John and Sherlock have become Harry’s pet project. She is obsessed. Every time Sherlock goes out on his own, she holds a strategy session with John.

Unfortunately, Harry’s expertise in matters related to Sherlock does not match her enthusiasm. “But he’s the world’s best detective,” she argues for the umpteenth time. “Surely he’ll notice if you flirt.”

“Sherlock isn’t the best with emotions,” John insists again. Which is being rather generous, actually. “And anyway, I have no idea how to go about it.”

“It’s not that hard, John. Flirting with men can’t be that different from flirting with women.”

“It’s not flirting with men. It’s flirting with Sherlock. He’s not like anyone else.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, all right, I’ll give you that. Well, what do you do with women? Let’s start there, anyway.”

“I ask them out, generally. But Sherlock and I already go out. He wouldn’t think anything of it if I asked him to dinner.”

“How else do you show interest?”

John sighs, thinks about it. “I, um, compliment them on what they’re wearing, I guess.” He has a line, also, where he asks them to tell him their secret ambition, but he’s not telling Harry that. It’s embarrassing, even if it seems to work well. “And I try to make them laugh.”

“He does have a flair for dressing well,” Harry observes.

John rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to start complimenting his shirts.”

“If you did, it might help signal that you’re not entirely straight. After all your protests, Sherlock probably doesn’t think you like men.”

“Probably.” John sighs again. Sighing and blushing have featured a bit too prominently in his life for his taste, as of late. He’s not usually much for either -- though his sister has always been good at embarrassing him. “But how am I supposed to indicate, ‘Okay, maybe a little gay?’ Wear brightly colored pants above the waist of my trousers?”

“Yes! That’s brilliant!”

“That was sarcasm, Harry.” He's not really sure how Sherlock would react to that, anyway, given that Moriarty was the last person to use that signal. But at least it was a signal that Sherlock had picked up on. (And, seeing how little value he attaches to sentiment, maybe he wouldn’t have any negative associations.) Still -- a ludicrous thought.

“Hmph. Well, you could go on a date with another guy. Just to show you’re open to it.”

“Not interested.”

“Come on," she wheedles. "You could do it. It wouldn’t be that awful.”

“I’m not worried about it being awful. I just don’t want to lead someone on that I have no interest in.”

She pauses. “Oh. That’s surprisingly good of you.”

“I’m a good bloke.”

“Yes you are, Little Brother.” She smiles at him fondly. “Well, don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”

* * *

“That’s a nice shirt,” John blurts as they prepare to enter a crime scene that they have not technically been invited to.

“What?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“It’s, um, a nice shade. Of purple. Um. Suits you.” John feels the arrival of the inevitable blush as he stutters.

Sherlock shakes his head, dismissing this irrelevancy. “Right. You wait here and keep an eye out. If you see Anderson coming, keep him away.”

John groans internally. Right. That went well. At least nothing distracts Sherlock from a case for long.

I thought you weren’t going to mention his shirts, comments Harry-in-his-head.

I couldn’t help it. It looked nice. She snickers. Stop laughing at me. It’s bad enough when you’re real. Why do you have to hang around my head, mocking me?

That’s what sisters are for.

* * *

John watches Sherlock’s mouth turn downward as they sit in the cab on the way home. The crime scene turned out to be a dud -- a boring, obvious murder, and no connection with the elusive Kneecap Killer, either. Sherlock is discontent, and John searches for something to say in order to distract him. “So, I understand you used to want to be a pirate?”

Sherlock does not dignify that with an answer.

* * *

Harry walks into 221B to find them doubled over with laughter, leaning into one another to keep from falling over. Apparently encouraged by their contact, she throws John a hopeful glance. He shakes his head slightly, still giggling.

They both make each other laugh, more than anyone else can. He doesn’t even have to try on that front. Perhaps that should be enough.

He laughs till his sides hurt and his eyes water, and enjoys the moment.

* * *

It isn’t enough, anymore, though. But he feels helpless in the face of this fact.

“I can’t flirt with Sherlock,” admits John. “I’ve no idea how.”

