A/N: sorry this was late, guys! Enjoy!

Rationalization was difficult.

In all honesty, impossible. It wasn't even as if he could justify it in any meaningful way; twist it around to make it Claire's fault - he was bored, he was tired, he was angry - they were all facets of the same problem. He was addicted to the rush.

He didn't even know who he was without that ever-growing itch in his spine. He stopped brawling his sister's endless barrage of terrible boyfriends after college, only to start up another sexual relationship with a man. He was a wreck. He was a car accident on repeat, the punchline to a bad joke.

Was he fucking Sherlock because he wanted to? Or because he needed to? He'd lasted six years without doing anything relatively life threatening, besides a few shady bets in casinos. (And a handjob from a relative stranger, when John started getting really on edge last year. She saw his engagement ring and laughed.)

John took a quick stop in an empty nearby cafe on Main Street, passing by a peculiar man reading a newspaper out front. The woman he ordered an omelette from smiled at him and asked his name. "John Watson," he told her, all the while counting off worst scenarios in his head, endless possibilities. Maybe it was to deter him from the appeal of this non-relationship. Thinking about the most probable outcome made John's skin prickle. It was entirely possible that this would end how he dreaded it would. 

The waitress kept on pretending not to look at him. And there was a garish Picasso painting in sight, looking at him with a vicious intensity. Someone placed an omelette wrapped in paper on the order counter. "John Watson," a cook called out.

"That's me," he said more to himself than to anyone else. He replaced the omelette with couple of shillings, his movements stagnant with an obvious bitterness, a tartness. Walking out, he said to the cashier, "Keep the change."

The guy outside was still reading the same page of his newspaper. John gave him a peculiar look unwittingly as he turned on his heel to walk to the nearest bus station. His lip stung as he took his first warm bite into his salty omelette, steam breaking like smoke into the air.

The sky was starting to fog over, turning a very light shade of gray. The blueish tinted light, combined with the cold bland buildings and broken up sidewalk, made John pull his coat closer to his body and hunch his shoulders as he paced to the nearest bus stop, a few blocks away. He didn't know where he was going to go. Home? Mark's? James's?

Mark wouldn't pry, but he would ask. And if John didn't have an answer, then there was nowhere to go with that.

He wasn't a gossip, but by God, his wife was. Allison would prod and push at their marriage and she'd be forceful about it, too, not even bothering to disguise her curiosity. She was a nice person, as far as John understood, if abrasive in certain ways.

John couldn't deal with abrasive right now. He couldn't sleep in their guest room and have abrasive everywhere, abrasive painting the walls, abrasive children calling his name.

James guaranteed peace of mind. He probably wouldn't even bother to find out why John came over - he'd probably just crack off a few quips and force John to beat him at a game of poker. He didn't have Sundays off, though, so if he went to his house, he'd just be bothering Francis. She already had enough stress, considering that James was a police officer who did the night patrol.

Could he go home? Could he pretend he was innocent, justified in his anger - long enough for Claire to believe him?

There was no home for John here. There was no home in her anger, their love. As if he could boil it down to conflicts of interest. As if he could pawn it off as circumstantial. He was something cruel. He deserved the throbbing pain in his cheek. He deserved Sherlock, in all his arrogance and indifference.

It was then that rhythm of footsteps suddenly became incredibly present. Behind him. Certain, although not quite precise. John snapped to attention, something quick and heavy beating in his brain as he sped up his pace. The footsteps behind him hastened minutely.

It was when John caught sight of an alleyway when the gears in his brain started clicking relentlessly. John eased up next to the left side of the street, where the line of dilapidated apartments were, then darted into the nearest alley and hid behind the corner, fear and anger lighting up his skin like pinpricks.

As the footsteps got closer, John put on his gloves.

They sounded like dress shoes or boots. Maybe even high heels. The person wearing them had a slow walk, a purposeful walk. They had the walk of someone who'd cocked a gun before.

There was an unrecognizable flash of skin as John grabbed the person, who was taller, but still genderless, and slammed their body into the wall. They heaved and flecked up spittle, groaning in an unmistakable masculine tone. John enthusiastically cracked their forehead into the wall, causing an abrasion and a grunt of pain.

"Why are you following me," he gritted through his teeth, panting from the effort. "What'd I ever do to you, huh...?" John felt around the man's waistband, finding a gun hidden there. He removed it; tucked it neatly against the underside of the man's skull.

