Prompt 26: The Space Between
Title: The Space Between
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
'Verse: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 1207
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Harry Watson
Warnings: Some language, discussion of past physical abuse
Summary: "He's going to live you, know." Harry informs him. "That man has the hardest head of us all. You'd know best, of course."
Author's Notes: For prompt 26 of watsons_woes July Writing Prompts. This one was The Golden Mean
Harry Watson blew out cigarette smoke, timing it just exact enough that it would wash into Sherlock Holmes's face. The man all but tries to eat the cloud of smoke but says nothing. Harry huffs and hands Sherlock over her pack. Sherlock shakes his head. Harry huffs again. "He's not going to know, you know."
"Yes he will," Sherlock counters, quietly. His eyes dart through the shrubs and trees of the hospital ground as if he expects John to suddenly pop out from behind a tree or stand up from one of the wheelchairs being pushed around by orderlies or family members. John is neither that cruel or that devious. Devious maybe, Harry amends, but not cruel. That was this bugger's department. John may have forgiven Sherlock but Harry can't. Harry won't.
Harry grunts in frustration as she finishes off the cigarette. She pulls out another one and offers Sherlock yet another one ('no, thank you') before she lights up the second one. "He wouldn't blame you if you did."
"I shouldn't."
"Oh trust me, I'm the poster child of what you shouldn't do. Ask John."
"I don't have to."
There's a double edge there. He's confirming that he has heard all about Harry from John as well as touching on the fact that he hasn't been a saint either. "Cold turkey or nothing for you, isn't it?"
"John has made a public record of the fact that I don't do anything by halves. Smoking would fall into that category." Harry remembers that bit from John's book - the quest to quit smoking that led up to the Baskerville case which was brought on by Sherlock's smoking bingers after taking one from Mycroft. You'd have thought that Mycroft would have known better. She keeps that thought to herself and instead congratulates Sherlock on being able to say John's name, finally. He has only said it when he's left alone with John in his ridiculously posh hospital room. Only there and only in pleas masked as orders for him to wake up.
"He's going to live you, know." Harry informs him. "That man has the hardest head of us all. You'd know best, of course." That was the wrong thing to say and Harry hisses as she remembers that Sherlock had watched him fall the six storeys, hit lower roof, fall off that, and then bang his head on the fire escape railing before finally hitting the ground. There would have been so much blood. Sherlock had still been covered in it when they'd brought them in.
Christ, she thinks, I could use a drink. She silences that thought. Much like Sherlock and smoking there is no golden mean for her and alcohol. She wonders, distractedly, if there's a golden mean for Sherlock without John should John not pull through it. John had managed, badly, but it was far from a combination of getting on with one's life while still respecting and mourning his loss.
"He was bad you know," she tells him, needlessly. "He tried to hide it. Worked his arse off, at work and with the book and with whatever help he could be to that Lestrade bloke after his suspension was up. I wonder though, I always did and probably always will wonder, what he thought and what he was like on his own. When he got home at night, shut the door, and was alone."
Sherlock doesn't answer. "He's a good actor," Harry goes on. "You probably could have told him and things would have been alright. The man prefers a dash of danger to his life instead of a heaping helping of grief. Just ask our parents."
"Your parents are deceased."
"I know that!" Harry snaps and almost adds 'and good riddance to bad rubbish' but doesn't want to go there. Not with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock looks at her with that infuriating expression that tells her that yes John probably has gone there with Sherlock and maybe somewhat by choice even. Christ, her own brother can't even mention their sodding father's name in her presence but he can talk about all that shit with someone who wasn't even fucking there. And not be paid to hear that sob story, either.
"NHS must have a file a mile thick on us Watsons," Harry scoffs. "Nothing by halves with John, me, or Mum. Little things like scrapes and bruises and big things like broken arms, concussions, second degree burns. Nothing average like appendicitis. Not us."
"He did that to protect you both," Sherlock mumbles.
