A/N: Hello my dearest, dearest readers! I'm back! (For now at least) I've somehow managed to get my Windows OS working enough to post this but I dunno how long this'll last so I can't make any promises about the punctuality of updates D': Currently it is 6am over here and this is my 2.5 rewrite of this as it has been deleted twice by my phone & laptop and I'm supposed to be up at 8am today D': Basically having pulled an all nighter to bring this to you because you all deserve it for being so patient and wonderful and I owe you guys so much :)
On the same note, I am so, so, so, so sorry for how late this is o.O As I explained in the note, my laptop was dead as a dodo, absolutely ruined and it only got worse after the notice, causing this to be even later D': So again, I am so very sorry D': However, it is soooo good to be back XD Thank you so much for your patience and kind words of encouragement :) To sh, Catwoman and lolki, as I cannot reply to you personally, may I just say thank you for your kind reviews and encouragement :) Hope this new instalment is not too late for you and I'm glad you like the story so far :) To Anonymus, I too share your love for H/C, you're not alone! Really glad you like the story, thanks very much for your review! :)
As for notices, um… this chapter is reaaalllly long, so apologies for that D': It also contains mild profanity, nothing we've not had before but again, I'm sorry if it offends anyone, feel free to message me about it if it does. I'm a bit worried about this chapter as it's been re-wrote so many times due to losing data so I'm not happy with how it's lost some of its original spark but I dunno how it reads so I'll just have to take your words for it :) But on a plus note, yay because we get to meet more of Harry as I've been wanting to write her for a while now and I had fun with her XD I loves her character and we've not even met canon her yet XD
Disclaimer: After 12 buckets of tears, 42 boxes of tissues and a few cuddled-out monkeys, I was forced to go see John's psychiatrist to cure my depression. We talked about the Sherlock hiatus, how my flying monkeys torment me and never let me eat the last cupcake in the cupboards, my terrible, terrible laptop issues and it turns out, she's pretty messed up too. She's had to listen to John talk about Sherlock for all this time and she's not been able to slap him and say "What are you doing sat here?! Go! Go talk to your Sherlock! Comfort him!" Now that is torture.
Harry Watson didn't exactly grimace but John saw the disdain in her eyes as he placed the cup of tea on the table. It was a familiar expression, at least for a sober Harry and it was normal for her to develop a dislike for liquids other than alcohol during her detox period. The change in expression was tiny and although John knew that he should be pleased at the evidence of Harry's sobriety, he found himself holding back a sigh. The first time Harry had tried to stop drinking after Clara had left, he had met it with nothing but enthusiasm, the same as the second time she tried it. The third time was more tough and John was ashamed to say that it was then when the irritation and hopeless had set in. It had been a rough point for both of them and it had ended in them not talking for several months. Now, on attempt four, John didn't know if he had the courage to muster up any semblance of hope for its success.
"So, um… how are you?" John asked awkwardly. He hadn't had a face to face conversation with his sister for almost a year now and, he noticed, it showed.
Harry nodded, like it answered John's question and shifted in her seat, her hand moving as if to reach for the tea but then passing it by untouched. They both stared at the cup for a while, as if the answers were laying in its contents.
"Good," Harry said eventually, "I've been good."
John didn't call her out on the lie, knowing it had been told to placate him but all the same they both knew that it was untrue. Harry wasn't always like this, john remembered times, good times, when Harry had honestly smiled without a drink in her hand, but they both knew now that, for now, things weren't alright without her drinking.
"How have you been?" she said.
John thought about that. To try and explain how he had been, from Sherlock's death (which Harry knew about only from his blog as he had not answered any of her texts or calls to him) to his return, would be a near on impossible feat. He didn't know if he could describe the devastating emptiness and weight to the overwhelming joy and relief and now the following confusion as he waited for Sherlock to come to terms with his own emotions. The detective had gone out early this morning on a case for Lestrade, insisting that John should keep to his plans to go see his sister. The Sherlock that John knew was back, even if that brought back the issue of Sherlock's inability to deal with emotions, as even last night Sherlock had refused to talk about what had happened on the roof that day, this morning he'd avoided talking about his father at all when Lestrade had called. Which, John mused, was the same old Sherlock as ever.
"I'm okay," John sighed finally, deciding that even trying to explain would be a fruitless effort.
There was another prolonged silence and John took a drink of his tea to fill it. He was pretty sure that the slight taste of alcohol in the cup was imagined but he placed it back on the table all the same, not touching it again.
"I read on your blog that your flatmate… Sherlock? It said that he was, well…" she seemed to flounder for words.
"Isn't dead?" he suggested. He had almost completely forgotten about the rushed blog post he had thrown out onto his site a few days after Sherlock's return and it came to him now that he hadn't even checked for any replies to it, from anyone.
