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Harriet Watson-Holmes junior began to realise that something was wrong probably when she was around ten years old. Later, she would think that it was her own relatively oblivious nature that made it take so long for her to recognise that what she saw in her reflection was a bit of a problem.
Of course, aside from the glaring issue, she supposed she was a relatively normal human being. At least, as normal as one was when being raised by an ex-army doctor and a consulting detective for Scotland Yard. Well-adjusted in most people’s opinions, she had a tumble of dark blonde curls that fell to her waist and the Watson’s stocky figure, with her aunt’s curves showing hints by the time she was twelve. Harriet looked very much like her namesake, though she only knew from old photographs handed to her. Harriet Watson had only participated in her making by loaning her genetics, the woman’s alcohol-free quest only lasting a few scant years before disaster struck and she disappeared once more into the maze of London.
John, Harriet’s father in all ways but blood, hadn’t looked for her after that, as he hadn’t been able to forgive his sister for leaving a baby on his doorstep. Even if said baby was in fact, his niece. As a result, when Harriet was told that she looked like her aunt, she found herself often as a child only blankly absorbing the information.
In the darkest of thoughts, she wished her genes had come from the Holmes side of her family.
Sherlock Holmes was undeniably the parent that stood out at bake sale meetings and parent-teacher conferences, often because he wasn’t exactly known for being punctual to them. John was the friendlier of the two, the one more likely to volunteer to be a parent for a field trip or to show up to Harriet’s dance recitals. It hadn’t bothered her much as a little girl truthfully, as she was aware that her father loved her in his own entertaining and unique way. Harriet was the only child she knew that at the age of eight had seen a dead body. Granted, it had been a simple poisoning, so it hadn’t been too grisly. She was the only girl she knew that had half of Scotland Yard in her phone book, and not from any crime on her part.
She also had a separate list of people with moderately grey links that would probably best not be mentioned to said Yarders.
Yes, Harriet had never questioned either of her parents on the strength of their affection for her, as to do so would have been an insult to her intelligence.
She was not smart enough to match her father’s brilliance, and it irked her from time to time, how even though she was leagues ahead of most of the students in her class, her father would likely always be more brilliant. He would always know if she were sneaking off to a party, could tell when she was hiding a bad test. As a child it had been like magic, watching those sharp blue eyes dart to her face and then towards John, the detective’s mouth opening to reveal her secrets without thinking.
It had both saved her from trouble a number of times, and yet also gotten her grounded more times than she could count.
Yet Harriet had one secret, kept deep within the recess of her mind. A secret she didn’t even acknowledge most days, lest her father read her mind. It was locked inside the wells of obliviousness on her part, brought only to the surface when there was absolutely no other choice. Usually, in the middle of the night, staring at the mirror and frowning at their own reflection.
Harriet Watson-Holmes’ biggest secret was that simply, they weren’t Harriet.
What they were, they weren’t completely sure, but it wasn’t what stared at her with large blue eyes and too-large hips and soft curves. It wasn’t it at all.
It was this conclusion, made in the dark as they brushed their bangs to hide their face from view, that filled Harriet with an uncomfortable prickle of fear along the back of their neck. That something was wrong, and that they weren’t sure what, but it was enough to make their skin crawl and the pit of their stomach feel heavy like they had swallowed stones.
Downstairs distantly, her father moved. An insomniac as much as his daughter, Sherlock Holmes was likely elbows-deep in some experiment or another. Possibly quite literally. The sixteen year old hissed a breath through their lips at the noise, for some reason frightened by it. Turning, Harriet ran for her bed, the illusion shattered by the curling of her upper lip in the mirror and the flash of panic in her eyes.
She did not sleep well that night.
****
It continued to have no name, even as she continued with her studies, even as she wandered through class upon class like a ghost, preoccupied and uninterested in mindless drabble. She was a shade, followed only by her friend Alex, stealing cigarettes from his pockets between breaks and borrowing his jacket so that the scent of tobacco didn’t linger on her skin for her dad or her father’s keen noses to pick up upon. The smoke trailed from her lips like the curling wisps of ghosts, creating a halo up and across the metal lip of the bicycle racks beside them. Her friend’s dark ginger hair shone copper-bright, and his pale eyes were warm and friendly as they were questioning in their inquiry.