"Why are you following me?" John repeated, his voice taking on an iciness. "Answer me, or I swear to God..."

The man spat a hardly discernible "fuck off" in response, and John dug the gun deeper into his neck.

"You don't know me," John hissed evenly. "You don't know the type of day I'm having. You don't know that I know this is a nine millimeter Luger pistol and no, I won't be delicate if you decide not to answer my next question." John yanked at the imposter's hair with a very precise amount of sadism. "Why are you following me?"

The man dropped an envelope on the ground. "It's an address," he grunted.

"From whom?"

The man said nothing, and John slammed his head into the wall again. "From whom?"

"Moriarty," he choked.

John's stomach jumped. His grasp on the man faltered.

"Moriarty?"

"Wanted me to deliver you."

Remembering himself, he redoubled his grip on the pistol. Grabbing the man's coat collar, he shoved him in the direction of the street, the pistol still angled at his head. He caught only a second of his face, but remembered him as the person who had been reading the newspaper in front of the restaurant.

Once John really knew he was gone, he kneeled down carefully and picked up the envelope. It was the fancy kind, with rough, canvased paper that was woven and regal. A magpie was pressed into the crimson wax seal.

John tore it open with his index finger, splitting the fibers with a soft, subdued sound. The alleyway rattled with the noise. Inside, there was a high-quality cream colored stationery with a golden insignia woven into the paper, as if the person writing was apart of an official organization. Calligraphic letters painted an address, a time.

248 Rutherford Street, 2:00 PM, tomorrow.

Don't be late.

- Jim xx

John looked at the envelope again, noting the magpie seal. With curiosity, he shook out the envelope, and to his bewilderment, an ace of spades floated out, doing small half-parabolas till it hit the ground. John picked it up, getting dirt under his fingernails in the process, and turned the card over a few times in his hands. He was on the brink of being amused. He'd been ready to shoot someone in the foot over this.

He shoved the address into his back pocket and walked out of the alley, taking the gun along with him.

***

"Hey, Harry, I-"

"John?" Harry slid open her door, her face twisting into a confused, and slightly angry expression. John was sopping wet, rain trailing down his face, getting into his mouth. He felt miserable as he glanced left, then right, trying not to be bothered by the ivy prying the base of the flat apart. "Where the hell've you been?"

She was standing there in her nightgown, standoffish as ever, her full strawberry blonde hair messily sprinkled across her shoulders. Her eyes were brighter than John's and just as threatening, at times. Now, they were twisted in indignation. "Mighty lovely that you graced me with your presence, my liege."

John deadpanned at her. Water dripped off his eyelashes. "I've invited you to our home so many times-"

"You know I dislike your fiancée. A lot."

"You remind me every single time I come over," John replied, slightly tired, a small smile pushing at his lips. He gestured accompanyingly to the door. "May I?"

Harriet pursed her lips slightly, thinking. Then: "Don't just stand there."

John silently sent a thank you up to God as he clambered up the stairs, pushing past into her admittedly trashy flat. There were food cartons and clothes everywhere, the couch covered in a thin layer of white dust. There was only one lamplight in each room, and even though it must have been three o'clock, John couldn't see a damn thing. She was the daughter of a politician, yet she couldn't somehow gather the seven hundred pounds needed to buy a sizable home. Or more than one lamp. John quietly noted to himself to send her a few more light fixtures for Christmas.

And the booze.

Booze. Everywhere.

"I thought you quit," John said, struggling to keep his voice casual.

Harry walked up behind him and put a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. John bristled. "Yeah," she sighed, "so did I." With a haphazard shrug, she padded a few feet away into the kitchen. "Want anything?" she called, opening something on the stove. "I can make porridge. And we got beer."

John nodded, forgetting she couldn't hear a nod. Remembering, he spluttered, "Oh, yeah, food. Yeah."

"Get some new clothes for yourself. I don't want you wetting the entire home."

"Where are they?" John asked into the next room.

"Upstairs, in my room. Make yourself comfortable," Harry said, pouring water into a pot with vigor.

When John came back downstairs, wearing clothes that were two sizes too big, he plopped exhaustively on the couch, fitting the gun he pocketed under a sofa cushion. "Hey," he said, "why do you have men's clothes in your room?"

Harry poked her head out of the kitchen door, holding two beers in one hand. "Huh?"

