I do not own Sherlock.
Harry likes her lipstick red and her coffee black, and wears high heels that click rhythmically on the pavement, because damn it, if she must waste her life, she will do it with style. This is who Harry is. All five feet and three inches of audacious, blue-eyed awesomeness.
And all of it – her makeup, her high heels, her voice that is just loud enough to make you frown a bit – all of it is the proof that Harry Watson exists and if she really exists, you all must notice her.
Harry doesn't know how it all has started. It feels intoxicating when people look at her, so she doesn't have to get drunk. It's also relatively healthy, Harry muses, so John doesn't have to worry so much, and God knows he has a lot of problems on his own, and Harry might be selfish, but she still cares, after all. It feel refreshing to draw attention, and she will bask in it. For a moment, you are the centre of somebody's universe, the most important person in the world.
She has no naïve hope for lingering in the memory of the others for more than that captivating, short eternity of a second when she passes those pedestrians by. Harry is not arrogant enough.
She does love to fantasise, though. Add more lust to the gaze of that woman in a blue dress, and more ironic amusement to the stare of the old gentleman who apparently discreetly disagrees with Harry's fashion choices. But, be it good or bad, Harry loves the attention. She revels in it.
So, Harry doesn't know how it all has started. She can't reveal the very moment of her epiphany. But there are those little steps that have slowly and surely led her to the Harry of today, and she recalls them fondly. They make her remember why it is good to be Harry, and during the slurry nights between her one drink and another, Harry needs to remember.
It used to be John who was the noticeable one, Harry reflects while boarding the train to London. He looked like a chubby golden angel, all blue-eyed and blond-haired, all well-behaving and sweeter than his favourite strawberry jam. As a child, Harry was more plain-looking, and no auntie gushed about her angelic dimples and adorable ringlets of hair. But it was her who laughed the loudest and cried until she would get her new toy. Harry quickly figured it out – if they don't notice you often enough, you need to make sure they do. Really – it was quite that simple.
It wasn't that their parents neglected her, Harry nods to herself as she sits down in her empty compartment. She just craved more and more attention. Now Harry thinks with a barely concealed amusement that she must have been a little terror back then.
She was thirteen and John had just turned eleven when Harry finally realized that her tantrums could be, in fact, rather childish. But she also understood that her whole self could shout, too, so Harry, sharp and mischievous, would try to make people notice her for her way of speaking, her gestures, and of course for her appearance.
Applying more lipstick, Harry smirks. Teenagers usually thought that wearing black clothes equaled the first step on their way to becoming little rebels. Even back then, Harry disagreed. Red shouted louder.
So at the tender age of sixteen, Harry painted the walls of her room brick red, dedicated herself more to the music lessons their parents insisted Harry and John had to take, and joined a garage band. She was the singer, of course, because there was no place for a cellist in their group, and because Harry had to be in the spotlight. Her dress red, her voice throaty, she would close her eyes and sing, knowing full well that she held the attention of all the people gathered in the shabby smoky club where they performed. And later, in the deepest darkness of her mind, she would replay the whole night, pretending it was a crowd of thousands that she had sung for. Drunk with dreams, Harry would laugh.
Now, Harry remembers those times with a faraway look on her face. Her bedroom is painted beige because her whole flat screams Harry so loudly that she thinks there is no need to bother.
The train stops and Harry glances lazily at her phone. Chinese for dinner? Xx, she types and puts her mobile away, waiting for the subtle sound of the reply as an old lady sits down in front of her. She gives Harry a curious stare – must be one of those nosy neighbours who know more about you than that creepy Big Brother guy from the Orwell novel – and Harry ignores it with the air of elegant boredom in favour for her chiming phone. Will do. See you soon. She smiles, satisfied, and prepared for the remains of what is going to be a long journey.
After her graduation from secondary school, Harry decided to study Physics. She was bright – still is, she corrects herself with a slight, bitter smile – and wanted to prove her parents that John wasn't the only smart kid in the family. Besides, it was fun; Physics sounded so dull. That shouldn't be a place to shine in at all. And yet, Harry started to play, like a trickster master. She would flaunt her field of study and it worked – it was unusual, unpredictable, interesting and it drew attention.
But eventually, it couldn't be enough. Harry was born to shout and express and amaze, and when her band mates had moved out of their Scottish town and broken up, Harry felt empty, unsatisfied, and ready to explode. The first week of uni ended with her joining a theatre group. On the lit scene, pretending and not pretending because it all felt so real, screaming, crying, loving and betraying, Harry knew it was a bit like magic. It made her stay with the theatre group for years because Harry always, always had wanted to be something else than an ordinary girl and the theatre allowed her to feel anything but ordinary. It was like kissing the sky.
And Harry was a damn good kisser.
She managed to prove that to Mary Morstan, who was her brother's witty red-headed sweetheart, in John's room on the night of his eighteenth birthday. Mary didn't seem to mind but John did, and their family did too, and for a fleeting moment Harry experienced something akin to a pang of regret. But Mary quickly turned out to be a terrific kisser as well, and Harry would rather melt with pleasure than drown in guilt.
