#mefic

*why didn't I just say no? I should have just said no?* Gaia's mind is racing standing next to Garrus and looking out over the street below them. Sidonis is here, and Gaia has to watch Garrus kill him. She has to change his mind, she just has to. Otherwise, everything she believes about herself is true; she deserves to die, she doesn't deserve to live, and there is no hope for redemption. *I'm worse than Sidonis. I deserve so much worse than him. If Garrus can't spare him, can't offer him even an ounce of forgiveness, what hope do I have?* Numbness, that all familiar numbness she knows too well takes over her body. She hates it. She despises it. She wants it to just go away, go away and let her feel again, feel the pain, feel the despair, feel the guilt. To suffer. Resting on the railing, her hands shake. Her heart races as she scans the crowd below her. She finds Shepard and then she sees him, the man who has betrayed them. *No, no, no, I can't let him do this, I can't. There has to be hope, there has to be a chance for me. God, please Garrus, please, show me I can still do good in this world. Show me you would forgive me, show me you would give me a chance. Please Garrus, I'm running out of hope.*

"There he is." Garrus' voice snaps her back to reality. Her lungs gasp, the breath she was holding finally escaping. Her knuckles turn white as her nails dig into her palm, begging her body to not give up, to keep feeling, to keep hoping. Even as she turns to Garrus and sees his determination, sees the anger in his eyes, she has to hope

"You're in my shot. Move to the side a bit so I can get him." Gaia knows if Shepard moves Garrus would not hesitate to pull the trigger. She can see his hands trembling, and notices his mandibles twitching, but she can't tell if it's from anger or anxiety. She hopes it's him questioning, rethinking all of this. "Shepard" his name escapes her, begging, pleading with him to not let Garrus do this. Her eyes follow the barrel of Garrus' rifle, down to where Sidonis stands in front of Shepard and she can't help but imagine. Imagine it was her at the end of his scope, imagine him shooting her. But Shepard doesn't move and she can hear hope in her comm. "Sidonis, I'm here to help you." He was doing it, he was actually doing it. She cant believe it. "Dammit Shepard! If he moves I'm taking the shot! With or without your help." His harsh words surprise Gaia. Garrus never speaks to Shepard like this. Gaia painfully listens to Sidonis explain, how the blue suns captured him, tortured him even. How much regret he feels for what he did. She knows all to well how he feels, the pain and guilt he's going through. She's angry at him, just like Garrus, but she can't blame him. Not when she is no better then he is. "It's up to you Garrus, I'm letting you decide this one. Kill him or dont." Shepard moves to the side while Sidonis stands still, defeated. The choice hangs heavy in the air and Gaia knows she has to say something, she has to try. "Garrus don't! Please, please don't. The guilt will cause enough suffering, you don't have to do this." Stepping forward in a rush, she can't help but reach a hand out towards him. As her heart is pounding in her ears she's barely even thinking. "What!" His head snaps to look at her, his mandibles flare, showing his teeth. The suddenness makes her pause but she doesn't back away. "Gaia, you of all people should want this. You were there, you saw what happened, you saw what his actions brought US! Our friends were killed. Because of him." His anger touches her heart in a way he will never know. It pushes her back, not out of fear, but sudden shame. It forces her to step back, away from him, but she can't bring herself to look away. She meets his anger and lets it burn inside her, adding to the hatred she already feels towards herself. "Garrus, please." No one moves, no one speaks, they all just stand in the dense quiet, the air thick with tension. Finally, Garrus turns to face Sidonis again. "I... I... Fine, just... just let him go."

Gaia stands perfectly still, not looking away from Garrus for a moment. She desperately reads his face, trying to decipher any emotions from him that she can. But all she finds is the Turians frantic attempt at hiding them. His mandibles won't stop fluttering, and even through her translator she can hear his rapid clicking. And worse yet, he refuses to look at her, yet, she can't look away. "Why? Why did you do that?" His voice is trembling with confusion. But she can't say anything. He wants answers, no. He deserves answers. But the most she can do is stare up into his eyes, while her own glaze over. She retreats into herself, hiding in the security of chaos that is her emotions, so that he can't see. "Gaia no!" His hand on her shoulder snaps her out of her escape. "No running away, not this time. You're going to answer me dammit." Hot air hits her face as he sighs. "Don't... Don't you think he deserves it? Don't you think that... That everyone... Everyone that died that day deserves justice? He killed them." Garrus chuckles, his eyes now just as lost as Gaia's a moment ago. "He betrayed all of them. His death would have paid for that. Doesn't.... Doesn't someone have to pay? Doesn't someone have to make it all right?" His hand let's go of her. *No, no, no, don't let go! Don't slip away from me! I can't! Garrus I can't!* She watches as his hand returns to his side, and all hope of moving forward goes with it.

