Bruises

John Watson sat quietly and watched the scenery speed by, the soft rumble of the train engine beneath his feet blurring with the background conversation of the other passengers around him. Sherlock could have told him all of their occupations, their marital statuses, their personal issues, and their reasons for traveling. John didn't bother to look at them. He was busy just watching the dying sun lighting up the tips of the wheat in the fields and gilding the trees beyond. He didn't need anything else. He was feeling uncommonly happy.

It had been a good week.

It had been a good week, and he was so glad he'd gone to visit Harry, despite their tiffs in the past. She'd invited him over for a week and half, to help keep her from drinking and to try to mend some of the damaged bridges between them. John had been cagey - Harry had said she'd stop drinking before - but it really seemed like she was determined this time. She hadn't had a drop the entire time John had been visiting, at least as far as he knew, and instead of complaining about his lack of trust and insisting that he ought to believe her when she said something, Harry had been understanding, and had even encouraged him to smell her breath and secretly check the cupboards from time to time. She'd said she wanted to stop, really stop, and she'd wanted him there to help keep her from slipping.

They'd spent a lot of time alone together, taking long walks, and reminiscing about childhood, and they'd talked a awful lot of things over. It had been therapeutic - certainly better than his weekly sessions with Ella, and John felt closer to his sister than he had in a long time. There was a lot of bad history, but there was still a lot of love, and that was enough to hold them together, despite the wear and tear of time. Sherlock probably wouldn't give much credit to it, but it was something John knew well. Harry was trying, and John was happy to be there for her.

And the reason he was going back to Baker Street after only a week, instead of a week and a half? Harry had suddenly gotten a job interview, at a respectable firm she'd applied to a few weeks ago. The interview was hours away by train, and Harry would have to stay the night in a hotel, and possibly longer if they wanted a second one. So rather than drag John all the way up to there too, Harry had suggested that he take a break from her and just head back early. She'd be all right, she was a grown woman, and could handle a job interview without her little brother having to hover in the background. She'd kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for the visit and his help, and gone to pack up her nice things. If she got the job, she'd be even further away than she was now, but it would be worth it.

The train finally stopped at the station and John piled out with the rest of the crowd, casting a gaze at the last fingers of light on the western horizon and flagging down a cab. He was stiff from the train ride and sat gratefully in the more comfortable cab seat, stretching his legs out and arching his back. He watched the scenery for a second time out of the cab window, the much more busy and man made streets of London, not quite as pretty as the trees and fields, but with a stronger semblance of home. When they pulled up outside of the flat, and John got out and paid the driver, he was glad to be back.

He hefted his luggage bag and stepped inside, starting up the stairs. There was no greeting from Mrs. Hudson, and her light was off, so she must've either been out or making an early night of it. John didn't mind - he was tired and looking forward to a cup a tea and a little time in before he headed to bed. With any luck, Sherlock wouldn't have set the place on fire or anything, and would spare him any warped violin concertos or frantic pacing and ranting. John reached the top of the stairs and opened the door, stumbling slightly as he set his bag down and turned to shut the door behind him.

To his surprise, Sherlock was sitting quietly on the sofa, reading a large volume with the lamp on beside him.

Or at least, that was what he was doing for a split second before he raised his eyes and saw John standing in the doorway.

"John!"

Sherlock sprang up, discarding the book on the cushions as if he'd forgotten it existed. Sherlock simply stood and stared at him for a moment, scanning him, John knew, before he spoke again, more calmly, but still with a trace of surprise in his tone.

"You're back early."

"Yeah well, couldn't stay away," John said good-naturedly, tugging off his jacket and throwing it over his chair.

"You weren't supposed to be back until the sixth," Sherlock muttered, glancing down at his book and then darting his eyes over to the window. John shrugged.

"Something came up. Tell you about it later, I'm dying for a decent cup of tea. Can't get anything good on a train these days." John started to turn towards the kitchen... and then his brain caught up with the image it'd just gotten from his eyes and he turned slowly back to stare at Sherlock in no small degree of shock.

"Did you..." John squinted at his flatmate. "Did you gain weight?"

He certainly wasn't fat, by any stretch of the imagination - John didn't think that was possible. But standing there in his shirt and jacket, Sherlock looked a bit... thicker than usual. Not terribly so - John wasn't sure if anyone else would have even noticed, but John, a doctor, who consistently paid attention to his flatmate's health and therefore weight, could definitely tell a difference. There seemed to be an extra inch added to his stomach and torso, and he looked more like a normal person instead of his standard skinniness. Sherlock glanced down at himself and shrugged.

"Possibly. Is that a problem?"

"No, no, I... um..." John was having trouble dealing with the phenomena. "That's good, really, you know I've always said you ought to eat better..." He trailed off, and then couldn't help himself. "How... how did you do that?" he asked incredulously. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hardly important, John, I do eat on occasion without you're asking me to."

