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madlorificTitle: The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson
Author: MadLori
Length: 3700
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:I pushed the door open. Dad was asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. I snickered to myself, because Sherlock was untidily sprawled over most of the rest of the bed, half over Dad, still fully clothed. He’d clearly pulled one of his marionette acts, wherein he bounced about in full Sherlockitude, then exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d collapsed like his strings had been cut. It was something of a miracle that he’d actually made it to the bed before losing consciousness.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Lady Marmalade
19 November
Sunday. Easy like Sunday morning. Or, you know, not.
Last night’s entry was all about what happened Friday night, with my Nebraskan visitor. I didn’t say a thing about what actually happened yesterday, which was very little. Mostly I hung around the house waiting for Zack to be home. Which he was not, at all. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was avoiding me. Maybe he is. Either way, he was out all day.
I got up early this morning. I was restless. I’ve always been a naturally early riser. Both Mum and Dad are, too, so sometimes on the weekends we’d end up sitting around the breakfast table when it was barely light outside, then four hours later Sherlock would shuffle in, rubbing his eyes, and wonder why there wasn’t any breakfast left.
So it wasn’t too surprising when Mum wandered into the kitchen as soon as the smell of toast started to float through the flat. She put the kettle on, eyeing the toast. “I wish there could be pancakes,” she said.
I looked at her, seeing my own thought mirrored on her face. “Get Dad up?”
She nodded. “He’s slept enough, don’t you think?”
“Certainly enough that he ought to cook us pancakes.” I went over into 221. The lounge was empty, as was the kitchen. I went down the hall to Dad and Sherlock’s bedroom. I listened for a moment, just to make sure they weren’t getting up to anything I definitely would not want to see, but all I heard was breathing.
I pushed the door open. Dad was asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. I snickered to myself, because Sherlock was untidily sprawled over most of the rest of the bed, half over Dad, still fully clothed. He’d clearly pulled one of his marionette acts, wherein he bounced about in full Sherlockitude, then exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d collapsed like his strings had been cut. It was something of a miracle that he’d actually made it to the bed before losing consciousness.
I bent near Dad’s face and shook his shoulder a bit. “Dad. Psst, hey, Dad.”
He made a gruffly noise. “Mmmph. Go ‘way.”
“Mum and I have decided that there need to be pancakes.”
He sighed. “Sleep.”
“But – pancakes?”
He snuffled into his pillow. “Mum c’n make ‘em.”
“God, Dad. I’d like to survive the morning.”
Another deep sigh, buried in the pillows, and Dad turned his face toward me, his eyes definitely awake now. “Genie, for God’s sake. It’s not even seven in the morning.”
“You’re usually up by now.”
“Yes, but…” His ears turned red, and I knew that he’d just stopped himself from saying something about whatever activities had kept him up late the night before. “Oh, all right, then.” He started to roll out of bed, gently, so as not to disturb Sherlock.
No such luck. Sherlock made a grumbly, distressed noise in his sleep and pulled him back, wrapping himself closer, pressing his face into the back of Dad’s neck. Dad shimmied about a bit, to no avail. He cast a wry glance up at me. “I seem to have acquired some sort of parasitic being in my sleep, luv. Give me a moment to extricate myself.”
“Okay.” I leaned over him and planted a kiss in Sherlock’s unruly curls. He was already soundly back asleep.
I went back over to 219. “He’ll be along in a second.” Mum handed me some tea and we stood there in silence for a moment.
“You leave for New York in two weeks, yes?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Which day?”
“Umm…well, the tournament starts on Monday. I think Sherlock bought the tickets for Friday so we’d have the weekend first before I have to start playing.”
“Pity Leonid can’t go along.”
“I’ll stream my matches to him in the evening and we can go over them and plan. It’ll be just like he’s there.”
“Next weekend we’re off to Nana and Grandpa’s, remember. That American thing Estelle likes to do.”
“Thanksgiving. Brilliant! I can taste her mashed potatoes already.” My mouth was watering at the mere thought of that delicious, creamy and garlicky goodness.
Mum shook her head, a little bemused. Estelle is my cousin Geej’s wife. She’s possibly the most fantastic person I’ve ever met. She’s American, but not just American – she’s a New Yorker. She’s a mathematician and a pretty famous hacker. She’s worked for the FBI and everything. Geej is twenty-six and a hippieish Peace Corps sort of guy. He’s the son of Mum’s older brother Geoffrey and his wife Leona. They think Estelle is a bit odd, and they’re not the only ones. Not the least because she’s ten years older than Geej but also because she plays the accordion and wears the same clothes every day. I mean, not the same items. She has about twenty copies of the same exact outfit. She says she dislikes irrelevant decisions, and wearing the same thing every day means one less irrelevant decision. I guess she is a bit of a nutter. She has issues with personal space and is aggressively nerdy (we’re talking about a woman who can name every single Doctor Who story title, in order, starting from 1963). But this is why she is so fantastic. She and Geej, despite being as different as two people can be, are mad crazy about each other, in a way that makes you think that fate has a sense of humor. Dad likes her. Sherlock usually looks at her as if he’d like nothing better than to get her on a slide beneath his microscope.
