Somebody That I Used to Know

Author: Lady Sam Mallory

Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me. Any dialogue directly quoted from the series does not belong to me.

Special Thanks to my Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

Warnings: H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

Spoilers: NONE

Special Thanks to the band Gotye for writing a magnificent song called Somebody That I Used to Know. Here is the link if you want to listen to it in the background while you read it. I was listening to it as I wrote it. The link will not post, of course, so youtube has it if you copy and paste the title into the search bar with the band name, Gotye.

Author's Comments: I have two sisters, both of whom are addicts and this song helps me deal with that a bit. My beta said it would be cool to see a story that explores this side of John and Harry's relationship. Sadly, life experience has taught me that you have to make some tough choices in your life or their addiction can take you with them.

This story takes place before the events of Reichenbach.

There is an * marking the lines directly from Patricia Cornwell's, Portrait of a Serial Killer: Jack the Ripper – Case Closed. These lines were written by that author and do not belong to me.

Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
But had me believing it was always something that I'd done
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know

~Gotye

John swears as his mobile alerts him to another text. He silences it without a glance.

"Sorry, Mrs. Cooper. As I was saying, you need to have your daughter help you out for a bit until that shoulder heals, but I think it will be fine as long as you give it a rest. Okay?" John asks as he studies the stubborn set to her face.

"It's important. You want it to heal correctly, right?" he questions with a smile.

She nods losing a bit of the stubbornness. "Are you sure, Dr. Watson? I have so much that needs doin'?"

He shakes his head. "I'm sure, Mrs. Cooper. Your daughter Rose brought you in, right?" He continues after she nods affirmatively. "Maybe she can help you out a little for awhile."

Mrs. Cooper smiles up at him, "You are such a dearie. You know, my sweet Rosie just got divorced from that lazy git she was married to. You two could maybe…"

John blushes and chokes back a laugh, "Now, Mrs. Cooper, we've talked about this. It wouldn't be right for me to date any of your daughters. Plus, you know I only have eyes for you."

She swats his arm. "Oh, you, Dr. Watson. You are too much," she finishes as her daughter helps her out of the treatment room.

He heads back to his office as Sarah walks up. "She tryin' to get you to marry one her daughters again?" she playfully inquires, not even attempting to suppress her laughter.

John just shakes his head and moves along to the next treatment room, forgetting that his mobile had alerted him, as his schedule is full and he has not a second to muck about.

He pushes into the next room when he hears a familiar officious voice at reception. He turns abruptly, figuring that the patient can wait one more minute while he finds out what this is all about.

Stretching out his hand, he greets the Detective Inspector, "Hey, Greg. To what do I owe the pleasure of…" He stops suddenly at the serious look on the DI's face. "Greg, what is it?"

"Sorry, mate, but I've been texting you, and we have a bit of a situation," Lestrade informs the increasingly nervous doctor.

"Sherlock?" John demands quietly in deference to the patients waiting.

Lestrade nods, "Yeah, I'm sorry. That's why I've been trying to get a hold of you. It's pretty bad, but I think he's going to be okay. If you can get away, I can take you to St. Bart's straight away."

"Right, give me a minute," John says as he runs down toward his office to grab his jacket and find Sarah.

He startles her in one of the treatment rooms. "Sorry, Sarah, but I have an emergency. Sherlock…" He gasps out as she steps from the room.

"Go, I've got it," she commands, shoving him towards the door.

Lestrade leads the anxious doctor out of the surgery.

"What the hell happened, Greg? I left him at the flat experimenting just a few hours ago," John swears.

Lestrade looks down at the floorboards, takes a deep breath and answers the man, "Near as we can tell, he got into an altercation and was shoved into the street into the path of an oncoming car."

"Bloody hell. I've been so busy at the surgery working extra hours. Who did he get into a row with this time? I can't believe the wanker pushed him into the street," John spits out.

