Old Alresford is a real and truly charming place with a long and fascinating history and a population of 599. However, I did have to fudge a bit with the geography to make the story work. I apologize to those who live there. I mean this only to be a tribute to your lovely community.

This chapter takes place two months after John and Mary start seeing each other.

000

She walked slowly from the shop and down the green towards the pub, happily admiring her little village in its bright Christmas dress. It was Friday, payday, and old Annie had handed it over in cash as usual. She would do as she had done every Friday for years—treat herself to dinner at the pub on her way home.

But she took her time, enjoying her walk. Old Alresford was the perfect place to live, which was fortunate because Harry Watson had lived here for her entire life. She could not imagine even just moving up the lane to the larger, more prestigious New Alresford. She certainly couldn't fathom living in London and could not understand why John was so drawn to big city living. He always had a place here, in the home where they had both grown up—the home in which she had lived more or less alone since he deserted her for a more exciting life twenty years ago. Those few years with Clara barely counted anymore.

The night air was cold and exhilarating and the twinkling fairy lights on every window were exciting with the promise of the season. And John would come home next week for the holiday and it would be like old times again. They would walk just like this through the village and enjoy its quaint loveliness, then have dinner at the pub. They would feel cosy in their ancestral home and he would buy her a tree and they could decorate it together with a great fire roaring on the old hearth, and then maybe they would play games or maybe he would read to her just like he had when they were kids together. John was two years younger than she, but he'd always taken care of her. He was the best brother a girl could have. He was all the family she had left in the world.

The pub was warm and welcoming when she arrived, and the owner, Joe, smiled and called out, "All right, Harry?" just as he always did. The ancient wooden beams were charmingly bedecked with evergreen garlands and white and red roses, and the mirrors behind the bar were brightened with holly and strings of fairy lights. She sat at her accustomed table and Joe asked, "Your usual, love?"

This was the best part of living in a small community for forty years—with a population of less than 600, everyone knew everyone else and it was like one big, caring family. Joe brought her a shepherd's pie with a side of chips and a large lemon squash and passed the time of day for a moment with the village's small news and gossip. From other tables, patrons acknowledged her with a friendly wave or a cheerful, "All right, Harry?" Old Alresford was heaven and no mistake. How could John have left it behind?

Speak of the devil! She'd only just finished her meal when her phone buzzed on the table like an annoying bottle fly. John's number. Why would John be calling her on a Friday? He always called her on Sunday nights, checking up on her, making sure she'd made it through the weekend and was safely at home, sober and getting a good night's rest for the work week to come. He rarely called her at any other time, unless it was bad news.

The phone stopped buzzing as she stared at it, paralyzed with sudden fear. What if something had happened to John? What if he'd been shot- again- and that was his flatmate, calling on John's cell to tell her that her brother was dead? Or injured? Or injured but at death's door? Or maybe it was that nice inspector chap she had met once calling to tell her that both John and Sherlock were dead?

No, that was silly. Sherlock or the inspector would use their own phones, wouldn't they? No, this was John calling all right. This was a repeat of last Christmas, wasn't it, when he'd called to tell her that he wouldn't be coming home after all because that outrageous flatmate of his was having some sort of emotional crisis over a women who had just died. John was always putting everyone else first, before his own sister, especially Sherlock Holmes. Harry felt her temper flare. That horrible, rude Sherlock Holmes! This would be entirely his fault, of course. She had met him a few times, and he had been insufferable every time. Just because she was a bit off her head with drink! And what business was it of Sherlock's if she should ask John for money?

Yes, that was it, of course. John was backing out of Christmas because of something his flatmate had done or said. Harry was furious. She shoved her phone into her pocket and marched up to the bar.

"Give me a double whiskey, Joe. Neat," she demanded.

Joe smiled down at her kindly. "Now, m'love, you know it's more'n my life's worth if your brother should find out I served you hard liquor in my establishment," he reminded her. "Anyway, it's no good for you, is it? You've been doing well since the rehab— you don't want to go buggerin' it up now, yeah?"