Whatever else her flaws, Estelle is also the best cook in the world. She could have been a chef if she’d been at all interested. Instead she just creates these jaw-droppingly delicious family dinners for everybody. She loves Thanksgiving and it’s a good excuse to get the whole clan together, so we’ve been having a big Thanksgiving dinner every year since she married Geej.
When I talk about my extended family, 95% of the time I mean Mum’s family. They’re the bulk of my relations, they’re the ones we share holidays with most of the time. Mum has three siblings: her older brother Geoffrey (Geej’s dad – oh, and Geej’s name isn’t weird, he’s actually Geoffrey Junior, as in GJ, which gets pronounced Geej), her younger brother Lionel (who has a wife, Jillian, and two kids, my cousins Lily and Roger), and her identical twin sister Adele (who is single and the most glamorous person I know). Then there’s Nana’s much-younger sister Ruby and her husband Frank, who come around when they’re in town. They’re travel writers and it is impossible to name a place, no matter how remote, where they have not been. Dad just has one sister, my aunt Harry, which is fine, except she’s been more or less assimilated into the Pepperidge Collective at this point, along with her wife, my aunt Clara and their two little kids. So it’s not like we have to choose who to see. When we go to Nana and Grandpa’s, Harry and Clara are invited, too. Dad doesn’t have any other family he’s in touch with.
Sherlock, I am told, does have a mother. I have never met her, and neither has Dad. I don’t know why. I asked Dad once, and he said he didn’t really know why, either. I got the feeling that this was a bit of a sore spot between him and Sherlock so I didn’t press it. I don’t know where she is or what she does or even what her name is. And as for Mycroft, well -- the idea of him at a family gathering gives me neural vapor-lock.
It’s a bit of a miracle that Sherlock comes along, frankly. You wouldn’t think family gatherings would be his cup of tea, and he does make a show of being put out by the whole experience and a bunch of pronouncements about tolerating it only for Dad’s sake and mine, but once we’re there he enjoys it. He finds the dynamics fascinating, and there’s always something going on for him to deduct and then blurt out at the most awkward moment possible, which is just his absolute favorite thing ever.
You may be wondering how it is that Sherlock is even welcome at these gatherings. I mean, this is Mum’s family. The usual narrative would involve Sherlock as The Other Man, Dad as The Bastard Who Left, and Mum as the Wronged Woman with me stuck somewhere in Innocent Victimized Child mode. As you have probably figured out, very little of my life follows the usual narrative.
When Dad and Mum got married, Nana and Grandpa were very distressed that Dad and Harry don’t have other family, so they immediately set about adopting them. This didn’t take long at all. Then Nana set her sights on Sherlock. Dad says that despite Sherlock’s very concerted effort to be as rude and off-putting as possible, they were unfazed – if anything, they were even more determined to add his name to their roster of unofficial children. My birth provided a point of commonality for everyone, and before too long Sherlock had been shanghaied into Clan Pepperidge as well, much to his (possibly fake) dismay.
It must have been a shock for the family when Mum and Dad divorced, since they’d never given any sign of having marital troubles. Mum’s told me that yes, there was some tension at first, especially with her brothers. But Dad and Sherlock’s rather heroic measures to keep us all together impressed the family, and Mum’s repeated assurances that she wasn’t a broken woman nor did she herself resent Dad and Sherlock helped a lot. I remember none of this, being that I was a clueless kid of seven years old. I just remember everyone being much as they are now. I guess a lot of things can be accepted in families as long as people are happy.
Anyway. Cor, that was a hell of a tangent, wasn’t it?
Dad came into 219 then, belting his dressing gown and yawning. “Pancakes, is it, then?” he said, going to the cupboards to get the ingredients and the pans.
“Thanks, John,” Mum said, rubbing his arm.
“Oh, what else am I good for, but to cater to the two of you,” he grumbled, but he was smiling.
“You’re jolly good at hailing cabs,” I said.
“Ha ha.”
“We were just talking about next weekend. Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, is it that time already? Bloody fantastic. I swear I have dreams sometimes about Estelle’s roast turkey.”
“Roger might be bringing his girlfriend this year.”
