She awoke slowly to a vague awareness of a throbbing head and the taste of death in her mouth with no notion of where or when she was. Opening her eyes, she tried to focus on her surroundings and gradually noted that a bright, noonday sun was shining through the window of her bedroom and that she was, in fact, in her own bed, dressed in her pyjamas and neatly tucked in.

Harry sighed. This could not be her own doing, she knew. Last thing she could remember, she was in Winchester mid-morning yesterday buying a case of Jameson and planning a good old binge. She ought to be sprawled on the carpet in the sitting room or slumped in an armchair, not safely in bed. This could only mean that John had found her out and had, once again, taken care of his big sister.

Was he here, then? She half hoped not. She did not want to face his disappointment in her, after he'd spent so much on her rehab. She was always letting him down, wasn't she? But then, he was always letting her down, too.

It took ages to sit herself up in bed. But there on the nightstand was a glass of water and some paracetamol. Gratefully she took two tablets and sipped at the water until the room stopped spinning and the pain behind her eyes subsided. Harry was unused to hangovers; her usual modus operandi was to drink shots all day, maintaining a pleasant buzz. John called it "self-medicating". Harry called it surviving. It was the rehab that had messed her up, obviously. John's idea—he was always trying to "fix" her. She tried vaguely to remember what had triggered this bought of binge-drinking, but soon gave it up as her headache protested the act of thought.

After some time, she finally felt ready to face whatever the day would bring. Pulling on her dressing gown and slippers, she wobbled to the top of the stair. And then Annie's voice drifted up into her hearing.

"Oh, no need to thank me, dear," the old woman was bleating gently. "I'm always glad to help my dear Clemmie's children. No, don't worry, love. I have things well in hand and Charlotte and Joe's been to help me."

Harry's temper flared. So John had not come himself, after all. Once again, he shirked his promise, depending on Annie and Annie's family to look after his sister rather than fulfil his own responsibilities. He knew Annie's love for Clementine Watson would drive her to care for her friend's daughter, relieving him of his unwanted burden.

"Look after Harry, Johnny," their mum had murmured to him just before succumbing to the cancer that had eaten away at her insides. "Promise me, you'll look after her." It might have sounded strange, asking the younger sibling to take care of the older. But John had been looking after Harry since he was old enough to know what "looking after" meant. She would never forget him hurtling his sturdy little four-year-old body into the abdomen of a bully twice his size and pummelling his sister's tormenter with his tiny fists. Until, of course, the bigger boy had recovered from his surprise, tossed John across the schoolyard and then pounded him. Since that time, Harry had always depended on her little brother's courage and loyalty. Their mum had, too. "Look after your sister," she was always telling the boy. It was the prime directive of their childhood.

"Look after Harry, Johnny," were Mum's final words to her son. "I will, mum, don't worry," John had said. But John had only kept this promise when it suited him, hadn't he? Two years later, he'd run off with ridiculous pipe dreams of being an army surgeon, his own sister be damned! And see where his dreams had landed him!

But now Mum's best friend would have to be faced. Harry made her careful way down the stair and shuffled into the kitchen. There was Annie at the table, fluffy as ever, wrapped in a woolly shawl and knitting something soft and pink.

"There you are, dear," Annie smiled. "How are you feeling?"

Harry rolled her eyes. How did the silly old woman think she was feeling? She dropped heavily into a kitchen chair. "What are you doing here?"

Annie had never reacted to Harry's ill moods, not in forty years. She quietly explained, "Your brother called me last night when you didn't answer your phone. That worried about you, he was. Charlotte and I found you in the loo, wrapped around the toilet bowl. Took her and Joe both to get you up those steps." She laid aside her knitting and rose from the table. "I'll put on the kettle, shall I?"

"If John was so worried, why didn't he come himself?" Harry griped ungraciously.

Annie switched the kettle on and put two slices of bread into the toaster. "He did what was best for you, as ever," she assured Harry soothingly. "Think, dear. What if you'd been seriously ill or badly injured? It would take him hours to get to you, wouldn't it? But Charlotte and I arrived in minutes after he called. If you'd needed help, you'd be glad to have received it the sooner, wouldn't you, dear? As it was, all you needed was a clean-up and your bed, and we could do that as well as John could have done."

