A/N: New POVs added. And just in time for my (real) sister's birthday too. (But she doesn't read these.) -csf


2/2.

John.

I'm running towards the towering smoke billowing from the scene. It's bitter and it clings to the back of the throat with the distinct aftertaste of petrol accelerants. Sherlock would have been proud of that deduction.

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Sherlock.

Mycroft grabs his baby brother's arm. 'Sherlock. There's more. There's always been a second explosion, aimed at the first respondents for maximum terror impact.'

Sherlock's heart almost gives out on him.

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John.

'I'm a doctor, let me through, I can start triaging the victims.'

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Sherlock.

Sherlock curses at the woman on the other side of the phone call: 'Can you not hear me? I said John's in danger, you need to go in there and bring him out!'

'How do you even know I came to the explosion site?' he hears.

'You're a Watson, where else would you be attracted to like a moth to light?'

'I'm not John. I'm not heroic like John. I'm not... going inside.'

'Listen here, you little—' The line goes dead before Sherlock can unleash his vitriol.

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Harry.

The first time John saved a life, it was that of a little bird, all scrawny bones and feathers, that had fallen from a tree nest at the park. Dad told Johnny to put the thing out of its misery, mum warned Johnny that wild things don't survive well in human quarters, but nothing would change a little boy's mind. He nursed the wretched thing day and night, checking out library books full of medical terms and anatomical diagrams, that he would read obsessively. Johnny's first saved life was a bird, not a person. He fought for it with the same determination that he would show years later when trying to save their mum from a terminal illness. This time he was bound to fail. Harry had moved out of the family home and dealt with the difficult circumstances by going in too deep with a bad group of friends who drank and partied too much. Johnny was ever the prodigal son, doing the right thing.

Harry would only realise that John hadn't properly dealt with the painstakingly slow loss when she heard him tell her, as he helped her into rehab, that he was joining the army. She didn't see it then, how both had been pursuing ways to numb the pain.

The army helped to pay for medical training and Johnny excelled at it. All those trips to the library now unnecessary as Johnny had his own medical textbooks. And girlfriends too, who seemed highly appreciative of Johnny's anatomical knowledge put into practice. Harry knows this because she was ever the comforting shoulder when Johnny got deployed. She often wondered if Johnny was attracted to adventurous girlfriends or if it was just her luck.

Johnny did very well for years, in this cycle of army-leave-army. Clearly he was attracted to the unsettled life of a military person, even if he openly sought so desperately to marry and settle down.

Then the communication arrived. An email, these days. Or perhaps she had been too drunk to take the call. As the next of kin, Harry was summarily told that captain John Watson was being invalided home as soon as his condition was stable enough for it to be presumed that he would survive the journey.

John ended up somewhere else, not his beloved London. Army budget, she supposed. Not that it mattered for a couple of months, he wouldn't have been able to tell. So she rarely visited. And after the stronger antibiotics actually started to work and he regained consciousness, he told her not to worry, he was fine, no need for her to visit. There was a quiet desperation to his voice. He didn't want to see her, didn't want to be seen by her. It was easier to respect his wishes.

She kept in touch, but John was not Johnny anymore. Something inside him had gone stale, and he sounded hollow, nearly unrecognisable to her. He kept telling her he was fine, and Harry and Clara's relationship was going through the rocks, so she... kept phoning him every Friday and it seemed enough. Johnny always had so many friends anyway.

The blog came as a surprise and not at all like her brother after Afghanistan. Johnny was back, and apparently obsessed with a posh bloke with whom he had taken up a flat share in central London. She wondered if everything was alright, but Johnny sounded genuinely happy.

Ups and downs had gone on in John's life, but something – the proud and fulfilled man Harry recognised now – had settled inside John Watson. And it made Harry secretly jealous. John is now effortlessly John. He has found himself. She isn't yet this lucky.

She loves her brother, she really does, it's just that, once in a while, John is infuriatingly still Johnny - an idiot with a hero martyrdom complex that scares the stuffing out of anyone who loves him.

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Sherlock.

'I apologise for the briskness in my speaking tones just now,' the detective proclaims regally while savagely breaking the pen in his hand, the brittle plastic cutting his palm superficially, digging into the epidermal layers. He barely notices this.

'No probs, I guess. I'm worried about Johnny too. No sign of him yet. The police is in uproar, cordoning the area off.'

'Paris, I'm currently flying over Paris. ETA of 38 minutes.'

