The rain is coming down hard again in England.

It pelts the ground, beats back the few scraggly bits of vegetation struggling to survive amidst the sidewalks and slop of lower-class London. The sound, water slapping concrete, is almost loud in the quiet alleyway, techno-beat from the club pulsing dully through the walls.

Doors swing open; light and sound flood into the alleyway. A lone, laughing, stumbling figure is thrown out into the wet, dim night.

"Shit."

Wobbling on her spindly heels, she falls down next to the garbage bags, sighs.

"Well, that's enough for tonight, then." she mutters, and sits up.

"Need a hand?"

She looks up. The man is tall, undoubtedly homeless - god, the smell. The only thing to suggest otherwise is the coat swinging wildly about him. Nice material, looks warm - might be a useful person to get to know.

"Nah, think I'll sit back and enjoy -hic- enjoy the view, handsome," she grins. The man eyes her with distaste.

"Very well, then." He turns to leave.

"No, no, come -hic- back!" He hesitates. She smiles invitingly. No one wants to be alone, especially tonight, in the rain and the cold.

He walks back, stands, head tilted down to look into her face, wet hair dripping.

"Yes?" He asks. His voice is low. Soothing. Should be sharp, but somehow isn't. Not really.

"What-" she waves her hand in front of her face, trying to focus. "What's your name?" He shifts back.

"John," he replies, and she startles him with her too-loud laugh, bellowing out from her, peals of brittle, confused, sharp joy.

"John. Johnnnnnn," she slurs. " 's my brother's name." The thin man pauses, looks at her. Really looks, just for a second, but Harry can tell- he's intrigued. Something's caught his eye. She's not so bad at reading people- can do it better when she's drunk. It's why John doesn't like being around her when she's been drinking- she can see he's unhappy clearer. What's more, she actually says something about it. He doesn't like her when she's drunk. Clara didn't, either. 'Swhat broke them up, it was- she just couldn't - stop - drinking -

The man shifts, sits down beside her. She wonders if she's been speaking aloud this whole time.

"So. Your brother's name is John."

Apparently not.

"Yup," she sits up, brushes off the spare bits of concrete and trash from her elbows. "He's a right wanker, too. Won't-" she frowns, distracted by the feeling of rain on her face, cool, a bit hard. The man next to her makes an impatient sound. "Oh, right! Won't go to therapy anymore." That's what the fight was about, this time. It's a rare thing, when the fights aren't about her, but eventually the conversation did swing back to her drinking habits; always did. That's when she walked out and headed for the nearest club.

"Why not?" The man questions, eyes almost kind. There's something wrong about the facial expression, something a little too fierce, too involved. Harry sighs. It's not like the man's ever going to meet her again anyways; what's he got to be interested in?

"Saysss…" she leans to the side a bit, then catches herself. "Says it's not helping," she finishes. "He's right about that, but still. Might help if he actually opened up once in a while, 'stead of choking off every time someone mentions him. Turns white as a fucking sheet whenever someone says the fucker's name. The Great Sherlock Holmes," Harry gesticulates wildly with her hands. "Dear god, he's a fake. A faaaaaake. How could John not have seen that? He reads people better'n me." She gestures to herself, eyes widened for dramatic emphasis. "And this bugger's got'im completely hoodwinked, even after 'e goes and jumps off a damned building." She sighs. "If I didn't know better… din't know better, you'd think he'd been in love with the blasted fool."

A soft, quick intake of breath. "Is he going to work still?" Harry's eyes narrow, mind a little fuzzy but still working better than most.

"Didn't think I said whether he had a job," she slurs out, eyebrow raised.

"I assumed." The man picks imaginary lint off his coat, tips his head back into the rain.

" … when 'e feels like it. Everyone over there cuts 'im a bit of slack, yeah?"

"Understandable, given the circumstances," he murmurs.

" 'e's just so stupid, yeah?" She shrugs. "Can't do anything. Won't. 's been six months, and he doesn't want to see anyone, doesn't want to do nothing, just- and the stupid "I Believe in Sherlock" shit," her hands flash in false quotations, " 's just hurting him more, yeah? I know my brother, know how he deals with stuff. He's not taken anything this hard since mom died. Maybe even worse, this." She slumps forward, puts her head in her hands. Tiny prickles of loose concrete jab at her forehead as she rubs her palms against it. "I just dunno. Can't help him, me," she gestures loosely towards herself. "Not much use to anyone, now. Never really got along, either. We can fake it right well, but both saw too much for our own good. But…" She turns her head towards the stranger. " 'e's dead, right? Sherlock Holmes? Wasn't just a trick of the papers or nothing?"