"I asked why you had men's clothes in your room," John repeated.

"Oh." She went back into the kitchen, pouring porridge into two bowls. "Guests," she stated easily, "of the... romantic sort."

John nearly started choking.

A steaming bowl was slammed down onto the coffee table in front of John. He eyed it warily, afraid that the milk that skimmed the top wasn't really... milk. Harry sat down next to him, immediately beginning to shove spoonfuls of colorless gruel into her mouth. She smiled at him, food in her mouth, and John groaned, loudly. "I didn't need to know that, Harriet."

"You should be grateful," she almost mumbled.

They exchanged an antagonized look. John pursed his lips and garnered the strength to gingerly pick up the bowl and begin eating. John ate about two tasteless spoonfuls, then leaned back into the couch even more, his eyes drifting to the stained ceiling. "That could be mold," he said, pointing skyward to a dark blemish.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I don't give a shit, John."

John shrugged noncommittally, going back to his food with a forced enthusiasm. He had to remind himself, precisely every three seconds, that he didn't want to fight with her.

Harry put her food down rather suddenly and turned to the side, facing him completely. Her toenails were painted hot pink. "So, little brother."

John looked up.

"What prompted you here?" she asked, poking his side with a matching pink fingernail. "It certainly wasn't altruism. Right?"

John glanced at her hands for a second before fixating at two bottles of beer she'd planted on the coffee table. John stayed silent, lost in thought.

"Was it?"

He frowned, then rotated his head to look at his sister. "Was it what?"

Harriet pursed her lips, hesitating. "You should have a drink, John," she said, grabbing the beer and tossing it to him.

John spun it in his hand, reading the label. "Yeah," he eased out, "I think that's a really good idea."

***

They were both drunk. John knew that, because everything was slow, and John usually didn't like this type of feeling, but tonight it was exactly what he needed, whether he knew it or not.

The liquid was dancing around in his cup, jumping around with a bright golden color, sloshing onto his pants. Harry was laughing, he was laughing, although he didn't know why - he didn't know what he'd said to make her laugh, or why they were so close to each other. Maybe it was the older sister thing.

They'd never been that close, but put a drink in both their hands, and it was like oiling a rusted machine. Maybe John should've loosened up more in his day to day life. Maybe he wouldn't be such an "uptight prick," as his sister loved to remind him during their many arguments about her state of living.

"Now that you're properly buzzed," Harry said, her voice still lost to slight chuckling, "tell me why you're really here." She poured them both another glass with a shaking, hot pink hand, and John couldn't even tell that she was shaking because he was so fucking drunk he wouldn't have noticed anything at all.

"What," he began, "you think I'm not capable of just wanting to see my older sister?" And then he started to laugh, because he wasn't, and Harry thought it was a joke, so she began laughing, too, and they were both laughing in that high, pitchy way they both did when they were drunk.

"Yeah, maybe if someone is paying you, but that's as far as your capacity for social niceties goes," she stated honestly, her voice still half a laugh.

"Social niceties," John scoffed.

"You mocking me?"

"Sounds like something Sherlock would say."

She took another sip of her drink, then: "Who he?"

A sudden surprise and anxiety seized John as he tried to think of a way to explain Sherlock in some kind of way that made sense; as he remembered everything that had happened between them just hours earlier. "A coworker," he said simply, leaving it at that. "And do you really think that?"

"Huh," Harry kind of said.

"That I'm an arse," John clarified.

"No. I mean - you can be. But only with provocation."

John found something within himself - something painful and screaming - he mustered up the willpower to say, "But what if I did it without provocation? My own indulgence." He couldn't stop his own self-disgust from trickling in his voice, slurred and toneless as it was.

She laughed. "Did you do something stupid?"

John washed down his nervousness with another boiling drink. "Yeah," John stated slowly. The room suddenly didn't feel as well lit. "And I keep on doing it, over and over."

Harry nodded, once, eyes scrunching up and drifting to something nondescript in the background. "Well," she said softly. "Why's that?"

"Because I want to."

She paused. Then: "I wouldn't put it past you."

His eyebrows jumped up. "Really?" John asked.

"You put on this good guy persona. I know you. You aren't like that."

"The apple didn't fall very far from the tree, right?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, John," Harry said jokingly, keeling back into the couch.

"That was payback for these bleeding clothes you're making me wear-"

"You can take 'em off and get back into those wet ones, if you'd like," Harry said, "Jesus. Stop complaining, you smarmy arsehole."