'I didn't ask where you were, why did you tell me? Did you think I'd just leave Johnny here and go back to the flat? By the way, how come Johnny's bedroom radiator is broken? He pays the rent too!'

'He doesn't sleep well in hot rooms. Most nights he sleeps in his underwear, unless I'm not awake and around – which is rare – in which case he sleeps in the nude.'

'Sherlock—'

'If you have something to say, just say it!'

'Sherlock, how do you know this?'

'He has nightmares. Once he sleepwalked, but he doesn't know he did that. I managed to walk him back to his bed.'

'Ohhhh... Sleepwalked like Mum's Aunt Bertha?'

'I don't know?' Sherlock rubs his face hard. 'I will investigate.'

'Isn't it nice when we have a nice chat about John?'

Sherlock throws his phone across the aisle, and stomps up to the pilot's cabin to tell him to fly faster.

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Harriet.

'And you are?' she asks with defiance when a new voice comes up the line on yet another phone call.

'I'm the secret benefactor who paid for your stay at St Mercedes, Miss Watson. I trust your recovery was satisfactory.'

She pales and stands up straighter, looking around, checking if anyone can hear her.

'Who are you? Why did you do that?'

'An interested party and a token of my consideration for doctor Watson. I trust you've been well?'

'Thanks for the rehab, although the kidnap was creepy as heck, mate. Now leave me alone. My brother is in a burning building trying to save strangers' lives.'

'Yes, he needs to stop. We suspect a secondary explosion.'

'Johnny!'

'You must go find doctor Watson and get him out.'

'I... I don't believe you.'

'You should. It's my business to know things, Miss Watson. Shall I demonstrate?'

.

Sherlock.

'I could pilot this plane and make it go faster!' the detective hisses.

Next to him, Mycroft rolls his eyes and adjusting his three piece suit remarks: 'Not so easy to be the bystander, is it? Luckily, you have me and I have a lot of experience. Let me handle this, brother dear. The other Watson will come around.'

If looks could pierce overinflated egos, this plane would look like a crime scene.

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John.

The last victim is making their way out, under the adequate supervision of a paramedic. I look around the debris. I doubt Sherlock would forgive me if I didn't stick around to check for clues as to how the explosive device got ignited...

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Sherlock.

'She's not picking up the phone, that's plain rude!'

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

'Sherlock, please have a seat. You're making me dizzy.'

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John.

I'm moving around the debris, keeping an eye out for any unaccounted for victim. So much destruction, such senseless act of posturing and destruction.

I glance at my wristwatch. A couple of minutes to 10pm.

This is usually a bit more fun with my mad best friend.

Something sparkles in the middle of a pile of rubble... halfway across a decimated flight of stairs. Strategically, I grab onto the bannister, stretch as far as I can—

And someone grabs me tightly from behind, making me jump and nearly fall through the dammed whole.

'Jeez, Johnny, you need to be more careful!'

Harry? What is she doing here?

In my surprise, I instantly grasped the shiny object. A can of some sort. An accelerant used to maximise the destruction? I pocket it for now. First things first.

'What are you doing here, Harry? It's dangerous, you shouldn't be here.'

'I'm not under your command, I do what I like!'

'Well, I'm definitely surprised you came in, Harry.'

'Your Sherlock wants you out of here.'

I freeze altogether. What? Uh-oh. I trust Sherlock wholeheartedly. Even all the way from Luxembourg.

'Why didn't you start by saying that! Hurry!' I grab her wrist and pull her along, forcing our way out.

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Sherlock.

10.01pm. Mycroft's phone rings, and I shudder. Statistically pre-determined detonations tend to happen at whole hours, rather than a couple of minutes before or after. This would be just the right amount of time for the information to flow through a chain of command to Mycroft and... Please, no.

My phone rings next. Harry.

I pick up the call, no voice left to talk. Might be a psychosomatic response to losing my blogger... but I can't seem to take interest in it. Am I in shock already?

'Sherlock? You there?'

That familiar voice!

JOHN! John. John...

I clear my throat, air returning to my lungs and oxygen to my haemoglobin. Brain rebooting successfully.

'Of course, I'm here, John. You rang my number after all.'

Sherlock makes a mental note to thank Mycroft for coming through with Harriet Watson after all.

.

John.

Harry and I wait for Sherlock's arrival at 221B. It's good to have my best friend's company, even as the emergency services still canvas the explosion area a block away from Baker Street. Anderson, from Scotland Yard, has come collect the accelerant can I pulled out of the rubble before the second explosion. Hopefully it should help bring the despicable criminals to justice in a way they didn't expect, as they would have assumed the secondary explosion would wipe out clean any evidence. It almost did, but they had Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes to contend with. And possible a room full of other spooks as well.