Dad glanced at me with an odd expression. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Lily told me. What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just – well, I’d have laid dollars that Roger is gay.”
“Me, too,” Mum said.
I frowned. “You think so?”
“He’s asked me some rather pointed questions over the past few years that made me think so. Of course, he could swing both ways.” Dad spooned pancake batter onto the hot cast-iron pan. The smell of cakey deliciousness wafted through the kitchen, making my mouth water. “But that’s never the option people tend to go for, is it?”
“They call it ‘bisexual invisibility,’” Mum said. “If a man’s with a woman, he’s assumed to be straight, but if he’s with a man, he’s assumed to be gay. In either case he could be bi.” Dad just looked at her blankly. She fidgeted. “I guess you, uh…know that.”
“Just a bit,” Dad said, his tone neutral.
I got out the butter and the syrup and jam while Mum poured milk. Dad brought over a plate of pancakes and we all sat down and dug in. “Dad, these are divine,” I said, stuffing a rather enormous section into my gob.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. You’ll choke to death,” he said.
I swallowed. “But what a way to go.”
We ate in silence for a moment. Mum spoke next. “So, no luck on the Zack front yesterday?” she asked. I’d told her about what had happened on the street the night Jason was here.
My bite of pancake turned dry in my mouth. I choked it down. “No. He was out all day. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”
“Give him some time to lick his wounds,” Dad said. “What he saw – well, you can imagine if it were you.”
“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t have to imagine. I just had to close my eyes and remember the sight of him dancing with Tramp Stamp Sophia at Paul Starkey’s party. “I guess I’ll leave him alone for the time being.”
At that moment, there was a rather loud, insistent pounding on the door downstairs. All three of us jumped. “Good lord,” Dad said. We all just looked around, confused. The pounding came again.
“Who on earth is that before eight a.m. on Sunday?” Mum said, frowning.
“I’ll go and see,” Dad said. He got up and went downstairs, leaving the door to the flat open behind him, which meant Mum and I could hear everything. Dad opened the door. “Zack!” he exclaimed.
My stomach did a giant somersault. My hand shot out and grabbed Mum’s arm on reflex.
“Hi, Dr. Watson. I’m sorry to be so – I know it’s early, I just – look, is Genie here?”
Zack sounded rather worked up. I just sat there, paralyzed.
“Um – yes, she is. We’re just having breakfast,” Dad said. “Come in.”
Dad came back into the flat and tossed me a “yeah, I got nothing” sort of look. Zack came in after him, dressed for church, looking a bit wild-eyed. He saw me sitting there at the table and his eyes got even wider. I got to my feet like I was in a daze and wandered over to face him, suddenly hyperaware that I had bed-head and I was dressed in my fleece pajama pants with the penguins on and an old t-shirt of Mum’s that says “I Got Boned At King’s College Anthropology” on it.
Zack just launched into it without preamble. “Okay, look, I was going to corner you on Friday night and ask what was up with Captain Toothpaste there and why the hell you were snogging him but by the time you came back I was too worked up and I didn’t think it’d be the best idea. Then yesterday my parents dragged me to my brother’s test match and I spent the whole day obsessing about what to say and how to say it and by the time we got home I couldn’t even remember my own name so I just went to bed, and now we’re going to be off to church in a bit and I can’t wait any longer so I snuck off and here’s the thing, Genie, it’s just that I really – I mean, I can’t quite – well, you know what we…” He stopped abruptly, like there was a word bottleneck in his throat.
“What?” I said.
Zack shook his head. “Bugger if I know.” He reached out and grasped my face, then he kissed me, right on the mouth. “I’m just making myself nuts.”
“Me, too,” I managed.
“I’m well gone on you, you know.”
I nodded, sniffling a little. God, is this what it feels like? For real? No wonder people go crazy from it. I couldn’t really talk so I just grabbed his lapels and kissed him again.
When we pulled apart he looked a little dazed. He licked his lips. “Pancakes?” he said.
I laughed. “You want some?”
“Love some, but I have to go. Church.”
I nodded, a bit spastically. I felt like I wanted to jump up and down or dance a jig or possibly burst into flames. “Okay.”
“And then we’re going to my grandparents’ house, but I ought to be back later.”
“Text me.”
“Okay.” He smiled, then kissed me one last, quick time, then he turned around – right into the half-amused, half-scandalized stares of my parents. “Uh – sorry to interrupt breakfast,” he said. I suppose “sorry to get off with your daughter right in front of you” would have been a bit much.
“Oh, that’s nothing strange around here,” Dad said.
“It’s just – I figure you’ve got to say things while you have the chance. It’s important.”
