John thought about dragging Sherlock to meet Harry officially, as payback, but decided the chaos that would inevitably ensue wasn't worth the satisfaction. Instead he grabbed his jacket, keys, and wallet, and headed for the door, hoping the walk to the cafe would clear his head and help him act like a decent brother.
"Going out?" Sherlock smirked from the couch, and John tossed her own coat at her, making her pages skitter everywhere.
"You," he said, pointing, "are a colossal berk, and don't think I'm letting you off for this."
"What'd she do now?" Lestrade asked, looking up, and John sighed.
"She set me up to talk to my sister."
Greg laughed suddenly, grinning up at him. John gave him a look and he chuckled, shaking his head, "She can trash your flat and you barely bat an eye, but have her make you talk to your sister and you act like you're going to your execution. You two are going to be the best entertainment Scotland Yard's had since Anderson and Donovan got together the first time."
John gave Greg a steely glare. "This is the sister that was screaming over our heads the last time you came over." He could see the Detective rummage through his memories before his face looked like he'd bitten into a sour lemon. John nodded slowly. Yes. That one. You remember now.
"Oh. Sorry, mate. Best of luck to you! Cheers!" Lestrade said with forced enthusiasm, and John rolled his eyes.
"Don't be nice to her today, Greg," he ordered, pointing at Sherlock as he left. "Make her explain everything. Twice if you don't understand the first time."
"John!" he heard Sherlock whinge as he closed the door with a smirk. That should do, for now.
Harry was late to the cafe, but that meant John could order his own coffee and make sure it actually tasted decent. He handed her a couple of quid instead of ordering hers, knowing she'd be getting the latest trend, probably some no-fat-soy-latte-with-two-squirts-of-fabulous-and-an-extra-shot-of-espresso monstrosity that John knew he'd never be able to order correctly.
"What, I have to get in line?" she complained, and he shrugged.
"I figured you'd want your coffee warm instead of barely lukewarm because it's been sitting here," he said, and she seemed to think that was a decent enough reason, and got in line without further complaint. John took the top off his coffee, playing with the edges of the cap and warping it. What had made him decide meeting was a good idea? He was mad, utterly mad. Bonkers.
Then again, he did live with Sherlock Holmes, so he supposed most people could guess that one.
Harry set her cup on the table with more force than necessary, and he looked up, clenching his hand. She gave him a look. "Yeesh, John no need to look so frightened, I'm hardly going to bite."
John frowned, puzzled. He wasn't frightened, he wasn't even scared. He just dreaded this, hated these talks about 'how he was doing' and 'was he okay'. Last time had been okay, he supposed, neutral ground, but he didn't want the pity or worry he could see in peoples' eyes when they looked at him, and it wasn't fear, it was just...
dull.
He blinked as he realized the feeling; it was boredom, only boredom that bordered on pain. The greyness that had threatened to settle over his life before he'd shot an unstable waterman. He gave a quick chuckle, and looked up at Harry, who was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.
"I'm fine, really." He'd walked around with that greyness on him like a cloak for months, had he looked frightened the whole time? No wonder people had constantly looked at him like he was going to break. Trust Harry to just push past that one. "Just... I'm actually fine, Harry, but you're not going to listen."
Harry sat down across from him. "Try me."
A moment later John was giggling madly with Harry as he explained his attempts at hobbies. "What did it taste like?" Harry asked, gasping, as John described his cake disaster.
John shook his head, shoulders shaking as he ducked his head to muffle the laughter. "I don't know, I didn't bother to try it. I was horrified; it was a lot of salt, it probably tasted like Play-Doh."
"You'd know," Harry giggled with him, and they both grinned at each other for a moment before Harry leaned back and wiped her eyes. "Oh, god, I expect the rest went the same way."
John shrugged. "I tried reading; it didn't work, Sherlock spoiled the ending, the prat. And the knitting went well, but I can't see myself doing it again."
"You knitted?" Harry asked in disbelief, her eyebrows rising, and John rolled his eyes.
"Mrs. Hudson taught me. I was desperate."
"I can imagine. Look, sorry, I won't threaten to take you swimming. Did you find something to do, though?"
John nodded. "I'm writing, in a blog. My therapist - she said it might help, but I didn't have anything to write about - before - so now -" he frowned, trying to figure out how to say it.
"I want the URL," Harry said, leaning forward enthusiastically, and John grimaced.
"It's not what you think, Harry, it's mostly about Sherlock, I mean, because of her cases."
"What does she do, anyway? You said that policeman was a friend," Harry said, frowning, and John hastened to explain.
"She's, ah, a detective. Consulting detective. Only one in the world," he said, then realized it sounded like he was bragging, and that he actually was, and when had he gotten so - proud? - of his flatmate's accomplishments?