Harry whirled around and left in a huff, hoping no one else in the pub had heard. Of course, everyone surely had; this would be all over the village by midnight. 'Harry's fallen off the wagon, again!' they would all be saying. That was the worst of living in a small community for forty years—everyone knew everyone else's business and didn't mind sticking their noses in to meddle.

And how they all adored John! John was the only celebrity Old Alresford had boasted in centuries! Everyone in the village felt that John Watson belonged to them. Everyone thought they knew her brother personally, even though he hadn't lived there since he'd left at age eighteen. Old Joe imagined that John was his best mate, didn't he? Had some pictures torn out of the tabloids posted behind the bar for the tourists to see and ask about. But no one really knew John, did they? No one knew him like she knew him. He was HER brother—he didn't belong to them.

Harry trudged passed the green and down the Ox Drove cycle trail, ignoring the majestic willow trees she generally loved to admire and all the quaint little cottages with their Christmas wreaths on the doors. She had a few bottles of Jameson hidden away—John had searched the house while she was in rehab, of course, but she was too clever. He had found most of her stashes, but not this one! Dumping her for his flatmate again! She would show him!

At last, home hove into sight. She loved her home. The little yellow cottage had been in the Watson family for generations, enchanting with its lovely thatched roof and old-world charm. Her father had let it go to seed in his day, and when he crashed his car into a tree and died, their mother had worked two jobs just to keep food on the table for two growing children and there had been nothing left over to keep the house in good repair. But in the past several years, John had been spending any extra money he could lay his hands on to restore it to its former charm and keep it in good condition. It was perfect now, just perfect, and all due to John's efforts. Every good thing in Harry's life was due to John, wasn't it? She calmed a bit and brushed the angry tears from her eyes. This house, which technically belonged to him; her job at the shop which he'd worked out with Annie, their mother's best friend; even Clara had been his doing—he'd been friends with Clara since uni and had introduced them once when home on leave from Afghanistan. Of course, Clara had left her because of John, too- because of what had happened when John was in hospital. . . .

Getting worked up again, Harry hunted out her contraband whiskey and then looked for a glass. It was too much trouble, though, so she took a long swig straight out of the bottle. Ah, that was better! That always made everything feel better, didn't it? At least for a while.

000

She was planning to work up to good old drunk when the phone buzzed again insistently after only the second swallow. Well, she would just give him a piece of her mind, then, she would!

"John," she spat through gritted teeth.

"Harry? What's the matter?" he asked in his concerned voice. How dare he sound concerned when he knew full well what he was calling about?

"You know what's the matter! You're not coming home for Christmas again, you bastard! Everyone else is always more important than your sister, aren't they?" She studiously kept her voice steady. It wouldn't do to let him know she was drinking again. Not after the fortune he'd paid for her rehab. Well, she'd had plenty of practice. She could hide her drinking if she wanted to.

"What? What on earth makes you think that? Of course I'm coming for Christmas. I said I would, didn't I?" John soothed.

He had such a calming voice. It was what made him a good doctor, she imagined, and she was a bit abashed. "I'm . . . oh, I'm sorry! After last year, I guess I just assumed. . . ." Harry felt awful. How could she have doubted him when he was always so good to her? "Why are you calling on a Friday, then?"

"I'm calling to tell you I'm bringing someone with me for Christmas. A very special someone." He sounded so happy, so content and joyous, so excited and pleased with himself.

Harry's mood soured. "It isn't that horrible, hateful flatmate of yours, is it?" she grumbled. "I suppose you two finally decided to tie the knot?"

John snorted, amused. "Harry, I like women, remember? It's the one thing you and I have in common, yeah?" he teased. Oh, he was insufferably happy, wasn't he, when he was making a fool of himself?