Zack nodded, as if this was why he’d come, to make this announcement, and his task was now complete.
Dad nodded. “Yes. It is,” he said, looking thoughtful.
Zack squeezed my hand, then he was off out the door before I could muster the wherewithal to say anything. Mum came up to me and took my hand. “Genie, my God,” she said. “That was…”
“Random? Awkward? Inappropriate? Embarrassing?”
She touched my hair. “I was going to go with ‘gutsy.’ And romantic.”
I laughed. It sounded a bit like an insane-asylum laugh. “It kind of was, wasn’t it?” I looked from her to Dad. “You two aren’t – uncomfortable? Or mad?”
“It was a bit cheeky of him,” Dad said. “Just march in and snog you.” He chuckled. “Wish I’d had those kind of balls when I was seventeen.” His smile faded. “Or ever, come to think of it.”
The door to 221 opened again and Sherlock came shuffling in, rubbing at his eyes. He looked around at us. “What’s on, then?” he said.
We all laughed. God, where to start?
So I spent the day in a state of high anticipation of when I’d get to talk to Zack again. How could I ever have thought that I didn’t feel anything but friendship for him? Had it always been this obvious, and I’d just been profoundly stupid about it?
He wasn’t able to text me until after supper. Meet me at the park. I leapt off my bed, threw on shoes, cast a cursory glance at my appearance in the mirror (same as always, and he apparently didn’t have a problem with it) and ran out with a quick pop-in to Mum to tell her I was going out.
He was waiting for me at the gates, grinning. I ran up and stopped short when I got to him, not knowing what to do. “Um – hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
We stood there fidgeting for a few agonizing moments, not knowing what to do. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I finally said. “This is ridiculous. This is us. We’re not awkward!”
“Haven’t been before. I think things get to be different now.”
I grabbed his hand. “Is that better?”
He stared down at our linked fingers for a moment. “Immensely.”
We grinned at each other like a couple of idiots and set off into the park. “Soooooo,” I said. “I guess this means we’re going together.”
“I mean – it could, if – well, that is – if you want.”
“I could. That is, if you – I mean, I’d assumed…”
He made a frustrated noise, stopped walking, turned toward me and kissed me again. “We’re not good at this talking thing,” he said, once he’d finished with my lips.
“Let’s just walk for awhile and get used to the novel state of affairs.”
“Okay.”
So we did. We walked in total silence, holding hands, until that felt normal. Then we talked about normal things, the same things we’d always talked about. How naff his church is, whether there might be a God or not (I thought not, he thought maybe), how his brother at Oxford is shagging everything that moves, how brill my trip to New York is going to be, that sort of stuff. We didn’t talk about Capital-U Us. Maybe one doesn’t have to. Maybe having a relationship is just living your life except there’s somebody else there, too.
And snogs. Which I did get a few more of. They were lovely.
When I got back I went over to 221. Sherlock was at the table on his laptop, Dad was on the couch with some large stacks of newspapers, engaged in some kind of project involving sorting and writing. “Hello, ducks,” he said. He only calls me that when he’s in a good mood. He was fully dressed but barefoot, and Sherlock’s hair was rumplier than usual. I do my own share of observing and deducing around here, and I knew the signs of a recent shag.
“Hey, Dad.” I flopped down next to him.
“Out with Zack, your Mum said?”
“Yep.”
“So that’s all sorted, then?”
“Obviously,” Sherlock intoned. He could probably tell by the way I was sitting or something. Sometimes I ask, sometimes I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Yes, obviously,” I repeated.
“Good. I like him, Genie. He’s a good lad, always has been.”
“He’ll do well enough for me.”
Dad grinned. “And we know where he lives.”
“Oh, God. What have I let myself in for?”
“I’ve been advised of the dramatics seen in the kitchen this morning,” Sherlock said. “I’m rather sorry I missed them. Although I can’t help suspecting that Mr. Lancaster derived some inspiration for his words or actions from one or another soppy teen romantic comedies.”
“No,” I said. “That was all him. Although it was rather out of character.”
Sherlock met my eyes. “Then I suppose he must have been extraordinarily motivated.”
I blushed. “I guess so.”
I glanced at Dad. He was looking at Sherlock and his face had gone a bit sad, and suddenly I knew that he was thinking about all the years he’d loved him and said nothing, and had thought it was impossible, and all the time that they could have had together if only either of them had done what Zack had just done.
I know that Dad wouldn’t trade having me for anything, and that he doesn’t regret the time he spent with Mum. But I also know that he can feel those things even while he still wishes that he could have spent those years with Sherlock.
Sometimes I don’t envy my dad’s internal life. It must be crowded in there.