Now Harry can admit – but not out loud because it would make John feel too smug and yet he would never let her see it and Harry would turn into a walking disappointment – now Harry can admit in the safety of her mind that she used to be an idiot that hurt people.
She apologized to John a few weeks of incensed silence later, because she could not stand her mum's nagging anymore and because a small quiet part of Harry didn't forget the shy second when her conscience gave her a sign that it in fact did exist.
"I don't give a fuck that you're gay, Harry", John concluded after proving to her that he also possessed the infamous Watson temper and could out-shout even Harry if he put his heart and lungs into it. "I'm okay with having a gay sister. But I'm not okay with my sister being a childish brat and that's what you are".
Harry sighs and looks at her phone. She has given her previous one to John and while she realizes it was partly egoistical – like everything Harry does, and at least she's honest enough not to deny it – Harry also likes to think of the phone as of a form of apology. She is painfully certain Clara would love her to apologise, too.
Harry fell in love with Clara – that quiet, bright Clara who listened to fado at night and had green eyes that looked at Harry with adoration and amazement and love, so Harry felt treasured, worthy and unique – so Harry fell in love with Clara after a string of girlfriends that all had been loud and obnoxious and at least as attention-seeking as Harry herself. But Clara, brown-haired, pale Clara was happy to let Harry shine. And Harry, in turn, was happy to let Clara stay in the background and be a serious PhD student who quite unbelievably gave her heart to an artsy and bohemian girl that had dropped out of her Physics course and had gone on to study Drama instead.
Now Harry never wears her ring – not anymore. Somehow she feels she never will. But she doesn't drink too, Harry adds to herself, not anymore. Maybe, just maybe, she will finally start doing things right. She's on her way now, Harry thinks and touches her ringless finger with a shadow of sadness.
When she was twenty one, Harry chose to become an actress because it gave her a chance to observe the reactions of her audience immediately. Acting was pretending – but it caused real emotions and Harry liked to deal with the feelings of the others whenever she couldn't handle her own ones. So she acted when their mum died – leukemia: slow, and painful, and terrifying – and when their dad died – car accident, and no one was with him when he passed away. So she acted when John joined the army and when he was getting shot at God only knew where. So she acted when Clara and her started fighting and when Clara went away. So Harry tried to find some consolation in acting whenever she felt lonesome and miserable, unlike the Harry she used to be.
But she was a different Harry then – and she is a different one now.
This one, Harry hopes, might be better.
Hours pass slowly and Harry, bored out of her mind, recalls Ophelia's and Titania's lines to while away some time. John loves Shakespeare, too, she remembers fondly, but he has yet to see her in an Elizabethan play.
It's all because of John that she travels to London. When Harry saw him the first time after his discharge, he looked forlorn and lost, and certainly wasn't the John Watson she knew. They both had changed and while Harry had been trying to start her life anew, the bullet had torn not only John's shoulder blade but also his hope apart.
Harry realized her brother expected no help from her – but she also was a different Harry now. Still egoistical and attention-demanding, Harry is. But having lost her brother to the war once, she won't ever lose him to loneliness again.
People overwhelm her at the station and Harry happily lets herself to be swept away by the crowd. She hails a cab and on her way to 221B finds herself staring at the driver. Reckless as Harry is, even she can't help but bear in mind John's improbable story. The cabbie doesn't seem to be a serial killer but how would she know? Harry is half-tempted to ask him but even in her mind, the mere idea sounds so ridiculous that she smirks and bites down her lower lip so as not to giggle. She arrives at 221B safely, though, somewhat grateful and relieved that if the man truly is a murderer, he didn't choose her to be his next victim.
Harry expects to be welcomed but her brother, but it is a graceful elderly lady that opens the door instead. Recognizing Harry instantly, she smiles widely.
"Look at you, just like John! The same blue eyes!", the lady exclaims. "I'm Mrs Hudson, dearie, do come in. You must be Harry?", Mrs Hudson asks but it is clear she requires no answer. "Sherlock is out but I'm sure John is waiting for you upstairs". She gently leads Harry inside, into a dimly-lit corridor, and soon they both can hear John's quick steps. Still no cane, thankfully, Harry makes sure.
"Harry", John smiles and she hugs him a bit hesitantly. "Here, let me take your bag. You must be tired".
"Actually", Harry starts, "I'm not. Let's go for a walk instead", she suggests, suddenly needing to feel the atmosphere of London. She doesn't remember – and doubts John do – the last time they went out somewhere together. John looks surprised but agrees, and soon they saunter slowly while London surrounds them like a friendly maze. Harry longs to meet Sherlock Holmes but the introduction can wait and will wait; for now, she's content to listen to John's light-hearted stories. He is slightly awkward at first, not used to Harry listening to him – up until now, it has always been Harry who would speak the most – and yet, he quickly embraces the new feeling of easy camaraderie and hope and love – so Harry treasures the moment. John looks happier and healthier than the last time she saw him. And still, he doesn't resemble the brother she remembers.
"I'd like some coffee", Harry interrupts John suddenly as she spots a coffee shop. "No sugar. Black."
Exasperated, John shakes his head but follows Harry when she grabs his hand and drags him to the shop. Harry's high heels click on the pavement again, rhythmically, comfortingly, reassuringly.
Maybe this time she can do it right.