“Something up? You don’t seem yourself lately.”
Exhaling softly, Harriet flicked the end of her cigarette onto the pavement. It spat red-hot sparks, swiftly turning to ash.
“And how is that? ‘Myself?’” The cryptic question caused Alex’s brows to furrow slightly in confusion, a small shrug moving his shoulders. He seemed to struggle to find the right explanation, as he scratched at the cuff of his shirt-sleeve and seemed to ponder it a moment before breaking into a triumphant smile. He clicked his fingers in success.
“It’s your attitude. You’ve been pissy for about two weeks now. Ever since we started the reproductive unit in bio. Mrs Powell even noticed that time when you snapped an answer to her question.”
Harriet resisted the urge to cringe, her reaction as instinctive as it had been unnecessary. She hadn’t really been able to stop it, the way her teeth had grit themselves together, the flare of annoyance coming unbidden and unrestrained.
She thought it had been in the way Mrs Powell had phrased it.
Harriet, what is the scientific name for a woman’s menstruation?
Such a stupid question, and what was more why did it bother her so? There was no logical answer, and when logic did not present itself Harriet often grew impatient like her father. She snubbed the rest of her cigarette out, shoving her hands into her pockets.
“I’m tired of being the smart one in class. The others can get their own answers.” She blurted. Though it was not technically the truth, Alex blinked slowly, seeming to mull it over and accept it in his mind. His voice was soft, and in it was a friendship that for some reason, made the young Watson-Holmes have the strangest compulsion to cry.
“As you wish.”
From that point on in the week, Alex didn’t ask her a single answer for his homework. It was oddly comforting, though it didn’t fix the niggling wrongness that Harriet felt itching just underneath her skin.
****
The issue with breasts, Harriet thought, was that sometimes they were a ridiculous hindrance. She could run three miles when pushed, could lift herself up on a metal bar and hold herself there and barely break a sweat, yet when she was asked to do press-ups she struggled after her fifth, sweat pooling down her spine and a solid ache lancing through her upper ribcage.
She told herself it was so that she could get a better grade in PE that she bought the sports bra a size too small. Its tightness compressed her chest, squeezed it into a newer, flatter shape.
After, she managed fifteen press-ups.
Looking in the mirror that night, she felt as if something had changed, staring into her reflection in the dark. However when she tentatively asked her father if he noticed anything different from her, the darkly-curled detective merely raised his head up from peering over his microscope, and sweeped her form in appraisal. His mercurial observation offered her little.
“Watch the smoking, or your Dad will have both of our heads.”
Just for that, she nicked the man’s pack from his coat pocket on her way to school.
****
The bandages came next, though again Harriet wasn’t completely sure why having her breasts out suddenly caused her such discomfort. Winding the damn binding about her chest hurt, and like a boa constrictor tightening itself around helpless prey, it only grew more constrictive as the day went on. By the end of last period, she often found herself out of breath, having to excuse herself to the loo to adjust the wrapping now and again. Miss Scarlet, her English teacher, asked if she had a fever. Harriet had merely smiled weakly, admitting only to a small headache instead of a jabbing pain along her lungs.
She took them off when she got home, so that by the time her parents arrived home from work (or in her father’s case, the morgue) nothing was amiss. Her dad would arrive home, see his daughter curled upon the couch, a smile coming into his tired blue eyes at the sight. His daughter, his only child, his little girl. John loved Harriet fiercely, seeing her not only as a relic of his sister before the alcoholism, but as a symbol of his love with Sherlock. She had always been his little girl. He didn’t notice how she’d scratch sometimes at the raised acne that collected along her back like starburst constellations from the binding, or how if he hugged her, she’d sometimes wince minutely.
Harriet tried to avoid Sherlock, if she were particularly sore.
At a public library, nervously keeping an eye out for any curious librarians, the teenager carefully searched into Google- Wanting to bind your breasts down. The result left Harriet curled over the desk and gripping the long locks of hair that tumbled down their shoulders. If they didn’t move, the sick feeling of dread would cease its clawing up their throat, would end its whispering and panicked mantra of You’re going to ruin everything.
****
Transgender.
Genderqueer.
Genderfluid.
FTM
Bigender.
nonbinary.
Pangender.