But now Harry had moved on to another source of annoyance. "Why was he calling me, anyway, on a Saturday night? He never calls on a Saturday," she grumbled. If he'd only waited until Sunday, she'd have got up on her own and answered the phone and he'd be none the wiser about her weekend activities.

"My dear, he didn't call on Saturday. He called last night," Annie turned her mild eyes upon Harry patiently. Seeing Harry was all at sea, she added, "Today is Monday, love."

Monday? So she'd lost 48 hours, not just 24. And here was Annie, nursing her on a weekday and no doubt leaving the shop entirely in gossipy Charlotte's hands. And old Joe, her husband, the local pub owner, had been here, too! How humiliating! By now, everyone in village would know what Harry had done.

Annie made Harry's tea and spread butter on her toast. "There now, dear. Take things easy today and get your legs back under you," she murmured serenely. "I must get on to the shop. Charlotte's been there alone all morning without a break and she'll be wanting a bit of something to eat." Gathering her knitting into a satchel, she added, "I'll see you in the morning, dear. I've promised your brother you'll always have a place in my shop, but I can't pay you if you don't come into work." The elderly woman made this last pronouncement in exactly the same placid tone she would use to sooth crying babies or irate customers.

Harry frowned at the door her employer had closed quietly as she left. She had often tried to imagine Annie losing her patience, but could only conjure a picture of a gentle-faced sheep baaing and shaking its head mildly. And yet, this sheep was not easily cowed. Harry could remember a number of times when Annie had stood toe-to-toe with Dad, telling him in loving and peacefully modulated tones exactly what she thought of his neglectful behaviour. Hamish Watson had always hung his head and promised to mend his ways—and his reform could last as long as a week at a time.

Harry had adored her dad, who was warm and loving and always good for a laugh with his merry jests and practical jokes. But his need for excitement outweighed his sense of responsibility to his family. He found an outlet for his thrill-seeking addiction in motorcycles and fast cars, but as he grew older he more often spent his days drinking and gambling with strangers in bars. Never able to hold a job for long and never interested in keeping the house and garden in good shape, Harry's father had driven her mother into a quiet despair over the years. It had been no great surprise when he finally had driven into that tree and died.

John said that their father's behaviour was masking an untreated, clinical depression. But John was always trying to diagnose people, wasn't he? He was constantly nagging at Harry about "getting help" and claimed her alcohol use was some sort of "self-treatment". Physician, heal thyself, Harry always said! John was the one with the problems, him and his trick-cyclist! His adrenaline addiction was well-known to everyone—how was his behaviour any different from Dad's?

Of course, John had been right in diagnosing Mum, hadn't he? He begged and begged her to go to the doctor, but by the time she listened to him it was too late—the cancer was everywhere.

Harry sighed and rose to seek out a remedy for her hangover. Predictably, she found that every one of the bottles from her case of Jameson was empty, washed out thoroughly, and placed neatly in the recycling bin. Harry had no idea how many of those bottles had been put to good use and how many Annie had poured down the sink. There was no point looking in her hiding places. If she'd had any stashed away, she wouldn't have had to go to Winchester, would she? And all the bottles were accounted for—she'd not been sober enough to think to squirrel any away. Tea it would have to be, then. But by now, the tea was tepid and the toast was stone cold. Harry threw them away and dragged herself into the sitting room to find her phone.

Seven missed calls from John. Four unheard voice mails from John. Three unread texts from John. Were there no trains from London to Winchester all weekend that he couldn't manage to do more than use his phone? It was only a two- or three-hour journey, depending on which train one took. She ignored the voice mails, which would only be John shouting at her to answer the phone, and opened the text messages.

One from just a few minutes ago: "Glad you're ok. Annie says you're all sorted. I'll see you Friday, then, yeah?"

One from Sunday night: "All right, then, I'm calling Annie to check on you, since you can't be arsed to answer the bloody phone. I can only assume you need immediate medical attention." He was fluent in sarcasm, even in when texting. He knew her only too well—Harry was too careful of herself to get hurt, even when she was totally pissed.