"He did it because Mum wouldn't leave," Harry corrects and not as sharply as she could. "If Mum had left like she'd threaten to and not get us all to fool everyone in to thinking everyone was okay we wouldn't have this at all. John wouldn't have had that stupid weak spot in his head that Dad put there that's half the reason he hasn't woken up yet and the reason they can't operate right now. " She laughs at him when he goes pale. "Did he tell you that was because of rugby? He tells that to everyone. Better story than 'my Dad threw me out of a fucking window when I tried to stop him beating up my Mum'."
She stares straight ahead and doesn't let herself acknowledge that she's told a family secret to not family. That she's spoken of Julia and Henry Watson to another human being for the first time in decades. Sherlock stays mercifully silent. "He'll make it," she tells him. "He survived being tossed out a window - fought Dad off again the day he was released and won. He'll survive this."
"I have never doubted him," Sherlock informs her. Harry believes him. She takes a drag off her cigarette. Sherlock pops a stick of gum in his mouth. Somewhere between the two of them John whacks the cigarette out of Harry's hand and asks Sherlock for a stick of gum too. Sherlock and her both give equally mourning laughs that make them look at each other. She wonders what Sherlock sees when he looks at the space between them. His hand is resting there like he's expecting it to be held, or like he's trying to grab something.
"When can I expect the happy announcement?"
Sherlock pretends he doesn't hear her. "Come on, a sister always knows."
"I was going to ask at the end of this case," he finally admits. "But now -- "
"He'll live," she promises him. She places her hand over top of Sherlock's. The hand that Sherlock had reached out to grab John before he slipped. The hand that John had tried to grab as he'd fallen. She shouldn't know that much but sometimes she hears more than she wants. "He'll live and he'll say yes and this time next year we'll be looking back at this and laughing."
Sherlock lets out a bit of a giggle at that. "Yes," he agrees. "We'll all be looking back on this."
"But probably not laughing," Harry amends.
"Certainly not."
The stay out there until it starts to rain. Harry offers her arm, Sherlock takes it. They continue their vigil, on either side of John with one of his hands clutched tight in each of theirs.
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
'Verse: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 1207
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Harry Watson
Warnings: Some language, discussion of past physical abuse
Summary: "He's going to live you, know." Harry informs him. "That man has the hardest head of us all. You'd know best, of course."
Author's Notes: For prompt 26 of watsons_woes July Writing Prompts. This one was The Golden Mean
Harry Watson blew out cigarette smoke, timing it just exact enough that it would wash into Sherlock Holmes's face. The man all but tries to eat the cloud of smoke but says nothing. Harry huffs and hands Sherlock over her pack. Sherlock shakes his head. Harry huffs again. "He's not going to know, you know."
"Yes he will," Sherlock counters, quietly. His eyes dart through the shrubs and trees of the hospital ground as if he expects John to suddenly pop out from behind a tree or stand up from one of the wheelchairs being pushed around by orderlies or family members. John is neither that cruel or that devious. Devious maybe, Harry amends, but not cruel. That was this bugger's department. John may have forgiven Sherlock but Harry can't. Harry won't.
Harry grunts in frustration as she finishes off the cigarette. She pulls out another one and offers Sherlock yet another one ('no, thank you') before she lights up the second one. "He wouldn't blame you if you did."
"I shouldn't."
"Oh trust me, I'm the poster child of what you shouldn't do. Ask John."
"I don't have to."
There's a double edge there. He's confirming that he has heard all about Harry from John as well as touching on the fact that he hasn't been a saint either. "Cold turkey or nothing for you, isn't it?"
"John has made a public record of the fact that I don't do anything by halves. Smoking would fall into that category." Harry remembers that bit from John's book - the quest to quit smoking that led up to the Baskerville case which was brought on by Sherlock's smoking bingers after taking one from Mycroft. You'd have thought that Mycroft would have known better. She keeps that thought to herself and instead congratulates Sherlock on being able to say John's name, finally. He has only said it when he's left alone with John in his ridiculously posh hospital room. Only there and only in pleas masked as orders for him to wake up.