The list when on and on and on and on and on, stuck in a feedback loop that played through Harriet’s mind and flashed in bold letters when they closed their eyes. Imprinted to the backs of their eyelids. Labels and names and titles that sounded both foreign to their tongue and yet familiar. Harriet had heard a few of the terms before, although usually in the other direction. Men wanting to become women. They were now and again the victims of violent murders, and so her father had worked their cases. The headlines popped out at her during study hall like red signs, the names placed next to savagely murdered, strangled or raped.
The young Watson-Holmes tried not to feel as though the steel knot in their stomach was tightening, but it was a factor rather hard to ignore.
Realistically, Harriet had to admit a part of them was already stressed to begin with. Final exams tended to make them nervous, especially since it was an important year. The determination to do well had dwindled lately, dwarfed by their preoccupied obsession with finding… whatever it was that they were.
When focused on a puzzle, Harriet had a habit of becoming preoccupied. As a result, they didn’t notice that her father, like sensing an east wind coming, was beginning to sense something was wrong with the relatively controlled chaos that was 221 B, an uneasiness descending that lingered along the shoulders of his only daughter’s form.
Something was wrong with Harriet.
****
The first time breathing became painful even after the bandages were loosened, Harriet felt a clawing panic climb itself upwards in her throat. Like sour bile it sat uncomfortably in her mouth, stinging almost as much as the purpling bruises dotting along her ribs. In the mirror it was a horrific watercolour piece, fading into yellows and ugly greens. It made a pattern from her lower ribs up to the tissue of her breasts. A part of her knew she should take a break, should stop.
Biting her lip, Harriet couldn’t quite bring herself to when she looked at herself head on and saw the widening flare of her hips.
****
Sherlock’s mind-palace played the scene out before his eyes, again and again. It was a guilty pleasure, something he would never admit to John, but when he was particularly bored, the detective had a habit of repeating his favourite memories in the safety of his own thoughts. This one was one that he revisited often.
Harriet, much smaller than she was now and infinitely more fragile, was chasing a butterfly. Her hands were outstretched pleadingly, blue eyes wide and focused upon the object of her desires as if it were a precious gem. The spring of her curls bobbed with her movements as she painstakingly wobbled forward step by step, legs unsteady but determination strong. Behind her, Sherlock kept his voice low and informative.
“Butterfly, Harriet. It’s called a butterfly. Specifically, a Monarch.”
“Butterfwy.” Harriet had sounded out the word thoughtfully, rolling it around in her mind. The toddler pointed at the hovering creature, the brilliant orange of its wings bright in the sunlight. She looked pleadingly at her father, eyes huge. “Want.”
Sherlock could remember the pull of the smile he fought to conceal on his face, how it threatened to overtake his features anyway. Crouching as he was like a spider over the ground, His dark curls made a sharp contrast with his child’s lighter features. His hands came to wrap about her middle, pulling her backwards suddenly for a kiss upon her head. Harriet squealed, kicking and giggling animatedly at the unexpected attention.
The butterfly flew away with all of the noise she had created, fluttering like leaves on the wind into the summer air. His child. His Harriet.
****
In retrospect, it had been a bad idea to get plastered specifically to justify getting into a fight. Dad would kill her later on, that much Harriet was sure of. To be fair however, the guy had been asking for it.
The Red Fox was a favourite hangout for teenagers, and Alex knew one of the bartenders. An old friend, the two had a silent agreement that Alex and his friends (Aka: Harriet) would get free drinks, in exchange Alex twice a week would do a strip tease for the audience. Eight years of ballet turned out to be good for something, when it came to pole dancing at least. The one drawback was that Alex was attractive. And though that made his job relatively easy, it also meant that some people didn’t know how to take the word “No.”
It was in this way that Harriet caught the hand of a guy hovering dangerously close to Alex’s drink, and felt red wash her vision in outrage. It was without thinking that she pushed forward, loudly calling the man out for it, interrupting the conversation he was trying to have with her friend (the sounds of it implied that Alex was most definitely not interested).
“Fuck off already, mate.” Harriett snapped, her hands tightening at her sides. The man, early twenties and about as tall as her father, sneered down at her. His voice was dismissive and rude.
“How’re you gonna make me, you’re pint-sized! Fuck off, girl.”
The word made Harriet’s vision redden further. Without thinking, years of their dad’s advice rung in their ears.