One from Saturday afternoon. "I know you said you won't come to my birthday party, but Mary and I plan to officially announce our engagement then. I hope you'll change your mind and come. You can spend the night in Baker Street so that you don't have to take a night train." Harry froze, remembering why she'd been so upset. Her brother had got himself engaged to his lunatic fan club. Yes, that's exactly how she wanted to spend her Friday evening—pretending her little brother wasn't being an absolute fool and then spending the night in his dismal cell of a bedroom in the same flat as that awful Sherlock Holmes!

Then the one from Saturday morning. "She said yes." Harry stared at the message sombrely. How could the bitch have agreed to marry him? Her plan to use John must go even deeper than Harry had suspected. A divorce would be so much more devastating than a break-up to her poor brother. Harry began making plans to clean up the mess that this evil child would inevitably leave in her wake sometime in the future.

But what did the little tart want? John didn't have anything worth marrying him for. Was it this house? It did technically belong to John; he could do what he liked with it. Mum had left it to the two of them, but about ten years ago Harry had found herself in a financial bind and had tried to sell it. Of course, that tiresome estate agent had insisted on contacting the joint owner. John had called Harry immediately and demanded to know what the hell was going on!

"We OWN your house, Harry. No mortgage, no rent. Where the bloody hell do you think you're going to live if you sell, hmm? There's no flat in Old Alresford that you can afford on your salary." John had been exasperated, but in the end he had emptied his savings and bought out her half of the house. As the owner, he allowed her to live there rent-free in order to avoid the difficulties of renting out to strangers. After all, it wasn't good for a house to sit empty, was it? He even sent her money every month for maintenance and up-keep expenses; he was a very conscientious home owner. When Harry was thinking clearly, she was aware that her brother was actually paying her to live in his house. But after all, it really was her house, too. She'd lived here all her life, and he'd only lived here for 18 years. Her claim was the longer one: forty years long!

And if that Mary Morstan wanted to get her mitts on it, Harry did not know what violence might ensue! The very thought made her livid!

Harry sat and stewed for quite some time and then at last rose to make herself a fresh cuppa and to boil an egg. She was just starting to feel better when the phone rang. An unknown number. Cautiously, she answered it anyway.

"Harry? My name's Mary. John's fiancée?" Harry's eyes grew wide and she nearly pitched her phone across the room in fury. The nerve of the little bitch!

"What the hell do you want?" she ground out through gritted teeth.

The voice on the other end sounded so soft and sweet it made Harry's head ache. "I'm just so glad you're all right. John and I were terribly worried. How are you feeling?"

"If John was so worried, he should have come down himself," Harry grumbled.

"Oh, I know! We wanted to come, but we looked up the trains and it would have taken hours to get to you Sunday night. If you'd been hurt, we would have taken far too long to reach you. And then Annie said you were perfectly all right, thank God, and we needn't miss work today. We will come down and see you soon, though. I can't wait to see where you and John grew up."

"What the hell do you WANT?" Harry demanded again, her voice rising to a scream.

A little chuckle. "Sorry, I didn't mean to go on and on. It's just, John told me he'd invited you to stay over on Baker Street after his birthday party and I thought that—well- that you might not like staying there overnight. It's none too clean and there's never anything in the fridge. And Sherlock can be a bit off-putting. But I have a nice spare bedroom in my flat where you can crash overnight. It's much more pleasant, and then we could get better acquainted."

Harry's vision went red. "John knows perfectly well that I abhor London. If he wants me to go to his bloody birthday party he can bloody-well have it here in his own hometown, can't he?" she snapped. "And I have no intention of getting to know you better. I know your kind! You got your hooks into my brother and you're going to drain the life out of him."

A moment of silence. "I understand. I do," Mary then said softly. "If I had a little brother, I'd be protective of him, too. If I had a brother like John, I imagine I'd never believe anyone was good enough for him. But Harry, I want you to know, I would never hurt John. Never, ever. I hope you can come to trust me one day."

Oh, she was good, this girl! No wonder John had so easily allowed the wool to be pulled over his eyes. Harry hung up, but she pulled up the picture of Mary Morstan that John had sent months before and glared at it for a long time.