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madlorificTitle: The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson
Author: MadLori
Length: 3100
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:When I was thirteen, I saw my father kill a man. I suppose I ought to be traumatized by this and have nightmares, and spend hours recounting the incident to my therapist while suddenly going Goth and drawing disturbing watercolors using only black and red paints. Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I’m not traumatized. Do I lack human empathy? Am I some sort of disconnected monster? Or am I just that bloody tough? Dad says some people are wired to be able to deal with trauma better than others. I guess – yay for me?
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Do Not Fold, Spindle or Mutilate
21 December
When I was thirteen, I saw my father kill a man. I suppose I ought to be traumatized by this and have nightmares, and spend hours recounting the incident to my therapist while suddenly going Goth and drawing disturbing watercolors using only black and red paints. Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I’m not traumatized. Do I lack human empathy? Am I some sort of disconnected monster? Or am I just that bloody tough? Dad says some people are wired to be able to deal with trauma better than others. I guess – yay for me?
Dad and Sherlock had taken me to the theater. I was on this whole drama-nerd kick at the time and was devouring Mamet and Chekhov and Tennessee Williams. Sherlock called in one of the approximately eleventy billion favors he is owed by everyone in the world and got us tickets to the sold-out run of Cate Blanchett in “Long Day’s Journey Into Night.” It was fantastic. Afterwards they took me to this lounge-pub sort of place where a lot of theater people hung out. I had fancy coffee drinks and I remember I felt so grown-up. There was a jazz combo playing and I saw some famous people. I sat in this cool zebra-print chair while Dad and Sherlock sat close together on a little divan next to me. Dad was smiley and glowy with a shot or two of expensive whiskey in him and he and Sherlock were being quite handsy with each other. Sherlock had his arm tucked round Dad’s waist and I’m pretty sure he had his hand on his arse for most of the night, while meanwhile Dad’s hand had decided to live on Sherlock’s knee, taking occasional day trips a bit higher up on his thigh. Must have been the close quarters; everybody in the pub was a bit fresh.
We left just before midnight. I was giddy with being allowed to stay out so late. We couldn’t get a taxi so we started walking to a busier street.
I didn’t realize we were in trouble until I heard Sherlock say “John,” in a low, urgent voice.
I looked and there were two rough-looking chaps ahead. I turned and there were two more behind. I felt Sherlock’s hand go into his pocket and his fingers moving, and I knew he was texting the Yard. “We’ll have your wallets, guv,” one of the thugs said.
Dad took out his wallet and held it up. “All right, then.”
Sherlock was slowly rotating so his back was to the alley off to our right, pushing me behind him. The four thugs started to back us into the alley. They probably thought that would give them an advantage, but all it did get us out from being flanked on both sides. I’m telling this all calmly now, but in the moment I was petrified. I hung on to the back of Sherlock’s coat and just waited for it to be over. Nobody was about. The thugs seemed a bit strung-out. Sherlock would later tell me that they were all well high.
One of them pulled a knife. “Think we’ll have the girl too, then,” he growled.
I felt Sherlock’s arm curl around behind him and press me to his back. “John,” he said again.
“Stay with her,” I heard Dad say, but it didn’t sound like his voice, his usual warm, fluffy voice.
“John, there are four of them,” Sherlock said, low.
“You want to turn round and get out of here,” Dad said, addressing the thugs now. “The police are on the way.”
“Don’t think so, mate.” He nodded to two of his mates. “Get the tall one. I’ll get the girl.”
And then they just charged us.
It all happened really fast. Sherlock shoved me down behind a skip but he stayed right in front of me. I saw Dad dodge the knife and grab the thug’s arm, then kick the other one in the stomach. Sherlock lowered his shoulder and flipped one of them over it, then grabbed a length of pipe from the skip and smashed the other one across the face. He went down and didn’t get up again. The first one jumped on Sherlock’s back and got his arm round his throat. Dad punched one across the face and ran to help Sherlock. The head thug, the one with the knife, ran up and swung wild, getting Dad in the arm. Sherlock yelled his name and somehow got the one on his back off of him, did something to his neck and the bloke fell over unconscious. Dad twisted around, grabbed Knife Thug by the arm and struck him backhand with his uninjured arm, hard. The bloke fell against the skip; his neck hit the edge and there was a really awful smooshy crunchy sound.
I heard sirens by then. Dad staggered back, clutching his arm.