"Wait, you said he's at St. Bart's. How did you get him to go? Did you take him at gunpoint, Lestrade?"

Lestrade wishes he could be anywhere else at this moment. "We're here," he announces and pulls into a spot near the A & E entrance. He jumps out of the car and heads into the building without waiting for John.

"Lestrade, stop. What's going on?" John asks, his hand firmly grasping the Detective Inspector's arm preventing further forward motion.

"I'm so sorry, John," he starts, his eyes downcast.

John's heart nearly comes out of his chest. "Wait, you told me he was fine!"

Lestrade waves him off apologetically. "He will be. I'm sorry because when I arrived, they were loading him into the ambulance and there was a woman there. She admitted that she was the one who pushed him into the street. She swears it was an accident," he finishes as he waves a hand over towards one of the treatment rooms.

John glances over to where Lestrade points. His eyes glaze over with anger.

"Harry? What the hell?" He curses storming over to yank her off the stretcher.

Lestrade follows and tries to pull him back, "John! This isn't helping…"

"What the hell did you do, Harry?" John's face betrays his anger at finding her involved in yet another mess.

Harry cries, her makeup running down her already tear-streaked face, "Nothing…I came to see you…he grabbed me…it was his fault, John. He was…"

John holds his hand up to stifle the litany he has heard so many times before.

"Did you or did you not push him?" John interrogates her coldly.

"He was…" she starts again crying even harder.

Lestrade tries to lead a furious John out of the treatment room. "Let's let her rest…" he suggests nearly earning him a punch in the face.

"Greg," John warns icily, "let me go and get out. Take that doctor with you."

Lestrade raises both hands to the pissed off John Watson in supplication, "Let's go check…"

John's laser vision pins him to the spot rendering him silent.

He turns to his sister.

His sister who could not be put upon to take care of him after the death of their parents.

His sister who didn't care about anything but where she could get her next drink.

His sister who never thought about anyone except herself.

His sister who had nearly killed his best friend.

He stalks over to the treatment table, "I'm done, Harry. I can't talk about this right now."

John turns on his heel and strides from the room. "Take me to Sherlock," he orders, his tone brokering no argument as he storms towards the ASU, Ambulatory Specialty Unit.

Sherlock is pale ordinarily, but his bloodless face exudes a nearly cadaver-like quality that stops John in his tracks. He is lying in the bed with various tubes and wires monitoring his vital functions. A stark white bandage glares against his pale skin and dark curly bangs.

"Get me the ambulance sheet and the casualty card," he directs Lestrade, who steps out immediately to make it happen.

John looks down at his best friend's unconscious form in the bed. "For God's sake, Sherlock," he whispers, his words rushing out on a sibilant breath. He closes his eyes.

"John?" Lestrade calls as he hands the doctor Sherlock's casualty card along with whatever else he grabbed up.

John doesn't say a word as he reads through the treatment that Sherlock has received so far and takes a quick glance at the x-ray films. "My God," he prays, his breathing coming a bit faster now.

Lestrade puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "He got pretty banged up. According to the witnesses, the car wasn't going very fast. Anderson guessed about 25 mph."

"He tried to turn towards the car just before it hit him, but he didn't quite make it," John says quietly closing his eyes to the vision his subconscious has supplied. He adds when Lestrade looks at him questioningly, "Angle of the breaks in his leg, frontal aspect, but still lateral to medial breaks indicates that he was standing sideways."

Sherlock's doctor enters the room, his demeanor irritated at not being able to find his casualty card and patient file. "You shouldn't be looking at that," the doctor complains as he walks over to John reaching for the record.

"I'm a doctor, sir. Doctor John Watson," he introduces himself and shakes the doctor's hand. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Dr. Cameron Mitchell," he says with a smile.

Dr. Mitchell shakes his head pausing to think for a moment, as he pulls a notebook from his pocket. "You don't happen to be related to a Harry Watson? We've been trying to get a hold of her next of kin."

