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madlorificTitle: The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson
Author: MadLori
Length: 2600
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:But there’s a lot that I don’t know, too. I know that he loves my father so much that he’s a little afraid of it, but I don’t know why or how. I know that he doesn’t think of himself as a hero, but I don’t know how he does view himself. I know that he would never have had a family if left to his own devices, but I don’t know if he has any regrets that he’s ended up with one anyway. I know how I feel about him, but deep down, I’m not sure I yet know who he really is.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blot of Eugenia H. Watson, The Dread Pirate Roberts
18 November
Picking up where I left off last night, then.
I’ll not bore you with the details of Ice Cream with Nebraskans. If what Sherlock said was true, then Jason had been less than honest with me. He was still good company, though. I told him about slapping Lilly, which he found quite delightful. We parted on friendly enough terms. I’m sure I wasn’t quite the enthralling conversationalist he’d been hoping for and probably expecting, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Zack.
I put Jason in a cab back to his hotel and walked home. I stood outside 219 and stared across at Zack’s house for awhile, debating whether or not to go knock on the door. It was only eight o’clock at night, but it just didn’t feel like the right time.
I went inside, my footsteps heavy. I knew I was walking into some parental retribution. I just didn’t know what form it would take. Theoretically I was supposed to still be grounded from having slapped Lilly Bathgate, but after the weekend Dad sort of shrugged and said he’d knock it down to time served.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
When I got up to the lounge, Dad was there, sitting in the Eames chair with a book. He was quite obviously waiting for me. Neither Mum nor Sherlock were anywhere in sight. I stood there by the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. He put down his book with a sigh. “Genie, come sit down,” he said.
I sat. I couldn’t really look at him.
Dad leaned his elbows on his knees, thinking. “I know he’s difficult,” he said. “God, do I ever know it. It’s near twenty years I’ve known him now. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to strangle him?”
I smiled a little. “I’m sorry, Dad. I sort of lost it.”
“I can’t exactly blame you. I’ve lost it with him myself when he just spouts off all sorts of details that I’d rather not be made public knowledge. Remember the time he announced to the entire hospital Christmas party that my boss wore a girdle and a hairpiece? Good Lord, it’s a wonder I’ve been able to maintain any kind of a career. I’ve spent what feels like most of my life being a human buffer between Sherlock Holmes and the rest of the world. It gets damn bloody tiring.” He sighed. “He doesn’t ask for much from anyone. He doesn’t want money, he doesn’t want fame or recognition or praise. He doesn’t care for awards or publicity or notoriety. He does what he does because he wants to do it, and not because he expects anything in return. You do know that he pays for Leonid, and for most of your school, don’t you?”
I nodded, feeling more miserable than ever.
“He only wants two things. One, to be challenged, and two, for the people he cares about to accept him as he is. And he cares about you.”
“I know,” I said.
“Genie, I won’t have you shouting at him like some idiot Yarder who doesn’t know who he’s talking to. I know he acts like he has no feelings, and cannot be hurt, but you and I know better. He does have feelings and he can be hurt. You hurt him tonight. And when you hurt him, you hurt me.”
“I didn’t mean it,” I said.
“I know. But Genie, you know how a lot of the world treats him. With contempt, with impatience, with outright hostility.”
“That’s how he treats a lot of the world, Dad.”
He sighed. “I know that. But my point is that he pretends not to care but he does. Most people don’t have much power to hurt him, but you do.” Dad smiled. “You know he was the first person to hold you besides me and your mother? You were so fussy and wiggly, but the second I put you in his arms, you went so still and quiet, and stared up at him like he was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen. You used to follow him around the flat, toddling about and falling down. He’d yell at me to come get you out from underfoot, but he secretly liked it. I used to catch him at the kitchen table with you on his lap while he did experiments, very seriously explaining step by step just what he was doing, and you’d be staring up at him like you were enthralled. And when you got old enough to understand deduction, you were his most enthusiastic protégé. Here, at last, was somebody who’d never mock his abilities, who’d never scoff at his conclusions, who’d never brush him aside with a mean-spirited nickname. Not you, no, you wanted to be him. It was the ultimate sop to his ego, sure, but it was also unconditional acceptance. He’d never had that until he found it in a child’s love. Someone who’d never make him feel like a freak. And you never did.”
Tears were by this time running down my face. “Until tonight.” I sniffed and wiped at my eyes. “You are really good at this, you know.”
“Good at what?”
“The extreme-guilt strategy of punishment.”
He chuckled. “You should have seen my mother at it. She could have convinced me that by not eating my peas some small child would actually die in India.”