“John!” Sherlock said, hurrying to his side. He tore Dad’s jacket off so he could look at his arm.
Dad shook his head. “It’s just a scratch.”
Sherlock nodded. “Quite superficial.” They looked at each other then, both breathing hard with the adrenaline. Dad grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and they kissed, hard and deep, but quick. Dad broke away and hurried over to me.
“Are you all right?” he said, lifting me off the ground and wrapping me up in one arm, keeping the cut one tucked against his chest.
I nodded. Yeah, I was actually all right. The police were coming into the alley then. One of them, a DS, seemed to know Dad and Sherlock. “What happened, Doc?” he said, addressing Dad.
“Muggers. They must be high on something to come after two grown men.”
“This one’s dead,” said one of the coppers, crouching over the Knife Thug.
Dad frowned. “He is?”
“Looks like his neck’s broke against the edge of the skip.”
“I didn’t intend to kill him. He stabbed me, I hit him, he fell.”
The DS shrugged. “Isn’t your fault how he landed. You two disposed of all four of them?” he said, eyes wide.
“It isn’t our first time,” Sherlock muttered. “We’ve had worse from better.” He had his arm wrapped around me too, so I was sandwiched between dads. I could barely breathe. They were both clinging a bit tight. “John’s hurt, Flynn. Did you call an ambulance?”
“I don’t need one,” Dad put in. “It’s a shallow cut. We’ll just pop over to the A&E and have it stitched up.”
“I’ll need to take statements from all three of you.”
“It’ll wait until morning,” Sherlock said, in his don’t-even-think-about-arguing tone. “You know where to find us. I’m taking John to be seen to.”
Flynn sighed. “All right, then. I’m come round your flat in the morning.”
“Fine.” We set off walking to get a cab. One of the coppers was already hailing one for us.
Dad turned and peered down at me, his hands going to my face. “You sure you’re all right, sweetheart? You’re not hurt?”
“I’m okay, Dad.”
His face was a big mass of worry. “God, you’re probably scarred for life.”
“I’m all right. Really.” I was still shaking, though. It had been pretty bloody terrifying, but it was over.
“Let’s call your mother to come collect you,” Dad was saying.
“No! I want to stay with you and Sherlock!”
“Genie, we’re going to the A&E, you ought to go home where you’ll feel safe.”
I just stared at him. I didn’t know quite how to articulate the fact that after what I’d just seen him and Sherlock do, I had never felt safer in my life than I felt standing between them. “Call Mum if you want, but I’m not going home until we can all go home together,” I said, hoping that I sounded like no contradictions would be tolerated.
Dad sighed. “All right. Let’s go, then.”
It’s only as I’ve gotten older that I’ve realized how different my family is, that not only Dad and Sherlock but Mum too could deal with an attempted mugging and possible rape that involved Dad killing a man in self-defense as just par for the course, another event to be totted up. I suppose their attitudes rubbed off on me. Other families would probably have been torn apart with fear and blame and nightmares and therapy after such an occurrence.
As for us, we went to an all-night diner for eggs and bacon after Dad got stitched up, and I told Mum about how Cate Blanchett had totally reinvented the character of Mary Tyrone while Sherlock kept touching Dad, little brushes and pats, like he was making sure he was really okay.
My family, ladies and gentlemen. Barmy and brilliant.
But right now, I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m going a bit barmy myself. I’ve got my limits, after all. I’m spending practically every spare minute sitting by the computer in the so-far vain hope that Sherlock will contact me again. I can’t concentrate at school. I’ve told Leonid not to expect me to come round for awhile; he was surprisingly understanding.
It’s weirdly quiet around here. Dad and I are sort of walking circles around each other and Mum is leaving both of us alone. I can’t speak for him, but it sort of hurts to be around him because there’s this big empty space next to him and I can’t not see it, and if I talk to him we’ll just talk about that, and I can’t bear to talk about it anymore. So even though I want him around and I need his comfort, all that’s trumped by just me wanting to avoid it. Which I know is rather shitty of me. I can’t help it. He’s my dad, he’ll forgive me.
Which leads me to what happened tonight.
Mum and I were doing the washing up after dinner. I heard Dad come home next door. A few minutes later the door into 221 opened up and he walked through – or, more accurately, staggered through.
He’d been beaten up. Badly. There was blood down one side of his face, one eye was blacked and his mouth was bleeding. He was holding his side and limping.