John closes his eyes. "Unfortunately," he answers coldly causing Lestrade's head to pop up in surprise. This is a side to John he's never seen before.

"She'll need a ride home. Her BAC was 240 mg when they brought her in," Dr. Mitchell informs John, missing the iciness in his earlier tone. John heaves a deep sigh.

Lestrade steps forward. "I'll take care of it," he volunteers as he pulls out his mobile to make the arrangements.

John mutters "thanks" before turning his thoughts back to Sherlock. "Has he regained consciousness at all?"

"I'm afraid not, but that's not that unusual. He was only sent up from the ASU within the last few minutes," Dr. Mitchell replies glancing over the casualty card and making his own notes next to those of the Senior Nurse.

The door swings open and a young nurse comes in, "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes's kin. Have they arrived yet?"

Lestrade steps forward, "This is Dr. Watson. He should be able to take care of anything that you need."

"Thank you,Detective Inspector. Dr. Watson, if you'll follow me please. The reception staff needs you to verify Mr. Holmes' information for the PAS. They asked if you would please return to the desk," she invites warmly.

John exhales slowly. "Yes, that's fine," he replies following her back out to the reception desk where he is immediately asked to have a seat.

The older woman behind the desk smiles gently at him, "I'm sorry that you have to be here today, sir. I only need a moment to verify the information on his PAS, and I can let you get back to him. Okay?"

John nods and gestures for her to proceed.

"The patient's name is Sherlock Holmes. Is that correct, sir?" She asks with a smile.

"John, and yes, ma'am, that's correct," John answers quietly.

"Very good, John. I'll try to be quick. Let me know if any of the following information has changed please. We show that his GP is Dr. John Watson; his address of record is 221B Baker Street London NW1 6XE England. The records show his phone number to be 20 7224 3688, and his next of kin is shown to be Dr. John Watson of 221B Baker Street London NW1 6XE England. Is the information currently registered in the PAS correct, John?" She finishes efficiently.

John masks his surprise very quickly and simply nods that it is indeed correct. He wonders when Sherlock updated all this information. He didn't realize that Sherlock was using him not only as his GP but also his next of kin. John feels humbled by the trust that his friend places in him.

John steps back into Sherlock's hospital room to find Lestrade and Dr. Mitchell still waiting for him. "Any change?"

Lestrade shakes his head, "Sorry, mate. I took care of the RTA paperwork. You want me to step out so you can talk to the doctor?"

"No need. Why don't you hang for a bit if you can?" John requests warmly, patting the detective on the shoulder.

John turns back to the Doctor, "I'm sorry, but where exactly are we at in his treatment regimen? I didn't really have a chance for more than a cursory glance at his casualty card."

Dr. Mitchell nods and pulls open the paperwork file. John closes his eyes as he sees the doctor glance over a purple sheet of notes.

John begins identifying the reports by their colors as he remembers from his residency: purple for neurology…John thinks sadly. God, if he's lost that brilliant mind…

Lestrade catches John's upset, "You okay?"

John nods tentatively. "Purple are the neurology reports. Head Injury," he tells Greg, who places a hand on John's shoulder for support.

The doctor continues to review the different reports as John continues to identify them by color. There's yellow for medicine…green for othopaedic… and blue for general surgery.

Wait! Blue. Shit! Sherlock had surgery?

"What the hell?" John barks out loud causing the older taciturn doctor and Lestrade to jump.

John reaches out a steadying hand. "Sorry, mate. Sherlock had surgery?" He verifies more calmly as he looks over his friend with wrappings on his right leg and left arm.

"No, not yet. The surgeon came down for a quick look and made notes in the file. Mr. Holmes has a compound fracture of both the tibia and fibula, which is consistent with impact of man versus car. They'll be taking him to surgery soon to reduce it," Dr. Mitchell informs him.