Just because you’re short, doesn’t mean you can’t cause damage.
When they came back to themselves, the man’s irritating smirk was gone. It had been replaced with a rather nasty-looking split lip and black-eye. Harriet was straddling them on the ground, chest heaving from exertion. It was Alex’s voice that came back first, filtering through the panicked rush of sound and their own heartbeat. Their friend’s voice felt loud and booming in the silence.
“Fucking hell, I don’t think I’ve seen you move that fast since the free pretzel day at school!”
****
Alex kissed them as thanks, later that night. His lips had been chapped, his breath sweet, and his body had been warm and familiar. Harriet wasn’t sure how they felt about it. Only that when he moved away, they had a sudden image of what it might be like to kiss with stubble on their face.
The phantom, wondering thought lingered with them like a haunting for the remainder of their walk home from the tube.
****
It was only later that Harriet’s split knuckles became something she was even somewhat consciously aware of. Unfortunately upon her arrival home, her father was quick to pick up on them too.
It seemed like only a moment, but suddenly both the consulting detective and his husband were in the room, looking at Harriet in disapproval as she froze in the living room, trying to come up with a justification for the events of earlier. The bruising along the tendons of her hand seemed to blare out borderline warning signals, like red paint splashed across white canvas. Sherlock noticed instantly.
“Spending your friday nights getting into bar fights now?”
It wasn’t a question, a deduction in its sharpness and severity of accusation. Harriet winced, already getting a feel for how this was going to do. Shite, they had fucked up badly.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. The other guy fared worse.”
Her dad’s smile was most definitely not amused, more a tick of annoyance. John’s voice was dangerously calm.
“That is most definitely not the point.”
Harriet’s shoulders slumped, and in true Sherlockian fashion she dropped the mask of placidness and scowled. Like a thunderstorm personified, she snapped.
“The asshole was trying to roofie Alex! He deserved it!”
And I felt better, at least a bit afterwards. I felt Normal.
But the last of her thoughts went unspoken.
As it was, she very much doubted her dad, captain in the army as he had been, would even take it as an excuse to lose control.
****
Hamish.
They tried the name in their head, rolling it around even as they flexed the bandaged palm of their hand. It was their dad’s middle name, and he wouldn’t care much anyway if things went south. He didn’t like the name much to begin with.
Flex-unflex. Flex-unflex.
Hamish.
It… it fit.
Damn it all.
It fit.
For a moment, lying in bed, Harriet dared to utter it aloud.
“Hamish Watson-Holmes. He. Him” It felt like a prayer for salvation. It was just another name, surely, his dad wouldn’t mind.
****
Harrie- No, Hamish, cut their hair that weekend.
It was messy- they didn’t want to bother either of their parents for the money and besides which, John was still mad about the fight. So, Hamish tried to do it himself. Which, in retrospect, was a disaster just waiting to happen. The electric razor was a mess looking to happen, his fingers were trembling too hard to still themselves, and the teen ended up looking in the mirror and feeling as though he was the strange lovechild of a Bond villain and Brittany Spears during the emotional breakdown phase of her career.
It was in this way he found himself at Alex’s door, the hoodie he’d slipped on over his shoulders hiding the damage done. His friend opened the door, slice of pizza in hand, and promptly dropped his snack in shock. Hamish waited patiently for his friend to get over his apoplexy, an unimpressed expression seeping into his features when his friend began making strange wheezing sounds. When the ginger teen seemed to finally grab hold of himself, it was to choke out a cackling “Get into a fight with Edward Scissor-hands lately?”
The other boy punched him in the arm.
****
Under the methodical clip of Alex’s clippers, Hamish sat propped up on a kitchen stool. Now that the adrenaline had faded away, knots of worry were beginning to entangle themselves within him, a steady ache building just at the base of his spine. His dad had always said that Hamish’s hair had reminded him of aunt Harriet- What would he say when he saw this mess?
Worse, Hamish cringed at the idea of what her father might deduce about his newly-shorn mop. Words from his father’s deductions sped through his mind, cruel jibes such as obvious, plebian and pedestrian.
He feared Sherlock’s dismissal, more than his hatred, because the detective’s hatred at the very least would mean that Hamish would have an excuse to be angry. Disappointment however, would be a mite bit more difficult to handle. Accept. He hadn’t even realised he was trembling, minute shivers running down his spine until Alex was touching the back of his neck. Hamish’s friend looked at him with eyebrows that were knotted in concern.