No idea why I never get invited to these spooks meetings.

Sherlock tells me everything anyway.

I pull the curtain close to their racket as soon as I see the cab park across the street and the familiar form of my friend urgently stepping out. He's moving all in jagged edges, the unravelling near tragedy must have been difficult on him.

Sherlock is mounting up the stairs as Harry hands me a cup of tea. I thank her with a wordless quick hug, more of a side squeeze than anything else, and discreetly abandon the microwave tea on a surface nearby.

Two incredible whirlwinds are about to collide: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Watson. Tired, I take a seat on the sofa and hope 221B can survive the black hole that it will create.

Sherlock comes in feigning calm. He spots Harry seated in my chair and goes over, politely acknowledging her.

I try to step forward; to mediate, to appease, to declare civil duel rules? Sherlock stops me with a brisk gesture and clipped words: 'Just drop it, John.' And to Harry he announces clearly: 'I disapprove of your drinking.'

'A bad habit...' She shrugs a concession. 'And I disapprove of all the body parts.' Harry further hints at the fridge with a jerk of her head.

'Professional hazard.' Sherlock fiddles with a jacket button that didn't require rearranging. 'Thank you for rescuing John.'

'Johnny is my brother, it's sort of my job.' Typical.

Sherlock's lips turn up in a sincere smile I thought I'd never see. I'm their middle ground. They are best pals to be from now on, in what concerns me.

Oh wow. That's... quite nice, actually.

.

Harriet.

The guest is brushing blond hair in front of the bathroom mirror when someone abruptly opens the bathroom door, runs up to the shower and turns it on, immediately preceding to strip his clothes haphazardly. She's frozen to the spot as Sherlock Holmes apparently ignores the fact that he's just flashed her (she's not fussed, as he's a bloke and she's not interested in blokes) and jumped into the shower. The clothes on the tiled floor hiss and fizz at the same time.

'Just trying to avoid chemical burns, Harriet. Carry on.'

'It's "Harry", Sherlock, and haven't you had enough with playing evil scientist yet?'

The conversation carries on as the man himself soaps himself vigorously. 'The dentist used strong acid to destroy the organic samples in his apartment, and I proved just that!'

'By spilling acid on yourself?'

An instant of silence.

'Yes, by doing that as well, I admit, but not the main body of evidence I created. I'm not reckless!'

'Clearly,' she mocks.

'Doctors are worthy oponents when they turn their intelligence to pursue crime. This evil dentist needed to be stopped.'

'That's very cheesy. Does Johnny fall for those lines?"

From the shower, Sherlock chuckles.

'Practically all the time.'

Harry grabs a towel, pulls back the shower door and hands it to the detective. She looks him over. 'Johnny should have a look at that,' she advises.

'You're not bothered that I'm naked while you offer generic medical advice?'

'You're really not my type, mate.'

'Nor you mine.' Sherlock wraps himself in the bath towel with a look of wounded pride.

'I'm going in a couple of hours anyway. My place is sorted. If you ever need a place to stay a couple of days... there's a hotel down the road from mine.'

Sherlock smirks. 'Will do. And should you need fumigating again...'

'It wasn't me, getting fumigated, it was the house.'

'...just come on over. John misses you. He doesn't have a lot of family and mine is just inadequate.'

She smiles. 'Ta. Will do.'

Sherlock watches the female Watson leave the bathroom while carefully fishing his phone from the ruined jacket on the floor.

.

Sherlock.

'Molly? Have any idea where I can get a flee-ridden badger delivered to an address in London?' One must be prepared at all times, should John require family time.

The pathologist squeaks through the line:

'Sherlock, this is the morgue, not your local taxidermist.'

'That will work. A taxidermist, should have thought of that. Molly, you are invaluable.'

'Do you... mean that? Sherlock, you usually don't say these things. Is it a code? Pretend to sneeze if you've been kidnapped or something?"

'I can tell John is there, feeding you answers. Tell him to come back quickly with that spleen. I'm running low on concentrated acid.'

'He says he's not doing more errands for you tonight.'

'Tell him to bring the spleen after sunrise then. I can test the tensile strength of wool jumper fibres meantime.'

'He says he's leaving now, he won't be long.'

Sherlock grins; all is back to normal in 221B.

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