"Then shoot me Garrus. Kill me. Let me pay." Gaia shoves her pistol into his chest, catching him by surprise while her eyes lock onto his. Wide eyes meet hers, full of confusion and worry. He tries to take a step back, but Gaia hooks her hand into his armor, holding him in place. "I have been the cause of so many deaths, deaths of innocent people. I have so much blood on my hands, blood spilt because of my actions." Her eyes never leave his, reflecting an honest guilt and a long-felt resolve. "I have cheated, stolen, lied." Gaia takes another step closer to him, pointing the barrel of the pistol to her chest. "I have betrayed people who trusted me, people who cared about me." The words came out calmly, years worth of turmoil and pain simmered down into Gaia's heartfelt belief in herself. Pointing down to where Sidonis had stood only moments before, "If he is deserving of this, then I am deserving of so much more. If someone has to pay for it, let me." Tears threaten to spill from her eyes, but her voice never falters. Garrus tries to carefully pry the gun away from her, but her own fingers threaten to set it off. They both can hardly breathe, but even in the brief moment of silence, Gaia's hands just hold tighter to the pistol. "You say you believe in justice, in righting wrongs against innocent people. So show me Garrus. Show me. Pull that trigger and bring justice to me. Let me make it right."

The door slid open behind him, and a young man stepped into the room, careful to be quiet and not draw attention to himself. He stepped behind Ethan and placed a hand on his shoulder, “How’s it going?” he asked, bending over Ethan and kissing his head.

“God, how are you so good at BioMed? I have no clue how I’m going to write this paper. Hell, I have no clue what I can even write it on,” Ethan lamented, lifting his head and turning to look at the man behind him.

“It wouldn’t be fair if you were at the top of every class,” he chuckled, placing his hand on Ethan’s cheek and lifting his head. He brushed his lips over Ethan’s, gently biting his lower lip and moving his hand back to run through Ethan’s hair.

Ethan leaned into the kiss briefly and reached a hand up over the other man’s neck. Ethan stood from his chair, moving his other hand around the other man’s back, pulling their bodies close before releasing the kiss with a mournful sigh, “God, you have no idea how much I would love to do this right now, Nate,” he paused, turning his gaze down briefly before the other man, Nate, tipped his chin up, “But I have to at least try to pass BioMed.”

Nate playfully nipped Ethan’s lip and smirked, “Who says I can’t help you? I happen to be pretty good at…” he quickly flicked his eyes down to their bodies, still pressed against each other, “biology.”

With a smile, Ethan shook his head, “You know what, you can teach me all about biology after I’ve finished my first draft and if you’re lucky I might even tutor you in mechanics.” He gave a sly smile as his hand quickly dropped to Nate’s butt and gave a quick squeeze.

“As great as that delivery was, you really missed a great opportunity there. It would’ve been hotter if you said chemistry instead,” Nate chuckled a little, “I don’t know if I can be with someone if they can’t even see such an obvious pickup line!” he lamented, dramatically throwing his arms up.

“I’m nothing if not unpredictable,” Ethan retorted, playfully backhanding Nate’s chest.

“And yet, here you are on a Friday night: in your dorm room, writing a paper.” Nate joked, moving to Ethan’s side and throwing his arm over Ethan’s shoulders.

“Oh, am I? Last I checked my boyfriend had rudely interrupted my honourable effort at academic achievement for a booty call.” Ethan smiled, turning himself around so that he and Nate were face to face again, bodies even tighter this time, if it were even possible. His hands slid down Nate’s back, flirting with his waistband.

“Well, now you’re making me feel bad,” Nate mumbled as Ethan pressed their lips together

“I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me,” Ethan snickered under his breath as he nibbled Nate’s ear, while at the same time, slipping his hands past Nate’s waistband, grasping his butt firmly.