Harry nodded. "So, what, he just showed up all of a sudden?" she said and John smiled at that because it sounded like she'd have happily punched Sherlock in the mouth right then and there had he been present, in retaliation for scaring her brother and that definitely sounded more like the Harry that John knew and loved. It reminded him of the time when he'd just entered his sixth form college and had been messing around one winter on the frozen lake near his school when the ice had cracked through, sending him plunging into the freezing water below. He didn't remember much else besides screaming out a lungful of icy water and his hands trying to scramble for the surface but what he did know was that none of his "friends" had been brave enough to try and save him, scared of the ice breaking and so leaving him in the freezing cold while they ran away. When John had finally crawled out of the hole in the ice, shivering and retching up water, he had walked the way home. He didn't know how his sister had found out exactly what had happened but she did and the very next day John had seen his "friends" walking around with black eyes and one of them even had a broken nose. Harry was suspended for fighting, along with two other of her guy friends but when asked about it, all she had done was wink at John and said that her own black eye had come from banging her head on a cupboard. She'd been grounded for the week after that and had spent the whole time telling John to find better friends.
"Yeah," John said with a shrug, "I suppose so, I mean, he explained how he had done it and I figured out why, so-"
"Wait, he didn't tell you why? He left you to figure out why he faked his own death?" she asked and the tone was dangerous and for a second John was worried about how safe exactly Sherlock was when his sister was around. She already blamed him for getting him into danger, even though she knew how much John enjoyed living with Sherlock and going on cases with him.
"I don't know, he just… he's not like that, Harry. He was pretty angry with me when I told him that I knew. I mean, he did I to save my life and Lestrade's and Mrs Hudson's lives. He did it so we'd be safe but every time I try to bring it up, he avoids it or shutters down on me," John admitted. He felt like he was a kid again, telling Harry all his problems because he knew she'd fix them. Harry was always a tomboy growing up, feisty yet caring and John always felt safe telling Harry things because usually she'd always come up with the right thing to do, mixing together feminine intuition with her usual feisty, ready-to-go self and coming up with the perfect solution.
Harry seemed to think about that for a second and there was that expression on her face that John remembered from times in his childhood when he had asked her for advice and she had stared into space with a mix of deep thought and amusement at her brother's antics on her face.
"Is it bothering you?" she asked. John sighed and shrugged, looking at his tea and for a second wished that it really did have a hint of alcohol in it so that it would take the edge off of the question. In all honesty, he could leave the subject. He could never talk about it again, Sherlock would never bring it up and it would become a taboo, simply a subject that was left to sit quietly, never spoken of but always there, like Moriarty or Irene Adler. And John could deal with that. And yet, even though he didn't want to admit it out loud for fear that once he did, it would be permanent, he couldn't deal with the reason it would become a taboo. He didn't want to think that he had left the subject alone, leaving it like a threat in the air when all the while, Sherlock seemed to think it was something he did. For some reason, Sherlock was ashamed of it, never talking about it and John had to be honest. It bothered him.
His sister seemed to recognise his reluctance to answer and nodded, responding to an answer that John hadn't given but she had inferred anyway.
"It's bothering you now, I can see it," she said.
"No, it's not, it's just-"
"John Hamish Watson, I might not have spoken to you in while but that doesn't mean I've stopped being able to read you, you know. Your about as obvious as you can be and if anyone knows that about my kid brother, it's me," Harry grinned and John scowled at her playfully, knowing that she was right, despite the fact John really wished she couldn't read him as easily as she could. She may not have Sherlock's deductive prowess or a degree like John did, but she was a lot smarter than most people took her for, especially their parents. Although their mother had always been proud of John, dinner was always an uncomfortable affair for the whole family as Harry had become the epitome of disappointment for her mother. John always remembered the day that Harry had told their mother about her partner and, later on, the split. He had been over in Afghanistan during the separation but he remembered them getting together, the first time his mother had met Clara. John never talked about that day and Harry didn't either, leaving the memories to rest where they did.
"Have you told him that it's bothering you yet?" Harry asked and John gave a soft snort of laughter.
"Have I tried to talk to Sherlock Holmes about feelings? Um… no, surprisingly no," John said, voice drawling with sarcasm and Harry leaned over to give him a light shove to his shoulder.
"Alright, no need for sarcasm," Harry said, "I forgot he's a bit… crazy when it comes to the feelings stuff." John raised an eyebrow but let the comment slide. After all, even he had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was a little closer to a shade of crazy than he'd care to admit living with.
"You know," Harry continued, "I looked that up online and I heard that all those kind of traits can be put down to that Asperger's syndrome. It said that they have problems with emotions and everything, it sounds just like-"
John gave a laugh. "Harry, I don't think Sherlock's got Asperger's," he said.
