There were two ways Harriet knew to sober up. One was to chug a gallon of water, something to do with blood alcohol levels, John would know more. And the second was to get a phone call in the middle of a pub crawl telling you your big brother had been blown to kingdom come.
It wasn't fair. None of it. A DI picked her up before she even had time to shower off the smell of cheap booze. Apparently John had been working with the police before he died, so that merited an honor guard. They took her to the morgue and a crying woman named Molly said he was a good man and pulled back a sheet on a table to show her John's face and only his face. It was amazingly well-preserved, considering the smell of burnt flesh wafting from the rest of his body. Mum would be so pleased.
Harriet got outside before she managed to vomit and tear up at the same time.
He introduced himself as Lestrade. He told her that for the last few weeks John had been assisting a consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes. She should've known that. She should've asked or phoned or read his bloody blog, at least.
Lestrade was nice enough not to imply any of this. He just answered her questions about the case. He even told her what a consulting detective was.
Mrs. Hudson let her into the flat. She wasn't teary, but she did have a tissue fisted tightly in one hand. The flat looked like hell—both because John's cleaning habits had clearly not caught on with his flatmate, and because the place still showed signs of being blown to hell. A different explosion than the one that had killed her brother, according to Lestrade. What kind of people could be in two separate explosions in the same weeks?
Unfair. Unfair that she'd spent all those years worrying about John in the army, only for him to come home and have this happen to him. And her, left trying to fit together the pieces of the bombshell.
"Shall I leave you alone, missie?" Hudson asked, moving to do just that. "The police have already finished so take all the time you need."
Harriet didn't want to be alone. She wanted Clara to hold her like they were still in love. She wanted John to rub her shoulders with that born-a-doctor touch and tell her things would tumble out right. She even wanted mum, with her sharp barbs over Harriet's lifestyle, her indecision on which made for the worse daughter, the alcoholism or the homosexuality.
It took her minutes to compose herself out of her self-pity. John would've made her tea, but he was at the fucking morgue, so she went to the kitchen to make it herself. Even though all the pots had probably been shattered in the blast.
They had.
She walked back into the living room, and now saw the man arrayed in the wingback chair that could only have been Sherlock's because John wouldn't have been caught dead in such an ostentatious thing. He was dressed better than any of the cops she'd met that night, probably better than anyone she'd ever see without turning on the telly. But the Savile Row suit seemed ill-fitting at the moment, uncomfortable, too big for him. As if he had dropped below the quantity of arrogance required to justify such tailoring.
"You must be the bereaved," he said, and there was an air of curiosity there. Not for her—he'd evinced no surprise at her appearance—but maybe the concept of mourning. Like it wouldn't occur to him to visit a loved one's former home.
"Harriet Watson," she said plainly. "What the hell are you doing in my brother's flat?"
"Visiting my brother's flat. Mycroft Holmes, British Intelligence."
"You… knew my brother?" It felt hard to put all the words together. Not because of grief, no, she'd had enough of that breaking up with Clara, but because she was still plastered. She felt false, having that warm feeling in her still, like a dinner theater actor hired to impersonate a mourner.
"Not well. He worked for Sherlock. With him, I suppose, is the preferred turn of phrase. It's funny, how the people we ally ourselves with determine so much of what we are." He smiled. Harriet supposed it was meant to be comforting, but it just came off as rueful. "I allied myself with the strong, the powerful, people I could use. Sherlock allied himself with John Watson. It made quite the difference, at the end."
He was hurt, she could tell that much, a part of him faltering like he'd just finished a sprint. Maybe she looked like that too. Not sad, not angry, just sort of exhausted, like the loss was a physical weight pressing down on her. "What happened to him?"
He looked at her. "Which part was unclear?"
"The police didn't tell me anything. You know something. Tell me." She realized that, with British Intelligence involved, this might count as some weird form of treason. "If you're allowed."
"My dear, you would be shocked if you knew all that I were allowed to do." There was an umbrella resting against his chair. He picked it up. For a moment, Harriet had the mad notion it was some sort of James Bond gadget and he was about to kill her with it. But he just fiddled with the handle, turning it this way and that. "Sherlock had an intellect comparable to my own. That was a rare thing. But there was a third, a criminal mastermind. He called himself Moriarty."
"Criminal mastermind? What, like the Joker?" Harriet scoffed.
"That would be a helpful frame of reference. He committed crimes to… pass the time, you might say. Against boredom the gods themselves fight in vain," he quoted. "Whereas my dear brother solved crimes to sate his boredom. You can see the conflict. Two gamesmen of their caliber would naturally gravitate to each other. Hence the state of the room."
"But no one was killed in the explosion," Harriet protested, as if she could call Mycroft's bluff and make him produce John out of his hat.
"Think of it as the serve in a tennis match. The explosion led to a clue, the clue led to a crime, the solution led to a very nice woman being allowed to live. Moriarty had wired her up like an IED, and by playing Moriarty's little game, Sherlock earned her safe return."
"Jesus. Who does that?"
"The Joker," Mycroft replied acidly. "They continued in this fashion for some time until Sherlock arranged a confrontation with Moriarty. I don't know what happened there, but Sherlock considered Moriarty the world's most dangerous criminal. He wouldn't shy away from his own death if it meant taking such an individual with him. We found four bodies at the scene. A gun-for-hire by the name of Sebastian Moran, Sherlock, John, and someone I can only assume is Moriarty, based on his fantastic suit and the fact that as far as sixty-three identification databases are concerned, he doesn't exist."
"And my brother? Why was he there? How many people did Sherlock need to set off a bomb?"