Next Entry
Author: MadLori
Length: 3700
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:I pushed the door open. Dad was asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. I snickered to myself, because Sherlock was untidily sprawled over most of the rest of the bed, half over Dad, still fully clothed. He’d clearly pulled one of his marionette acts, wherein he bounced about in full Sherlockitude, then exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d collapsed like his strings had been cut. It was something of a miracle that he’d actually made it to the bed before losing consciousness.
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Lady Marmalade
19 November
Sunday. Easy like Sunday morning. Or, you know, not.
Last night’s entry was all about what happened Friday night, with my Nebraskan visitor. I didn’t say a thing about what actually happened yesterday, which was very little. Mostly I hung around the house waiting for Zack to be home. Which he was not, at all. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was avoiding me. Maybe he is. Either way, he was out all day.
I got up early this morning. I was restless. I’ve always been a naturally early riser. Both Mum and Dad are, too, so sometimes on the weekends we’d end up sitting around the breakfast table when it was barely light outside, then four hours later Sherlock would shuffle in, rubbing his eyes, and wonder why there wasn’t any breakfast left.
So it wasn’t too surprising when Mum wandered into the kitchen as soon as the smell of toast started to float through the flat. She put the kettle on, eyeing the toast. “I wish there could be pancakes,” she said.
I looked at her, seeing my own thought mirrored on her face. “Get Dad up?”
She nodded. “He’s slept enough, don’t you think?”
“Certainly enough that he ought to cook us pancakes.” I went over into 221. The lounge was empty, as was the kitchen. I went down the hall to Dad and Sherlock’s bedroom. I listened for a moment, just to make sure they weren’t getting up to anything I definitely would not want to see, but all I heard was breathing.
I pushed the door open. Dad was asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. I snickered to myself, because Sherlock was untidily sprawled over most of the rest of the bed, half over Dad, still fully clothed. He’d clearly pulled one of his marionette acts, wherein he bounced about in full Sherlockitude, then exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d collapsed like his strings had been cut. It was something of a miracle that he’d actually made it to the bed before losing consciousness.
I bent near Dad’s face and shook his shoulder a bit. “Dad. Psst, hey, Dad.”
He made a gruffly noise. “Mmmph. Go ‘way.”
“Mum and I have decided that there need to be pancakes.”
He sighed. “Sleep.”
“But – pancakes?”
He snuffled into his pillow. “Mum c’n make ‘em.”
“God, Dad. I’d like to survive the morning.”
Another deep sigh, buried in the pillows, and Dad turned his face toward me, his eyes definitely awake now. “Genie, for God’s sake. It’s not even seven in the morning.”
“You’re usually up by now.”
“Yes, but…” His ears turned red, and I knew that he’d just stopped himself from saying something about whatever activities had kept him up late the night before. “Oh, all right, then.” He started to roll out of bed, gently, so as not to disturb Sherlock.
No such luck. Sherlock made a grumbly, distressed noise in his sleep and pulled him back, wrapping himself closer, pressing his face into the back of Dad’s neck. Dad shimmied about a bit, to no avail. He cast a wry glance up at me. “I seem to have acquired some sort of parasitic being in my sleep, luv. Give me a moment to extricate myself.”
“Okay.” I leaned over him and planted a kiss in Sherlock’s unruly curls. He was already soundly back asleep.
I went back over to 219. “He’ll be along in a second.” Mum handed me some tea and we stood there in silence for a moment.
“You leave for New York in two weeks, yes?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Which day?”
“Umm…well, the tournament starts on Monday. I think Sherlock bought the tickets for Friday so we’d have the weekend first before I have to start playing.”
“Pity Leonid can’t go along.”
“I’ll stream my matches to him in the evening and we can go over them and plan. It’ll be just like he’s there.”
“Next weekend we’re off to Nana and Grandpa’s, remember. That American thing Estelle likes to do.”
“Thanksgiving. Brilliant! I can taste her mashed potatoes already.” My mouth was watering at the mere thought of that delicious, creamy and garlicky goodness.
Mum shook her head, a little bemused. Estelle is my cousin Geej’s wife. She’s possibly the most fantastic person I’ve ever met. She’s American, but not just American – she’s a New Yorker. She’s a mathematician and a pretty famous hacker. She’s worked for the FBI and everything. Geej is twenty-six and a hippieish Peace Corps sort of guy. He’s the son of Mum’s older brother Geoffrey and his wife Leona. They think Estelle is a bit odd, and they’re not the only ones. Not the least because she’s ten years older than Geej but also because she plays the accordion and wears the same clothes every day. I mean, not the same items. She has about twenty copies of the same exact outfit. She says she dislikes irrelevant decisions, and wearing the same thing every day means one less irrelevant decision. I guess she is a bit of a nutter. She has issues with personal space and is aggressively nerdy (we’re talking about a woman who can name every single Doctor Who story title, in order, starting from 1963). But this is why she is so fantastic. She and Geej, despite being as different as two people can be, are mad crazy about each other, in a way that makes you think that fate has a sense of humor. Dad likes her. Sherlock usually looks at her as if he’d like nothing better than to get her on a slide beneath his microscope.