"So far as I'm aware, yes." The stranger replies.

"Good. 'Cause if he weren't- mmm." She slumps against the trash bags. Hazily, she feels warmth, scratchiness against her cheek. "If he weren't, I'd kill him. Grab his heart right out of his chest and eat it."

"Is that so?"

"Mhmm," she nods sleepily. "Serve him right. Hurt my baby brother… and…" her voice trails off, breath smoothing out into the soft rhythm of slumber. The man stands, looks down at the soft, sleeping body wrapped in his coat. Mutters under his breath, "Goddamnit." He stalks out of the alleyway, snapping instructions at the homeless man on the street.

o.O.o

In the morning, Harry awakes to bright, squawking sunlight and the singularly unpleasant sensation of being roughly shaken.

"Harry. HARRY!"

" 'm up, I'm up," she mutters, squinting against the light. "John, keep it down, I'm up!" She clutches her head. "Owwww…"

John tilts her head back, checks her quickly for signs of alcohol poisoning.

"Damnit, Harry, I was out half the night looking for you.", he grouses; then he freezes, eyes locked on something behind Harry.

"What?" she twists out of his hands, turns to see. Behind her is the coat the stranger apparently left, what she'd been sleeping on peacefully when John so rudely woke her up.

"Yeah, it's a coat. What of it?" She turns back to John, whose face has gone deathly pale.

"Just - nothing." He finishes looking her over, pulls her to a standing position. "Let's go." He starts to lead her out of the alleyway, but she cries out.

"John! You're leaving the coat!"

"What're you- it's just a coat, Harry!" But Harry's got it in her fingers now, warm and scratchy. She rubs it against her cheek.

"It's a good coat," she murmurs, feeling silly. Then she holds it out. "You have it."

"What?"

"You have it," she repeats, thrusting the coat at John. "It's warm, and you need a new coat. Besides," she smiles awkwardly, "It'll look ridiculous on you."

"That's a reason to take it why?"

" 'Cause everything else you own looks ridiculous on you. It'll fit right in."

John sighs, but trembling fingers accept the proffered gift. If he looks terrified, heartbroken a little, Harry wonders, but for the love of god, isn't stupid enough to say anything. John can keep his secrets, if only for a while longer. She'll figure it out in the end. She always does. Then they'll have a blazing row about it, and John can go back to being normal, instead of staring at everything with too-dead eyes and a too-blank smile.

"Now, how about some breakfast, then?" He pulls her close, so that she's leaning against him; a good thing, too, as she nearly loses her balance on the heels and falls over again.

"Oh, John, you are a life-saver," she groans against his chest. "I would kill for some coffee." He smiles against her hair, then wrinkles his nose at the smell.

o.O.o

At the door of the club, a too-lanky homeless man yawns and curls up, feet tucked in close, under the awning. He watches the two figures as they walk away from him, joking and laughing a little. The little man's dishwater-hair catches the sun, gleams of blonde striping him like a tiger. The man smiles at the whimsical turn-of-phrase; then his eyes catch on the coat hanging from the small man's loose frame. Wide eyes follow the swing of fabric as the man holds it close to his chest with a clenched fist. The girl stops him, gestures. He frowns, then replies. The girl is obviously displeased - wild gesticulating and heavy glances follow. After a moment, the man sighs, relents. He strips off his coat, hands it to the girl, and puts on the other one. The stranger is just close enough to see his face as the coat gets near enough to smell- damnit! The man is clearly stunned, face devoid of any emotion; the girl asks a question, face concerned, and he shakes his head clear, answers. The too-big coat covers his hands as they swing by his side. They continue walking, her holding onto his hand, like children. A small smile flirts with the stranger's mouth, and the stranger watches until they turn the corner. Then he rests his head against the cold brick and closes his eyes.

o.O.o

A/N: Hello again, lovelies! This is really the first fic I could write after the deluge that was Series 2. A friend prompted me, it was supposed to be a drabble, yada yada yada. (Isn't it funny how they never turn out to be drabbles?) Harry was actually pretty fun to write; I was surprised. As always, please do read and review, and I hope you enjoyed!