“Is – is Sherlock upset?”
Dad sighed. “Well, he went over to 221, shut the door and hasn’t come out.”
I nodded. “I’ll go apologize.”
“Yes, you will. But Genie, there’s something else.”
“What?”
He hesitated. “You were awfully touchy about this boy Jason. Sherlock must have been edging up to something significant for you to go off like that.”
I sat there like a stone.
“Well, either you’ll tell me what it is, or we’ll sit here all night.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “Oh, Dad. Don’t make me say it.”
His jaw was clenching in that way he has that makes him look like nobody you’d ever want to mess with. “Did he – did he do something to you?” he said, the words hard and threatening.
“No.” I took a deep breath. “Nothing I didn’t want done.”
“Oh.” He slumped over a bit. “So you and he…”
“Yeah. It was just the one time, Dad, I swear. We were careful and I’m not stupid.”
He reached out and took my hand. “I know you’re not. This just isn’t the easiest thing for me to hear.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“No. But you’re my little girl, and you always will be.”
That about did it for me. I got up and climbed into the Eames chair with him, curling into his lap as I haven’t done for years. I’m not very big. I can still fit. “Are you – mad?”
“That you had sex? No. I knew it would happen someday. Preferably long after I’m dead, but I suppose that wasn’t a realistic hope.” I giggled a little. “Sex isn’t a bad thing or an evil thing, Genie. It doesn’t mean you’re damaged or dirty or less of a good person because you’ve had it. And if you did it with real feeling for the other person, with the appropriate precautions, then that’s your decision and I trust you to make it. You’re of legal age. I’ve nothing to say about it, really.”
“But you wish I hadn’t.”
He sighed. “It isn’t that simple. I know we don’t treat you like it sometimes, and maybe that’s our mistake, but you’re so young, sweetheart. It isn’t just about the risk of physical consequences. You can be hurt, and you can be taken advantage of, and you can be made to feel like less than you are, and I don’t want that for you.” He squeezed me a little tighter. “We want you to be happy. And if that includes finding someone special to love who loves you back, of course I want you to have a satisfying physical relationship with them. Just don’t rush it, okay? It’s so much more complicated than you think it is.”
“Yeah. I’m getting that, a bit.” I craned my neck and kissed his cheek. “I won’t rush. I promise.” We just sat there for a few moments, enjoying the cuddle. “Am I grounded again?” I asked.
“Oh, hang it,” Dad sighed. “I’ll let it go this time. But you have to apologize to Sherlock.”
“I will.” I climbed out of his lap. “I’ll go right now.”
“Don’t wake him if he’s gone to sleep,” Dad said, quickly. He needn’t have bothered. It’s such an ordeal to get Sherlock to sleep at all that if he’s done so of his own free will, I think we’d all jump off a cliff before waking him.
I eased open the door to 221. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, reading a book. He didn’t look up as I entered. I sat cross-legged on the couch, facing him. I waited to be acknowledged. He’d make me sit there and wait a bit just to get a little of his own back.
Finally he marked his place and set his book aside, then turned to look at me. He didn’t say anything.
I stared at my hands for awhile. I knew he’d wait as long as it took me to talk.
I know a lot about this man, who I call Sherlock but who is, in my heart, my father, just as much as Dad is. I know more than he probably realizes. I know what his real smile looks like, and how to make it appear. I know why he’s so careful about his clothes but so sloppy about his flat. I know what moves him and what he fears and what he hopes for. I know why he hates and I know who he respects. It’s a short list.
But there’s a lot that I don’t know, too. I know that he loves my father so much that he’s a little afraid of it, but I don’t know why or how. I know that he doesn’t think of himself as a hero, but I don’t know how he does view himself. I know that he would never have had a family if left to his own devices, but I don’t know if he has any regrets that he’s ended up with one anyway.
I know how I feel about him, but deep down, I’m not sure I yet know who he really is.
“When I was a little girl I used to think I’d grow up and marry you,” I finally said.
Sherlock held up his left hand and wiggled his wedding band. “I’m taken,” he said.
“You weren’t then.”
He sighed. “Yes, I was.” He was looking at me with that expression that goes right through me, like he can read my thoughts off the inside of my skull. “You told your father, then?”
I nodded. “Yes. Thanks for not saying it before I had the chance.”
“Seems I’d said quite enough,” he said, his tone a little frosty.
“Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” I said, finally looking up at him. “I was freaking out a little bit, and there you were about to spill everything…I didn’t mean to get after you.”