Nate could only grunt in acknowledgment, his mouth once again tied up in a deep kiss. Ethan slowly moved himself and Nate toward the bed, pulling his hands out of Nate’s pants as they hit the bedframe and pushing his boyfriend down onto the crisply folded sheets, releasing the kiss only momentarily so that he could pull his shirt over his head and throw it into a corner somewhere. Ethan straddled Nate’s waist, planting his hands on either side of Nate’s head and leaning down into the kiss again, their tongues quickly finding each other.

Ethan began tugging up Nate’s white tank top, the two of them sitting up in unison to ease the process. They broke their kiss as the hem made its way over Nate’s head and in the interest of reuniting their lips as soon as possible, Ethan hooked the front of the shirt behind Nate’s neck rather than dealing with pulling the shirt over Nate’s head.

Nate’s hands began to play with Ethan’s belt, struggling for any dexterity so far away. Ethan instinctively pulled himself forward to make Nate’s job easier, unfortunately ending the kiss. As Nate’s hands worked the buckle, which he found was deceivingly complex when he was not the one wearing it, Ethan began to massage his chest, gently rubbing his nipples. The flicking and massaging, coupled with the sudden release of pressure as Nate managed to open his pants elicited a moan from deep in his throat.

Nate’s fingers teased the waistband of Ethan’s underwear, dancing along the edge, gently brushing the skin underneath.

“Just fucking do it already,” Ethan moaned, leaning forward, his torso hanging over Nate’s head, his arms splayed over the far end of the bed.

Nate chuckled as he wrapped his fingers around the waistband, slowly pulling back, Ethan’s increasingly hard cock resisting the briefs slow move.

DING DING DING DING

Nate released the waistband in shock at the unusually loud chime from the terminal, snapping it back against Ethan’s body.

“Ow! Shit,” Ethan cried, rubbing his waist. They both turned their heads to the terminal on the other side of the room to investigate the source of the disturbance.

INCOMING CALL: HANNAH SHEPARD

“Fucking hell,” Ethan said, pulling himself off of Nate while rebuckling his pants. Nate pulled himself into a sitting position and pulled his shirt over his head, laughing at Ethan’s frenzied search for his shirt which had somehow disappeared during their makeout.

“You need a ha-” Nate started, hoisting himself off the bed, offering to help Ethan find his shirt before being interrupted,

“I need you to leave.” Ethan said firmly, turning to Nate, and intense stare on his face. Nate’s jaw hung open, unsure about how to respond to his boyfriend of 3 months telling him to leave so abruptly. Ethan sighed, turning back to his search, “My mom doesn’t know about us. She… she doesn’t know about me.” Nate swallowed, still not sure how to respond or how to feel but running to leave nonetheless. Spying his shirt tucked behind a mess of items on his desk, Ethan leaned to grab it, bumping his terminal in the process. Nate had turned back, opening his mouth to say something and say the video call had been answered, unknowingly when Ethan bumped the terminal. Aware of the fact that Ethan didn’t want him to be seen, Nate quickly jumped into the closet, which was closer to him and already opened. The irony was not lost on him.

“Hello? Ethan? Is there a reason all I’m seeing is your bare chest right now?” Hannah’s voice called through the terminal.

Grabbing the shirt and quickly throwing it over his head, Ethan dropped into the chair, “Hey mom! Sorry, I was just finishing some endurance training.”

“In your room?” he saw his mother cock an eyebrow.

“You don’t get top marks for not doing work on your own time.” He smiled, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“I take it your classes are going well.” Hannah smiled

“Yeah, yeah. I have this, uh, paper I have to write for Biomedical Eng that’s looking a little daunting right now but once I figure out a topic it should be good.”

“That seems a little presumptuous. Don’t count your eggs before they hatch, Eth.”

“It’s fine, mom.” Ethan stared at his mother’s image, “Why are you calling? Don’t you leave on a mission in like… 5 hours? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I’m a little restless. Besides, you just started your training 2 months ago and you were traveling around Earth for months before that. I figure a check-in with my only child wouldn’t hurt.”

“I visited before training started, mom.”

“For 2 days. It hardly counted, not when I spent 19 years raising you,” Hannah shook her head and laughed at her son, “So, would I know any of your instructors?”

“There’s a couple of old guys here who probably saw the Protheans still breathing that you might recognize from vids about the First Contact War, but it’s a different school than you went to, so I doubt you’d know anyone here.”

