John Watson leaned heavily on his cane as the sciatic pain tore through his leg. The rainy weather heralded by the lowering gray clouds always made it worse. That, and the terrible loneliness exacerbated by his drab bedsit, was what had led him to accept his sister's invitation to lunch.
As usual, it hadn't gone well. He'd immediately noted the unmistakable fruity scent of alcohol on her breath when she'd hugged him.
"Christ, Harry, it's not even noon." He was a doctor. He knew where she was headed. It wasn't a death he'd wish on his worst enemy.
She'd gone straight for the jugular, too. "A date with your sister the best you can do? Really, John! If you'd come out of the closet, like me, you'd be much happier for it."
Except she didn't seem that happy, and he wasn't gay. Either his taste in women could use some improvement or, as the Yank surgeon he'd met in Kabul had said, "Nice guys finish last ain't just in baseball."
Well, male or female, who'd have him now? He was no catch. His looks were ordinary. He was near 40, pensioned off, disabled and unemployed with no prospects.
One thing was crystal clear: If he didn't want to end up truly alone, he'd have to learn not to push Harry's buttons.