“Harriet? You okay, mate? You’ve been doing the thing your dad does when he’s working on a police case… giving me the mile-long stare.”
Hamish found it was difficult to speak, his throat tightening at the sound of his real name. The name that was sitting so wrongly on his shoulders, becoming a weighted blanket that brought no comfort. Suddenly, it was too much to bear.
“S-stop. Stop calling me that.”
“Stop calling… you what? Harriet?” Alex’s voice was soft as he drew closer, reading the tense lines of his friend’s body-language. Hamish watched him from the corner of his eyes like a startled rabbit, a wild animal caught between crosshairs. Much like John, he had a habit of becoming hyper-aware when under stress. Yet Alex knew this, and so it was with great care that he knelt so that he was settled on his haunches before his best friend, looking up into her eyes. Except what he saw in them wasn’t Harriet, but a stranger peering through the lens of the clear blue irises that the boy had come to know so well.
“Alex…” Hamish croaked, and the fear was evident in his tone. The lostness. It was a sound that could be interpreted as nothing but the purest of pain.
Breathing in deeply, he took his friend’s hand in his own, squeezing tightly. Alex’s voice was soft, comforting. like a well-worn jumper. His eyes were bright pinpoints, beacons of light that Hamish found himself drawn to, despite his own uncertainty. It was with a quaking heart and the unsteady breath of someone ready to burst into tears that the blonde youth spoke, the back of his neck still prickling with the stubble of his friend’s haircut job. Alex listened. Listened like he always did.
****
Alex as it turned out was angry, but it was not for the reasons that Hamish expected. The young Watson-Holmes had flinched when her friend had come to him two days later, eyes darkened with anger. A part of Hamish thought that perhaps her friend had snapped, that this would be how it would all end- dragged into a darkened alcove of the school hallway by the wrist only to be beaten up by his once-best-friend.
He was surprised when Alex turned upon cornering him against a school locker, as his face didn’t show white-fury like Hamish had thought it might but rather thunderous worry. Putting his deducing skills to work, the blonde teen detected the pink shade of embarrassment tingeing his cheeks, Alex’s complexion far too Irish to hide when he was flustered. It soon became evident why however when Hamish’s friend angrily asked him “What have you been using to bind?”
Having expected to be asked invasive and accusatory questions about how he must have “tricked” his friend for so long or “lied” to him somehow Hamish Watson-Holmes blinked, a little disoriented at first by the sharp veer the conversation had taken. Apparently, his silence was cause for panic, because Alex was pressing closer, hands pressing against Hamish’s ribs and causing the older boy to wince and jerk back, pain grounding him even as he kicked out instinctively by way of retaliation. Alex hissed as his friend’s shoe connected with his ankle, but refused to back away.
“What the hell, mate?” Hamish growled angrily, cheeks burning with the impromptu pat-down. He watched as his friend’s face twisted into a grimace of suppressed pain, secretly pleased that he had landed a blow that did damage. Served him right, the blonde thought angrily.
“You’re using bandages aren’t you? Probably the ones from your dad’s first aid kit at home.”
Alex glared as he spoke, face still angry but falling into mildly agitated. His eyes were sharp and accusing as they swept over Hamish’s figure.
“I’ve been doing research, and I know that you have too. They’re dangerous. Really dangerous.”
A somewhat irrational surge of anger swept through Hamish then, at both his friend’s concern and gall to call him out on engaging in dangerous behaviour. They had an unspoken rule, to not judge the other for decisions that they made that were not life-threatening. Hamish had done research, and he had concluded there was no way to get a proper binder without his parents noticing the exchange on his credit card. It was true that John didn’t usually go through his transactions, but Sherlock was another matter entirely. His father once went through his husband’s entire credit card balance out of boredom and concluded that John spent approximately 50 pounds a month on food per person in the household. If the detective was willing to risk the wrath of his beloved army doctor, he’d certainly hold no qualms about locking horns with his only child and invading their privacy.
“Look, it’s fine. I know what I’m doing, and it’s a calculated risk. I’m being careful.”