"Why not? He's got the personality for it"
"Well, yeah, I know but… Sherlock's a little different. Scientifically it could be a whole tonne of things but… Sherlock's just Sherlock. It's the way he is; I don't know how to explain it. He's just different. He's got a personality of his own; sometimes I think he's not even human but then others… I don't know, inside he's got a good heart. People don't really see it but… he's got it where it counts," John said. He was surprised at himself. Usually he would never say so much to someone else about Sherlock, not even to Sherlock's own brother, usually sufficing with a "Sherlock's just the way he is" or "he's fine" but after not seeing Harry for so long and seeing her sober for the first time in so long, it was good. It reminded him of all the time he had spent as a kid telling her things, talking none stop at his sister and only his sister, sealing up like a clam whenever it came to talking to his parents, supplying only the answers that was required of him. He had been a sociable child, growing up to be a popular and well-liked youth, but as a child even being sociable usually only required him to say what was needed in order to make friends and impress people. Overall, his sister had probably heard him speak more words than anyone else in the world had altogether, except from perhaps Sherlock. It felt good to be talking to her once again after so many months of pained silence, refusing to talk to her until she was sober, until she was Harry again.
"I'm just saying, if he did have it, it'd explain your predicament," Harry said. John gave her a confused look.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know, the whole not understanding emotions thing. I mean, from the sounds of it, Sherlock's feeling bad for some reason about this whole thing. Like, guilty or something," she said. John nodded, agreeing. Sherlock had yet to say anything yet but the impression of something similar to guilt, maybe even regret was there and as of yet John had been unable to determine the cause of it.
"What does that have to do with him not getting other people's feelings?" John said, feeling more confused now than he had before talking to Harry. Sherlock was bad at both interpreting and having emotional responses to things, but he could do it. He was unsure as to what Harry was trying to get at.
"If social situations give him so much trouble, it's possible that while he's done what he has to save your life, he still feels guilty because he's been thinking about your feelings at the same time and he's kind of got them… muddled," Harry said.
"Muddled?" John asked, perplexed, "I'm not feeling guilty, why would I?" Harry gave a frustrated noise as if she couldn't quite get her point across and John thought back to when she used to give him biology quizzes for his A Levels and she had had trouble giving him clues to the answers.
"No… I mean, he's been trying to consider how you feel. Coming back after three months, he's obviously going to want to have "data", as he'd put it, if your blog is anything to go by, on how you're feeling. And so far, he's seen that you're relieved but you were angry with him I bet, to begin with, right?"
John nodded.
"So, he's seen you angry. He's seen how upset you were after he died. He saw your blog die into nothingness after he left and he's known how lonely you've been. Overall, all he's seen is how much pain it's caused you because of what he did," Harry explained, "He hasn't seen how grateful you are for what he did… I might be wrong but it's kind of like when we used to do something bad as a kid and we used to have to apologise to our mum and dad. We knew they'd still love us but we always felt guilty afterwards because we saw how disappointed they were. I dunno, maybe Sherlock thinks he's done nothing but hurt you and he's feeling guilty for it."
John gave himself time to absorb Harry's words and the longer he thought about it, the more the realisation sunk in. He'd been so wrapped up in his anger and pain that Sherlock had taken it that he had done something wrong. He was feeling guilty, when all the while John could understand what he had done and why. It was more than a misunderstanding, it was the lost boy that John had seen so often in Sherlock, trying to find his way through a forest of sentiments and "human interactions" that Sherlock struggled so much with. It wasn't that he had no feelings, John had seen them first hand, knew that Sherlock's feelings were actually stronger and more pure than those of most people's, his loyalty and friendship being second to none, even when they were slightly unconventional and yet, he still took time to process each new one as it came along. It had taken him months to finally call John his friend and he wondered if this was the same principle.
Harry managed to catch his eye and she looked inquisitively at him. "I mean, have you even said thank you to him yet?"
John blinked as the sky fell down on top of him. It felt as if the heavens had had their strings cut and they had simply collapsed on top of him, their weight pressing down on him. Oh God. After everything, all the arguments and the worrying and the talks, after John forgiving him and Sherlock telling John the truth about so many things, John had forgotten the most simple thing of all, losing it in Sherlock's complex manners and personality. He had yet to simply say thank you. He knew that he had implied it, maybe even mentioned the words during their conversations or arguments but he realised that he had never simply said the words earnestly to the man who had saved his life, instead substituting it with attempts to understand him and get through to him when all the while John knew now that all Sherlock really needed to hear was that he was appreciated, that he had done the right thing. Guilt felt like an insistently humming swarm of bees as it surrounded John and he stared, mortified, at his sister.
Her mouth formed an "o" shape and she widened her eyes in a look of surprise, like she had received a particularly disturbing piece of gossip. "Oh," she said simply, "That'd probably be why he's so confused." John closed his eyes and groaned, bowing his head into his hands.