I heard Mum gasp. “John!” she said. She went to him and he sort of half-collapsed against her. She helped him to a chair at the dining room table. I was just standing there like an idiot, frozen to the spot. Mum glanced at me. “Genie, get the first aid kit.”
My paralysis broke and I ran to the bathroom and pulled the kit out from under the sink. Given that this is our household, our first aid kit is a bit better appointed than just some plasters and paracetamol. I ran back to the kitchen where Mum was cleaning his face. Dad was just sort of staring into nothing.
“John, what the hell happened?” Mum asked.
He sighed. “Last night I made contact with a man whose boss might have some information on where Sherlock is. Or at least I thought he might. I was supposed to meet him again tonight, but before I got there…” He trailed off, wincing as Mum cleaned the gash on his forehead. “Four men jumped me. But they weren’t from the man’s boss. Someone else. I think they were with whoever has Sherlock. It was a warning.”
Mum looked down at him, a strange expression on her face. “Genie, go to your room,” she said.
“But, Mum…”
“Go!” she snapped, shooting me a do-not-give-me-shit look.
I went. But I didn’t go far. I ran upstairs, opened and shut the door to my room, then crept back down until I could see them reflected in the hall mirror, and hear what they were saying.
When Mum spoke, she sounded well hacked off. “John, you heard what Mycroft said. How could you? How could you go out and endanger yourself like that?”
“How could I not, Grace? Am I supposed to just sit by and…”
“Yes! This once, for once in your life, sit by and do nothing. Think of Genie.”
“Don’t bring her into this. That’s not fair.”
“Not fair? Not fair? And what if those men had killed you, what then? What am I supposed to tell our daughter if you get yourself killed?” Dad said nothing. Mum sat down opposite him and grabbed his hands. “John, I know how you’re feeling. I know more than anyone how much you love him. But you can’t do this. It’s too dangerous. Genie needs you, I need you. Can’t you think of us?”
“I’m trying,” Dad said. He was hoarse. “I was going to leave it alone, really, I was. I keep telling myself to think of Genie and that Sherlock wouldn’t want me to take chances and all that rubbish.” He looked up at her and the look on his face, God, it made my insides go all watery. “But then things kept popping into my head. Silly things, little things. Like -- the way his voice gets rumbly when he’s asking me to come to bed. Or just that hint of a lisp he has on certain words.” Dad’s head fell into his hands. “I’ll remember his lower lip or his hands or his damn smug smile, and I can’t, Grace, how can I do nothing? I have to do something, anything, whatever I can do, what if he’s stuck there and he can’t do anything about it and he is just waiting for me to get him out and here I am, having Sunday dinner at your parents’ house and treating broken bones at work, God, Grace, you know how much I love Genie but he is my husband, and what kind of a man does that make me if I’m not moving heaven and earth to get him back?”
By the time he was done he sounded broken and choked-up and right on the edge. Mum scooted closer and took his poor bloodied face in her hands. “You want to know what kind of a man you are, John Watson?” she said. “The best one I’ve ever met, that’s what kind. And you have to know when to stop. You’ve never known when to stop, not you or him. It’s my job to tell you so I am telling you to stop.”
“I don’t know if I can do any of this without him,” Dad whispered. I hugged my knees close to my chest, because hearing my dad so unsure and shaky made me feel like I was standing on quicksand, and it might swallow me up at any moment.
“You can. You can and you will. You’re upset and you’re missing him and I know it all feels hopeless, I know just how it feels. John, I’ve lived twenty years without Nathan. I’ve not seen him or talked to him and every day it hurts, it hurts enough not to let me forget, but I’m telling you that it can be done. Sherlock will come back. I know he will. But if he doesn’t, you will still have yourself, and Genie, and you will always, always have me.”
Dad reached up and touched her face. “I love you, Grace.”
She pulled him close and hugged him. “I love you, too.” They sat there hugging for a moment and kissed a bit and I started feeling like it’d be okay. Mum pulled back. “We really should take you to the A&E.”
Dad shook his head. “I’m okay. Just a bit banged up.”
“How do the other chaps look?” Mum asked, smiling a bit.
Dad smiled back. “Two of them had to be carried away, let’s leave it at that.”
I got up and quietly made my way back up to my room. I knew Dad would come up and want to talk before he went to bed, so it wasn’t a surprise when he knocked just after ten. “Come in.”
He came in, moving a bit carefully. He looked a lot better with the blood washed off his face. He had a plaster up by his hair line and his eye was shadowed with a bruise, but other than that he seemed okay. “Not so bad,” he said, smiling.