"Oh, lord," she groaned. Another in John's long, long string of girlfriends, was it? Her handsome, charming brother had never had any trouble getting girlfriends—as a rugby player in school; as an army doctor in a romantic uniform; and now as a part of an exciting, internationally famous detective duo with a popular blog. He had always been an attractive catch. But the girls soon found that he needed the adrenaline rush that his work gave him more than he needed a relationship. Sooner or later—most commonly sooner—John was the ex-boyfriend of a jealous girl who did not like being second in priority. "Really, John, you're not bringing one of your temps to Christmas holiday, are you?"

"This isn't like that, Harry. This isn't temporary. I think. . . . I think I've found someone I could spend the rest of my life with," John said earnestly. Gods above! He really believed it!

"Seriously, John? And how long have you and this Wonder Woman been together?" she drawled sarcastically.

A short pause. "Well, we've been going out for two months, now. But I've known her for over a year. She's one of the doctors at the surgery where I work."

Two months! Well, that WAS longer than the usual duration. But that only made things worse, didn't it? John was usually a bit sad when he was dumped, but he got over it quickly because he hadn't had time to be truly emotionally invested in the relationship. This hanger-on might really break his heart when the inevitable break-up happened. Harry frowned. She had to think of a way to save her baby brother!

"Send me a picture," she demanded, stalling for time as she tried to think up a plan. John was always taking care of her. It was time she looked after his best interests for once.

"What?" John sounded startled. "Oh, right, hang on."

A moment later her text alert pinged and there on the screen was young, blond woman with a mischievous smile and dimples in her cheeks. Attractive blue eyes, too, like a sun-drenched sky. Harry could go for someone like that. . . . But!

"Oh, John," she sighed. "Really, I never took you for a paedophile. I mean, you do know this is a mere child, yeah?"

John sighed back. He had always been better at everything than Harry—even sighing. John was a master sigher. "Yeah, because the surgery is now hiring children as doctors." He was also better at sarcasm than she was. "Look, she is a bit younger than I am, but. . . ."

"A bit! John you're forty years old! And she looks to be barely out of school!"

"No, Harry, I am not forty. YOU are forty. And she is—well, I never asked her, actually - nearly thirty, I think. And what has age to do with anything, anyway?" John was getting impatient with her. Well, if that was what it took to save him from himself!

"Can't you see you're much too old for her? She can't really be interested in you—not in the REAL you! She's a gold-digger, that's what she is. She's after your money. How much have you spent on her so far?"

More sighing. "If she were after money, she would have noticed by now that I'm not worth her while. Anyway, I'm fairly certain Mary's income surpasses mine a good little bit—she's employed full-time and I'm just a locum. Look, I've found someone I really care about it. Can't you just be happy for me?"

Harry wasn't daunted. "She's probably a rabid fan, a groupie—you're just a celebrity notch on her belt. She'll move on when she meets someone more famous than you. "A sudden thought occurred. "Oh, she's trying to get to Sherlock through you, isn't she? That's what this is!" Now it all made sense!

Silence. Then he said wearily, "Look, when you meet her next week, you'll see how wrong you are. I know I've not been successful in relationships before, but this is different. Mary's different." He was using his excessively patient voice now, a sure sign he was on the edge of losing his temper.

But Harry pushed on. The drink in her made her bold. "Absolutely not, John! I won't have someone who is clearly taking advantage of you in our mother's house!" She grew a bit shrill in her passion to save her brother from this young tart. "I won't have it, do you hear? I forbid it! That hussy is NOT welcome here!" She steadied herself again. Shouting at John would just drive him away. "You come alone and it'll be just like old times, yeah? Just you and me in the old home. No outsiders," she pleaded.

Another patented Watson sigh. Harry could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he always did when exasperated with his sister. "All right, have it your way, Harry. Mary and I are spending our first Christmas together here then, alone. I'll come down and see you on Boxing Day and we'll hash this out." And he rung off abruptly.

This had not worked out the way Harry had wanted at all. She flung her phone down, too furious to cry. The bottle of Jameson beckoned her. Harry stroked it tenderly, like a lover.

000

To read about John and Mary's first Christmas together, see "All I Want for Christmas".