"He has a left shoulder subluxation consistent with ground impact. They'll take care of it in surgery at the same time they set the leg. Amazingly, no ribs were broken, but we did see extensive contusions on the posterior and lateral aspects of his left side. Of the greatest concern is the head injury," the doctor relates to John momentarily forgetting that this is his friend.

At John's pole axed expression, the doctor quickly apologizes, "My God man, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I know you're a doctor and…"

John shakes off the apology and looks at the doctor, his expression strained. "I understand and honestly, I prefer to know what's going on and what challenges we need to face as opposed to being kept in the dark," John admits gratefully.

"Very well. I just didn't want to…" Doctor Mitchell concedes when John interrupts him.

"It's fine. Please continue," John adds quietly.

"If you're sure," the aged doctor begins, then looks to John for confirmation. Receiving it, he continues, "Well, I have to say, Dr. Watson, you are quite a good friend to take this on. At present, we suspect primary traumatic brain injury also consistent with ground impact. There's a good chance that we will see focal neurological deficits, but we won't really know until he wakes up. Do you have any questions, Dr. Watson?"

John scrubs his hands over his face. "What was his GCS on last exam?"

Lestrade steps forward questioning, "GCS?"

John looks over at him. "Glasgow Coma Scale. It helps us to assess the level of a patient's state of consciousness. Anything under a 15 is not good," John answers factually.

Dr. Mitchell scans the neurology report and when he finds the answer, looks over at John sympathetically and says, "It was an 11."

"Bloody hell!" John curses, then requests further information hoping to get a complete picture of Sherlock's state of being. "Has he had a CT scan yet?"

"We're waiting on the results now. I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, but at this point, other than taking him to surgery for the open reduction, there's really nothing to do but wait. I'll check back on him after his surgery," the doctor announces as he heads for the door.

There is a low whistle from Lestrade.

"I would have gone with a few choice curses instead," John admits to his friend.

Lestrade chuckles, "Undoubtedly and you already have."

The door opens and two orderlies enter with a nurse and prepare Sherlock for surgery.

The nurse turns towards John, directing, "You can wait in the waiting room down the hall."

"John?" A soft-spoken voice draws his attention. He tenses before turning to see his older sister.

"What do you want, Harry? I really don't want to hear any excuses…" John replies tiredly.

Harry sits down next to him and clutches at his arm. "You have to listen. You're the only one who knows me, John. You're the only one who loves me," she rattles desperately.

"Harriet, I'm sorry, but right now all I care about is that…Sherlock is fine. I can't listen to the litany of excuses that follows your 'accidents'," he warns disengaging his arm from her clinging grasp.

She pouts, her eyes downcast, and hiccups slightly in her upset. "But that's not fair, John. I didn't do anything wrong," she insists.

John closes his eyes and takes a very deep breath, "Do you ever do anything wrong? I mean according to you everything is always everyone else's fault."

"But you haven't even called me. I'm not a stranger, you know..." she whines causing John to pull at his neck simply from the sound of her voice.

John stands up forcefully, "My God, Harry. You haven't even asked how he is, which I understand because that would require you thinking about somebody else."

"I'm your sister…" She tries.

"Please, don't remind me," John rasps turning to face her. "The only time I hear from you is when you want something – usually money which you turn around and spend on getting snockered so…what do you think I should do?"

"Now you're just being mean, John. I came here to be with you," she says quietly, her eyes filled with tears.

"Don't…" John shakes his head and waves her off. "You always use the tears to get me to do what you want. You can turn them on and off at the drop of a hat, so do it," he demands caustically.

She takes a deep breath and the tears stop, "I wouldn't have had to come by the flat if you were taking my calls."

"Yes, well, I've been very busy working and I really just refuse to deal with your drama right now," John admits to her openly.

Harry huffs and turns her back with a pout, "I can't talk to you when you're like this! I want to be here for you, but I guess I just can't!"