"He's going to live you, know." Harry informs him. "That man has the hardest head of us all. You'd know best, of course." That was the wrong thing to say and Harry hisses as she remembers that Sherlock had watched him fall the six storeys, hit lower roof, fall off that, and then bang his head on the fire escape railing before finally hitting the ground. There would have been so much blood. Sherlock had still been covered in it when they'd brought them in.
Christ, she thinks, I could use a drink. She silences that thought. Much like Sherlock and smoking there is no golden mean for her and alcohol. She wonders, distractedly, if there's a golden mean for Sherlock without John should John not pull through it. John had managed, badly, but it was far from a combination of getting on with one's life while still respecting and mourning his loss.
"He was bad you know," she tells him, needlessly. "He tried to hide it. Worked his arse off, at work and with the book and with whatever help he could be to that Lestrade bloke after his suspension was up. I wonder though, I always did and probably always will wonder, what he thought and what he was like on his own. When he got home at night, shut the door, and was alone."
Sherlock doesn't answer. "He's a good actor," Harry goes on. "You probably could have told him and things would have been alright. The man prefers a dash of danger to his life instead of a heaping helping of grief. Just ask our parents."
"Your parents are deceased."
"I know that!" Harry snaps and almost adds 'and good riddance to bad rubbish' but doesn't want to go there. Not with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock looks at her with that infuriating expression that tells her that yes John probably has gone there with Sherlock and maybe somewhat by choice even. Christ, her own brother can't even mention their sodding father's name in her presence but he can talk about all that shit with someone who wasn't even fucking there. And not be paid to hear that sob story, either.
"NHS must have a file a mile thick on us Watsons," Harry scoffs. "Nothing by halves with John, me, or Mum. Little things like scrapes and bruises and big things like broken arms, concussions, second degree burns. Nothing average like appendicitis. Not us."
"He did that to protect you both," Sherlock mumbles.
"He did it because Mum wouldn't leave," Harry corrects and not as sharply as she could. "If Mum had left like she'd threaten to and not get us all to fool everyone in to thinking everyone was okay we wouldn't have this at all. John wouldn't have had that stupid weak spot in his head that Dad put there that's half the reason he hasn't woken up yet and the reason they can't operate right now. " She laughs at him when he goes pale. "Did he tell you that was because of rugby? He tells that to everyone. Better story than 'my Dad threw me out of a fucking window when I tried to stop him beating up my Mum'."
She stares straight ahead and doesn't let herself acknowledge that she's told a family secret to not family. That she's spoken of Julia and Henry Watson to another human being for the first time in decades. Sherlock stays mercifully silent. "He'll make it," she tells him. "He survived being tossed out a window - fought Dad off again the day he was released and won. He'll survive this."
"I have never doubted him," Sherlock informs her. Harry believes him. She takes a drag off her cigarette. Sherlock pops a stick of gum in his mouth. Somewhere between the two of them John whacks the cigarette out of Harry's hand and asks Sherlock for a stick of gum too. Sherlock and her both give equally mourning laughs that make them look at each other. She wonders what Sherlock sees when he looks at the space between them. His hand is resting there like he's expecting it to be held, or like he's trying to grab something.
"When can I expect the happy announcement?"
Sherlock pretends he doesn't hear her. "Come on, a sister always knows."
"I was going to ask at the end of this case," he finally admits. "But now -- "
"He'll live," she promises him. She places her hand over top of Sherlock's. The hand that Sherlock had reached out to grab John before he slipped. The hand that John had tried to grab as he'd fallen. She shouldn't know that much but sometimes she hears more than she wants. "He'll live and he'll say yes and this time next year we'll be looking back at this and laughing."
Sherlock lets out a bit of a giggle at that. "Yes," he agrees. "We'll all be looking back on this."
"But probably not laughing," Harry amends.
"Certainly not."
The stay out there until it starts to rain. Harry offers her arm, Sherlock takes it. They continue their vigil, on either side of John with one of his hands clutched tight in each of theirs.