"Oh God," he groaned, "I can't believe it… all this time… I'm an idiot"
"Well," Harry said, voice still light, "I've been trying to tell you that for years but you with your fancy degree wouldn't listen to me." She grinned at him when he finally looked up and he gave her a defeated look, knowing that she had once again solved a puzzle that he could not. Sometimes he wondered how his sister hadn't been snatched up by one of Mycroft's lot yet. If not for the drinking, he was pretty sure his sister could sort out most of the world's problems over a cup of tea.
"What do I do?" John asked, mortification and regret sweeping through him. His sister gave him a soft smile and a chuckle and her calm in situations such as this was infectious. While Harry was often noisy and boisterous, always up for a chat with anyone and being even noisier when drunk, she did also have a calm, focused side that very rarely came out. It was at times of family crisis or when she was giving advice to her "kid brother" or, previously, when with Clara that she instantly settled into an infectiously determined, steady state that John had always loved. Harry was always the best person to ask help for when it came to solving problems.
"It's simple John, really, to say you're a doctor you can be useless sometimes," she joked, "All you have to do is simply say thank you to him. No messing around, no analysing, just a simple "Sorry for being an idiot. Thanks for saving my life." All he needs to know is that you approve and that you appreciate it, that's all. It's not rocket science John."
John didn't register the words for a second, his mind still stuck in its own thoughts. How had he missed this? How had he forgotten something so simple, yet so pivotal? Eventually he caught up with himself and jerked his head in acknowledgement, already considering how that conversation would turn out with Sherlock.
"Yeah," he finally said and he gave a weak smile, "You actually might be right there."
"I know I'm right," Harry retorted, "You always did look too close into things, it's why you ended up a doctor."
"I thought I ended up a doctor because I was good at it?"
"Well," Harry grinned, "You're okay at it. Honestly, you'd be nowhere without me."
John laughed and although the banter felt familiar, like the same old joking they would have as kids, there was a tension there; something that still made his laugh sound hollow and the air tingle a little with unspoken words. He sighed, knowing that there was still an elephant sitting in the room that was yet to be addressed and Harry had unwittingly uncovered it with her words. Where exactly would he be without Harry? It was an odd question as Harry had had many different roles as John had grown up, each changing into the next with no definitive turning point until recently she had become something of an odd part in John's life, which was saying something as the life he lived now was odd in its own right. It felt as if she longer slotted anywhere quite like she used to, the months of silence making it difficult to place her and it was only now that John could see her perhaps slotting back in somewhere. However, he had come so close to losing his sister to the alcohol problem that even her joking words haunting him and he shifted uncomfortably, preparing himself for the question that needed asking. He saw her catch his eye and she too appeared to ready herself for it.
"The Christmas before Sherlock went away… he said something. Sherlock can be a real idiot sometimes because he just doesn't think how people might react to…" he trailed off, knowing that he was simply trying to delay the inevitable, "He said, and it's not to say that I believe him or anything, but he said that you had… started drinking again. And, you look fine now, I mean, you're doing great, but… seriously… I need to know Harry."
The silence was thick and tense and Harry didn't move, hardly even breathed for a second or two.
"Christmas," she said slowly and John nodded, waiting for the lie he knew would come. His sister sighed and sat back in her chair, her back pushing hard into the backrest like she was literally trying to force the memories from her body.
"I heard that… Clara had met someone. At a Christmas party of all things." There was a bitter laugh after that and it was part way between cynical and self-loathing and the sound of it made John's blood simmer. "I don't know exactly what happened but I heard that she had met a woman from her work place at the office do. Dunno her name, pretty girl though I bet. Bet she's miles younger than me." John felt like he should offer some reassurance but Harry's bitter expression stopped him.
"So I went out. Got pissed as a lord with a few mates of mine and generally had a right old Christmas really," she said but the words sounded hollow, forced and John knew that although it wasn't the whole truth, it had probably been more than one night and she'd probably drunk herself unconscious, but there was also another lie in there, a falsity to her apparently happy tone. She hadn't enjoyed it and John knew it.
Apparently she knew that she didn't have him fooled and she visibly caved, looking down at her lap, staring at her hands before she spoke again.
"I kind of regret it now. I felt bad for days after. I was too ashamed to tell you but apparently your flatmate already knew. How the hell did he know that by the way?" she added and John shrugged.
"It's just Sherlock, he knows these things. I don't know how the hell he does it either half the time," he admitted, before adding, "I'm glad. Not that you went out drinking or that you feel bad but… at least it's a step. Not wanting to let me down, I appreciate that Harry, I really do. And after that, you've been doing okay right?" Harry nodded, shooting a look at the tea on the coffee table as if to prove a point.
"Yeah, been living the high life," Harry said sarcastically and it was almost cutting, the way she said it sounding almost accusatory but her face turned immediately apologetic and she let out a frustrated breath.
John smiled in a way that he hoped showed her how grateful he was. She knew this meant a lot to him and, with any luck, it could be what helped her beat it, this time at least.