“I’ve had far worse from other people.”
“But not from me. I never wanted to be like those other people.”
“You couldn’t, not if you tried. You’re incapable of the level of stupidity I’ve come to expect from the world at large.”
“So – we’re okay, then?”
He smiled at me, the little half-smile that means ‘Emotions are icky but I have them anyway.’ “Indeed we are.”
I grinned and hugged him round the neck, slotting my head down onto his shoulder. He patted my arm where it circled his chest. “What if I wanted to start calling you ‘Dad?’” I said, teasingly.
“Absolutely not.”
“Maybe a different term? Papa?”
“I’ll disown you.”
“How about just Father? Very Victorian.”
He fetched a long-suffering sigh. “How you delight in tormenting me.”
“Oh, all right, Sherlock.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Why are you so dead set against it? I’m fine either way, but why such a strong position?”
“I do not wish to take any distinction away from John. He’s your Dad, not I. If I were capable of being even half the father that he is, maybe I’d consider it.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
We went quiet. I stayed where I was, head tucked down on his shoulder and my arms looped around his neck. At long last, he spoke. “Did that boy – hurt you?” he asked, low and quiet.
“What, just now?”
“No. Before.”
“Oh. No, he didn’t.”
“Hmm. Good.”
“What if he had?” I was a bit curious.
Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting his hands in his lap. “I know people.”
I chuckled. “What, you’d sic Angelo on him?”
He sniffed and went quiet again. “Nobody is allowed to hurt you,” he finally said.
I lifted my head and peered at him. “Did you just whip a Dad-ism on me?” I asked, putting on an air of disbelief, even while the sentiment itself settled like a warm little coal in my belly.
“I suppose I did. How did I do? I’ve been practicing.”
“Have you, now?”
“Yes. I could demonstrate a few more. Last night I think I perfected ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’ Later I intend to tackle ‘While you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules.’”
I laughed out loud. Sherlock chuckled along with me. “Don’t ever stop being you, Sherlock.”
“Hmph. I don’t think that’s really an option at this point.”
After awhile he picked up his book again. I curled up on the couch with my head on a pillow in his lap and tucked a blanket around myself. I dozed off a bit, but not before I felt his hand on my hair.
When Dad shook me awake a bit later, the hand was still there, but Sherlock was asleep.
Next Entry
Author: MadLori
Length: 2600
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:But there’s a lot that I don’t know, too. I know that he loves my father so much that he’s a little afraid of it, but I don’t know why or how. I know that he doesn’t think of himself as a hero, but I don’t know how he does view himself. I know that he would never have had a family if left to his own devices, but I don’t know if he has any regrets that he’s ended up with one anyway. I know how I feel about him, but deep down, I’m not sure I yet know who he really is.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blot of Eugenia H. Watson, The Dread Pirate Roberts
18 November
Picking up where I left off last night, then.
I’ll not bore you with the details of Ice Cream with Nebraskans. If what Sherlock said was true, then Jason had been less than honest with me. He was still good company, though. I told him about slapping Lilly, which he found quite delightful. We parted on friendly enough terms. I’m sure I wasn’t quite the enthralling conversationalist he’d been hoping for and probably expecting, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Zack.
I put Jason in a cab back to his hotel and walked home. I stood outside 219 and stared across at Zack’s house for awhile, debating whether or not to go knock on the door. It was only eight o’clock at night, but it just didn’t feel like the right time.
I went inside, my footsteps heavy. I knew I was walking into some parental retribution. I just didn’t know what form it would take. Theoretically I was supposed to still be grounded from having slapped Lilly Bathgate, but after the weekend Dad sort of shrugged and said he’d knock it down to time served.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
When I got up to the lounge, Dad was there, sitting in the Eames chair with a book. He was quite obviously waiting for me. Neither Mum nor Sherlock were anywhere in sight. I stood there by the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. He put down his book with a sigh. “Genie, come sit down,” he said.
I sat. I couldn’t really look at him.
Dad leaned his elbows on his knees, thinking. “I know he’s difficult,” he said. “God, do I ever know it. It’s near twenty years I’ve known him now. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to strangle him?”
I smiled a little. “I’m sorry, Dad. I sort of lost it.”
