There's some swearing in the nest two chapters. Just a warning. I blame Harry myself.

"John! Why the hell aren't you at home?!" The tinny female voice at the other end of the phone was lightly slurred, and even without caller ID, John could tell it was Harry.

"I am at home Harry." He said, exasperated.

"No you're bloody well not. I've been banging on your f***ing door for ages, and that busy body old woman wont LET ME IN!" she shouted in an attempt for all the Baker Street residents to hear.

"Harry, could you please watch your mouth! For God's sake, that's not where I live anymore Harry. I haven't lived in 221b since Sherlock died, but of course the brandy won't let you remember that." He could hear his sister taking another slug from the, now empty, Jack Daniels bottle (her chosen poison) in her hand.

"Shut the hell up John! I've come to London to visit my brother, not get a f***ing lecture."

"Oh Harriet," he sighed, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, thanking Molly's weekly shop for her current absence. "Just get a cab, put me on speaker phone and I'll get you here."

"Whatever. Big. Brother."

Harry stuck out her hand, the one not holding a shockingly empty glass bottle, as she stood on the kerb of 221 Baker Street, she wobbled into the road, her body addled with drink and her brain cloudy, but functioning enough to not get knocked down by the approaching cab, well that, and the cabbies quick reflexes.

She plopped her full height onto the back seat, the tall gene had skipped John and gone straight to his sister. Her hair was the same dull blonde as his, and clearly hadn't been washed or brushed in sometime, it was sitting atop her head in a rough, unkempt bun. She would have rumpled her clothes if they weren't already overly creased with wear as they hung loosely from her slight frame; brother and sister clearly holding the same penchant for jumpers.

"B – hiccup – Baker Street, please, thanks." The cabbie held a confused expression until the sent of alcohol that clung to the woman reached his nose, he was about to tell her she was already there, chuck her out, I mean it's just the afternoon, hardly a time to deal with drunks. That was until he heard a distinctly masculine sigh followed by a deep distant voice, and he noticed the phone in her hand.

"No, Harry. Sorry, um, mate. I don't suppose you could get her to 23 Corfield Street, just off Bethnal Green. I'll wait outside, pick her up, and give you a little extra for your trouble. Sorry. Again."

"Yeah, sure, course." The cabbie began to turn off the road, making his way to the new destination.

"Thanks mate."

The cab pulled up outside Molly's building; John was standing on the pavement, just beyond the cool metal exterior steps that lead up to his? their? our? Molly's? front door. He flagged down the cab, hearing it screeching to a stop and spotting a distinctly unpleased cabbie in the front seat, having been in the company of a drunk Harry he could only empathise.

The cab driver rolled down the window upon seeing John, hoping he was the face to match the crackling phone voice, he let out a sigh of relief as a flood of 'sorry, really very sorry's' came from the man in question, he smiled to calm the apologetic man.

"'S okay mate. I drive a cab, I'm no stranger to a drunk passenger."

"I'm just really… I know what she's like," John grimaced.

"Honestly, you're girl fell asleep the minute we turned off Baker Street." He smiled.

"Oh God, no. She's not my girl, she's my sister," he chortled. "Anyway how much do I owe you?"

The cab driver chuckled in return, "Ah, sorry. The fare's £15."

"Here, have £20 for your trouble, I'll just collect her and be out of your hair."

After a good ten minutes of lifting, and falling, John had managed to manoeuvre Harry from the cab, and a further fifteen minutes of struggle saw them stumbling through the front door. Thank God I left it on the latch. John practically dumped Harry down onto the sofa; safe in the knowledge she had never been a throwing-up type of drunk, no matter the mixture of spirits and hops.

"Well if it isn't Johnny. When did you get here?" she said, smiling sloppily.

"Harry, you came to me. Somehow. Said you came to visit your big brother, but before we even get to that, you need to sober up a little. I'll get you a few pints of water, and some food, something dry, we've probably got some bread somewhere." John would have chastised himself on the 'we've' slip up; Harry was yet to hear about his and Molly's relationship, yet to really hear of Molly at all. But thankfully a drunk Harriet Watson was not a perceptive Harriet Watson.

"Just what big brothers are for…"she mumbled, before promptly falling into drunken unconsciousness.

It had been two hours when Harry woke fully, in her stupor she had glugged down all three pints of water and eaten the two crust slices of bread, (sans butter or jam), he'd laid out for her. She was nowhere near sober, but also as far from drunk that John could hope for.

"John? Where the hell am I? Why's everything so pale green? This isn't 221b, is it?" she spoke groggily.

"Harry, I haven't lived in 221b for quite a while, this is Molly's flat. Welcome and all that." He smiled weakly. As she had slept every alcohol saturated memory of his and Harry's broken relationship was dredged to the surface of his mind, the love for his little sister drowned and ebbed away by the whiskey and gin; always to resurface but every time with a stronger bitter aftertaste.

"Who on God's earth is Molly?" Harry practically spat her name.

"Can we not shout? You're sober enough to at least attempt conversation, please?" He sighed.

"Fine, but my question still stands, who's Molly?" she glared at John, who was sitting on the edge of the short coffee table, facing squarely the, just about upright, Harry.

"Molly is my best friend. She took me in when Sherlock passed, and after I got over myself and realised some blatantly obvious things, we started going out. I suppose you could say she's my girlfriend."

"And you've moved in with her! You hadn't even told me! In fact, you have barely spoken to me since that fake genius topped himself."

John took a deep breath, counting slowly to ten in the back of his mind, as he had always done when Harry's mouth ran away with her. He would have fought anyone else at this point, punched them, screamed, shouted and left them bruised at least, but this was his drunk sister after all, and no amount of abuse he could inflict would be worse than what she does to herself. He felt sorry for her, and she'd never much had a filter anyway.

"Just. No. Harry. Anyway, you wouldn't have remembered if I told you, you couldn't even remember that I no longer live on Baker Street."

"Well why are you already living with your little 'girlfriend'? Too early, even for 'three continents', surely?" she sneered.

"I was living here for months before we got together, she sorted my head out after Sherlock, and I'm still in the spare room." One little lie couldn't hurt if it stopped Harry's snide remarks. Even if anger was spilling from his very core, he had to hide smirk upon his last comment. Well, some of my clothes are still in the spare wardrobe.

"Harry, why are you even here?"

"I fell off the wagon. Clare left me again. And I thought, for one idiotic minute, my brother would want to support me." She sighed far too dramatically.

"So money." He said, matter-of-factly. "On an army pension and tenuous clinic work, and you think I can afford to fuel your bloody tenth hop of the wagon!" The anger had risen in his voice as he had risen to his feet, towering over her in a way he could only do whilst she was sitting, and the best he could do with his stature.

Harry didn't cower though, she was still far to inebriated to feel fear, and far to clever to fear her brother; even amidst the red mist that clouded his vision John could never, as the honourable gentleman he was, lay a finger on his 'baby sister'.

She smiled smugly. "More of a place to stay…"