"I mean it Harry, I appreciate it. It's… it's been good talking to you today. You're more like yourself, you seem better," John said and then he added, teasingly, "You're one of the cool kids again." Harry laughed at the familiar brotherly taunt and John saw her eyes glitter like they never used to when she was drinking and he couldn't help but grin.
"Me? I was never one of the cool kids and you knew it!"
"Yeah right, you used to hang out with all the guys," John smirked.
"Only because I was the only girl in the class who could kick their asses!"
"Okay, well you've got a fair point there, but-"
John was cut off as a mobile phone rang and it took him a few moments to realise that it was his as he had been forced to buy a new one after his last one had ended in pieces. He smiled at Harry as she gestured at him to pick it up and he answered it, sitting back in his chair.
"Hello?" he answered, recognising the number as the Baker Street number. If it was Sherlock to call about if he'd eaten the cereal with the gunpowder in it again, he was gonna-
"John? Oh John, thank goodness. I've already called Sherlock, he said he's on his way and he said that that police man was going to come with him. Greg is it? They're on their way-"
"Mrs Hudson?" John hadn't expected the voice that came down the phone to him and his confusion multiplied as he listened to her panicked rant, "What is it? Are you alright?" John's protective instincts flared as although she was simply their landlady, Mrs Hudson had become a dear friend to both John and Sherlock, surprisingly so to the latter as she had become an almost surrogate mother to them both while at Baker Street and both of her boys were protective of her.
"I only popped out for a minute to the shops, I never thought…" she seemed to have to reign her thoughts back in, worry and agitation making her skittish, "There's been a break-in John, in your flat. They've made such a mess and the damage they've done to some of it, you wouldn't believe, I-"
"A break in?" John interrupted.
"Well, yes, I think so. There are things everywhere, like they were looking for something. I don't know what Sherlock's got up there that they're looking for but all his dressing gown pockets seem to be okay, so…"
John smiled at that, despite the situation. Mrs Hudson knew all of Sherlock's hiding spots, like a mother finding where her teenage son had hidden his possessions. At least she's not hurt, John thought, remembering the last time someone had hurt Mrs Hudson, back when they had met Irene Adler.
"Alright, I'm coming, I'll be there as soon as I can," John said and he heard Mrs Hudson thank him before she hung up. Harry was looking over at him anxiously and he could see that she was worried for him.
"There's been a break in at your flat?" she said, sounding just as shocked as he felt.
"Yeah," John said numbly, "She's already told Sherlock but… I gotta get back, the place is a mess and as of yet we don't know what's been taken, so…"
Harry nodded in understanding and gave a smile. "I get it," she said, "My superhero little brother has got to go back and save the day." She gave a laugh but he could tell she was only trying to cheer him up and she followed it with, "I hope there's not too much damage been done John. You should really get yourself home." John sighed and stood up, concern and apprehension churning in his stomach as he did so. 221B Baker Street wasn't a stranger to having people simply break in, after all, their security was only as good as the latch on their door and, when Mrs Hudson was out, the alarm code for their system. Still, hearing that someone had been in their space, in their home, was unnerving and John felt like someone had already stolen something dear to him and he felt both angry and offended by it.
"Yeah, I should… go," John agreed, feeling awkward once again, his forced departure making the goodbye feel sudden and out of place, "Listen, it's been really great to see you Harry and you've been doing great so… I'm really proud of you. So, well, keep it up, okay? I really liked seeing you again."
"You'd see me more often if you weren't so stubborn," Harry pointed out but there was no real malice in the words and she stood. With the same brazen courage that made her as strong as she was, she was the first one to make the step and she didn't give John any notice before she pulled him into a hug.
"See you later," she said and John smiled, hoping that perhaps this time he would, perhaps this time she really was serious about staying off the drink. But with Harry, nothing was ever certain.
"Yeah, I'll er, I'll call you," John said.
"No you won't," Harry said dryly but she grinned nonetheless, "Go on, get going, sort that flat of your out. And don't forget to sort your flatmate out while you're at it!"
After a few more goodbyes and John attempting to try and get Harry to agree to at least consider a family dinner, John had made his way back to Baker Street. Even at his hurried state, it still took him almost an hour to get back and by the time he arrived, he already saw a police car sitting outside, looking like it had been sat there for a fair while. He remembered Mrs Hudson mentioning something about Lestrade coming over with Sherlock; presumably straight from the case they had just been on.
He entered the flat without knocking, spotting Mrs Hudson in her kitchen, making a cup of tea, like she always did when she was nervous. An unusual idiosyncrasy of Mrs Hudson's was that when she was agitated, she took to making cup after cup of tea, for whoever would agree to it and even to those who didn't. In the end, John and even to some extent Sherlock, had given in and now simply said yes to any offer of tea that arose.
"Mrs Hudson?" He called from the bottom of the stairs and Mrs Hudson jumped a little, quickly turning her head to see him, "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Are you all right? You weren't in the flat when they were, were you?"
