Harry Watson was in the midst of a dream about flying when all of a sudden she heard a sound like a gong. She flew to the source of the noise. She thought it might have been an air raid siren, but as consciousness seeped in, she saw her mobile clattering on the desk next to her bed. (Sweet fuckall, why did I set this damn thing?) She struggled to focus on the screen as the digits swam into view.

Saturday May 18th, 9:31 AM.

She manoeuvred herself into an upright position and rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment as she tried to remember why she'd set an alarm for a Saturday. Clara? No, Clara was on holiday (and not speaking to me, but that's neither here nor there). Extra shifts at work? She snorted at the thought. Extra work. Who did she think she was, John?

(Oh, shit. John!)

Harry rummaged through the top drawer of the desk in her bedsit until she found the invitation.

Dr. John Hamish Watson and Mary Elizabeth Morstan

Request the pleasure of your company at their wedding

At St. Mary's Church, Sutton Mallet

Saturday, May 18th

At twelve o'clock.

Harry snorted again as she dug through the desk for another item, and her expression softened as its cool metal touched her hand. She smiled slightly as she unscrewed the cap. (John won't mind if I have a nip before I go. After all, what are weddings for?) The liquid burned going down, and Harry shook her head like a dog shaking off water.

The tremor in her hands eased a bit as she ambled to the wardrobe to look for something to wear. (Can't wear white, might upstage the bride, and that's Sherlock's job.) She snickered at the thought. She hadn't met Mary yet and couldn't help but wonder if "Mary" was actually Sherlock in drag. (Would love to see Dad's face for that one. He pitched a fit when I came out; imagine if his Good Little Soldier did too?)

Harry held a blue button-up shirt up to herself in the mirror and dismissed the puffiness in her face and the redness in her eyes. (Middle age.) Noticing the brown stain on the shirt, she discarded it and hunted for something more flattering. As she searched, her expression turned to a scowl. (Who am I kidding? If John had come out to Dad, he'd have thrown him a bloody parade. The sod probably would have got half the neighbourhood to vote for same-sex marriage. "It's different for boys, Harriet.")

Sighing, Harry tried on a royal purple button-down and a pair of gray pinstriped trousers with matching jacket. The trousers barely fit but the jacket concealed her waistline, and she found herself grinning in the mirror. (When did I last wear this? I look smashing!) Her smile evaporated as she remembered. (Oh. Right. Best not to pass along the bad luck.)

Harry took another nip after she removed the clothes. She supposed she should have gone shopping earlier, but fashion was always Clara's domain – she'd picked out their wedding outfits, after all – and even after all this time, it didn't feel right going into the shops without her. She glanced at her phone again: 10:02 AM. If she hurried, she could catch the 10:30 train and get to the church just in time for the ceremony. She thought about rushing to H&M to purchase something new, but the idea made her shudder in horror and she dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.

She took another drink, now barely noticing the burn.

She scrubbed her fingers through her short hair and sighed again. (Who am I kidding, anyway? The famous John Watson doesn't really want me at his wedding; he's got Sherlock and high society to fawn over him. He's never needed me before; he was better at school than me, he made friends better than I did, he got more respect from Dad than I did…)

Harry let out an angry huff and absently shook the flask in her hand. Almost empty. She checked her phone. 10:29 AM. Too late to get to the ceremony. She supposed if she hurried, she could get to the reception… where baby brother would serve liquor, giving him an opportunity to look down his nose at her and her drinking. (It's not that bad, John. Not like Mum, not even as bad as I was at 20.) She stared at the floor for a moment and then snorted. (He just wants an opportunity to get his knickers in a bunch, get people to feel sorry for him. "Poor pitiful John, but look how much he's accomplished despite his horrid sister!" Well, I won't give it to him.)

She picked up the invitation, crumpled it into a ball, and from the far end of the bedsit, threw it into the rubbish bin. She smirked at the clank it made as it hit the bottom of the bin. (I should've been a basketball player.)

Harry swallowed the last of the flask's contents and smiled to herself. She hadn't needed Dad, she hadn't needed Clara, and she especially didn't need her goody-goody brother or any woman who'd agree to marry him. It was almost time for the pub to open; she'd pop over for a pint and a full English – her Saturday indulgence – and then see where the day took her.

(Definitely to reload this.) She threw on jeans and a rugby shirt, tucked the flask into her back pocket, and staggered out the door.

A/N: Hat tip to the good people at Baker Street Wiki for providing a closeup of John and Mary's wedding invitation! Title of this story comes from the song "Hurt" (original by Nine Inch Nails, famously covered by Johnny Cash).