"Sherlock, a woman named Harry's here for John."
He glanced at Mrs Hudson irritably, standing up and putting down the spoon he'd been trying to force into John's slack mouth.
"His sister," she clarified.
"What's she doing here?"
"Said John posted about being sick in his blog a half hour ago. She hopped in a cab right away to come see him." Sherlock scowled, making a mental note to confiscate John's laptop as well as his phone. Not five minutes ago Lestrade had received a distressed call from John saying that "men in black suits" were invading the apartment, but couldn't tell him why - he insisted "Mycroft knows". It was only because Lestrade had known Sherlock had been on a top secret case before John had become ill that he thought to call the consulting detective, who had promptly abandoned the soup he'd been making to snatch John's phone from him.
"I suppose she'll have to come in then, won't she?"
"Yeah, I will." A dishevelled blonde, even shorter than John but just as stocky, stood in the doorway, her arms folded over a too-big grey shirt. She was in her late twenties, but her alcoholism made her look almost a decade older. Her stance was slightly lopsided and bags hung under her grey eyes, eyes that softened with concern as she saw her brother lying in his bed. He looked smaller than ever with his withering arms lying on his stacked counterpane. By this point, John had healed enough that he no longer required any bandages, and his black eye had faded enough that Harry didn't even notice it. "Oh, John," she murmured, wobbling slightly as she crossed over to the bed. Sherlock's sensitive nose wrinkled in distaste. She'd been drinking on her way to Baker Street.
Slowly, she sunk into Sherlock's chair, grasping desperately at her big brother's emaciated hand like it was a lifeline. He stirred at her touch, blinking slowly, as if the low lighting in his room was painful. "Hey, John," Harry gave him a watery smile. "How're you feeling?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. How mundane.
John looked at her blankly, then his nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. "The spirits have you," he said, angry and sad at the same time. "You say you'll stop them, but you never do." Tears leaked out from the corners of his closed eyes. "You never do."
"...What?" Harry turned to Sherlock, confusion in her brimming eyes. "What's he on about?"
"You." Sherlock replied, staring down at John. "He's been slipping in and out of delirium for days, always going on about 'spirits taking her away'. I'd thought that he was talking about his mother's depression and suicide after his father abandoned the family," he continued, not even noticing the way Harry's spine stiffened and her hands' clenched over John's. Her brother whimpered, but said nothing. "But saying that you won't stop the 'spirits' is a rather obvious reference to your alcoholism." Harry let out a strangled sob. "I can believe I didn't figure that out earlier," he said to himself.
"Oh, John, I'm so sorry," she wept. "You left for the war, I got so worried and I didn't know what to do! You'd always been there for me, but then I'd wake up every morning worrying you'd been killed... When you got shot, oh God, I couldn't help it, honestly I couldn't…"
Sherlock stood back a little, uncomfortable with any outburst of female emotion, even from one he had so instantly despised.
John was roused once more, and although he did recognise Harry straight away, he was still delirious. "Why do you let them do it, Harry? The spirits are bad, they really are," he said earnestly, tears clouding his blue eyes.
"She's not going to let the spirits take her away anymore," Sherlock reassured him, glancing sharply at Harry.
"I won't, John, I'll stop. I swear I'll stop, just get better."
"Promise?"
"Yes, yes, I promise!" she sniffled, clutching John's hand. "You get better, I'll stay off the booze, I promise."
John nodded to himself. "I'll get better, then." His eyes drifted closed, head sagging to one side. Harry let out an involuntary cry.
"He's just sleeping."
"I know, I know, it's just… will he get well soon?" She plucked anxiously at one of the numerous holes in her faded jeans.
Sherlock regarded her impassively. "Will you stop being an alcoholic?"
She laughed shakily, wiping the tears from her eyes. "If I thought it'd help…"
"I do."
Harry straightened out her rumpled shirt, tucking her short, messy hair behind her ears. She sat there as the silence grew uncomfortable, unsure what to do.
"John's soup is getting cold," he suggested finally, more to get her to leave than anything.
"Right, of course," she stood abruptly, clearly flustered, and headed to the door.
"Will you? Stop drinking?" Sherlock inquired, green eyes searching grey. The inquiry wasn't out of concern for her wellbeing. It was more that he didn't want to have his nose clogged with the stench of liquor every time she visited (which he suspected would become a regular occurrence).
Her lips compressed in a thin, determined line. "I will, Mr Holmes. If it makes John happy, I'll go cold turkey."
Sherlock took a quick glance. All the indicators that she was telling the truth were there, and for John's sake, he hoped she would go through with it. He picked up the soup spoon as she left. "Come on, John, it's just a few sips, surely you can manage to wake up for that…"
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"Sherlock, would you just listen?" Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know that sometimes, you like to leave your consultancy for days or weeks at a time because you've got something 'more interesting' going on, but John was not okay when he called me earlier. He sounded like someone needed to buy him a one-way ticket to Crazy Town. What's going on? Why haven't you sent him to a hospital, for God's sake?"
"It's too dangerous."
"Too dangerous?" Lestrade cast his eyes wildly about his office. "I was only on the phone with him for a few seconds, and it was clear to me he needs psychiatric help!"