Even as Hamish said this, his ribs pulsed an aching counterpoint, unhappy at being jostled. He was a decent liar, but Alex had known him since grade-school, and though a lot had changed about his friend, the minute tell he had of narrowing his eyes when he fibbed hadn’t gone away.
“Bullshit. You’re pretending you’re fine but you’re trying not to breathe too deeply. I once watched you walk on a broken ankle because you were too damn proud to call an ambulance to get home.”
Gritting his teeth, Hamish resisted the urge to somewhat childishly stick out his tongue. On a subjective level, he knew his friend was right. What he was doing to his body was not healthy, and it showed in the litany of bruises he went to bed to at the end of the day. Yet the thought of stopping, of going back to bras and shirts that made cleavage look good made an unfamiliar nausea rise up in Hamish’s throat. It was the kind of raw panic that made his fingernails dig into his arms, and his body to curl forward as if bracing for a blow. It was nearly as bad as the fear of his parents finding out.
As if sensing the shift in his friend’s thoughts, Alex took a deep breath, seeming to let go of some of his anger. The moue of worry his mouth had taken on however didn’t vanish, merely retreated.
“Look mate, what I’m saying is you’re going to wind up busting a rib, and for what? For all you know, your parents might be totally okay with this, they might be completely willing to get you the things you need.”
“That sounds dangerously like admitting I need help.” Hamish tried to joke, cracking a small smile. He was relieved when his friend smiled back, albeit a bit weakly. Alex released his hold on his smaller friend, leaning back against the opposite wall. His hands found their way into his pockets, and he shrugged minutely.
“Well, isn’t that the first step or something in psychology? Admitting you need help?”
“I’m not a basket case, you bastard.” But the words were said without heat, because Hamish was smiling a small, amused grin.
****
“She’s hiding something.” Sherlock was laying languidly on the sofa, face-up and staring at the flat’s ceiling like it held the answers to life scrawled upon it. He spoke out to the quiet of 221 B, ankles crossed and hands folded under his chin, as if praying for an answer from on high. If he hadn’t known that the detective wasn’t even vaguely religious, John might have called the image “saintly”. As it was, he sipped his tea and ruffled the newspaper in his hands, a smile on his face.
“She’s nearly eighteen years old, Sherlock. Of course Harriet is hiding things.”
The detective scowled at his husband’s response, grunting something unintelligible and likely insulting under his breath. In his opinion, the idea that all teenagers had to keep secrets was not only an unfair stereotype, but an arguably dangerous one. What parents justified to themselves keeping their silence if they knew their child was doing something they would in theory, frown upon? Then again, Sherlock supposed that in his case, as he saw so much more than the average parent, he might be mildly paranoid. He never thought that out of the two of them he would be the neurotic parent- that Sherlock Holmes would be the one out of the Holmes-Watson duo to worry when his daughter came home late or had evidence of kissing on her lips or a bad night in the circles under her eyes- Yet he did, and he was.In some ways, the detective was inherently grateful that in comparison John was rock-steadily calm. The ex-army doctor hadn’t even flinched when he’d seen Harriet’s new haircut, instead smiling and commenting on the fact that it looked quite nice. Sherlock on the other hand, had found himself halfway towards an apoplectic attack. Not out of any sense of sexism, but due to the fact that Harriet had decided to do it herself without even thinking through the action.
Not thinking. That’s what scared Sherlock Holmes away from teenagers. The impulsiveness in their decision-making. Which all things considered was rather ironic, given the wildness of his own childhood years. From Harriet’s childhood, Sherlock had been wary of the days that would come when the Holmes’ wildness would shine through, mixed with the Watson stubborn tendencies. It appeared that it might finally be happening, and the thought was not a comfortable one to the detective. He knew only too well by the track-marks faded on his arm what one impulsive night could lead to. He shifted on his back, staring up at the ceiling in a glower that could likely peel the paint off of the walls if it could be weaponized.
“She should be home. It’s nearly dinner time.”
“You hardly eat dinner.” John countered calmly, finally looking up at his husband with an exasperated smile on his face. His blue eyes twinkled with mirth as Sherlock looked like a man about to face the gallows. “Would you please breathe? You’ve known the Alex boy since he was a snot-nosed second-grader, no need to panic just yet.”
“Not panicking.” The detective grumbled, but some of the tension left his body, albeit with reluctance.