“You went off and got all stupid, didn’t you?” I said.
“I’m afraid I was.” He sat down on the edge of my bed. “But I promise not to do it again.”
“You said that on Sunday at Nana’s.”
“I know.” He reached out and brushed a finger through my fringe. “I’m sorry, luv. I’m rather thick-headed sometimes.”
“No kidding.”
He gave me a look. “You don’t have to agree so fast.”
“Dad – I want Sherlock back more than anything, but the only thing worse than him never coming back is if you went away, too.”
“I know it feels that way to you. But sometimes all I can think about is him. It’s an unfortunate reality. Love makes people a bit stupid in the head.”
“Even you?”
“Oh, especially me. If you only knew half of the daft things I’ve done to impress people I fancied. I once tried to do a standing back-flip to impress a girl at uni. Sprained my shoulder and bloodied my nose. I’m sure she was dead impressed.”
“What daft things have you done for Sherlock?” I asked, smiling a bit.
“Oh, gosh. Let me think. Well, moved into a flat with a stranger. Chased a cab across London. Carried an illegal firearm. Disguised myself as a Russian ambassador. Examined dead bodies well past their sell-by. Rigged a house to make the owner think a poltergeist lived there. Gone without sleep for days on end. Bought all the groceries, and I do mean all.” He laughed to himself a bit, then reached out and pulled me close. I snuggled into his chest and hugged him back. “Near enough everything I’ve done for twenty years has been for him. Except the things that have been for you. You should come first, Genie. I should be a parent first and a husband second. But sometimes I’m weak and I don’t do the right thing.”
“You’re not weak, Dad.”
“I try not to be. And now, I promise you it’s done.” I felt him shudder.
“I don’t want you to let him go.”
“I won’t. I can’t. I’ll never let him go, not as long as I live. But if I can’t help him, if I really can’t, then I’ll stop trying.” I hated to hear him say that, but one look at his bruised face and I knew he had to.
Dad hugged me tighter, and for the first time since this whole nightmare began, we cried together.
Next Entry
Author: MadLori
Length: 3100
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:When I was thirteen, I saw my father kill a man. I suppose I ought to be traumatized by this and have nightmares, and spend hours recounting the incident to my therapist while suddenly going Goth and drawing disturbing watercolors using only black and red paints. Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I’m not traumatized. Do I lack human empathy? Am I some sort of disconnected monster? Or am I just that bloody tough? Dad says some people are wired to be able to deal with trauma better than others. I guess – yay for me?
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Do Not Fold, Spindle or Mutilate
21 December
When I was thirteen, I saw my father kill a man. I suppose I ought to be traumatized by this and have nightmares, and spend hours recounting the incident to my therapist while suddenly going Goth and drawing disturbing watercolors using only black and red paints. Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I’m not traumatized. Do I lack human empathy? Am I some sort of disconnected monster? Or am I just that bloody tough? Dad says some people are wired to be able to deal with trauma better than others. I guess – yay for me?
Dad and Sherlock had taken me to the theater. I was on this whole drama-nerd kick at the time and was devouring Mamet and Chekhov and Tennessee Williams. Sherlock called in one of the approximately eleventy billion favors he is owed by everyone in the world and got us tickets to the sold-out run of Cate Blanchett in “Long Day’s Journey Into Night.” It was fantastic. Afterwards they took me to this lounge-pub sort of place where a lot of theater people hung out. I had fancy coffee drinks and I remember I felt so grown-up. There was a jazz combo playing and I saw some famous people. I sat in this cool zebra-print chair while Dad and Sherlock sat close together on a little divan next to me. Dad was smiley and glowy with a shot or two of expensive whiskey in him and he and Sherlock were being quite handsy with each other. Sherlock had his arm tucked round Dad’s waist and I’m pretty sure he had his hand on his arse for most of the night, while meanwhile Dad’s hand had decided to live on Sherlock’s knee, taking occasional day trips a bit higher up on his thigh. Must have been the close quarters; everybody in the pub was a bit fresh.
We left just before midnight. I was giddy with being allowed to stay out so late. We couldn’t get a taxi so we started walking to a busier street.
I didn’t realize we were in trouble until I heard Sherlock say “John,” in a low, urgent voice.
I looked and there were two rough-looking chaps ahead. I turned and there were two more behind. I felt Sherlock’s hand go into his pocket and his fingers moving, and I knew he was texting the Yard. “We’ll have your wallets, guv,” one of the thugs said.