"Yeah, but... I... Never mind." John shook his head, deciding to forget the issue at present. He didn't want to embarrass Sherlock by overemphasising something that was trivial (and in this case, actually beneficial), and besides he was really too tired to worry about it. He yawned and started back for the kitchen.

"Ah, John, I meant to tell you," Sherlock said, moving catlike after him, "I was using the tea for an experiment, I'm afraid it's rather undrinkable now." John sighed.

"Oh, perfect."

"You'll have to go to Tesco's, then," Sherlock said.

John shook his head.

"I'm not going out to Tesco's now, it's been a day..." John looked at the door. "I'll just go downstairs and borrow some from Mrs. Hudson. I don't think she'd mind if I just took out a couple of tea packets."

"Actually, I already borrowed what she had and used it," Sherlock said. "We didn't have enough to begin with, what with you being gone for a week." John glared at him. "It was an important experiment," Sherlock defended. "I needed to measure what the various levels of aconite in Earl Grey would do if - "

"Fine, fine," John interrupted, waving a hand at Sherlock to stop talking and slouching on into the kitchen anyway. "I'll just make coffee instead, I can live with it for one evening."

"Tesco's isn't that far John," Sherlock pointed out, taking a couple of steps after him. "And there are actually a number of things you could get, if you go out." John paused with his hand on a cup. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was standing on the threshold of the kitchen, staring at him.

"Please tell me you did not destroy all of the tea just so you could get me to go to Tesco's and do the shopping when I came home."

Sherlock snorted.

"Honestly, John, pay attention. I didn't even know you were coming home this evening. I assumed Mrs. Hudson could get some tomorrow, but I didn't know you'd be back and wanting it at this hour." John had to admit he was right about that, although he still wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do something that extreme in order to make John do the shopping.

"Well, I'll go shopping tomorrow, then."

"You're not going now?"

"Sherlock, I just spent two hours on a train and twenty minutes in a taxi after a week of making sure my sister stayed sober. I'm tired. I am not going out to do shopping tonight."

"But we're out of biscuits as well!"

John grinned.

"No we're not, I keep a secret stash."

"And do you honestly think that I didn't find that?"

John paused, frowning that Sherlock once again had a point. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's new, less slender figure.

"Is that how you did it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Did what?"

"Your... Never mind, I'll just have toast."

John reached for the toaster instead.

"You're not going out?" Sherlock asked again.

"No Sherlock, I am not going out."

John undid the tie on the bread loaf and took out two slices. He popped them in the toaster and was digging out the coffee when Sherlock spoke suddenly from where he stood at the edge of the sitting room.

"Harry hasn't stopped drinking."

John froze. He straightened up and looked at the consulting detective, feeling a small spike of anger flare suddenly at the unexpected and intrusive words.

"What?" he asked.

"She hasn't stopped, you know. She stayed dry while you were there, but she finally couldn't take it anymore. That's why you're home early. She's drunk right now, now that you're gone." John stared at him in disbelief, confused and hurt but feeling a bit better at Sherlock's obvious stab in the dark.

"I'm home early because Harry got an interview 250 miles away and didn't want to drag me along. She's staying sober, Sherlock - "

"She's lying. She doesn't have an interview, she made that up to get you out of there so she could drink again," Sherlock interrupted. John clenched his teeth and counted to five, willing Sherlock to shut up and not believing this was happening. Why did Sherlock feel the need to bring this up? Harry was dry, Sherlock didn't know what he was talking about, and John really just wanted to relax for an hour before he went to bed.

"Sherlock, you have no idea what - "

"You came home tired, but elated. I could tell you were happy the minute you walked in the door, not just relieved that you'd finished dealing with her again, but actually happy, pleased by the visit. That means everything went well. That means Harry stayed dry while you were there and the two of you got on. You're hopeful for the future - but you're home early. Why would that be? You clearly left of your own volition, without feeling that anything was wrong, therefore you were given a reason for leaving that made sense to you and didn't include your sister going back to the bottle. What could make you leave her while still believing everything was all right? An emergency, from one of her friends, perhaps? Something she would want to deal with but wouldn't want you to suffer through? Ridiculous - no friend of hers would depend on her for anything with her alcoholism running rampant. They'd be used to the fact that she couldn't be counted on and act accordingly. They'd go to anyone else before they'd go to her. So, no friend with an emergency. It couldn't be a family emergency, because then you'd have wanted to stay.