"My assumption now is that John followed him. He and Sherlock were like that. 'Bitter end' sort of chaps." He pulled a letter from his coat pocket and set it down on an endtable. "This was addressed to John Watson. I'm sure he'd want you to have it. My men found it when they disassembled the refrigerator." He stood. "Good day, Ms. Watson. I trust you know enough now to appreciate your brother's service."
A million questions, from the stupidly obvious things she wanted clarified anyway to the more important things like who the hell Sherlock Holmes was and why the hell John had been involved with him, all the way to the downright philosophical, leapt into Harriet's mind, battering aside all the efforts of her intoxication to put a damper on them. "You can't just leave, I… who was… no. Tell me what really happened."
"I did." He pressed down with the umbrella like a cane. "This has been an agreeable way to put off telling my mother her youngest son is dead." And with that, he simply walked off.
Harriet didn't follow him, even though the thought was insistent. Her head felt like a kettle at boiling point. She picked up the letter. It was fine stationary, ruined by the scrawled words on the front. Mycroft, give this to Dr. Watson. There is nothing of interest here. Despite that, it had already been opened. Harriet fished the letter out of the envelope and saw, in much neater, almost elegant handwriting…
John, I never asked you how you felt about the war. It doesn't concern me, beyond opium production in Afghanistan and the possibility of veterans applying their talents to crime. But just by enlisting in the armed services, and from personal experience, it's safe to assume you consider self-sacrifice a satisfactory response to the evils of the world. You know the esteem in which I hold myself, which is why you should appreciate how dangerous Moriarty is, to justify the sacrifice of myself so that we can cancel each other out. I hope it doesn't come to that, but I can't afford to deceive myself right now. If I were to die knowing he was gone as well, it would be acceptable. I regret that our partnership would end so abruptly. You are a fascinating character in a sea of gray, and I would like to discover more about you. Perhaps, if you're right in your more spiritual ideas, I'll get a chance. But I I don't know why I'm writing this. There's every likelihood I'll just have to destroy it as soon as I get back, having wasted valuable time and energy on both composing my thoughts and securing this letter where you won't stumble upon it. But I know I can be opaque at times and though I wouldn't mind being free of this tedium that encroaches on me every day, I'll miss your company. You're more than fascinating. You're I've kept scrupulous recordings of my deductive processes from earlier cases—you didn't really think I was talking to a skull, did you?—and I'm sure your readers will be fascinated by your dramatizations of them. Detective Inspector Lestrade should be willing to assist you in that regard. I hope you don't mind, but I've drawn up a will leaving the considerable sum of my accounts to you. If you're frugal; and judging by the brands of toiletries you buy, you are; it will last you well beyond the point of starting your own practice, finishing your therapy, acquiring a suitable wife, and otherwise getting your life onto a track where you don't feel the need to assist me by brandishing firearms. Goodbye, John. I'd be lying if I said it'd always been a pleasure to know you, but it was an honor calling you a partner a flatmate friend. Sincerely, Sherlock Holmes.
On the cab ride home, Harriet felt like the letter stuffed in her purse was a loaded gun, she couldn't have been more nervous. So Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, had gotten himself killed playing superhero and her brother had, what, gone along for the ride? Charged along with him like Sancho Panza? She'd never known John could be that loyal. She'd never known John, a crimefighter, a trusted partner to some great detective. Playing big brother to all the poor and woe-begotten, not just her. No, she knew him. She'd known him all along. She'd just never gotten close enough to see how deep that courage of his went.
But she knew one thing for sure. John Watson had had someone in his life, a friend, a brother. Someone worth dying for. That was the only thing that kept her heart from bursting.
She'd had enough experience at getting into her flat while drunk, but this was different. It wasn't that she was thinking of John, or trying not to think of John, it was just that when she tried to put her key in the lock, it wouldn't fit. It wouldn't fit and John was dead and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen him, he was just there, he was always supposed to be just there, this presence in her life like a steady hand on her back, keeping her from falling. And now she was alone and without him, she couldn't even unlock her damn door. She planted her head against the door and felt the tears behind her eyes.
"Let me," a voice said. Familiar. Lovely.
Clara gently took the key from Harriet and unlocked the door, ushering a mute Harriet inside. She'd changed her hair since Harriet had seen her last… storming out that same door. It was shorter now, more butch. Harriet didn't like it, but then, it'd been months since Clara had had reason to have a haircut Harriet would like.
"I heard what happened," Clara said.
"Oh right," Harriet replied. "Copper. Kept forgetting." And Clara had looked so good in that police lady outfit. Harriet almost smiled at the memory, but then she remembered the time she'd made John blush with a joke about handcuffs and…
She fell down on the couch. Kicked off one boot, and Clara pulled the other free. She stood there for a moment… lovely and gone and lovely… before moving back to shut the front door. Before she locked it, she looked back.
"Do you want to be alone now?"
If Harriet were going to die, she'd write Clara a letter. A letter telling her how spectacular she was, and all the theories Harriet had come up with to explain why a wonder like her would want to be with a fuck-up like Harriet Watson, and why she didn't care why as long as she was hers. She would write a letter about how she would've put a chip in her head to shock her every time she thought about taking a drink, as long as she got one more day to sleep across from Clara, watching how she tossed and turned like a dog chasing squirrels in its sleep.
But she wasn't going to die. And there were easier ways than writing a letter.
"Could you stay?" Harriet asked, trying to keep it from being a plea. "I'll put on some coffee."
"Okay. Okay, Harriet."
She could try the program again. She could show up at John's funeral at least a little sober, maybe with a chip in her purse. And she could show up with Clara, so at least there would be someone's hand on her back, keeping her straight and narrow.
And she could look at John's headstone, year in and year out, and say "It's alright, love. I'm getting on fine without you. You don't worry about me."
It was what John would've written to her, if he'd had time for a letter.