"No, I was out at the shops but heavens John, it's just not right. These kids, breaking into people's houses like this; you'd never see this happening in my day. It's the parent these days, I'm-"
"Um, so, you're alright? Not hurt?" John jumped in, stopping the rant before it began. Often, Mrs Hudson could be worse for rambling than Sherlock could and although he did want to make sure she was alright, he was also desperate to see exactly what the damage to the flat had been.
"No, I'm fine, thank you John," Mrs Hudson said, "Sherlock's upstairs with Greg." With a quick thank you, John ascended the stairs as quickly as he could.
"Sherlock," he shouted as he did, "I heard about the flat, I came as quickly as I could. Is everything-" He stopped as the flat came into view, his mouth dropping open.
"Oh my God," he said, trying to absorb the mess that was once their living room.
Granted, the place had been cluttered when he had left that morning, still not having cleaned up the boxes scattered everywhere but now the place was not only mess but most of it was also ruined. Each and every box had been opened and overturned, anything breakable inside having smashed or broken on impact with the ground and scattering across the floor, now empty boxes strewn everywhere. He couldn't see too well from where he was standing but he could tell that the sofas had been slashed open, the stuffing removed in places like they had considered it to be a hiding place for something precious. The curtains were torn down, Sherlock's chemistry equipment having been turned into nothing but shards of glass on the floor, the coffee table overturned, TV looking like it had all but been removed from the wall and, most perturbingly, the window had been broken. Well, not broken fully and John's mouth fell open in shock as he looked closer at it to see the small round hole, surrounded by a maze of cracking, of a bullet.
His eyes widened and his eyes followed the invisible path of the bullet, swallowing as he spotted the hole in the wall where the shot had made a hole in the wall, powerful and clean and the more John looked at it and considered, the more it appeared to be-
"Sniper shot," he heard someone say and John jumped, looking over to the armchair where he could see Sherlock crouched on his haunches, looking more agitated than John had seen him in a long time. There was a fury in his eyes that John was taken aback by, a barely restrained angry at their home being violated.
"He wished to make his identity known, perhaps to try to scare us, perhaps to warn us of what happens when we attempt to look into his business," Sherlock said blandly and he looked over at John, almost nonchalant in his actions, as if checking to see if John had brought milk home or not, "This was done as a warning. A power play to attempt to scare us off, that much is obvious."
"Obvious?" John echoed and then, considering it, the thoughts coalesced and he felt himself go bug-eyed in surprise, "Wait, what, the sniper from the case? The guy that killed that couple?"
Sherlock looked at him again and this time his irritation was clear, looking at John as if he had said the most stupid thing he had ever heard and, according to Sherlock, he had heard a lot of stupid in his life.
"Of course the sniper from the case John, were you even listening at all?" Sherlock snapped.
"That's the question I constantly ask you Sherlock, funnily enough you never answer," John said back, sighing and returning his gaze to the flat to review the damage with a groan. The place looked worse than it had when Moriarty's bomb had exploded in the house across the road and John knew that getting it back to normal would be a long, arduous job.
"Nothing's been taken according to Sherlock so, it looks like he might be right." John looked over at the voice and saw Lestrade walking out of the kitchen, a notebook in his hands that he appeared to be writing down in. John nodded to him in acknowledgement, acting as calmly as he could, however inside, his stomach was roiling. Something about this was off, not just because the flat had been broken into (which would have alarmed him before he started living with Sherlock) but there was something else too, something John couldn't quite place. He simply had the feeling that there was something more to the incident than what they could see. He didn't know where the feeling came from or what it meant but still, it remained, like a shadow at the corner of his mind, a notion that he couldn't shake.
"You think someone's trying to scare us out of investigating?" John asked and Lestrade shrugged.
"I'm not sure. I'll have to look into it but Sherlock's pretty convinced," Lestrade said.
"It's obvious," John heard Sherlock growl and he cast a glance at his flatmate. Sherlock looked as irritated as he sounded and there was a hint of darkness to his eyes that unnerved John as he watched his flatmate scan the flat. He could almost hear every detail register in Sherlock's brain, the quiet anger of their space being invaded making him otherwise impossible to read. He could have been planning murder or planning what to write on his blog and John would not be able to tell the difference behind the settled, patient anger surrounding him.
John heard the knock on the door downstairs and jumped, his mind dragged forcefully away from his flatmate. Sherlock himself didn't so much as blink at the sound, lost deep in thought, blocking out the rest of world as he sometimes did when he needed to think. There could be an earthquake and it wouldn't break Sherlock out of his mood until he had whatever answer it was that he was looking for. John had tried everything, the first few times it had happened, to snap him out of it. However, eventually he came to realise that once Sherlock was in thought, it was very easy to lose him there.
"Oh for God's sake, who the hell's this?" Lestrade cried, "It's a crime scene, not a theme park!"