Dad took out his wallet and held it up. “All right, then.”
Sherlock was slowly rotating so his back was to the alley off to our right, pushing me behind him. The four thugs started to back us into the alley. They probably thought that would give them an advantage, but all it did get us out from being flanked on both sides. I’m telling this all calmly now, but in the moment I was petrified. I hung on to the back of Sherlock’s coat and just waited for it to be over. Nobody was about. The thugs seemed a bit strung-out. Sherlock would later tell me that they were all well high.
One of them pulled a knife. “Think we’ll have the girl too, then,” he growled.
I felt Sherlock’s arm curl around behind him and press me to his back. “John,” he said again.
“Stay with her,” I heard Dad say, but it didn’t sound like his voice, his usual warm, fluffy voice.
“John, there are four of them,” Sherlock said, low.
“You want to turn round and get out of here,” Dad said, addressing the thugs now. “The police are on the way.”
“Don’t think so, mate.” He nodded to two of his mates. “Get the tall one. I’ll get the girl.”
And then they just charged us.
It all happened really fast. Sherlock shoved me down behind a skip but he stayed right in front of me. I saw Dad dodge the knife and grab the thug’s arm, then kick the other one in the stomach. Sherlock lowered his shoulder and flipped one of them over it, then grabbed a length of pipe from the skip and smashed the other one across the face. He went down and didn’t get up again. The first one jumped on Sherlock’s back and got his arm round his throat. Dad punched one across the face and ran to help Sherlock. The head thug, the one with the knife, ran up and swung wild, getting Dad in the arm. Sherlock yelled his name and somehow got the one on his back off of him, did something to his neck and the bloke fell over unconscious. Dad twisted around, grabbed Knife Thug by the arm and struck him backhand with his uninjured arm, hard. The bloke fell against the skip; his neck hit the edge and there was a really awful smooshy crunchy sound.
I heard sirens by then. Dad staggered back, clutching his arm.
“John!” Sherlock said, hurrying to his side. He tore Dad’s jacket off so he could look at his arm.
Dad shook his head. “It’s just a scratch.”
Sherlock nodded. “Quite superficial.” They looked at each other then, both breathing hard with the adrenaline. Dad grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and they kissed, hard and deep, but quick. Dad broke away and hurried over to me.
“Are you all right?” he said, lifting me off the ground and wrapping me up in one arm, keeping the cut one tucked against his chest.
I nodded. Yeah, I was actually all right. The police were coming into the alley then. One of them, a DS, seemed to know Dad and Sherlock. “What happened, Doc?” he said, addressing Dad.
“Muggers. They must be high on something to come after two grown men.”
“This one’s dead,” said one of the coppers, crouching over the Knife Thug.
Dad frowned. “He is?”
“Looks like his neck’s broke against the edge of the skip.”
“I didn’t intend to kill him. He stabbed me, I hit him, he fell.”
The DS shrugged. “Isn’t your fault how he landed. You two disposed of all four of them?” he said, eyes wide.
“It isn’t our first time,” Sherlock muttered. “We’ve had worse from better.” He had his arm wrapped around me too, so I was sandwiched between dads. I could barely breathe. They were both clinging a bit tight. “John’s hurt, Flynn. Did you call an ambulance?”
“I don’t need one,” Dad put in. “It’s a shallow cut. We’ll just pop over to the A&E and have it stitched up.”
“I’ll need to take statements from all three of you.”
“It’ll wait until morning,” Sherlock said, in his don’t-even-think-about-arguing tone. “You know where to find us. I’m taking John to be seen to.”
Flynn sighed. “All right, then. I’m come round your flat in the morning.”
“Fine.” We set off walking to get a cab. One of the coppers was already hailing one for us.
Dad turned and peered down at me, his hands going to my face. “You sure you’re all right, sweetheart? You’re not hurt?”
“I’m okay, Dad.”
His face was a big mass of worry. “God, you’re probably scarred for life.”
“I’m all right. Really.” I was still shaking, though. It had been pretty bloody terrifying, but it was over.
“Let’s call your mother to come collect you,” Dad was saying.
“No! I want to stay with you and Sherlock!”
“Genie, we’re going to the A&E, you ought to go home where you’ll feel safe.”