“You’re making friends, I hope?”

“How old do you think I am, mom? I don’t exactly need help making friends.”

“I know how you get sometimes. Don’t hole up in your room the entire time your there. Go drinking with other recruits, find a jogging buddy. Just… don’t isolate yourself for the sake of your marks. You’ll do well regardless. But you can get lonely just as easily.”

“I’m not isolated, mom. I was just… training with a friend before you called.”

Hannah relented, raising her hands. After a short silence she spoke again, “So, has anybody special caught your eye?” she grinned, enjoying the opportunity to

“Well, uh,” Ethan began, his eyes flicking in the direction of the closet. Swallowing his reservations and steeling himself, he continued, “I’m seeing someone, actually.”

Hannah’s interest was obviously piqued, her eyebrows raised and her head tilted to the side, “You’re seeing someone? That can’t be all information you’re giving me, Ethan.” Hannah chided jokingly. Ethan could practically feel her elbow nudging him between his ribs.

“Well, it’s a boy. Man. Guy,” he sputtered, his chest tight with apprehension, “I’m- I’m dating a guy, mom.”

Hannah rolled her eyes, “Thank you for the wealth of information, that has really sated my curiosity.”

Ethan struggled to think about how to describe him, “Well, he’s, uhh,”

“Is he a recruit, too? Regs exist for a reason, you know.”

“I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been born if some people hadn’t broken regs,” Ethan joked weakly, forcing a bit of a smile. His chest felt a little more at ease, given her overlooking of the confession, but part of him still waited anxiously for the other shoe to drop.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” she smiled, through a tightly drawn mouth, her tone still aiming for friendly and overshooting to cheesy mom from the vids trying to be her kid’s best friend, “Does this boy-guy-man have a name?”

Ethan panicked, not quite ready to confess the full details of his newfound romance, “Uh, Brandon. Brandon Kee. He’s training for science escorts.”

Hannah leaned back in her chair and hummed, a little skeptical given Ethan’s wide eyes and tight shoulders. She sat forward again, brushing her hand along her hairline, a useless gesture given that her hair was in a tight bun, as it had been for almost all of Ethan’s life. “Are you using any labels?”

Ah, the other shoe, Ethan thought adjusting himself in his chair, readying himself for what might happen next.

“I just want to make sure I don’t use the wrong one or make any assumptions when I talk about it. If I talk about it. It’s totally up to you, of course,” she clarified, her voice finally managing to convey the friendliness and caring she had struggled to pinpoint for years.

Ethan was taken by surprise. He had been preparing for battle. Of course, it made no sense for him to, but there was something about the idea of the conversation that gave him doubts and anxiety which he was quick to give into. He was only glad his Tactics and Recon instructor wasn’t grading him on his coming out. His shoulders slowly fell, releasing their tension, his chest loosened, his breath eased, “I, uh… I’m pansexual, actually. I think. I’m still figuring it out. But, I guess you can tell people if you want.”

“Thank you for telling me, Ethan. And I don’t plan to go yelling it across the station. I just want some ammunition next time your Aunt Lucy asks if she can set you up with her friends’ daughters,” Hannah paused, watching the last of the tension release from her son’s body, “You looked scared for a second there, kiddo. You should know that you’re my son and I love you for who you are, not despite it.” Hannah smiled, wishing she could reach through the screen of her terminal to hold her son’s hand.

“I’m sorry, you just hear stories about kids who… who get kicked out or disowned,” Ethan’s voice cracked, trying to quell the tears welling in his eyes, “And the churches still can’t make up their mind about what to preach. I know we’re not exactly religious but it just… makes you doubt it, you know?” A tear managed to escape his eye and trickle down his cheek.

“I do, sweetie. But, you never need to apologize for it. This isn’t an experience I’ve ever had, so I’m in a pretty crappy position to judge the way you do it or your reasons to avoid it.”

“Thanks, mom. I appreciate it.” Ethan mumbled, looking down a little sheepishly.

“Okay, I really should get some sleep before I ship out. Good luck on that paper.” Hannah said, reaching to turn off the terminal.

“Good night, m-”

“Oh, and don’t forget to use a condom!” Hannah interrupted, quickly pulling her hand back from the power button.

