When Harry died, it was the sort of punch in the face that happens in action movies, done in slow motion and supremely obvious, but nevertheless, worthy of a wince. She had died alone in hospital, with no one to say goodbye to. Cardiomyopathy leading to a heart attack. She had known about her condition for years. John had never been told.
It wasn't even her loss that hurt. Their relationship had never been something to write home about after all, and with Harry’s drinking, plus (he assumed) her unhealthy diet, it was no wonder she was gone before him. And with a family like theirs, it was no wonder they hadn't been comfortable sharing their love for one another. It wasn't as if they’d had good role models for it. No, the loss was not what pained him.
The wound, was that she had hidden her health issues from him, her only remaining family. She had sat on her doom like a cat with knowledge of their upcoming death, and gone without giving him the chance to make amends, or remind her that even through all the shit she put him through- he loved her. Had loved her when she called him in Uni, drunk and incoherent. Had loved her when she didn't show up to either of his weddings. Had loved her despite never calling, despite never caring, despite never loving him back.
The hospital called him early in the morning, waking him from his sleep, forcing him to raise his head from the warm crook of Sherlock’s elbow, and give attention to his madly vibrating phone. The call was short, filled with the fake sympathy he heard in the voice of many a nurse at his surgery, who spoke with such sugar sweetness it burned the tongue. Sherlock sat beside him, having being woken as well, listening in closely.
John’s breath caught harsh in his chest, but his eyes remained clear. “Yes, I….. Thank you.” They sat silent, John’s phone slipping out of his hand, and between his legs. Sherlock, clever enough to make up with his mind, what he’d missed with his ears touched John hesitant, testing waters, before wrapping him up in full. John lay beneath the sheets till late afternoon, in efforts to understand.
The funeral was hardly necessary. John went, Sherlock came along as moral support, and Clara stopped by, another woman at her side. “I heard, what happened…. Figured I’d pay my respects.” But John could see even she had no real remorse. He knew his sister had been in possession of a certain spiky personality, one that kept those that loved her just far enough at bay. He and Clara were prime examples.
John couldn't claim he himself was heartbroken. He wondered if perhaps he should be. Surely it wasn't normal for a sibling to feel so different toward their sisters death. This was the main reason he was so upset, he decided. It was less about her loss and more about her lack of being in the first place. His stages of grief went by fast, barely there, or noticeable. He did not miss Harry with the same ferocity he did when Sherlock ‘died’. He did not even miss her with the same distant longing he’d had when his mum died. Her loss was more akin to his father's drunken downfall; sad to watch, but with the easy lack of ache that came with looking at it through glass rather than in person.
Sherlock watched his partner with some attention, but he knew John would be okay. Harry was the type of person that no one could hold onto in Sherlock’s opinion. It made her hard to love, if you stayed too close. The distance that John had in Harry’s life was what allowed him to love her (even if only a bit), despite her numerous faults.
John felt that the love he held for Harry was loose and wispy, like gauze, candyfloss, or tulle. Flavorless, and existing simply because there wasn't time for it to develop into hate, or enough time apart to dissolve into complete indifference.
So Harry’s death wasn't worth much to him. However the reason for her passing was. She’d drunk herself silly throughout life, and not only that, but lead a life filled with takeout and crisps. In this, John thought they were eerily alike. Sherlock and he ate far too much junk, and he himself drank more than he was meant to. He resolved that if Harry’s death was going to be worth anything, it would be worth his own shift in lifestyle.
Sherlock took the form of observer, recording the changes in John’s (and therefore his own) eating habits, how all of a sudden the beer within the belly of their fridge disappeared. How the bourbon John kept on a top shelf was gone. Noticed how more vegetables and chicken began to creep into their diets. How John began insisting he drink more water, along with the toast he was often force fed in the morning. How a multivitamin was gently pushed into his palm, and yogurt began making a regular appearance as snacks, in replacement of chocolate biscuits. Trips to the grocer began to bear more bags, and their nights consisted of far fewer take outs. Even after a case, tired and starved, John would demand to cook rather than order.
It took a few months of just the food changes, but soon a gym membership was made in both their names, and Sherlock’s already rare cigarettes were even less frequent. John was closing the door on their unhealthy habits. All that remained of the detrimental lifestyle they’d retained previously, was the work.
Sherlock allowed it all, recalling his own difficulty with Mycroft's death, his still persistent feeling of loss. John had been his rock in the most troubled periods of his grief, and he was determined to return the favor, even if it meant a severe lack of Chinese.
They’d gotten home long past one in the morning, a case that was open and shut, but had them filling papers late into the night. John’s back was sloped with fatigue, and his eyes drooped downward. “Mm’gonna take a shower. Join if you want, sleep if you don’t.” His words slurred ever so slightly as he padded down the hall to the toilet.
Sherlock did neither. By his estimation John hadn't eaten in a good seven hours, by which point he was usually tearing apart the kitchen for food. The omelette was easy enough to figure out, as was chopping the peppers to go in it. The tea was a simple matter of water warming, and if a rare three biscuits was put on the side of John’s plate, Sherlock figured his partner wouldn't be making a fuss. By the time John opened the bathroom door into their bedroom to get dressed, he could smell the food, and Sherlock had even popped a piece of bread into the toaster.
“Whats this? Sherlock Holmes cooking?” John looked much more alert after his shower, though his speech still indicated fatigue.
“You haven't eaten in some time, and if you go to bed without food tonight you’ll be unbearable in the morning. Tea?” John nodded, a soft smile on his lips as he sat down. Sherlock set down his plate before turning to the kettle in order to pour.
“Thanks love.”
“Of course.”
John ate a few bites before pausing. “No really…. Thanks. Not just-not just for this. For everything. For the last few months it’s been hard. I really- that is I-”
“It’s okay. I know.” Sherlock set the cup beside John’s hand and leant down to kiss his forehead.
“I know.”