“Maybe you need to be more straightforward,” Harry suggests. “Just tell him how you feel.”

“I -- no.” That is not going to happen.

“Maybe you should just kiss him.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

John thinks about it, trying to find words to match his nebulous feelings of No. Talking about emotions really isn't his forte. (That's not why he doesn't want to explain how he feels to Sherlock, though -- well, okay, it’s some of it.) “I don’t want to, um. To do something I can’t take back, if he doesn't want to, to. If he's not interested. In me. Or men. Or whatever." Harry nods. "I mean, he’s my flatmate, and best mate, you know? He drives me mad, but he also keeps me sane. I couldn’t stand it if I made a mess of all that.” He has a little bit of trouble swallowing, just thinking about it.

“Mmm, yeah.” Once again, Harry looks at John with more understanding than he’d ever expect from his sister. Their relationship has never been about talking about things, or offering sympathy. He wonders if it will be, more, from here on out. He hopes so. Conversations with the new Harry are occasionally awkward and difficult, but also something he’s come to look forward to a surprising amount.

“So, it’s all matter of signaling more blatantly that you'd be up for it, then?” she muses.

“I suppose so,” he says. “Though I’ve no idea how.”

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I got you these.” Harry smirks, reaches into her purse, and tosses him a package of red pants.

* * *

The next day is Sunday, and John is surprised to find Harry already gone when he comes downstairs bright and early. Either rehab has changed her into more of a morning person, or Sherlock was creeping her out.

Sherlock is there, crouched on his chair with his hands together beneath his chin. He doesn’t notice or respond when John sets down tea beside him. John can imagine it seeming creepy, to someone who doesn’t know him well.

John grabs his laptop and goes back upstairs -- where he won’t get distracted by the way that Sherlock’s soft grey shirt is sitting askew on his body, yielding a glimpse of collarbone -- to see if he can salvage anything bloggable from the past few cases. He’s built up a bit of a backlog lately, possibly due to his recent inability to pay attention to the details.

Several hours later, Sherlock has disappeared, and John is dumping cold tea in the sink, when Harry comes in.

“Oh, good,” says John, who’s been wanting to have a talk with her about what a terrible idea the red pants are. Then he realizes that Harry is staggering, and white as a sheet. The dropped mug shatters in the sink as he runs to her side.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He helps her to the sofa, sits her down. He looks for any signs of injury, takes her pulse, sniffs her breath. He doesn’t find anything obviously wrong. He finds a blanket and wraps it around her. His phone buzzes; he turns it off.

“I bought some vodka,” she says eventually, staring at the floor.

John already knows there’s nothing on her breath but the smell of cigarettes that he won’t pester her to give up because now’s not the time. “Yeah?” he says.

Harry looks at him, clutching the blanket tightly around her shoulders. “I saw her.”

“Angie?” he guesses.

“Clara.”

“Oh.”

“She was with... someone new.”

“Mm,” he says, not surprised. It’s been over a year and a half. Harry has dated several people in that time. Of course Clara has moved on, too. John is happy for her, though more than a little alarmed by Harry’s response.

“She seemed so happy.” Harry pauses, chewing on her split ends. “And it’s... it’s not that I don’t want that for her. It’s just that she has everything. A house. And a great job. And a, a girlfriend. And it’s just, what have I got, you know? A lead on a crap job, and a rehab certificate, and just, nothing.”

“Don’t forget your brother’s sofa,” he points out.

She laughs, just a bit. “Right.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. I walked into the cafe, saw them sitting at a table, and walked back out before she noticed. And then I stared at her from behind a lamppost for fifteen minutes. And I may have followed them for a few blocks, after, until they got into a cab. You know, just wishing I could steal her life. Or her girlfriend’s life.”

John thinks that, on the whole, it’s good that Harry doesn’t have access to Mycroft’s surveillance capabilities. “But... you left her.” He can’t help but point this out.

“Yeah, because she wouldn’t stop pestering me to stop drinking.” Harry laughs, bitterly. “Let me tell you, I had a lot of righteous indignation about that. Me? Have a problem?” She shakes her head.

