Author's note: Time to make amends for the way I've portrayed Harry before. It's "make a three-dimensional character out of someone we only know exists because of one line"-time, everyone! Or at least I'll try.

I don't own anything, please review.

Standing at the grave of a man she'd never met in person was weird. Realizing that she, in her own way, grieved a little for him, was even weirder. Harry had read John's blog, sometimes frowning (and he really thought her the irresponsible one, running after criminals at every hour of the day?), sometimes shaking her head (if she had ever tried to make him get her phone or pass her a pen simply because she was too lazy to get up, he would have rolled his eyes and left the room), but most of the time smiling because her brother had finally found someone who helped him cope with being invalided home.

She had always wanted to meet him, of course – he must after all have been unbelievably mad, and her brother gushed about him all the time – but, somehow, she never had. Maybe it was better after all; somehow, she didn't think they would have got along very well. He had, after all, a reputation for telling everyone within earshot everything about the life of the person he was looking at, and John had heard quite enough about her sex life when she'd been drunk.

She was doing better now; she had been sober for almost six months. She and Clara were even back on speaking terms (although this was making it surprisingly hard to remember why she'd ever left her). But John –

She was glad that she'd finally quit the booze about two months before Sherlock committed suicide. John had needed all the support he could get. He was still devastated, and she didn't think that would change any time soon. He had loved Sherlock – not in a sexual way, not the way she'd loved Clara (and she was one of the few people who were absolutely sure about that, seeing as she should know whether her brother was gay or not), but nonetheless, the consulting detective had been the most important person in his world. He still was, in a way. Most of John's time was spent thinking about Sherlock, remembering Sherlock, talking about Sherlock, dreaming about Sherlock. Maybe it wasn't healthy – the DI who had worked with them seemed to think so, she'd met him one day when she'd gone to visit John in the flat he'd moved in shortly after the funeral – but she couldn't say anything against it. She simply couldn't. His memory was the only thing her brother had left of the man who'd given him back his life. Well, that and the skull he'd taken with him to the flat. She hadn't yet asked why, but she suspected that her brother talked to it from time to time; last week, she'd come over for tea and heard him speak, even though he'd been alone in the flat, which she'd learned only when he'd opened the door. Again, she hadn't found it in her heart to say anything.

Perhaps, she reflected, looking at the gravestone, it wasn't so strange that she grieved for Sherlock. Because, when John had come back, limping, with a shaking hand and a tortured mind, she hadn't been able to help him. She hadn't been able to help herself, back then. All she'd done was giving John her old phone, and even that she'd mostly done because (she felt bad about it, now) she'd wanted to get rid of it. At least she'd been sober when she'd done that; she couldn't say that about their other meetings at this time.

It had been her fault, really; she should never have started to drink again. And she shouldn't have left Clara because she tried to get her off the booze again (but there was no use thinking about that now, it was all just water under the bridge).

She'd been drunk most of the time; either drunk or hung over. And she'd barely spared her brother a thought. A brother who had fought for queen and country and got shot for his troubles, and finally sunk into depression. She was ashamed of herself just thinking about it.

She would never ask him but she was sure that he'd contemplated suicide before he'd been introduced to Sherlock. She hadn't been at the time; she had been too busy drinking herself to death to realize what was going on in her brother's had. Yet, remembering the defeated look in his eyes, the limp that had gradually got worse, him slowly withdrawing (that was to say, they saw even less of each other than before) – she could see now what would have happened. She knew that, one day, the police would have knocked, she would have opened, most likely drunk, and they'd have told her that her brother was dead. Had killed himself. And that thought made her heart clench.

Sherlock had saved her brother's life only to be driven to suicide by a master criminal's lies. It all seemed so unfair. She didn't doubt that he'd solved each and every case Kitty Riley had claimed he'd invented; her brother might not be a genius, but he would have realized. And her brother didn't trust easily. He never had, probably because their father had also been an alcoholic and their mother had been so disappointed in her life that she'd never really been there for them. But he'd trusted Sherlock Holmes. Therefore, Sherlock Holmes must have been someone special. Therefore, he had never invented any crimes. It was as simple as that.

Yet not all of London was beyond hope. Slowly, a few dissenting voices were starting to pop up, mostly former client of the consulting detective's, most of them rather indignant that one could suppose that Sherlock had invented the cases they'd begged him to solve. John always brightened up a little, every time he heard about another client coming forward. That was why she was glad for it, too. It couldn't help Sherlock, nothing could help him anymore. But it would help her brother get over his loss in time, she hoped.

Time; that was all that could help. A long time, no doubt. John was grieving not as one grieved for a friend, but for a life partner, and she could understand, even if no one else did. Because you didn't need to sleep with or even be in love with the person who was your whole world. He had been John's reason to get up in the morning, and now that reason was gone.

But without him, John wouldn't need a reason anymore by now. Sherlock had done everything she couldn't, and for that, she was grateful. And that was all the reason she needed to stand in front of the grave of the greatest man she'd never known.

She heard a polite cough behind her and turned around. Standing there was an impeccably dresses man, carrying an umbrella even though it hadn't rained for days. For a moment, she looked at him, not comprehending, then she understood. John had told her about Sherlock's brother, his suits, his umbrellas, his surveillance – and about his "betrayal", as he'd called it, and despite the fact that she only knew John's point of view – which was shared by the DI – and despite the fact that she didn't doubt her brother had told her the truth, she found she couldn't blame his as much as everyone else who knew the story seemed to do.

She, of all people, should understand that sometimes, you got so caught up in your own life that you forgot all about your little brother, even when he needed you.

The man cleared his throat again, and although his face was blank, Harry had the feeling that he was nervous. He must be wanting to ask her something, otherwise he wouldn't have made a noise. Even if he wanted to be alone with his brother, he could have waited until she left – she wouldn't have stood here much longer anyway.

So she asked, "Mr. Holmes?"

He didn't seem surprised, but then, from what John had told her, he rarely was. He nodded. "Miss Watson..." he hesitated, and she'd heard enough stories to know he usually didn't hesitate. So she waited, patiently.

Then he asked, "How's John doing?"

"I would have thought that you had him under surveillance" she replied, realizing that she didn't think it odd to talk this casually about someone stalking her brother. She must have gone mad too somewhere along the line. She didn't care; if it helped John, it was good enough for her.

"I do, but you talk to him at least once every day."

She nodded. "He's grieving. It will take time."

"It usually does." He looked at the headstone and she realized it was time to let him alone.

So she simply said, "Good day, Mr. Holmes. I'm sorry for your loss".

He didn't answer, but she didn't expect him to.

Nonetheless, she left the cemetery feeling better about Sherlock's death. Because, no matter what happened, at least she could tell her brother something – his best friend had been loved by more people than he'd thought.

And that was always good news.

Author's note: I "Because I Chose To Be Who I Was", I made Harry into a real shrew, simply because I needed her to be in order for the story to work. Ironic, considering I am all for supporting sister characters (I can't imagine why...) So here's my attempt to make her try to help John after Reichenbach.

I hope you liked it, please review.