Harry wipes her watery blue eyes, stands up tall and starts to walk away, before turning back towards her brother. "You know I love you, John," she says very quietly, gives him a hug and walks down the bleak hospital corridor.

"Good morning, Sherlock," John says quietly as he takes a seat in the hard backed chair next to the bed.

He takes hold of Sherlock's hand.

"I'm back now. I just had to step out for a minute and freshen up. So, what should we talk about today?" John asks his colorless friend. "Just thought you should know that this is day three of you in a coma. This is not my happy face, Sherlock. You are not supposed to be this still. Now wake up, please!"

John watches hopefully for several seconds before he closes his eyes and rubs his hand across them. "Okay, Sherlock, where were we?" He asks, opening the novel he's picked up from the bedside table.

John inhales deeply and begins to read, "A psychopath often stalks his victims before contact, all the while engaging in violent fantasies. Psychopaths may go through dry runs to practice…"* John stops mid-sentence as he notices that Lestrade stands in the room and is looking at him oddly. He smiles at Lestrade who gives him a small awkward wave.

"Hey, Greg. Thanks for coming in. I just have to run a quick errand, you know. Make sure that my patients are all being taken care of and I'll be right back. I don't like to leave him alone," John informs the detective respectfully.

"What the bloody hell are you reading to him?" Lestrade demands chuckling at the stunned and sheepish look on John's face.

John sighs, "Patricia Cornwell's Portrait of a Serial Killer: Jack the Ripper – Case Closed. Sherlock hasn't had time to look at it and was curious if she had come to the same conclusions as he had."

Lestrade smiles in understanding, "Makes sense to me. Only Sherlock."

John crosses back over to the bed and pats Sherlock on the arm. "Okay, Sherlock. Be stubborn. Why should today be any different from any other day? I have to run a quick errand, but Greg is going to hang out with you. I'll be right back, okay?"

Lestrade just shakes his head at John's conversation with Sherlock.

"What?" John asks.

"I didn't say a word," Lestrade answers conversationally.

"No, but that look…I know that Sherlock can hear us, Greg," John tells him adamantly while looking at Sherlock's still form against the pressed white sheets. "I'll see you later, Sherlock." He pats his leg affectionately and heads out of the hospital door.

Lestrade takes a seat next to the bed and pulls his notebook out of his jacket. "I brought you something, mate."

He flips through the pages, stopping when he gets to the notes that he's looking for.

"Okay, Sherlock, today I pulled a case where…" Lestrade reads as he unconsciously pats Sherlock's hand hoping that John is correct in his assertions.

John stops at the flat to change out the clothes in his bag and grab a few other things for Sherlock.

"John? Is that you, dearie?" Mrs. Hudson calls out in her lilting voice as she comes up the stairs. "How's Sherlock?" She inquires after hearing his reply and enters the flat.

"He's about the same, Mrs. Hudson. He's still in a coma, but he'll be okay," he comforts the matronly woman with a smile.

"I wanted to go have a visit, but my hip…" she lets him know. "I plan to see him in the morning. I have to get out and do the shopping, you know."

John nods affirmatively and gives her a hug as he grabs his bag and heads out the door.

"John…wait a minute. I should…" Mrs. Hudson calls after him, her heart heavy.

He pauses and turns back towards her. Her eyes fill with tears and she gasps quietly, "It's my fault, John. It's all my fault."

John holds her and rubs her back in an effort to calm her. "Now, now, Mrs. Hudson, what is all this rubbish about your fault?"

"It is, John. I swear it. I didn't know and I let her up in the flat," she exclaims, her hands gesticulating wildly. "She said she was your sister. I didn't even know you had a sister, but she looked like you so I let her by. Next thing, she's yelling at Sherlock and he's taking her down the stairs…I followed trying to get him to let go of her arm, but you know how he is when he's upset and that little missy upset him something awful."