"Someone else coming to visit suddenly, perhaps? Possible, but unlikely, for the same reasons a friend wouldn't go to her for help - no one who knew her well would want to visit without booking ahead in advance to be sure she'd make an attempt to be sober for them. So what else could pull you away? You were awfully happy, John, and a week ago you spoke at length to Harry on the phone about what a poor job she had and how you wished she would get something better. So she told you what you wanted to hear, that she'd gotten an interview, some distance away no doubt, something she wouldn't want to make you come along for. After a week of your help, she could stay dry by herself for a couple of days, especially what with an important job on the line. So you left, thrilled by her new semblance of responsibility and feeling as if you'd made progress. But she was getting you out of the house so she could drink again, because she could no longer stand it without the alcohol and having you there was a problem."

Throughout his monologue, John was slowly and steadily getting more and more irritated. What the hell was Sherlock doing? What business was it of his, John's relationship with his sister, and what right did he have to talk about Harry's problem in such a casual manner, and where the blazes did he get off making all this stuff up when he had only a tenuous grasp on the facts?

"Shut. Up."

John's anger was beginning to spike.

"To get an interview she'd have to have applied, and she hasn't been applying for jobs, John, I've gathered from your phone calls that she's been drunk enough lately to barely remember her address, let alone fill out an - "

"She applied weeks ago!" John snapped.

" - application, and weeks ago wouldn't be enough John, she'd have needed it to be months ago at the rate she's been going - "

"Dammit, Sherlock, you're not omniscient, you have no idea how she's been going!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow calmly.

"I don't always pay the closest attention to your phone calls John, but even an idiot could see how poorly she's been doing - "

John slammed his hand on the counter. Sherlock stopped talking but stood his ground, his eyes boring into John with an expression that said "you know I'm right you just won't admit it." John was finished with counting to five. Sherlock was not Harry's brother. He didn't know her like John did. Sherlock was not involved with Harry, and he had no right to accuse her of lying like that, he wasn't there for the last week talking with her and helping her through it, in fact Sherlock barely understood normal emotions on the best of days so how in hell did he think he knew anything about what Harry would do!?

"Sherlock," John grated out slowly. "I don't think you know what you're talking about and I don't think I'd like to keep discussing this."

"I always know what I'm talking about," Sherlock said dismissively. He pulled out his phone and held it out toward John. "She's drunk right now, call her. I'll wait."

It took every ounce of John's self control not to smash Sherlock's phone into the floor, because what was left of his voice of reason at the moment said that Sherlock's phone was expensive and extremely precious to him and that if John broke it he wouldn't be able to take it back. John swallowed hard, glaring at his flatmate and managing to respond with words instead.

"Well," he said haltingly, "who's fallen off the wagon now?"

Sherlock gave him a puzzled expression.

"What, John?"

"Because see," John continued, fighting to stay calm enough to speak, "I sort of thought that you were making an effort to once in a while be nice like an ordinary human being. I thought maybe I was making some sort of impression on you, that you were actually trying to be compassionate from time to time, and consider the fact that other people happen to have emotions!"

"I am hardly an ordinary - "

"That's right, you're not! But God forbid you'd stoop to remember the rest of us, and all of our stupid concerns with politeness and other people's feelings!"

"Being polite is dull," Sherlock said dryly. He glanced down at his phone. "If you're not going to use this I might as well put it away. Although it would be best if you just called her now, John, and abandoned your idiotic illusions." He pocketed his phone, which may have saved it from being smashed, because John's self control was slipping.

"Well, apparently I'm not the influence I thought I was," John said sharply. "You clearly don't care anything about people."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, did you think I was some sort of project, then? That I was supposed to look to you for moral guidance and learn about emotions because you know everything? John Watson's gift to humanity, his attempt to reform a sociopath? I think anybody can see how that would work out. You don't even understand your own sister!"

John almost punched him.

Almost.

But he held on for a just a second longer and then stomped out of the kitchen, brushing past Sherlock and snatching up his jacket from the chair.

"You know all I really wanted was a quiet evening with some tea and then bed. But I don't think I want to be in the same building with you right now," John hissed, throwing the jacket back on.

"Does this mean you're going to Tesco's?" Sherlock asked blithely.

John just stared at him for a split second, unable to believe the audacity of the remark, then wrenched the door open, stormed into the stairwell, and slammed the door shut again with all the force he could muster. He made it down the stairs in record time, ignoring the front door's screeching protest as he pulled it open, and blew out into the cold London evening, his mind so on fire with fury that he hardly noticed the other pedestrians. He took off down the street with a swift stride, not sure where he was going and not caring, as long as it was somewhere, anywhere away from Sherlock Holmes.

Who was currently sitting back down on the sofa, picking up his book again, and muttering quietly,

"God, I thought he'd never leave."

This story is sort of an odd combination of things, but it wouldn't get out of my head. If you review, I would especially like feedback on the fight itself, and how effectively the writing for John's emotions came across. I had a bit of trouble and could do with a critique. Thanks!