Harry's eyebrows raised and she leaned back. "Really? So she what, solves mysteries?"
John winced at how that sounded. It was like Harry expected Sherlock to be Nancy Drew or something. "Last time, it was that serial suicides case," he said, trying to make it sound more professional, but it got Harry's attention.
"Really? I read about that in the papers, it was - crazy. I mean, he was getting them to poison themselves, right? Who does that?"
Shrugging, John answered with, "Crazy people. Anyway, Sherlock solved it. It was brilliant, actually." He remembered his coffee and took a long sip as Harry mulled that over.
"So, what, you help?" she asked after a moment, and John played with the lid to his coffee again.
"Sort of, in-between cases. Mostly just follow her around or do the legwork she doesn't want to do."
"You're not her errand boy, John," Harry said, sounding disapproving, and John shook his head.
"I know, but sometimes someone needs to go look for graffiti at dusk by the train tracks and it probably shouldn't be a woman alone at night," he said, and Harry nodded slowly. "And if it keeps people from dying..." John knew he was playing the sympathy card, but he hoped Harry could understand this one.
"I think I get it. You never were one who could sit back and watch someone get hurt," Harry said with a flicker of a smile. "It's the soldier part of you. Though I bet you offer to patch up anyone you accidentally rough up."
John grinned. "I can take care of myself, ta."
"Never said you couldn't," Harry countered, and John leaned back.
"So what have you been doing?"
Harry's face lit up. "I have met the most fantastic woman in my whole life."
"Oh, god," John groaned. "Another one?"
She kicked him under the table, and John winced. "Ow."
"She's a single mother, and she's beautiful, and she runs her own business!" Harry listed off happily, as if she hadn't just traumatized John's shin.
"What does she do?" John said, rubbing his ankles together ruefully.
"She's a dreamreader!" Harry said excitedly. "She's teaching me, it's really amazing. So insightful."
"Uh-huh," John nodded, starting to tune her out when she began to babble about the 'intellectual and spiritual pursuit of subconscious truths through dreams'. Yes. I think I can read my own dreams pretty well. Hello, John, you fucked yourself over in the army, well done.
"See, she showed me this brilliant site, it's a dream dictionary, you just look up whatever you've dreamed; I'm actually trying to get a grasp of everything, I'm just getting through the A's, shove over, John," Harry said, scooting her chair closer so she could show John her phone. "It has everything. I mean, I've never seen an armadillo in my dreams, but a lot of these are really relevant, you don't even realize they were in your dreams until you start looking for them - John, are you okay? - hey, that's mine!"
"Write down the web address for me, would you, Harry," John ordered as he scrolled up on the touchscreen, ignoring Harry's protests as he clicked on abacus, which was the very first in the list.
Abacus
To see or use an abacus in your dream refers to your outdated views. You have an old fashion perspective on certain issues.
John blinked and went to the B's, scrolling to bailiff.
Bailiff
To see a bailiff in your dream suggests that you have crossed a certain boundary and now must be held accountable for your actions.
To dream that a bailiff is arresting you signifies your need to improve your business ethics. Your integrity is being called into question. Alternatively, the dream points to conflict in your waking life.
John gulped, took a deep breath, and found cactus, wondering.
Cactus
To see a cactus in your dream suggests that you are feeling invaded, that your space is being crowded into and that you are being suffocated. The prickly spines of the cactus represent the boundary you are trying to establish between your personal and private. Or you feel the need to defend yourself in some way. Alternatively, the dream implies that you have found yourself in a sticky situation. Perhaps you need to adapt to your existing circumstances instead of trying to change them.
His hand was completely steady as he picked up his own phone, dialing Sherlock's number quickly and then holding the phone to his ear.
"What?" Sherlock said instead of the more traditional 'hello?'
"Sherlock, I think I've got it," John breathed, staring at the phone. "I think I know the code."
"Come home," Sherlock commanded, and hung up, and for once John didn't mind being ordered about.
"Sorry, Harry, you've just given me a clue to a killer. Did you write that down?" he asked, and she handed him a napkin with the URL on it, paling.
"Wait, a killer? I-"
"I'll call you. Just google me for my blog, kay? Thanks for the chat, gotta run," John said, ignoring his coffee as he snatched his wallet and keys from the table and burst out the door, hailing a taxi despite the cost, and drumming his fingers on the seat once he was inside.
So the reason this is late (not that it counts as an excuse, really) is because I got a new job! Which is lovely, but a bit chaotic at the moment...
Reviews make me happy!
[edit] I forgot to mention that I took the dream definitions from an actual site! You'll find the link on my profile.