“I can’t exactly blame you. I’ve lost it with him myself when he just spouts off all sorts of details that I’d rather not be made public knowledge. Remember the time he announced to the entire hospital Christmas party that my boss wore a girdle and a hairpiece? Good Lord, it’s a wonder I’ve been able to maintain any kind of a career. I’ve spent what feels like most of my life being a human buffer between Sherlock Holmes and the rest of the world. It gets damn bloody tiring.” He sighed. “He doesn’t ask for much from anyone. He doesn’t want money, he doesn’t want fame or recognition or praise. He doesn’t care for awards or publicity or notoriety. He does what he does because he wants to do it, and not because he expects anything in return. You do know that he pays for Leonid, and for most of your school, don’t you?”
I nodded, feeling more miserable than ever.
“He only wants two things. One, to be challenged, and two, for the people he cares about to accept him as he is. And he cares about you.”
“I know,” I said.
“Genie, I won’t have you shouting at him like some idiot Yarder who doesn’t know who he’s talking to. I know he acts like he has no feelings, and cannot be hurt, but you and I know better. He does have feelings and he can be hurt. You hurt him tonight. And when you hurt him, you hurt me.”
“I didn’t mean it,” I said.
“I know. But Genie, you know how a lot of the world treats him. With contempt, with impatience, with outright hostility.”
“That’s how he treats a lot of the world, Dad.”
He sighed. “I know that. But my point is that he pretends not to care but he does. Most people don’t have much power to hurt him, but you do.” Dad smiled. “You know he was the first person to hold you besides me and your mother? You were so fussy and wiggly, but the second I put you in his arms, you went so still and quiet, and stared up at him like he was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen. You used to follow him around the flat, toddling about and falling down. He’d yell at me to come get you out from underfoot, but he secretly liked it. I used to catch him at the kitchen table with you on his lap while he did experiments, very seriously explaining step by step just what he was doing, and you’d be staring up at him like you were enthralled. And when you got old enough to understand deduction, you were his most enthusiastic protégé. Here, at last, was somebody who’d never mock his abilities, who’d never scoff at his conclusions, who’d never brush him aside with a mean-spirited nickname. Not you, no, you wanted to be him. It was the ultimate sop to his ego, sure, but it was also unconditional acceptance. He’d never had that until he found it in a child’s love. Someone who’d never make him feel like a freak. And you never did.”
Tears were by this time running down my face. “Until tonight.” I sniffed and wiped at my eyes. “You are really good at this, you know.”
“Good at what?”
“The extreme-guilt strategy of punishment.”
He chuckled. “You should have seen my mother at it. She could have convinced me that by not eating my peas some small child would actually die in India.”
“Is – is Sherlock upset?”
Dad sighed. “Well, he went over to 221, shut the door and hasn’t come out.”
I nodded. “I’ll go apologize.”
“Yes, you will. But Genie, there’s something else.”
“What?”
He hesitated. “You were awfully touchy about this boy Jason. Sherlock must have been edging up to something significant for you to go off like that.”
I sat there like a stone.
“Well, either you’ll tell me what it is, or we’ll sit here all night.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “Oh, Dad. Don’t make me say it.”
His jaw was clenching in that way he has that makes him look like nobody you’d ever want to mess with. “Did he – did he do something to you?” he said, the words hard and threatening.
“No.” I took a deep breath. “Nothing I didn’t want done.”
“Oh.” He slumped over a bit. “So you and he…”
“Yeah. It was just the one time, Dad, I swear. We were careful and I’m not stupid.”
He reached out and took my hand. “I know you’re not. This just isn’t the easiest thing for me to hear.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“No. But you’re my little girl, and you always will be.”
That about did it for me. I got up and climbed into the Eames chair with him, curling into his lap as I haven’t done for years. I’m not very big. I can still fit. “Are you – mad?”
“That you had sex? No. I knew it would happen someday. Preferably long after I’m dead, but I suppose that wasn’t a realistic hope.” I giggled a little. “Sex isn’t a bad thing or an evil thing, Genie. It doesn’t mean you’re damaged or dirty or less of a good person because you’ve had it. And if you did it with real feeling for the other person, with the appropriate precautions, then that’s your decision and I trust you to make it. You’re of legal age. I’ve nothing to say about it, really.”
“But you wish I hadn’t.”
He sighed. “It isn’t that simple. I know we don’t treat you like it sometimes, and maybe that’s our mistake, but you’re so young, sweetheart. It isn’t just about the risk of physical consequences. You can be hurt, and you can be taken advantage of, and you can be made to feel like less than you are, and I don’t want that for you.” He squeezed me a little tighter. “We want you to be happy. And if that includes finding someone special to love who loves you back, of course I want you to have a satisfying physical relationship with them. Just don’t rush it, okay? It’s so much more complicated than you think it is.”
