you're the one Lestrade told me about."

"Yes. Incidentally he told me this case was now closed."
"Well, yes, it has been closed officially. We're just trying to determine the cause of the explosion; neighbours are saying the gas is dodgy."

"The explosion was caused by a nokia phone being rewired into charges of gunpowder and dynamite with the digital display of a watch, some very complicated work well done; I'm afraid I can't be more specific as I only had a quick look at the phone but it was nothing to do with dodgy gas although they're right, there's a gas leak at number 42. Anyway, I can say that this case is now reopened with Lestrade's blessing. We can almost definitely positively verify the body as that of Harriet Watson but I'll be able to say for sure if I'd had a good look around, providing of course that CSI haven't obliterated all traces that could be important by trampling all over them, I'll also be able to find the murder weapon, assuming this is a murder, which I am, within the week. If you and your friends could vacate the area for approximately an hour, we'd be very much obliged."

I think the police officer was understandably terrified by Sherlock's attempt at a friendly grin and did as she was told.

Sherlock and I had the remains of the bombed out house to ourselves.

"We'll start with the stairs." Sherlock announced, as if there were any other area of the building was still intact. I stood by as Sherlock cautiously crawled all over the half-broken stair case with his magnifying lens, muttering about how downhill CSI were going. As I stared listlessly around the rubble something red caught my eye about two metres away which I headed towards curiously. I knelt down to have a closer look at it, pushing away a slab of rock it was under and realised with a sudden flood of revulsion that it was a ragged hunk of bruised flesh, with a tiny amount of checked material attached to it. It was about a fifteen centimetre squared section of Harry's body.

"Sherlock!" I shouted, grabbing the first word that came into my head and hollering it as I shuffled backwards on my bum through the rubbish, "Sherlock!"

My rapid backward progress was halted by Sherlock's firm grip on my shoulders.

"What is it?" He asked.

I pointed in the direction of my discovery, unable to shape my mouth into the correct shape to tell him in words.

"Ah, thank you John. I had neglected to observe that piece of evidence. This will hopefully provide us with lots of information. It even looks like CID and CSI haven't had their grubby fingers all over it. Excellent!" Sherlock strode cheerfully off to study the section of my sister's body and I lay on my back in the dust and shrapnel, laughing and crying at the same time.

Sherlock

The meat was from the upper left section of the stomach. I took a sample of the yellow fat dripping from its underside and from the scabbed tissue on its top, also taking the area of shirt material and pocketed them for analysis in the lab later. From the messily serrated edges of the piece of meat I knew that it had been separated from the rest of the body, which was no doubt now lying in buried in bits all over the site, when the explosion had gone off. It was unfortunate that the body had been almost completely obliterated. This was probably the largest fragment I'd be able to find. I reached inside my pocket for a plastic bag and wrapped the specimen in it before replacing it back into my coat, then I headed back towards the stairs to continue my study of them.

I wouldn't have noticed John if I hadn't by chance looked down when I was about to step on his face. He was lying, staring at the sky, his whole body wracked with sobs and mirth, amongst the lumps of concrete and splinters of glass. Neither the tears nor the laughter were stronger and I could see John trying to make one of them win.

"John?" I asked, "Are you alright?"

He answered me very slowly, taking a shuddering breath in preparation for each word, "My…life…is…so…ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes." He laughed, "Yes, because of you."

"Oh, I see. You find what I do ridiculous."
"No," John sat up and leaned his head onto his knees, breathing heavily and gaining some control over himself, "I find you ridiculous."

"Oh." I must say I was rather taken aback, "Why?"

"You're sick. You enjoy this; you sit at home waiting for people to be horribly killed so you can show off your bloody science of deduction rubbish-"

"I have a gift." I cut across him, "I am a genius; what am I supposed to do with my abilities? Three quarters of the Met's cases would be left unsolved without me. What I do helps people, l bring some level of closure to them. "

John just stares at me silently for fifty eight seconds, clenching and unclenching his fists before saying "Right. Sure, well I'm sorry. I'm not normally like this."

"It's alright. I'm sorry as well."