John smiled sympathetically. He could understand Lestrade's unease as even he himself didn't trust anyone being in the flat right at this moment, besides the small group that were already within the room. In fact, John realised that, overall, there were very few people that he trusted on a day to day basis, less perhaps than he could count on his fingers. Therefore, the idea of having someone in 221B right after a robbery set his teeth on edge and he waited in suspicion as he heard Mrs Hudson greet someone at the door and several pair of shoes ascend the stairs. He tensed, preparing for the worst scenario, his soldier's instincts kicking in and making his muscles coil into readiness. The only thing keeping him reasonably at ease was the fact that Sherlock was still sat, relatively relaxed where he was. Even when he was in his own world, Sherlock sensed trouble like a fire alarm to smoke and, despite usually having an active need to seek it out, John trusted him. Sherlock had landed them in more than their fair share of danger on many an occasion, yet John was more than happy to follow Sherlock's lead, gauging trouble by Sherlock's reactions.
A small group of people crested at the top of the stairs and John's eyes widened as he recognised the man in the front of the group.
"Jesus," the man cursed and John was forced to step aside as the older man barrelled into the room, "Sherlock! Are you alright? Jesus Christ, look at the state of this place. Was anything taken?"
John watched Robert Holmes' presence fill the room as he swept forward, a small handful of policeman, seemingly at a loss for what to do without their leader, paused awkwardly at the top of the stairs. Sherlock on the other hand seemed to jerk, like a puppet on a string and John's mouth was close to falling open as Sherlock came quickly from his thoughts, head spinning to fix on his father.
"I'm fine," the detective said immediately, "Simply working out the problem. If I'm not mistaken, which I'm not, this was a warning shot, so to speak. No real damage was intended." John raised an eyebrow at that. No real damage? He looked around the flat, seeing the broken window and shot-up wall, the destroyed furniture and scattered possessions and he felt his teeth clench together, hard. John knew that Sherlock enjoyed showing off, however this was something completely different. Around his father, Sherlock was more than a show-off, more than just brilliant, he was near on desperate, eager to please and to prove himself like John had never seen before.
"How the bloody hell did he find out about this?" a voice next to John said and the close proximity almost made him jump, turning his head to see that Lestrade had moved to stand next to him.
"Well, he is the superintendent, I don't reckon there's much he doesn't know about," John supplied, "And Sherlock is his son after all." Lestrade made a face, his displeasure obvious.
"The guy really doesn't sit well with you does he?" John said. In all honesty, although he couldn't pin it down to anything particular due to the man's regularly charming demeanour, he could not one hundred per cent say that he trusted the older man, however Lestrade seemed even more on edge than he was around Robert Holmes. "Wasn't he the guy that gave you the D.I job back?" John continued.
Reluctantly, Lestrade nodded and John followed his gaze, seeing Robert talking to Sherlock, discussing the crime, Sherlock making deductions faster than John had ever seen, as if all this time he had been holding back and was now working at his brain's usual, superhuman speed. John would be too embarrassed to say it but he had to admit that it wouldn't surprise John is Sherlock really did have superhuman powers sometimes, although he would never tell him that.
"Yeah, he did," Lestrade agreed, "I dunno, it's just… when Sherlock was gone, there was no support for him in the force, at all. No investigation, no nothing. And then Sherlock's dad just comes in out of the blue, starts a full scale investigation but never mentions it's his son? And now he's treating him like they've been together for years. Sherlock's not the same when he's around."
"You can say that again," John agreed.
"Today's crime scene for example. I've never seen Sherlock work so fast. It turned out to be a client of Moriarty's and not a single one of us picked up till Sherlock mentioned it, but it was like watching a puppy trying to fetch a slipper," Lestrade said quietly. John tried to imagine Sherlock as a puppy with a slipper and shuddered. Sherlock was anything but a people-pleaser and even just imagining him as one was unsettling, much less seeing him trying to impress anyone for any other reason than his usual narcissistic ways.
John's attention returned to Sherlock's father as the man spoke up, addressing his small team of officers who had gathered in a small huddle by the picture of the skull that was now hanging onto the wall for dear life, its frame shattered as if whoever had broken in had searched it for something.
"I want you to set up a watch around the flat, no-one gets in without being authorised," he commanded and John spluttered, Lestrade quickly thumping him on the back as he coughed a little in shock.
"Wait, what?" John exclaimed.
"There's no need for alarm Doctor Watson, I simply wish to place the correct precautions in place, should this man return again. You know very well that my son often places himself in danger for the sake of the case, a risk that I wish to minimize as best as I can, at least, for the time being. After all, this man has already killed two people," the eldest Holmes explained.
