Author's Note:

This was one of the first fanfics I ever wrote (written pre-S3). There is a podfic and a Mandarin translation available. See the original on AO3 for links to those and additional notes: ao3 DOT org/works/781309

Harry has been in the flat one week when she starts asking embarrassing questions.

John has started relaxing around his sister, just a bit. He'd been reluctant about offering to put her up on the sofa in the first place, and had made it clear that she should find her own flat as quickly as possible. (He'd expected Sherlock to protest, but Sherlock didn't seem to care, as long as she stayed out of the way of his experiments and didn't ask too many idiotic questions.) But he'd still felt obligated to host her, if only grudgingly, given what she'd just done.

The thing is, Harry has been so diffident, so quiet and non-blustery and agreeable and generally not-Harry (certainly not the Harry of recent years), that John is finding he can't stay aloof and irritated for all that long.

"The program was good for you," he observes, offering her some tea and sitting down on the other end of the sofa with his own cup. Sherlock has disappeared somewhere outside the flat, without his shirt or an explanation, and for almost the first time since she arrived, John is alone with his sister.

"Yeah, it was," she nods. "It was hard as hell, though." She sips her tea and wrinkles her nose, then nods approvingly; he's brewed it strong at her request, as she's become quite a caffeine fiend lately.

"I'm sure."

"But it was important, I think. I think I really needed to just, just get away for a few months. You know? Focus on cleaning up my act."

"Well, you really did it this time. I'm proud of you." He is also angry at her, still, for all of the manipulation, lying, and walking out on people who care about her. And for all the times he had to look after her. But this effort she's making, it seems genuine. She's trying to make amends, for the first time he can remember. It helps a lot.

"Thanks." She sounds shy, uncertain, so unlike herself. Despite knowing that change is good, necessary, it breaks his heart just a little to hear her like that, so opposite of the Harry he's always known. "I haven't... I mean, it's not like I'm cured. I'm scared, every day, that I'll fuck everything up again."

John shrugs. "You might. Most addicts slip at some point." She flinches a little at the word, but doesn't deny it - definitely a change. "But if that happens, you just have to use the tools you have now to catch yourself and try again." Harry nods. "And don't forget that you have people around who care about you. Who want to help."

"Do I?" Harry laughs bitterly, staring down at her cup. "I guess I have the people at the AA meetings - they're obligated to listen and pretend to care. But I'm pretty sure I chased everyone else off."

"Hey now," he says with mock gruffness, "who's sitting here drinking non-alcoholic beverages with you on a Saturday night, and putting you up on his sofa?"

Harry looks up, her eyes unexpectedly wet. "Thanks, John," she says, softly. "You're being much nicer than I deserve. Truly. You're the best brother ever."

"Too right."

"I'm really sorry, you know. For all those times you looked after me, and tried to help. Before you left. And, and when things were bad, with Clara, and you called me, all the way from Afghanistan. I can't believe I said all that shit. I was such an arse. and I… well, I'm just sorry. For everything."

He feels more of his resentment slipping away. "Thanks," he says. "I appreciate that. And I'm glad you're here." He is surprised to find he means it.

"I miss when we used to be friends," she says shyly.

"We are friends," he asserts automatically. Then he thinks back to the years before his deployment, before she started spiraling so far out of control - to the laughter and easy camaraderie. "I miss it, too."

They sip in silence for a few minutes. "So," he asks finally, "heard anything from Angie?" He knows it might be a bad topic, but he's unable to avoid asking. He likes Angie - not as much as he'd liked Clara, but Angie is sweet. (And, what with Harry not having a job or a flat or a life right now, it's not like there's so much else to ask about, anyway.)

Harry leans back into the corner of the sofa with a sigh that is almost a whimper. "No. She won't answer her phone. Hasn't since the night we fought." She closes her eyes, sucks thoughtfully for just a minute on the tips of her long, dark-blond hair - always her nervous habit; John used it to beat her at poker when they were younger. "Given that I threw a lamp at her - well, at the wall, but it came way too close - I can't say I blame her."

John nods. He can't blame Angie, either, but he aches a bit for Harry. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too. But at least it made me take rehab seriously. I scared myself, you know?"

John nods again. He doesn't know what else to say. He and Harry once had an easy, joking relationship, but it never really involved any serious conversations. He thinks he likes this Harry better, though, even if the changes mean that he's going to have to relearn how to spend time with her.

"What about you, then?" she asks.

"What about me?"

"Are you seeing anyone, Little Brother?"

John ignores the "little" jab - he is technically younger, but Harry mainly seems to like emphasizing the diminutive in order to tease him about his height. Not that she's as tall as he is, but she's never let that stop her. "No, I'm not, and thanks ever so much for reminding me."

"Touchy!" Harry tsks.

John laughs ruefully. "Sorry. I was just dumped by another one... this time we only made it through two dates before she was fed up with me. Shame - I rather liked her."

"She was fed up with Sherlock, and the way you follow him around, you mean."

John shrugs, tries to grin good-naturedly. "Yeah, I guess she said something of the sort, but a bit ruder. 'That toothpick-shaped bastard who controls your life', and so on."

"Milder than she could have been."

"True, I suppose." John reflects on the various invectives that have been applied to Sherlock over the time they've known each other. He could assemble quite an impressive guide to insults based on that, if he wanted - Sherlock brings out the creativity in others, though he also gives at least as well as he gets.

"Well, it's a shame that you're not interested in him."