Whatever else her flaws, Estelle is also the best cook in the world. She could have been a chef if she’d been at all interested. Instead she just creates these jaw-droppingly delicious family dinners for everybody. She loves Thanksgiving and it’s a good excuse to get the whole clan together, so we’ve been having a big Thanksgiving dinner every year since she married Geej.
When I talk about my extended family, 95% of the time I mean Mum’s family. They’re the bulk of my relations, they’re the ones we share holidays with most of the time. Mum has three siblings: her older brother Geoffrey (Geej’s dad – oh, and Geej’s name isn’t weird, he’s actually Geoffrey Junior, as in GJ, which gets pronounced Geej), her younger brother Lionel (who has a wife, Jillian, and two kids, my cousins Lily and Roger), and her identical twin sister Adele (who is single and the most glamorous person I know). Then there’s Nana’s much-younger sister Ruby and her husband Frank, who come around when they’re in town. They’re travel writers and it is impossible to name a place, no matter how remote, where they have not been. Dad just has one sister, my aunt Harry, which is fine, except she’s been more or less assimilated into the Pepperidge Collective at this point, along with her wife, my aunt Clara and their two little kids. So it’s not like we have to choose who to see. When we go to Nana and Grandpa’s, Harry and Clara are invited, too. Dad doesn’t have any other family he’s in touch with.
Sherlock, I am told, does have a mother. I have never met her, and neither has Dad. I don’t know why. I asked Dad once, and he said he didn’t really know why, either. I got the feeling that this was a bit of a sore spot between him and Sherlock so I didn’t press it. I don’t know where she is or what she does or even what her name is. And as for Mycroft, well -- the idea of him at a family gathering gives me neural vapor-lock.
It’s a bit of a miracle that Sherlock comes along, frankly. You wouldn’t think family gatherings would be his cup of tea, and he does make a show of being put out by the whole experience and a bunch of pronouncements about tolerating it only for Dad’s sake and mine, but once we’re there he enjoys it. He finds the dynamics fascinating, and there’s always something going on for him to deduct and then blurt out at the most awkward moment possible, which is just his absolute favorite thing ever.
You may be wondering how it is that Sherlock is even welcome at these gatherings. I mean, this is Mum’s family. The usual narrative would involve Sherlock as The Other Man, Dad as The Bastard Who Left, and Mum as the Wronged Woman with me stuck somewhere in Innocent Victimized Child mode. As you have probably figured out, very little of my life follows the usual narrative.
When Dad and Mum got married, Nana and Grandpa were very distressed that Dad and Harry don’t have other family, so they immediately set about adopting them. This didn’t take long at all. Then Nana set her sights on Sherlock. Dad says that despite Sherlock’s very concerted effort to be as rude and off-putting as possible, they were unfazed – if anything, they were even more determined to add his name to their roster of unofficial children. My birth provided a point of commonality for everyone, and before too long Sherlock had been shanghaied into Clan Pepperidge as well, much to his (possibly fake) dismay.
It must have been a shock for the family when Mum and Dad divorced, since they’d never given any sign of having marital troubles. Mum’s told me that yes, there was some tension at first, especially with her brothers. But Dad and Sherlock’s rather heroic measures to keep us all together impressed the family, and Mum’s repeated assurances that she wasn’t a broken woman nor did she herself resent Dad and Sherlock helped a lot. I remember none of this, being that I was a clueless kid of seven years old. I just remember everyone being much as they are now. I guess a lot of things can be accepted in families as long as people are happy.
Anyway. Cor, that was a hell of a tangent, wasn’t it?
Dad came into 219 then, belting his dressing gown and yawning. “Pancakes, is it, then?” he said, going to the cupboards to get the ingredients and the pans.
“Thanks, John,” Mum said, rubbing his arm.
“Oh, what else am I good for, but to cater to the two of you,” he grumbled, but he was smiling.
“You’re jolly good at hailing cabs,” I said.
“Ha ha.”
“We were just talking about next weekend. Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, is it that time already? Bloody fantastic. I swear I have dreams sometimes about Estelle’s roast turkey.”
“Roger might be bringing his girlfriend this year.”