“Oh, my god, mom. Goodbye.” Ethan frantically closed the call, eager to avoid what would prove to be an even more awkward conversation with his mother. He collapsed against the back of his chair with a sigh.

After a moment of silence, Ethan turned around suddenly at the sound of the closet door rattling open, seeing Nate step out cautiously, “Brandon Kee? Really?” he joked gingerly, stepping toward Ethan.

Ethan got up and walked toward Nate, standing a few paces away, his hands in his pockets. “I guess you heard all that, then.”

Nate nodded, sucking his lips.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry,” Ethan’s eyes pled for forgiveness.

“It’s fine. I’m not about to criticize you for not wanting to come out yet. I’m glad you did though,” Nate accepted the apology with just a little derision that Ethan even thought he needed to apologize in the first place.

Ethan stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Nate’s body, sinking into the embrace and letting himself truly relax for the first time since the call tone.

Nate ran his hands comfortingly over Ethan’s back and head for a few seconds, “Still, Brandon Kee?”

Ethan snorted a laugh, pulling his head back from Nate’s shoulder, where it had been nestled“What, you think I should have told her who you were? ‘Hey mom, this is my boyfriend and lover Nathaniel Hackett, you know like the Alliance legend Rear Admiral Steven Hackett’s son?’ I’m sure that would have gone over well.”

“What, am I too much of a bad boy for Captain Shepard’s taste?” Nate smirked, biting his lip seductively as he pulled Ethan’s hips against his.

“Yeah, because all the bad boys have the highest Biomedical Engineering marks,” Ethan teased, pecking Nate’s lips with a kiss, before slipping his hands down to his waistband again.

“Wait,” Nate said, putting his finger to Ethan’s lips, sticking his other into his pocket, pulling out a condom with a sly grin, “I seem to recall someone saying something about one of these.”

Ethan playfully hit his chest, “There’s something creepy about that, I assure you.”

[insert John being annoyed and impatient because of the incapable hospital staff] 

John would simply leave the hospital at his own risk. There was nothing they could do about that. And if this drove Mycroft's minions (who obviously were bustling about outside in the hall and trying to convince the doctors to make John stay rather longer than shorter) up the wall, all the better.

With every passing minute, John grew more and more eager. It had been some time already since a nurse or a doctor had made their way into John's room to check on him, bringing up nothing but more of those flimsy excuses why he just had to wait a little longer, so someone should pop in any second. The next person to walk through this door would have the honour to fetch the waiver for John's discharge – and even if it would say "against medical advice", John did, in fact, know better.

Almost as if on command, John heard the doorknob turning and didn't even wait for the person to properly enter the room to vent his anger, not even bothering to sit up or even to look at the poor fellow.

"Listen, I know you're just doing your job, but if you were really doing your job, it would be obvious to you that there is no need for you to keep me here any longer. So, if you didn't come in here to tell me that my discharge papers are on their way, you can go straight back through that door and get me the bloody forms so I can do that myself, because there is no point for you to–"

"You might want to shut your grumpy cakehole now, Johnny. What happened to you is not the fault of the people who work here."

A flaxen-haired, stocky woman, wearing jeans, and a long, dark blue coat above her burgundy cardigan, had appeared behind the corner of the wall parting the two beds from the bathroom, and now stood there, hands akimbo and loaded with several, rustling plastic bags.

Against better knowledge, John – almost out of panic – jolted into a sitting position and was rewarded with a stabbing pain between his temples.

"Harry!?" He burst out and hissed, rubbing the side of his head in frustration about his current deficiency, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Harriet Watson frowned at her older brother and, deciding to act against her spontaneous desire to air her opinion about John's (almost) rude behaviour, refrained from giving a lippy reply and sighed, "What do you mean, 'what am I doing here', they called me. Told me what happened and said that I should come to pick you up, because you are to be discharged."

"You shall pick me– wait, what do you mean, 'they told you what happened'?"

Now it was definitely panic that was showing in John's face.

Were they, whoever "they" were, beyond help? To tell Harry Watson, of all people, what had happened the night before, that John's assassin-wife had been executed by a henchman of the probably most dangerous and surprisingly not-dead criminal masterminds out there, who had, by the way, also been said wife's employer, and did you know that this whole marriage-and-baby-thing had been nothing but a ruse only because she had been supposed to carry out a job and that job, by the way, had been to kill John?