"I'm taking care of him."
Lestrade repeated this disbelievingly. "Sherlock, I know you're a genius - no one could ever contest that, even if you did give them a chance - but dealing with someone mentally ill is not exactly your area of expertise! You need to take him to a specialist."
"I said, I'm taking care of him."
"Sherlock-" Lestrade sighed as the phone went dead, rubbing a hand over his face. Well, he's definitely left us out in the cold now. He smiled grimly. Guess we'll just have to do our jobs the way we're supposed to.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"Harry?" John slurred incredulously. "What're you doing here?"
Harry clasped her hands eagerly in front of her. "I'm doing it, John. I haven't had a drink since we spoke yesterday." Already, there were noticeable changes about Harry's person - the bags under her eyes were less pronounced, her eyes themselves no longer bloodshot. Her hair was properly washed and brushed, her clothes were clean and fit her properly (if a little on the cheap side).
John blinked at her owlishly. "We... We talked yesterday?"
"You were delirious," Sherlock offered, standing impassively in the corner.
"Oh... Right."
She pressed her lips together, forcing a smile. "I'm getting a job, too, a proper one. Part time at a little clothing shop. Probationary for now, but if I do well, I should get a full-time position."
John mustered a happy smile. "I'm proud of you, Harry," he told her, hand flopping weakly as her patted her interlaced fingers.
"I'm doing it for you," she replied, eyes glittering. "You said you'd get better if I did. I don't care that you were delirious then, I'm still holding you on that. Promise me again?"
"...I promise, Harry. Thank you." More quietly, so only she would hear, he added, "Mum would be proud of you too."
She gave an unsteady laugh. "Better late than never, right?"
He managed another smile, his eyelids slowly drooping closed.
"John?"
"Mm?" he murmured, barely conscious.
"You will get better, won't you?"
"'Course I will. I prom'sed Harry I would..." A sad frown settled on her features as she realised her brother was losing his grip on reality once more. "Tell... Tell Harry I love her, 'kay?"
Tears shone in her eyes. "I will John, you just..." she sniffed, voice thick with emotion. "You just get some get some rest."
A small sigh escaped his lips. "I c'n do that," he mumbled, and then was asleep.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"My name's Harry," she told the Alcoholics Anonymous group.
They all greeted her with a dutiful monotone.
"Why don't you tell us why you've taken the leap and decided to give up alcohol?" prompted the meeting organiser. She gazed attentively at Harry, her frizzy brown hair and ruffled pink blouse fluttering with every slight movement.
Harry took a deep breath. "My brother's sick. Like, really sick." The organiser nodded sympathetically. "Most of the time, he's either asleep or hallucinating... Once he was just bawling his eyes out because he was so upset with my drinking. He never cries, and there were all these tears streaming down his face... He begged me to stop drinking, so I did. I haven't touched a bottle in over a week."
"Well done, Harry. We all hope that you'll continue your journey to a healthier, happier lifestyle, and of course that your brother's sickness fades quickly too." The group applauded her obediently. "Now, who's next?"
A timid-looking man with tousled dark brown hair and a stained white shirt raised a tentative hand. "Hello, I'm Jim."
"Hi, Jim," the group chorused.
"I've had issues with alcoholism for a long time. My wife left me two years ago because of it, and got full protective custody of our son. I have a mental instability, onset by my drinking problem, and the courts ruled that his life could be endangered if I was allowed to be with him alone... I've been drinking more heavily than ever now because I just don't know what to do. I know I need help, but..."
"That's what we're here for, Jim," the organiser told him supportively. "What's your son's name?"
Jim smiled lovingly. "Sherlock."
"What an unusual name," the organiser enthused. "Where's it from?"
"It's an Old English name, I'm pretty sure. There's this detective, Sherlock Holmes - really smart - I'm a big fan. I named my son after him."
Harry stared at him, her attention caught by the mention of the consulting detective's name. Sherlock Holmes had fans?
"That's nice," the organiser continued. "And you want to clean yourself up, so that you can see him again?"
Jim nodded. "That's right. I want to deal with my alcoholism, then get some help for my mental health issues. I'd give anything just to be with Sherlock again."
"Very good. I assure you, giving up alcohol will help bring you back together with Sherlock." She smiled warmly, and he nodded enthusiastically.
"I'd like that, very much."
The organiser nodded back, then returned her focus to the group as a whole. "Okay, who's going to go next...?"
.:':. .:':. .:':.
A/N: HMM, I WONDER WHO THIS JIM FELLOW COULD BE. Haha, I'm just kidding.
Yes, Moriarty will feature in the next chapter as well (I mean, it wouldn't be a Sherlock story without at least some mention of Moriarty, now would it?). Hehe, just imagining that end scene as if it was actually on TV. They'd do a quick panning shot of the group so you'd be all "...the hell? Was that Moriarty?" and then keep cutting away or blurring shots of him so you don't see him again until he talks, and the response would mainly be, "*gasp* HOLY SHIT it was him!" (At least, that's what my reaction would've been. :P)
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you'll review!
-pixie.