I just stared at him. I didn’t know quite how to articulate the fact that after what I’d just seen him and Sherlock do, I had never felt safer in my life than I felt standing between them. “Call Mum if you want, but I’m not going home until we can all go home together,” I said, hoping that I sounded like no contradictions would be tolerated.
Dad sighed. “All right. Let’s go, then.”
It’s only as I’ve gotten older that I’ve realized how different my family is, that not only Dad and Sherlock but Mum too could deal with an attempted mugging and possible rape that involved Dad killing a man in self-defense as just par for the course, another event to be totted up. I suppose their attitudes rubbed off on me. Other families would probably have been torn apart with fear and blame and nightmares and therapy after such an occurrence.
As for us, we went to an all-night diner for eggs and bacon after Dad got stitched up, and I told Mum about how Cate Blanchett had totally reinvented the character of Mary Tyrone while Sherlock kept touching Dad, little brushes and pats, like he was making sure he was really okay.
My family, ladies and gentlemen. Barmy and brilliant.
But right now, I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m going a bit barmy myself. I’ve got my limits, after all. I’m spending practically every spare minute sitting by the computer in the so-far vain hope that Sherlock will contact me again. I can’t concentrate at school. I’ve told Leonid not to expect me to come round for awhile; he was surprisingly understanding.
It’s weirdly quiet around here. Dad and I are sort of walking circles around each other and Mum is leaving both of us alone. I can’t speak for him, but it sort of hurts to be around him because there’s this big empty space next to him and I can’t not see it, and if I talk to him we’ll just talk about that, and I can’t bear to talk about it anymore. So even though I want him around and I need his comfort, all that’s trumped by just me wanting to avoid it. Which I know is rather shitty of me. I can’t help it. He’s my dad, he’ll forgive me.
Which leads me to what happened tonight.
Mum and I were doing the washing up after dinner. I heard Dad come home next door. A few minutes later the door into 221 opened up and he walked through – or, more accurately, staggered through.
He’d been beaten up. Badly. There was blood down one side of his face, one eye was blacked and his mouth was bleeding. He was holding his side and limping.
I heard Mum gasp. “John!” she said. She went to him and he sort of half-collapsed against her. She helped him to a chair at the dining room table. I was just standing there like an idiot, frozen to the spot. Mum glanced at me. “Genie, get the first aid kit.”
My paralysis broke and I ran to the bathroom and pulled the kit out from under the sink. Given that this is our household, our first aid kit is a bit better appointed than just some plasters and paracetamol. I ran back to the kitchen where Mum was cleaning his face. Dad was just sort of staring into nothing.
“John, what the hell happened?” Mum asked.
He sighed. “Last night I made contact with a man whose boss might have some information on where Sherlock is. Or at least I thought he might. I was supposed to meet him again tonight, but before I got there…” He trailed off, wincing as Mum cleaned the gash on his forehead. “Four men jumped me. But they weren’t from the man’s boss. Someone else. I think they were with whoever has Sherlock. It was a warning.”
Mum looked down at him, a strange expression on her face. “Genie, go to your room,” she said.
“But, Mum…”
“Go!” she snapped, shooting me a do-not-give-me-shit look.
I went. But I didn’t go far. I ran upstairs, opened and shut the door to my room, then crept back down until I could see them reflected in the hall mirror, and hear what they were saying.
When Mum spoke, she sounded well hacked off. “John, you heard what Mycroft said. How could you? How could you go out and endanger yourself like that?”
“How could I not, Grace? Am I supposed to just sit by and…”
“Yes! This once, for once in your life, sit by and do nothing. Think of Genie.”
“Don’t bring her into this. That’s not fair.”
“Not fair? Not fair? And what if those men had killed you, what then? What am I supposed to tell our daughter if you get yourself killed?” Dad said nothing. Mum sat down opposite him and grabbed his hands. “John, I know how you’re feeling. I know more than anyone how much you love him. But you can’t do this. It’s too dangerous. Genie needs you, I need you. Can’t you think of us?”
“I’m trying,” Dad said. He was hoarse. “I was going to leave it alone, really, I was. I keep telling myself to think of Genie and that Sherlock wouldn’t want me to take chances and all that rubbish.” He looked up at her and the look on his face, God, it made my insides go all watery. “But then things kept popping into my head. Silly things, little things. Like -- the way his voice gets rumbly when he’s asking me to come to bed. Or just that hint of a lisp he has on certain words.” Dad’s head fell into his hands. “I’ll remember his lower lip or his hands or his damn smug smile, and I can’t, Grace, how can I do nothing? I have to do something, anything, whatever I can do, what if he’s stuck there and he can’t do anything about it and he is just waiting for me to get him out and here I am, having Sunday dinner at your parents’ house and treating broken bones at work, God, Grace, you know how much I love Genie but he is my husband, and what kind of a man does that make me if I’m not moving heaven and earth to get him back?”