John needed to explain, needed to clarify this.

"Listen, Harry, whatever they told you–"

"Shh, it's alright, I know..." She dropped her bags at the end of John's bed and hurried over to sit at her brother's bedside, and as she faced him, John spotted the tears she was bravely trying to hold back. "I don't even know what to say, John, this is just horrible. What a terrible accident. They told me the driver of the other car had been drunk a-and…"

John's eyes widened as he saw his sister break and burst out in tears, and she couldn't hold back but hug him and started sobbing into the collar of his shirt. He hugged her back, not knowing what else to do, because first of all he needed to catch up with what had just happened.

So they hadn't told her what happened, but that Mary had died in that car accident? John almost felt relieved about this, but this of course changed the whole situation.

Patting his sister's shoulder, John suddenly realised that for everyone else he, now, was a widower. Well, technically that was in fact what he was. His wife had died. That was the basic definition of being a widower. But why did he not feel like one? Moreover, how was he supposed to act now?

Harry squeezed John tightly and sniffed one last time, before she loosened her grip again with a hiccoughing sob and wiped away her tears using the back of her hand, "I am sorry, I shouldn't," she backed off with an apologising laugh, "I am the one who should be there for you, not the other way round. I'm just… glad that you are okay – sorry, not 'okay', you know what I mean…" She faltered, trying to regain her composure, pondering about what to say for a moment while staring out of the window and then teared up again.

"It's just… it's so unfair that you have to go through all of this – again – and now your child as well... You just don't deserve this, Johnny."

"It's… okay," John replied and surprisingly enough really meant it.

"No, it's not okay."

Harry looked at him almost reproachfully, but John couldn't help it. He was bad enough at talking about his real emotions, how was he supposed to put something into words he didn't even feel?

But thankfully Harry didn't push him any further and conspicuously inconspicously changed the topic – nothing new to John. That was what she always did. This time, however, he really didn't mind.

"Well," she spoke up, unable to decide what to do with her hands and rose from John's bed, "they told me you can leave whenever you're ready, so I guess we better pack your stuff–"

"There's nothing to pack," John interrupted, and this was absolutely true. The pajama he had been wearing at night had been borrowed from the hospital (and the first thing he had done in the morning was putting on his actual clothes anyway), as had been the toilet articles and everything else. There was only his wallet and his phone, and both things were neatly waiting on the bedside table and ready for John to pick up.

"Except," he frowned at the bulk of bags lying on top of the blanket near his feet, "all of your stuff. Harry, what is that?"

She looked at him in exasperation, "I've been at the store when they called, and you know I don't have a car anymore, so what was I supposed to do with it?"

Suddenly realising that their usual tone wasn't quite appropriate for this situation, she added a rueful "sorry", but John shook his head and added with an almost not annoyed warmth in his voice, "Oh, for God's sake, stop apologising."

Harry pressed her lips together and gave him a conciliable smile.

"Quite right."

She grabbed her bags indicating that she was ready to leave, "Shall we then?"

The fact that suddenly he almost felt like any other, normal patient, told John that Mycroft's minions finally must had returned to their damp and dingy basements. He was handed his papers, urged into a wheelchair – hospital policy – and wished a speedy recovery, before the hospital staff reclaimed his now empty bed again to prepare it for the arrival of their next paying customer. Harry nonchalantly dropped her bags onto John's lap and wheeled him downstairs through the main entrance, where a chilly January wind was greeting them and a taxi was already waiting.

The question of where they were going now never arose. Of course they were going to Harry's place, and not only to drop off her shopping.

John didn't know how exactly this had happened, but somewhere between his regular visiting Sherlock in the hospital and his trying to ignore that he was neglecting his back then very much pregnant wife, Harry's still stubborn attempts of rapprochement hadn't gone unnoticed and they had started seeing each other again more often.

And, it hadn't been bad. In fact, it had been very welcome, and John slowly started to wonder why exactly their relationship had fallen apart years ago.

Of course, there had been Harry's drinking problem. But she was dry now, and very successfully so, keeping herself occupied with work and hobbies, therapy and support groups, bringing about her responsible adult life in ways John never would have dared to imagine. 

But that's probably the thing about little sisters. Always ready to surprise you when you least expect it.

Just like old times.

Although, now and for once, in the most positive way.