Dad glanced at me with an odd expression. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Lily told me. What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just – well, I’d have laid dollars that Roger is gay.”
“Me, too,” Mum said.
I frowned. “You think so?”
“He’s asked me some rather pointed questions over the past few years that made me think so. Of course, he could swing both ways.” Dad spooned pancake batter onto the hot cast-iron pan. The smell of cakey deliciousness wafted through the kitchen, making my mouth water. “But that’s never the option people tend to go for, is it?”
“They call it ‘bisexual invisibility,’” Mum said. “If a man’s with a woman, he’s assumed to be straight, but if he’s with a man, he’s assumed to be gay. In either case he could be bi.” Dad just looked at her blankly. She fidgeted. “I guess you, uh…know that.”
“Just a bit,” Dad said, his tone neutral.
I got out the butter and the syrup and jam while Mum poured milk. Dad brought over a plate of pancakes and we all sat down and dug in. “Dad, these are divine,” I said, stuffing a rather enormous section into my gob.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. You’ll choke to death,” he said.
I swallowed. “But what a way to go.”
We ate in silence for a moment. Mum spoke next. “So, no luck on the Zack front yesterday?” she asked. I’d told her about what had happened on the street the night Jason was here.
My bite of pancake turned dry in my mouth. I choked it down. “No. He was out all day. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”
“Give him some time to lick his wounds,” Dad said. “What he saw – well, you can imagine if it were you.”
“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t have to imagine. I just had to close my eyes and remember the sight of him dancing with Tramp Stamp Sophia at Paul Starkey’s party. “I guess I’ll leave him alone for the time being.”
At that moment, there was a rather loud, insistent pounding on the door downstairs. All three of us jumped. “Good lord,” Dad said. We all just looked around, confused. The pounding came again.
“Who on earth is that before eight a.m. on Sunday?” Mum said, frowning.
“I’ll go and see,” Dad said. He got up and went downstairs, leaving the door to the flat open behind him, which meant Mum and I could hear everything. Dad opened the door. “Zack!” he exclaimed.
My stomach did a giant somersault. My hand shot out and grabbed Mum’s arm on reflex.
“Hi, Dr. Watson. I’m sorry to be so – I know it’s early, I just – look, is Genie here?”
Zack sounded rather worked up. I just sat there, paralyzed.
“Um – yes, she is. We’re just having breakfast,” Dad said. “Come in.”
Dad came back into the flat and tossed me a “yeah, I got nothing” sort of look. Zack came in after him, dressed for church, looking a bit wild-eyed. He saw me sitting there at the table and his eyes got even wider. I got to my feet like I was in a daze and wandered over to face him, suddenly hyperaware that I had bed-head and I was dressed in my fleece pajama pants with the penguins on and an old t-shirt of Mum’s that says “I Got Boned At King’s College Anthropology” on it.
Zack just launched into it without preamble. “Okay, look, I was going to corner you on Friday night and ask what was up with Captain Toothpaste there and why the hell you were snogging him but by the time you came back I was too worked up and I didn’t think it’d be the best idea. Then yesterday my parents dragged me to my brother’s test match and I spent the whole day obsessing about what to say and how to say it and by the time we got home I couldn’t even remember my own name so I just went to bed, and now we’re going to be off to church in a bit and I can’t wait any longer so I snuck off and here’s the thing, Genie, it’s just that I really – I mean, I can’t quite – well, you know what we…” He stopped abruptly, like there was a word bottleneck in his throat.
“What?” I said.
Zack shook his head. “Bugger if I know.” He reached out and grasped my face, then he kissed me, right on the mouth. “I’m just making myself nuts.”
“Me, too,” I managed.
“I’m well gone on you, you know.”
I nodded, sniffling a little. God, is this what it feels like? For real? No wonder people go crazy from it. I couldn’t really talk so I just grabbed his lapels and kissed him again.
When we pulled apart he looked a little dazed. He licked his lips. “Pancakes?” he said.
I laughed. “You want some?”
“Love some, but I have to go. Church.”
I nodded, a bit spastically. I felt like I wanted to jump up and down or dance a jig or possibly burst into flames. “Okay.”
“And then we’re going to my grandparents’ house, but I ought to be back later.”
“Text me.”
“Okay.” He smiled, then kissed me one last, quick time, then he turned around – right into the half-amused, half-scandalized stares of my parents. “Uh – sorry to interrupt breakfast,” he said. I suppose “sorry to get off with your daughter right in front of you” would have been a bit much.
“Oh, that’s nothing strange around here,” Dad said.
“It’s just – I figure you’ve got to say things while you have the chance. It’s important.”