"Mmm," John says, pondering the idea of at least blogging about the insults that have been directed at Sherlock. To give their readers a sense of verisimilitude. Belatedly, he blinks and looks up at Harry from beneath a furrowed brow. "Hang on, what? Who?"

Harry rolls her eyes. "Sherlock. Of course." John stares. "You know, the toothpick-shaped one."

"I'm not gay," John says reflexively. A moment later, he is rubbing his arm where Harry has just punched him. He grimaces at her. Years of rugby - and post-match brawls - have left her with a firm punch and a fearlessness in applying it, especially to her brother. He's going to have a bruise. That's more like the Harry he knows - already, he's missing quiet, reserved Harry.

"Yes, John, I know you like ladies. I remember how you looked at Clara. And Angie. And all of my girlfriends, going all the way back to high school." John feels his cheeks and ears going red. He decides it's an excellent time to find his shoes fascinating. "I'm just saying, it's a shame you're not interested in Sherlock as well."

He shakes his head in confusion. "Wh-why?"

Now she looks frustrated. (He's watching her from the corner of his eye, though still primarily regarding his shoes.) "Do I have to spell it out? The two of you clearly adore each other, and it doesn't seem like your relationship with him leaves room for -"

His head jerks up. "We what?"

"Come on, John." Harry is rolling her eyes so hard now that John is afraid she might strain something. "You come running any time he needs you, or any time he might possibly need you."

"I don't - I mean - well, it doesn't mean I adore him."

"He insulted me ten different ways in the first two minutes after we met, and all you could say was 'Brilliant.'"

"Well, it was! It only took him seconds to pinpoint when you started drinking, and how many people you've slept with," (data John would rather not have, partly because it's his sister, and partly because Christ, how has his sister managed to pull more women than him despite having been married and off the market for a number of years - and granted he was in the military some of those same years, but he didn't get the nickname "three continents Watson" for nothing), "and how you lost your job, and-"

"Yes, thanks, I don't need to be walked back through it all again," Harry says dryly. "Thanks for standing up for your sister, by the way. See what I mean?"

John shakes his head stubbornly.

"Okay, fine, call it what you like. You just do whatever he says, and prioritize him above all other people." John frowns. "And I get the sense that he cares about you more than anything else, as well."

His brain is suddenly filled with the expression on Sherlock's face at the pool, as he thanked John for trying to save him. And there's really no doubt. "Well, I wouldn't say adore," he grumbles.

Harry sighs, waves a hand at him with some annoyance. "Whatever. The point is, the two of you are practically joined at the hip, and you both enjoy dashing headlong into danger for the cases you're always working on. What kind of room does that leave in your life for another relationship?"

John opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again after he realizes he can't come up with a satisfying answer. He laughs, a short burst of sound. "Yeah, I guess you're right that it would be a lot more convenient if all those things people said about us were true."

"You're sure you don't fancy him?"

"I'm not gay."

Harry raises her fist threateningly again, and John holds up his hands in surrender. "Yes, we've been over that ground before. You like women. But you also are awfully into Sherlock. Don't pretend you don't know about the existence of bisexuality, John - I know you remember Bisexual Lizzie."

John blushes a deep scarlet. He hadn't known that Harry was aware of that appellation for one of her early exes. John and his friends had called her Bisexual Lizzie, discussing her with a lustful awe and a great deal of speculation, ever since she had marched in the Pride parade wearing only a "Hot bi babe" shirt - midriff baring - and pink pants. John had always wondered whether he might have a shot with Bisexual Lizzie - hoped he might, if he was being honest - if Harry ever tired of her. He had found himself flirting with her more than once while she was dating his sister, hating himself for it, but unable to resist.

John has no desire to discuss Bisexual Lizzie with Harry now, especially not if Harry knows about that nickname. "Can't two men just be friends?"

"Sure they can, absolutely. I'm just saying that, seeing as how you follow him everywhere, and he shares all your dangerous interests, it would be nice if he also shagged you senseless whenever you wanted." John feels the heat rising in his face yet again. "And that you like being ordered around by him a suspicious amount. And you're fascinated by his lips."

"Hold on, I what?" John cocks his head, squints.

"That's all I'm saying."

"No, wait, go back. Run that by me again?"

"You like it when he bosses you about."

"I do not! It's one of his most irritating qualities."

"And yet, you jump to do his every bidding."

"Do not."

"I think you get off on it."

"Do not."

"Okay." Harry does not sound like she believes him even a bit.

"And what was that bit about... the lips?"

"You stare at his mouth."

"When?"

"Whenever he's going off on one of his lectures-"

"- deductions -"

"-whatever, you stand close to him, and you glance at his lips a lot."

"Probably because he's talking!"

"You don't stare at my lips that way when I'm talking," Harry points out. "Or Mrs. Hudson's."

"I - I don't -" John sputters.

"So you're not imagining kissing him, at those moments," muses Harry. "I thought maybe you were."

"No, I do not imagine snogging my flatmate when I'm staring at his lips!" John shouts indignantly.

"Hello," Sherlock says brightly, flinging open the door and striding into the room, still bare above the waist. John wonders if his head resembles a beet as much as he imagines it does. A beet with tidy blond hair.

Fortunately, Sherlock seems preoccupied with other matters. "John, give me your phone," he orders. John is off the sofa and halfway to Sherlock, hand already reaching into his pocket, when he realizes what he is doing. He resolutely refuses to glance at Harry. He feels her eyes on him, and he is sure she is laughing. Why he ever agreed to let her stay at their flat is beyond him.