John pauses and grabs her shoulders gently pulling her away from him. "It's okay, Mrs. Hudson. What happened next?"

Mrs. Hudson blinks her tearful eyes and inhales to continue, "He told her that you were too busy for her dramatic rubbish and she pushed him, John…She pushed him out into the street. The squealing…." Mrs. Hudson cries, her hands trembling. "I ran out the door fast as I could with my bloody hip and he was…there…just crumpled on the pavement."

John squeezes his eyes shut as the scene plays out before him in his mind.

Sod it, Harry! Why couldn't you just leave me be?

John finishes Chapter 9 in Portrait when the door opens admitting one Mycroft Holmes. Setting the book aside, he leans forward from his perch at Sherlock's side.

"John," Mycroft address coldly.

John shakes his head, and although reason and intellect warn him to tread carefully, his anger shows in his tight words. "Mycroft. What's been keeping you?"

Mycroft taps his umbrella on the floor next to him adapting a deceptively relaxed pose. "Whatever do you mean, John?"

"I mean that your brother's been in coma for five days, and this is the first time you've managed to pay a visit," John resentfully intonates.

Mycroft looks down his nose at his replacement sitting there at his little brother's side.

"I came when I could. I have spent many more days at his bedside, more than you, although usually, he is the casualty of his own poor choices."

"Sod off, Mycroft. Your brother needs you here whether you want to admit it or not. Both of you are such stubborn gits," John hollers his irritation with both men's stubbornness permeating the warm air in the small, bleak room.

"Well, he wouldn't be here if you could begin to control that sister of yours from being pissed all the time," Mycroft accuses, lifting his black umbrella and pointing it at John.

John sits stunned for half a second before retorting rather loudly, "Seriously? You've done such a smashing job of controlling your own sibling."

"I am clearly uncontrollable," a hushed hoarse whisper croaks from the bed.

John and Mycroft turn and look at Sherlock, their shocked faces made more comical by the veil of silence that envelops the room.

Sherlock blinks several times then looks around a bit until John places the straw for water at Sherlock's parched and slightly cracked lips. "Just a few small sips. You don't want to puke."

"Most assuredly not," Sherlock agrees before taking a few small sips then pushing the glass away. "While I don't intend to be here long, let's get a few things sorted, shall we?" Sherlock begins looking from his best friend to his brother, his eyes charged with scolding for both of them.

Sherlock takes a shallow breath in deference to his bruised ribs and begins quietly but firmly, "Mycroft, John cannot be expected to control the likes of his sister, just as you should not take the blame for my deductive reasoning and where it often leads me. John, Mycroft and I have an understanding on matters such as this. He allows me my, shall we say baser pursuits, and I allow him to maintain the illusion of control over my actions. Now, shut up both of you."

John smiles reassured by Sherlock's peckish attitude secure in the knowledge that all is right in the world. He reaches over to alert the nurse as to Sherlock's remarkable recovery.

Several minutes later the nurse enters followed closely by Sherlock's doctor. "Mycroft Holmes, Dr. Mitchell," John introduces smoothly as if the row has never occurred.

Mycroft shakes the doctor's hand then proceeds to question him, "How is my brother doing?"

John winces then tries to hide his smile when the elderly doctor replies, "I've just come in the room, sir. How 'bout I take a quick look first?"

The expression on Mycroft's face makes John wish he had a camera.

"Yes, Mycroft, do stop harassing the poor doctor," Sherlock interjects.

Dr. Mitchell efficiently checks over Sherlock, chuckling when Sherlock informs him of his decision to return to his flat, "That won't be happening for at least a few more days, son. You seem to be healing nicely, but you're not quite there yet."

"I am fine. I am awake and oriented x 4. My pupil response was normal which astounded you; heart rate and respirations are within normal limits as was my last blood pressure check. Now really Dr. Mitchell, I have a much more comfortable bed at home…"

John interrupts saying, "which you never use," as Sherlock finishes with, "and a very good doctor at my disposal."