“Yeah. I’m getting that, a bit.” I craned my neck and kissed his cheek. “I won’t rush. I promise.” We just sat there for a few moments, enjoying the cuddle. “Am I grounded again?” I asked.
“Oh, hang it,” Dad sighed. “I’ll let it go this time. But you have to apologize to Sherlock.”
“I will.” I climbed out of his lap. “I’ll go right now.”
“Don’t wake him if he’s gone to sleep,” Dad said, quickly. He needn’t have bothered. It’s such an ordeal to get Sherlock to sleep at all that if he’s done so of his own free will, I think we’d all jump off a cliff before waking him.
I eased open the door to 221. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, reading a book. He didn’t look up as I entered. I sat cross-legged on the couch, facing him. I waited to be acknowledged. He’d make me sit there and wait a bit just to get a little of his own back.
Finally he marked his place and set his book aside, then turned to look at me. He didn’t say anything.
I stared at my hands for awhile. I knew he’d wait as long as it took me to talk.
I know a lot about this man, who I call Sherlock but who is, in my heart, my father, just as much as Dad is. I know more than he probably realizes. I know what his real smile looks like, and how to make it appear. I know why he’s so careful about his clothes but so sloppy about his flat. I know what moves him and what he fears and what he hopes for. I know why he hates and I know who he respects. It’s a short list.
But there’s a lot that I don’t know, too. I know that he loves my father so much that he’s a little afraid of it, but I don’t know why or how. I know that he doesn’t think of himself as a hero, but I don’t know how he does view himself. I know that he would never have had a family if left to his own devices, but I don’t know if he has any regrets that he’s ended up with one anyway.
I know how I feel about him, but deep down, I’m not sure I yet know who he really is.
“When I was a little girl I used to think I’d grow up and marry you,” I finally said.
Sherlock held up his left hand and wiggled his wedding band. “I’m taken,” he said.
“You weren’t then.”
He sighed. “Yes, I was.” He was looking at me with that expression that goes right through me, like he can read my thoughts off the inside of my skull. “You told your father, then?”
I nodded. “Yes. Thanks for not saying it before I had the chance.”
“Seems I’d said quite enough,” he said, his tone a little frosty.
“Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” I said, finally looking up at him. “I was freaking out a little bit, and there you were about to spill everything…I didn’t mean to get after you.”
“I’ve had far worse from other people.”
“But not from me. I never wanted to be like those other people.”
“You couldn’t, not if you tried. You’re incapable of the level of stupidity I’ve come to expect from the world at large.”
“So – we’re okay, then?”
He smiled at me, the little half-smile that means ‘Emotions are icky but I have them anyway.’ “Indeed we are.”
I grinned and hugged him round the neck, slotting my head down onto his shoulder. He patted my arm where it circled his chest. “What if I wanted to start calling you ‘Dad?’” I said, teasingly.
“Absolutely not.”
“Maybe a different term? Papa?”
“I’ll disown you.”
“How about just Father? Very Victorian.”
He fetched a long-suffering sigh. “How you delight in tormenting me.”
“Oh, all right, Sherlock.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Why are you so dead set against it? I’m fine either way, but why such a strong position?”
“I do not wish to take any distinction away from John. He’s your Dad, not I. If I were capable of being even half the father that he is, maybe I’d consider it.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
We went quiet. I stayed where I was, head tucked down on his shoulder and my arms looped around his neck. At long last, he spoke. “Did that boy – hurt you?” he asked, low and quiet.
“What, just now?”
“No. Before.”
“Oh. No, he didn’t.”
“Hmm. Good.”
“What if he had?” I was a bit curious.
Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting his hands in his lap. “I know people.”
I chuckled. “What, you’d sic Angelo on him?”
He sniffed and went quiet again. “Nobody is allowed to hurt you,” he finally said.
I lifted my head and peered at him. “Did you just whip a Dad-ism on me?” I asked, putting on an air of disbelief, even while the sentiment itself settled like a warm little coal in my belly.
“I suppose I did. How did I do? I’ve been practicing.”
“Have you, now?”
“Yes. I could demonstrate a few more. Last night I think I perfected ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’ Later I intend to tackle ‘While you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules.’”
I laughed out loud. Sherlock chuckled along with me. “Don’t ever stop being you, Sherlock.”
“Hmph. I don’t think that’s really an option at this point.”
After awhile he picked up his book again. I curled up on the couch with my head on a pillow in his lap and tucked a blanket around myself. I dozed off a bit, but not before I felt his hand on my hair.
When Dad shook me awake a bit later, the hand was still there, but Sherlock was asleep.
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