After a mostly quiet ride, and John was thankful for Harry being that considerate, they arrived at a not very modern, but decent block of flats in Wandsworth.

While John paid the cabbie, Harry hurried around the car and fumbled for the keys in her handbag – a task which by itself was difficult enough already – the heavy bags, however, did not make this any easier.

“Shall I–“, John started, about to close the door of the cab and almost amused at the sight of his sister taking two of the lighter bags in between her teeth to at least being able to actually see what she was doing. Exclaiming the sound of success only moments later, she finally held the keys up in the air and gritted past the plastic in her mouth, “Nnpe, gott’mm!”

The rest of the day passed surprisingly quickly and if John hadn’t seen the sun set with his own eyes through the window in Harry’s living room, he wouldn’t have believed that he already had spent the whole afternoon at her flat.

After their arrival Harry had stored her groceries and put the kettle on – chattering on about that if she had known that John was to come here, she would have bought more, especially of this cake from this new bakery that had just opened recently and which certainly was responsible for certain pairs of her trousers not wanting to fit anymore.

Sitting across each other at Harry's small table next to the window, they drank their tea while Harry did most of the talking, but God knows John was used to that already, updating him about her everyday life, complaining about all the small nuisances, gossiping about her neighbours, talking only to fill up the empty space between them, telling trivial stories just to pass the time.

Until mid-way through their third cup of tea, which mysteriously had come accompanied by a slice of aforementioned cake, when Harry suddenly seemed to have worked off all of her usual topics, unusually enough a state that John didn't welcome today. Because, no matter how annoying her concerning herself with other people's business normally was for John, right now it meant that at least he wasn't the subject of their conversation, so he was keener than usual to just keep her talking.

"Oh, by the way, how's Clara?" John threw in, casually enough, before he took another sip of his tea.

Harry, who had just shoved an almost a bit too big bite of cake into her mouth, needed some moments to chew, before she could reply, using her fork as part of her performance, "Last thing I've heard is she opened up a café or something."

John frowned at her, "I thought she was a teacher?"

But Harry only shrugged and finally gulped down the cake, tried to sound indifferent, but failed, "I think she had sort of a mid-life crisis and finally found her personal fulfilment in making soufflés for her boyfriend."

She shoved another bite in her mouth and chewed agitatedly.

And if it hadn't been for the fact that she had become unusually silent almost too suddenly, John wouldn’t have been aware of her now mustering him in astonishment.

Almost automatically, John raised his hand to his mouth and wiped away the stain of cream that was probably bothering her, “What? Do I have cake on my–“

“You haven’t even touched your cake,” she simply observed, and John had to admit that she had a point there.

“John,” she spoke up with a doubting question mark in her voice, “are you alright?”

John knew that she implied more than his current physical state, and more than all the circumstances which should have made this question unnecessary anyway.

He hastily shoved a piece of cake into his mouth and frowned at her, talking and chewing at the same time, trying too hard to avoid this topic, “Yeah, why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to be. And because you aren’t, but not in the way…”

She faltered for a moment, contemplating about whether she really should bring it up, but her curiosity prevailed.

“It’s just… John, it doesn’t look like you’re grieving. I know, it’s probably too fresh and you’re not someone who talks about this sort of things,” she tried to relent, “but still. Somehow it looks like this doesn’t affect you at all, and it just strikes me as odd. Correct me if I’m wrong. But suppressing it is not a solution.”

“I’m not suppressing anything”, John gritted through his teeth, averting his gaze from his sister and cursing himself for actively joining this discussion.

"Obviously not," she huffed, not holding back on the sarcasm in her voice. He gave her a most dangerous glare, but she wouldn't have been Harry Watson to let herself be intimidated by the angry stubbornness of her own brother.

"This is just not like you, John," she continued with her I-know-that's-actually-none-of-my-concern-but-I-want-to-help-anyway look, "I know you've never been the most emotional of all people, but you've just lost your entire family -- yesterday", she emphasised as if this had been necessary to drive her message home.

"I mean, God knows it wasn't always easy with Clara, but even now I would shed a tear or two if she died, especially like this…" She knocked three times on the wooden table they were sitting at before she continued, "And then not only Mary died, but--"

"But I'm not you, so can you just shut up?" John snubbed her, not quite raising his voice, but the anger he conveyed with it even more, as she was biting away the "your child" bit together with a salty tear.