Dr. Mitchell laughs out loud at the prognosis. "Well, I guess I can go home and sack out then," he suggests giving Sherlock a decidedly amused glance. "How's your pain?"

"Mycroft seems just fine," Sherlock snaps as he brings his eyes up to the doctor, who nods with understanding.

"Very well, then. I'll check on you in a few hours. By the way, you're right, I was surprised by the normal pupil response," Dr. Mitchell congratulates, shaking his head.

"Yes, I know, as I have already said. You need to pay attention," Sherlock reprimands, although not with his typical vitriol.

"Sherlock," John warns his face a mask of disapproval.

"My brain appears to have sustained minimal damage, and my mind palace is intact, John. I am merely stating…" Sherlock continues.

"Quite rudely in fact," John intrudes.

"That I am fine," Sherlock finishes abruptly, his innocent gaze fixed on John.

Dr. Mitchell shakes his head, his amusement with these two men plainly written on his face for all to see. "Get some rest," he orders and heads out of the room.

John turns back to Sherlock. "How's your pain, really? He let that go. That's not gonna happen with me," John reminds the world's only consulting detective as Lestrade steps into the room. "Now stop this nonsense and tell me where your pain level is."

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly before answering, "There is pain, but I'm not dead."

"Yet, Sherlock. You're not dead yet, but you are most definitely trying my patience so that could change at any moment," John admonishes further.

Lestrade's unfriendly glance at Mycroft catches John by surprise, which he quickly erases as Lestrade asks him about his quest for Sherlock's pain levels.

"As you know, Sherlock is a…former addict," John begins tactfully. "This means that his pain medications are very regimented and contain limited opioids. He would have been given a morphine dose in the A & E upon examination, but once they pulled his PAS, they would see his history which would alter his pharmaceutical treatment plan."

"Excellent explanation, John. Now may we go?" Sherlock questions futilely, his voice tinged with annoyance.

John gives a definitive shake of his head disapprovingly, "Absolutely not."

Sherlock studies John closely.

Worried Eyes

Jaw Set

Mouth Taut

Hair Matted

Clothes at least two days old (tea stain, disheveled)

"Very well," Sherlock decides, his expression defeated. "But I will only give you two days of this nonsense."

John sighs outright before replying with finality, "You'll bloody well give me as many days as it takes."

Lestrade holds the file in his hand in front of his mouth to hide his smirk.

"Hello, Greg," John redirects as his attention shifts away from Sherlock.

"Good morning. Up to your usual antics I see, Sherlock. I guess this means you're getting back to your old self, so that's a good thing, right?" He asks John looking for confirmation.

"That's one way to look at it," Mycroft replies sarcastically. "Well, dear brother, it is obvious that you are in excellent hands, so I will take my leave. Try not to harass the staff, please."

Mycroft walks out the door as John takes notice of the file in Lestrade's hand.

"What do you have there, Greg?" John asks suspiciously.

"Kieran Morgan," Sherlock informs the detective inspector readily.

Lestrade nods, "Right. Kieran Morgan is the brother of the decedent, Penelope. Wait, I told you that while you were in a coma."

"Yes, I know, Lestrade. I was there. Kieran Morgan is the murderer," Sherlock enlightens the confused detective.

Inspector Lestrade gapes at the younger man in astonishment. "Now how the bloody hell…"

"It's really simple. The two siblings share a trust. His trust assets were being subjugated by her votes as she was trying to get him off the board of trustees. As the oldest, she had the controlling interest, so he had to get rid of her. Really, Lestrade. Do try to keep up," Sherlock insults him with exasperation.

Lestrade turns to John. "I sometimes really hate him," he informs the young doctor beneath his breath.

"He does make it easy sometimes, I know," John agrees sympathetically as Lestrade stalks out the door to go arrest a killer.

"John?" Sherlock screams from the sofa in the sitting room.