John nods, understanding now why Harry would never say more than that she and Clara had fought. He’d thought it had been an affair, maybe. “So... you bought some vodka?”

Harry slumps, looks guiltier than she did when he caught her in his room, looking through the copy of Playboy that Aaron Morgan had given him (he was 12; she was 15). “Yeah. I walked straight into the nearest shop and bought a bottle.”

“And then?”

“I sat on a park bench for an hour, staring at the bottle and feeling sorry for myself. Then I threw it in the bin and came here.”

“That’s fantastic,” he says.

“What?” she looks a bit startled.

“You had a close call, but you didn’t slip. That’s really impressive.”

“But I bought vodka.”

“Yeah, but you threw it away. Which I imagine was quite hard.”

“Almost impossible,” she admits.

“So good on you. I’m proud of you.”

She shakes her head. “John, I’m such a mess. My life hit bottom when Angie left and I lost my job -- but it just doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten very far since then.”

John nods. “I know. But you’ll get back to something good. You’re making progress already. Taking baby steps -- at the very least.”

“Yeah. Next time, I’ll buy a smaller bottle.” They both laugh.

“Right. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll come to your next AA meeting with you, if you want. And tonight, I’m going to make some tea, and then how about some sports films?”

Harry smiles. “Just like the old days, hm?”

“You know, I downloaded Bend it Like Beckham after you started staying here. Just in case you felt the need to watch it for the thousandth time.”

Her grin grows wider. “I’m in.”

* * *

Several hours later, after Beckham has finished, and Sherlock has returned in time to be offered a spot on the sofa next to John midway through Invictus (but has refused on the grounds that he has to tend to an experiment of some unspecified sort in his room -- and also, John suspects, on the grounds that he has deleted all knowledge of sports), John and Harry are sharing a pizza in companionable post-sports film silence.

Because it’s not just a line, but something he genuinely is curious to find out about people that he likes, John says, “So, Harry. What have you always secretly wanted to do?”

“Besides going down on Madonna?” John spits out the bite he has just taken and glares. “Ugh. Harry.”

“What? She’s still hot.”

“Yeah. But. Images. Sister.” John waves a hand in a vaguely explainy fashion and shudders again.

Harry smirks. Then she looks out the window, appears to actually think about it. “Well, it hasn’t been always. And I haven’t told anyone, yet. But.” She pauses. “I was thinking I’d like to be a counselor. For teens.”

“What, really?” He’d spent years twitting her to go back to school after she dropped out of uni. He’d eventually given it up as a lost cause after she’d married a rich banker and still obstinately insisted she wanted nothing more than her full-time gig at the bar.

“I know, it’s bloody unlikely,” she sighs. “It takes two degrees, and I never even made it through one, and who knows if they’ll want an ex-drunk, and --”

“No, no,” John says, shaking his head emphatically. “I’m sure you can do it if you put your mind to it. You’re the most stubborn person I know.”

She grins. “Cheers.”

“And you’re fantastic with kids, though God knows you better not let the parents hear you talking to them.”

“Kids love me because I swear, John. And because I’m honest about everything.”

John shakes his head. It’s true, probably. But there is a time and a place for honesty. And the time and place were definitely not Christmas dinner, at their grandparents’ house, explaining to their ten-year-old cousin how two women have sex. Still, Harry had only been nineteen, then. Her judgment has probably improved. “Anyway, I was just surprised because you’d never talked about anything like that.”

“Yeah, well. They had us do a lot of planning positive pathways” -- she uses air quotes, grimaces -- “in the program. And I guess it got me thinking. About how I’ve spent a lot of time feeling kind of resentful. About losing Dad so young. And about being beat up for being a teenage dyke.” John mostly remembers her doing the beating up. “And, you know, being an -- an addict, too.” Her fingers twist in her hair. “And I guess I finally started thinking that, maybe, maybe there was something better to do with all of that. You know? And maybe I’d like to help other people.”

“That’s terrific, Harry.”

She smiles. “It’ll take years, probably. Taking night classes.”

“Yeah, well. Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll help.”

“Thank you, Little Brother,” she says. “You usually do.”