John gaped at him, looking between him and Sherlock, his expression only growing more shocked as he looked at Sherlock who appeared to be stuck in the middle of a crisis, his calm exterior cracking ever so slightly. It was only visible to John because he had seen it before, when having to give over a valuable piece of information in exchange for someone's life (which was often apparently a harder decision for Sherlock than John would like) or when trying to be nice to John's girlfriends for John's sake. He frowned, Sherlock's expression making his stomach drop as he realised that Sherlock was having to decide between the side of logic and his flatmate, against the idea of pleasing his father. John sent him a glance, half pleading, half stern scolding and Sherlock sagged a little, visibly caving under John's glare, the weight of years of what even Sherlock had dubbed as friendship pushed its weight on him.
"Father," Sherlock interjected and his voice was quiet and more subdued that either John or Lestrade was used to, Lestrade especially, who was used to hearing Sherlock commanding and yelling pompously on crime scenes, not bowing to a father he had not seen in years, "I understand our concern, however John and I have tackled much more perilous cases than this one and, although I understand the need for a thorough investigation, I believe that police time would perhaps be better spent elsewhere. It is not necessary to feel obligated to protect either John or myself." Sherlock's voice was still authoritative and steady, despite its volume, however his eyes didn't quite meet his father's as he spoke, and instead he seemed to try to avoid them, focusing on a point at Robert's lapel that apparently interested him.
Robert seemed to think for a while, scrutinising Sherlock's expression from above and the casting a half interested glance over at John.
"Understood," he said tightly and something about the tone sent a chill through John's skin and he wanted nothing more than to go and stand beside his flatmate, "However, as a compromise, I would very much appreciate it if you gave the Yard a chance to look over the flat. Take prints, photographs, see if we can dig anything up." Sherlock looked as if he was about to argue that whatever the Yard had to pick up, he had already picked up, however he stopped, seeming to decide that the moment wasn't quite right.
"Of course. John and I can go out for a few hours," Sherlock said. He turned to John, grabbing his scarf from where he had apparently hung it over an empty box and if John didn't know any better, he could have sworn it looked almost neatly smoothed, as if he had placed it with careful sentimentality despite the wreckage around him. John had also noted how Sherlock's coat had been placed on a hanger by the door for once when he had returned home instead of strewn across the sofa, as if he had purposefully kept it away from the carnage.
"There's a new Greek restaurant in Soho Square I'd like to try, as a matter of fact," Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around him.
"Sherlock," John tried to interrupt but a raised eyebrow from Sherlock stopped him.
"I imagine you'll be finished by the time we return," Sherlock said. Robert Holmes nodded, the policemen in the corner already beginning to get out evidence bags and dust kits and John clenched his teeth at the idea of 221B Baker Street suddenly becoming a scene from CSI.
"We can put some things in order for you if you wish," Robert said, teeth flashing momentarily in a smile, "Return things to boxes, get rid of the broken glass. I hate to see your home looking like this Sherlock, I really do."
John saw Sherlock's eyes flash with something akin to the puppy dog Lestrade had described and John's clenched teeth grated together painfully.
"It's fine," John growled, "I'll do it when I get back. I've been meaning to clean the place up for ages now anyway." He tried to keep his voice jovial even though his teeth felt like they would crack any second now. The older man laughed, a sickly sweet sound that was almost like a giggle and John was reminded of when Mycroft feigned a laugh.
"You make an adorable house wife John," Robert grinned and John had to reign in his temper, "Don't worry, I'm not going to replace you. I only want to do what's best for Sherlock."
John glared at him and the stare he received back made his blood run cold, the danger and barely restrained violence behind it making him break eye contact in shock, a small shiver ran through him, like a drop of ice water creeping down his back. Sherlock was already halfway out the door, compelling John to follow him and John nodded in an absent minded way, thoughts focused on that stare.
"See you later John," Lestrade muttered and John felt momentarily sorry for him, knowing that he had to stay behind and receive his orders from the Superintendent.
"Yeah, see you Greg," John returned although his concentration was not on the D.I.
Even as they left the building and Sherlock began to tell John about the case of the morning, a series of missing millions streaming into bank account of a dead client of Moriarty's, or something to that effect, John couldn't stop thinking about that look, the cold, harsh gaze that promised cruelty. He suddenly regretted leaving their flat in the hands of a man like that.
A/N: Alright, so there was some really cheesy bits at the end and just as many clichés but I have written this out two and a half times XD
Thinking about the ending, about leaving their flat to someone like that: Am I the only person who sees 221B Baker Street as an almost character of its own? I dunno, I see the flat as almost a character, like Serenity was in the TV show Firefly (If you've ever seen it), it has its own mood and feel and you can tell when bad things have happened there or when there are happy events there. I dunno, it just stands out to me as having an almost personified personality. Maybe I'm just crazy XD
Anyways, again, I am so, so sorry for the ridiculous posting, for once it truly was out of my hands D': Anyway, reviews are very, very much appreciated, everyone is welcome to PM me with ideas or even just to say hi and, again, thanks so much for reading!