John closes his eyes and counts to ten, slowly, before heading into the other room.

"What is it, Sherlock?" He manages civilly, his expression tight.

Sherlock gestures toward the porcelain cup next to his leg cast propped up on the table. "Tea's cold," he complains before continuing onward. "My leg itches as does my wrist. Explain to me again the reasoning behind these infernal casts. They slow me down. God, I'm so bored."

John rolls his blue grey eyes, "Yes, I know Sherlock. You've told me. It's bloody 9:00 in the morning, and you've said that seven times," he hurls at the ailing, yet annoying detective.

"Seven? Really? By my count, it's actually eleven, but…" Sherlock corrects, his head tilted to the side as if to access the information.

John takes a very, very deep breath and blows it out as he grabs up the tea cup to freshen it up a bit. "If you don't knock it off, you'll be wearing your next cuppa," he promises whole-heartedly.

"Good morning, boys," Mrs. Hudson greets as she breezes through the door.

Sherlock's eyes light up, "What have you brought me, Mrs. Hudson? Any more puzzle books?"

Mrs. Hudson waves her hand dismissively at him, "Oh, Sherlock. You're impossible. I just brought you a book of puzzles last night, remember?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, his suffering apparent. "Of course, I remember. I've solved those already. They were obvious, Mrs. Hudson. A child could have solved those," he whines petulantly.

"Be nice, Sherlock. I'll see about getting you another book, right?" Mrs. Hudson placates, her eyes twinkling.

John returns to the room with a hot cuppa. "Oh, thank God," he adds when he sees Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock, I have to step out for a bit," he relays while putting on his jumper and coat and giving his saviour a kiss on the cheek. "I shouldn't be long, Mrs. Hudson. Not more than an hour."

John turns back to Sherlock, "If you behave, I'll bring you back that Challenging Logic Puzzles book from Mensa. Who wrote that again?"

"Barry Clark, but you really expect me to be challenged?" Sherlock asks seriously.

John's smile is accommodating as he replies, "Not remotely, but I am hoping for at least fifteen minutes of peace, Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson laughs as she hears Sherlock's reply once John heads down the stairs.

"I wouldn't count on it, John," he says quietly, for once not trying to push his luck.

John places the bag from his recent book purchase in his pocket as he heads from the store and down to Regent's Park.

He walks purposefully towards the Triton Fountain where he has made arrangements to meet.

"Hello, Harriet," he greets, if not warmly, at least with tolerance.

Harry smiles when she sees him. "So all is forgiven?" She asks hopefully with a brilliant smile but stops as she sees his hard blue eyes.

"Harry, I asked you to come down here…" he begins, then inhales deeply at the difficulty this brings, even though it is past due.

John smiles sadly, "Harriet, I will always be your brother. Nothing can change that, but this is important. You nearly killed Sherlock with your snockered bumbling, and that is unacceptable."

Harry starts to cry, her cheap mascara running down her face. "But…"

"No, just listen to me for once. I love you. You're my sister, but this is how it has to be," John starts again. "The drinking just gets worse. It's been 20 years and…well, nothing's changed…except for maybe me. I won't do it any more. I don't want you in my life. I don't need your love, and I'm sorry. I know this hurts you, but now you're just somebody that I used to know."

John reaches across and places his hand gently on her crying face. "Goodbye, Harry," he whispers as he gets up and walks away.

Sherlock looks up as John tosses him the puzzle book.

"I'm sorry, John," he says quietly, expressing sorrow at John's loss.

John shakes his head knowingly and smiles at Sherlock's always present perceptiveness.

"It's not your fault," he reminds Sherlock.

Sherlock reads his friend's face and regards the sadness there, "I know, but what is that you say? It still…sucks."

John barks a laugh that was desperately needed. "Thank you," he sighs swiping at the tears in his eyes.

"You're welcome, John," Sherlock returns as quietly.

The End