Realising what he just had said, she frowned at him in dismay and shook her head, expressing what was starting to look like condemnation.

"What made you like this? This is not the John Watson I know. This is not my brother."

"Well, then I've got news for you. This is exactly who I am."

He hauled himself out of the chair, slamming his palms against the table, making the cutlery and the tableware clang against each other, and reached for his jacket without another word.

John had enough. This was a conversation he didn't need and most of all didn't want to have right now. This was so Harry, he almost cursed himself for having expected anything else from her. Meddling with the affairs of everyone who was within her reach, trying to solve them, trying to fix not only the problems, but the person going along with them as well, persuading herself to be the solution and, if it ever should happen, ultimately the cause for world peace if someday it came to it.

And apparently changing her profession and actually being paid for doing this, had made her desire to do it constantly even worse. And, sadly enough, alongside with this her skills had improved as well. Because her next objection actually made John reconsider what he was about to do.

"Would you please stop running from everything as soon as it becomes a bit difficult?"

John stopped dead mid-way between the table and the door to the hall, clenching his left hand around the fabric of his jacket.

"A bit," he exhaled, but remained short on an explanation for his exasperation. Nevertheless, even if he was still facing the door and not Harry anymore, he had stopped and just stood there, while his rage slowly made way for genuine contemplation.

Because -- as much as he didn't want to admit it to himself -- Harry was right.

This was what he did.

This was what he had done as a child every time his father had torn the furniture into pieces and everyone who had stood in his way doing so. This is what he had done when his mother had found her feigned salvation on the bottom of a bottle and when his little sister had started to follow her example. This is what he had done trying to escape this hell and what in the end had brought him to the army, where he had found comfort in the fact that no one questioned his birth, where no one knew about his background, where the only thing that had counted and ever would count were his achievements, his performance, simply his "being" rather than his "had-been".

Until this one momentous day and the bullet in his shoulder.

"Listen," Harry tried to relent as she rose from her chair, "I don't know what exactly is going on, but I know there is something you decided not to tell me. This is fine, you've probably got a reason, I respect that. But I'm your sister, John. I worry about you. Something terrible has happened to you and even if you don't tell me details, all I want to do is help. So please, let me."

"I don't need your help," John mumbled and tried to sound convinced of what he's saying.

"Someone's help then," Harry exclaimed, almost unable to hold back her temper about his stubbornness. "Even you've got friends who care about you, John. Some of them maybe even more than I do."

"Why? I can really look after myself, thank you very much," he huffed as he finally turned around and added with a bit more spite than necessary, "It's not like I need to be rescued."

With an almost pitiful expression on her face, Harry gave her brother a warm smile and replied calmly, "We all need to be rescued sometimes, John."

He took a breath to prepare himself for a reply, but ended up realising that he didn't know what to say to that.

And the lump that had suddenly grown in his throat didn't make that any easier.

She really meant it.

And the conviction in her voice was soothing and unsettling in equal parts.

"Speaking of which," Harry suddenly spoke up, interrupting the silence between them and sliding in an almost apologetic, "and that might be none of my business, but why did they call me today? How come I'm suddenly your emergency contact?"

"How come… what? Seriously, Harry, I've got no idea why they called you. I've got no idea why they called anyone at all."

Acknowledging the second part of John's reply only with a pointedly raised eyebrow, Harry continued, "I mean, yes, right now I'm more or less your next of kin, but hasn't that usually been Sherlock? -- Your emergency contact," she added in order to clarify her almost a bit too ambiguous statement.

John averted his gaze and tried to signal very clearly and without being rude, that right now he didn't want to talk about Sherlock, of all people. He tried to hide the clenching of his left hand that he hated so much under the jacket he was still holding.

But Harry was undeterred.

"I was just wondering… the two of you. Are you alright?"

And John's stomach turned upside down.

Enough.

He knew she only wanted to help.

He knew that it was wrong and he hated himself that he couldn't help it and that he would do it anyway.

But he also knew that there was no other option.

Because suddenly he just couldn't bear it anymore.

Because suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Because suddenly his whole body was in almost physical pain, every cell sore with dread, commanding him to end this, this conversation, this visit, this agony, cringing and screaming only one word:

Run!

"The answer is: Yes…"

And he ran.

"… That is none of your business."