Zack nodded, as if this was why he’d come, to make this announcement, and his task was now complete.
Dad nodded. “Yes. It is,” he said, looking thoughtful.
Zack squeezed my hand, then he was off out the door before I could muster the wherewithal to say anything. Mum came up to me and took my hand. “Genie, my God,” she said. “That was…”
“Random? Awkward? Inappropriate? Embarrassing?”
She touched my hair. “I was going to go with ‘gutsy.’ And romantic.”
I laughed. It sounded a bit like an insane-asylum laugh. “It kind of was, wasn’t it?” I looked from her to Dad. “You two aren’t – uncomfortable? Or mad?”
“It was a bit cheeky of him,” Dad said. “Just march in and snog you.” He chuckled. “Wish I’d had those kind of balls when I was seventeen.” His smile faded. “Or ever, come to think of it.”
The door to 221 opened again and Sherlock came shuffling in, rubbing at his eyes. He looked around at us. “What’s on, then?” he said.
We all laughed. God, where to start?
So I spent the day in a state of high anticipation of when I’d get to talk to Zack again. How could I ever have thought that I didn’t feel anything but friendship for him? Had it always been this obvious, and I’d just been profoundly stupid about it?
He wasn’t able to text me until after supper. Meet me at the park. I leapt off my bed, threw on shoes, cast a cursory glance at my appearance in the mirror (same as always, and he apparently didn’t have a problem with it) and ran out with a quick pop-in to Mum to tell her I was going out.
He was waiting for me at the gates, grinning. I ran up and stopped short when I got to him, not knowing what to do. “Um – hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
We stood there fidgeting for a few agonizing moments, not knowing what to do. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I finally said. “This is ridiculous. This is us. We’re not awkward!”
“Haven’t been before. I think things get to be different now.”
I grabbed his hand. “Is that better?”
He stared down at our linked fingers for a moment. “Immensely.”
We grinned at each other like a couple of idiots and set off into the park. “Soooooo,” I said. “I guess this means we’re going together.”
“I mean – it could, if – well, that is – if you want.”
“I could. That is, if you – I mean, I’d assumed…”
He made a frustrated noise, stopped walking, turned toward me and kissed me again. “We’re not good at this talking thing,” he said, once he’d finished with my lips.
“Let’s just walk for awhile and get used to the novel state of affairs.”
“Okay.”
So we did. We walked in total silence, holding hands, until that felt normal. Then we talked about normal things, the same things we’d always talked about. How naff his church is, whether there might be a God or not (I thought not, he thought maybe), how his brother at Oxford is shagging everything that moves, how brill my trip to New York is going to be, that sort of stuff. We didn’t talk about Capital-U Us. Maybe one doesn’t have to. Maybe having a relationship is just living your life except there’s somebody else there, too.
And snogs. Which I did get a few more of. They were lovely.
When I got back I went over to 221. Sherlock was at the table on his laptop, Dad was on the couch with some large stacks of newspapers, engaged in some kind of project involving sorting and writing. “Hello, ducks,” he said. He only calls me that when he’s in a good mood. He was fully dressed but barefoot, and Sherlock’s hair was rumplier than usual. I do my own share of observing and deducing around here, and I knew the signs of a recent shag.
“Hey, Dad.” I flopped down next to him.
“Out with Zack, your Mum said?”
“Yep.”
“So that’s all sorted, then?”
“Obviously,” Sherlock intoned. He could probably tell by the way I was sitting or something. Sometimes I ask, sometimes I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Yes, obviously,” I repeated.
“Good. I like him, Genie. He’s a good lad, always has been.”
“He’ll do well enough for me.”
Dad grinned. “And we know where he lives.”
“Oh, God. What have I let myself in for?”
“I’ve been advised of the dramatics seen in the kitchen this morning,” Sherlock said. “I’m rather sorry I missed them. Although I can’t help suspecting that Mr. Lancaster derived some inspiration for his words or actions from one or another soppy teen romantic comedies.”
“No,” I said. “That was all him. Although it was rather out of character.”
Sherlock met my eyes. “Then I suppose he must have been extraordinarily motivated.”
I blushed. “I guess so.”
I glanced at Dad. He was looking at Sherlock and his face had gone a bit sad, and suddenly I knew that he was thinking about all the years he’d loved him and said nothing, and had thought it was impossible, and all the time that they could have had together if only either of them had done what Zack had just done.
I know that Dad wouldn’t trade having me for anything, and that he doesn’t regret the time he spent with Mum. But I also know that he can feel those things even while he still wishes that he could have spent those years with Sherlock.
Sometimes I don’t envy my dad’s internal life. It must be crowded in there.
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