By the time he was done he sounded broken and choked-up and right on the edge. Mum scooted closer and took his poor bloodied face in her hands. “You want to know what kind of a man you are, John Watson?” she said. “The best one I’ve ever met, that’s what kind. And you have to know when to stop. You’ve never known when to stop, not you or him. It’s my job to tell you so I am telling you to stop.”
“I don’t know if I can do any of this without him,” Dad whispered. I hugged my knees close to my chest, because hearing my dad so unsure and shaky made me feel like I was standing on quicksand, and it might swallow me up at any moment.
“You can. You can and you will. You’re upset and you’re missing him and I know it all feels hopeless, I know just how it feels. John, I’ve lived twenty years without Nathan. I’ve not seen him or talked to him and every day it hurts, it hurts enough not to let me forget, but I’m telling you that it can be done. Sherlock will come back. I know he will. But if he doesn’t, you will still have yourself, and Genie, and you will always, always have me.”
Dad reached up and touched her face. “I love you, Grace.”
She pulled him close and hugged him. “I love you, too.” They sat there hugging for a moment and kissed a bit and I started feeling like it’d be okay. Mum pulled back. “We really should take you to the A&E.”
Dad shook his head. “I’m okay. Just a bit banged up.”
“How do the other chaps look?” Mum asked, smiling a bit.
Dad smiled back. “Two of them had to be carried away, let’s leave it at that.”
I got up and quietly made my way back up to my room. I knew Dad would come up and want to talk before he went to bed, so it wasn’t a surprise when he knocked just after ten. “Come in.”
He came in, moving a bit carefully. He looked a lot better with the blood washed off his face. He had a plaster up by his hair line and his eye was shadowed with a bruise, but other than that he seemed okay. “Not so bad,” he said, smiling.
“You went off and got all stupid, didn’t you?” I said.
“I’m afraid I was.” He sat down on the edge of my bed. “But I promise not to do it again.”
“You said that on Sunday at Nana’s.”
“I know.” He reached out and brushed a finger through my fringe. “I’m sorry, luv. I’m rather thick-headed sometimes.”
“No kidding.”
He gave me a look. “You don’t have to agree so fast.”
“Dad – I want Sherlock back more than anything, but the only thing worse than him never coming back is if you went away, too.”
“I know it feels that way to you. But sometimes all I can think about is him. It’s an unfortunate reality. Love makes people a bit stupid in the head.”
“Even you?”
“Oh, especially me. If you only knew half of the daft things I’ve done to impress people I fancied. I once tried to do a standing back-flip to impress a girl at uni. Sprained my shoulder and bloodied my nose. I’m sure she was dead impressed.”
“What daft things have you done for Sherlock?” I asked, smiling a bit.
“Oh, gosh. Let me think. Well, moved into a flat with a stranger. Chased a cab across London. Carried an illegal firearm. Disguised myself as a Russian ambassador. Examined dead bodies well past their sell-by. Rigged a house to make the owner think a poltergeist lived there. Gone without sleep for days on end. Bought all the groceries, and I do mean all.” He laughed to himself a bit, then reached out and pulled me close. I snuggled into his chest and hugged him back. “Near enough everything I’ve done for twenty years has been for him. Except the things that have been for you. You should come first, Genie. I should be a parent first and a husband second. But sometimes I’m weak and I don’t do the right thing.”
“You’re not weak, Dad.”
“I try not to be. And now, I promise you it’s done.” I felt him shudder.
“I don’t want you to let him go.”
“I won’t. I can’t. I’ll never let him go, not as long as I live. But if I can’t help him, if I really can’t, then I’ll stop trying.” I hated to hear him say that, but one look at his bruised face and I knew he had to.
Dad hugged me tighter, and for the first time since this whole nightmare began, we cried together.
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Date: 2011-07-17 04:38 am (UTC)I kid, of course. I love me some delicious angst as much as the next person. Bonus points for working in Benedict's lithp (hee)
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Date: 2011-07-17 06:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-18 04:34 am (UTC)I get away with a lot, having a small secluded office
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Date: 2011-07-17 05:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 06:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 06:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 09:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 06:23 pm (UTC)Can't say how long it'll be before we see Sherlock again. All I can say for sure is it won't be the next entry.