John found himself caught in an empty smile, looking at Harry for answers he knew she didn't have.

"Well," she began again. She placed her beer bottle on the stained coffee table, laying back onto the smelly couch, running her eyes over John's features. Trying to figure him out. Her voice became bitter. "One of the only things I've figured out about this life is that it sucks, and it's disappointing, and it'll break your heart. I learned to expect it after a while." The room became cold. "You should too."

John suddenly noticed how many empty booze bottles there were littering the vicinity, and the stained carpet, and the smell of wood rot setting into the mantelpiece. He didn't feel like Harry's little brother, anymore. He felt like a man who was drunk in a strange person's living room, confessing something before he confessed it to himself. "I wanna be happy," is all John said. His voice was a wisp of lost emotion.

For a second, they both felt sober. "Good fucking luck with that, John," Harriet said, before drinking down something sharp and yellow.

It didn't take long after that for Harry to drift in a comatose drunken state, where everything John uttered was met with a disconnected chuckle or a nod. Her eyes started dipping into half-crescents. John put her to bed past a certain point, fearing she'd pass out on the couch, and John didn't want to sleep where she did God-knows-what.

It was a strange thing, he and Harriet. Even though she was the older sibling, he had always accepted that he was the protector. And hell, she could defend herself if she wanted to - but John always had that inclination to give her exes a good beating depending on the circumstances. Harry definitely wasn't the kind one between the two of them - she dwarfed John when it came to impulse control - but if he heard even an inkling of a boy beating up on his older sister, he'd start grinding his jaw and cracking his knuckles like he was trying to get arthritis in his hands.

Which was strange, because he and Harriet had never gotten along as kids. Maybe there were glimpses of what it felt like to be close to one another, but that was always over ridden by John's need to fix her issues, and her drinking problem, and her taste in boyfriends.

She was a mess - and John couldn't even chew her out anymore, because he'd stooped to levels Harry didn't touch. He could hear her voice in his head.

"Fucking hypocrite."

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"I mean, John, that you're just as nasty, just as depraved as I am. Dr. John H. Watson? That person is a myth."

John shut off the one lamp in the living room, and the entire area flooded with pitch blackness. There weren't any crickets anymore, because it was starting to get so cold outside, so John lay down on the couch in what must have been complete silence.

It was sort of unnerving. It sounded like his ears were completely muffled, because the only noise he could pick up was the residue of the storm that had soaked him cold earlier in the day. Every few seconds John would register the wet "plip" of a drop of water.

John turned to the radio beside the sofa and switched it on the its quietest setting so Harry wouldn't wake upstairs. He could hear faint, faint voices discussing the latest news. John heard mention of London.

Sometimes, he wondered what it was like down there. If children really died like that - mangled and dirty, with their skin broken and their hip bones jutting at awkward angles-

They said that it was hell to walk to work the next day, after your home was destroyed, and looking at the burning chars of what used to be your life. The man on the radio said that there was a girl who died holding her teddy bear in her arms, cradling it to her chest, clinging onto what she once knew to be true.

Nothing felt true, anymore. The Nazis burned houses to the ground like they were paper; killed men and women like they were canvassed. And people talked about Germans like an abstract idea, a whole - not parts and measures. Germany became a concept, and death was soon tipping to the opposite end of the scale, becoming as real as human flesh.

Sometimes, John wondered: what if Harry died? What if Mum died? What if Claire died, or James died, or Mark died?

Would there be anything of him left? He felt weighed down by the people in his life, by the frightening mundanities, but all that extra pressure actually gave John something concrete to grab onto. If it all disappeared, John didn't think he'd be able to stay in once piece. He'd break up and float away.

John quieted his thoughts so he could turn his attention back to the whispering radio, twanging with white noise. The broadcaster had a voice you could fall asleep to.

There was five seconds of radio static between script transitions before the man began talking again, his voice weighed down by exhaustion as well. If his timbre made John think of someone else in particular, John didn't acknowledge the connection.

"Hello, England. How's everyone's night been? To all those recently bombed, our thoughts and prayers go out to you. Anyway, in today's news, President Roosevelt has commissioned a large portion of the army to Southern Egypt, especially near Carthage. He was quoted as saying that his choices do not reflect his religious beliefs, only his willingness to..."

John immediately fell asleep for the first time in days.