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Date: 2011-07-17 09:15 pm (UTC)*bites nails*
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Date: 2011-07-17 10:31 am (UTC)Oh my God, BAMF John.
I'm quite confused, because as much as I'd like to see Sherlock back, we'll have more delicious flashbacks the longer he's gone. Oh, and I can't imagine how BAMF Sherlock and John (and Mycroft *fingers crossed*) will have to be to get Sherlock out of this mess.
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Date: 2011-07-17 06:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 10:42 am (UTC)(But it would be really cool if Genie and John and Grace rescued him quietly with family badassitude... Stop starting plot bunnies!)
Ahem. And, er, write more, write faster, please!
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Date: 2011-07-17 06:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 11:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 06:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 03:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 04:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 05:28 pm (UTC)Real life issues are playing a part, but nevertheless just seeing your post had me all newly crowned Miss American, with a gasp, tears streaming down my face, shaky hand pressed to my mouth. I miss him as if he is gone from MY life like any other fics or rewatches of the tattered three eps are memories and not him in real time.
You have been true to your writer self and paced this with restraint and understatement. I hope you are giving yourself big rewards for that big task.
The flashback is not gratuitiouis BAMF or a stalling tactic but a way of showing how John could go in there and take care of business, and therefore, how devastating the wait is to a man of action. (and he said "my husband" again. Thank you!)
You have also shown the very real conflict here of loving Genie and loving Sherlock, being torn. I'm crying but I'm also feeling squirmy shame and frustration. I have to find the rest of your stuff cuz this is your kid fic for god's sake. wow
I am awed more each time. Will need to start reading your posts with sunglasses on.
While a court of law would never convict you of my premature death, let your humanity guide your writing pace. I'm not sure that my tendency toward penance and self punishment is being helped by the massive forty eight hour waits between posts. ;)
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Date: 2011-07-17 06:52 pm (UTC)I'd wanted to do that BAMF flashback for awhile, ever since Genie casually mentioned that she'd seen John kill someone once, and this seemed the appropriate time.
I'm hoping to have a new entry up tonight, am working on it now.
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Date: 2011-07-17 05:59 pm (UTC)More, please, SOON, if it can be contrived . . .
Kisses, Spencerphile
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Date: 2011-07-18 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-18 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-18 01:46 am (UTC)I do not go for established relationships, I do not go for family fics - especially not to this extreme degree and I do not generally enjoy original characters.
This fic is EXCELLENT. It's so *perfectly* in character (unbelievably because this could never happen in canon). The way you write Sherlock is gorgeous and at times has had me doing full-bodied squirming-in-bed "AWWWWWWWW!"s and Genie is a brilliant, complete character. I love Grace and Zack too. I love all the extra plot about Chess and all the crazy family members. It is just so all-encompassing. It's... perfect. I would say it's lacking in porn but the tender moments MORE than make up for it. They are beautiful. The relationships between Sherlock and John and Sherlock and Genie are just so nice and lovely and the way they're all family but not in a sickening OOC lovey dovey schmoopy way.
Ahhh!
Update soon please!
(Also, if you ever decide to write the night of the scar-creating incident from John or Sherlock's p.o.v PLEASE LET ME KNOW! And I can't wait until we get to read Sherlock's letter. OH PLEASE SAY WE DOO!!!)
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Date: 2011-07-18 02:07 am (UTC)Thanks for your comment, I appreciate it. And yes, I too am sad for no porn but this format really doesn't let me do much with that, given that I'm restricted to what Genie sees and hears.
I am working on what I call the "origin story" for this universe, the story of how John and Sherlock got together, and how this unusual family created itself out of that, and it does include the full account of Genie's accident. I'm making good progress on it and I will be posting it here and at SBBC and such when it's ready.
I just posted a new blog entry, so there you go!
<3
Date: 2011-07-18 10:35 am (UTC)But now -HURRAY! - I shall go and read the new chapter.
And also HURRAY for the origins story! You're my favourite person right now.
(And what made me give it a chance was having read Alone On The Water first. *sniffle*)
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Date: 2011-07-18 02:50 am (UTC)And yay for Grace, for saying what needed to be said no matter how hard it was to say or for John to hear. :(
There's still hope. *hopes very HARD*