“Definitely panicking.” The ex-army doctor grinned, amusement on his face. Setting down his newspaper, John sauntered over towards his husband, forcing the man to move his darkly curled head (now shot through with a bit of grey) so he might sit. Curled up next to the detective, John rested his head against the taller man’s shoulder with a small sigh of contentment. With his touch, Sherlock’s prickly demeanour melted. He leaned into the contact greedily.
“She’s nearly an adult.” John murmured, plucking at the detective’s long fingers with his own absently. “She needs some space, give it to her. Don’t try to deduce the truth out of her or she’ll shut down and then we’ll really be in trouble. She needs to be her own person.”
“And if her quest to find herself leads to her getting hurt?” Sherlock whispered, his private worries coming to light. Biting his lip, he allowed himself a moment of weakness, turning to breathe in John’s scent- spice and shampoo and tea. A comforting aroma that made the detective want to bury himself into the man, both literally and figuratively. John’s arms came around him then, holding him in an embrace that he used only when they were alone or when Harriet had been very small. Their secret to cherish.
“Then she gets hurt, and we help hurt whoever injured her, and then we be there for her, if she needs us. That’s the most important part of parenting. Being there for your kid. And that’s something you happen to be good at.”
“I’m really not.”
Sherlock began, trying to deny it, but his husband wasn’t having it. John Watson looked at him, a glare in his expression. His voice was like steel, it could not be argued with.
“You are.”
As he spoke, the front door opened. Harriet. Then, another set of footsteps, surprising both John and Sherlock.
Alex.
****
Hamish was going to throw up. It seemed like a scientific fact, judging by the tension that was running along their spine and the discomfort that had settled in their stomach like a vice. They were going to throw up, have a panic attack, be kicked out of their own home-
The only thing keeping that thought from spiralling out of control was Alex, firmly gripping his sleeve as if he was half-afraid he might run away. Frankly, Hamish had considered it on the tube ride to Baker Street. He probably could have made it too, as the Bakerloo line had been under construction and part of it was closed off to the general public. He could have at least made it to the central line before his friend would have been able to catch up to him. Being Sherlock Holmes’ son did have some advantages.
Yet here he was, walking up the steps of 221 B, quaking like a leaf being tossed to the wind. His hands were trembling so hard he felt as though he might be digging fingernail-shaped crescents into his own skin, might be drawing blood from them. A hot metal spike had lodged itself into his throat at some point, making speech virtually impossible. All of this made it increasingly difficult to move forward.
“Easy now, you’re okay.” Alex, cutting through his thoughts like a sharp knife, brought Hamish’s spiralling panic back down to earth. The boy was trembling, blue eyes wide and wild, not unlike the rabid dog the ginger teen had once seen his grandfather have to put down. If his friend had been frothing at the mouth, it would have been a perfectly accurate comparison. “I promise you’re going to be fine. I’m right here, you can do this.”
“Can’t.” Hamish managed through a throat that was closed with complete terror. Behind his closed eyelids, he saw all the reasons that this was not a good idea. How many stories had they read online about youths winding up on the streets? How many had he looked through, seen his own parents in the descriptions?
They said they’d love me always. I was so wrong.
My dad was in the army. He’s real homophobic as a result.
My dad says there’s no scientific reason for my gender to not coincide with my body. He doesn’t believe me.
They swirled in Hamish’s mind, making a deadly cocktail of stress and nerves that hadn’t yet abated. Alex was beginning to worry, his friend didn’t seem to be breathing all that well.
“You can. Come on, we’re almost there. One step at a time. We’ll do this, and you’ll be okay, I promise.” It was a vow that was a beautiful lie, Hamish thought to himself. He was likely going to faint before the words even left his mouth. As it was, his own voice sounded to him as if it was coming from underwater.
“They’ll hate me.” That sounded far too needy, and it chafed under the teen’s skin like a blister. gritting his teeth, Hamish dutifully kept his voice from devolving into a sob. “They’ll hate me and look at me differently and everything will change-”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Alex snapped in response, because sometimes it was the only way to get Hamish Watson-Holmes to shut up and bloody listen. He turned to his friend in the stairwell, eyes burning with question. More quietly, he asked. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You need things to change. You want them to. But you’re afraid, so I’m trying to help. Isn’t that the point?”
He watched the boy’s shoulders slump forward, the blonde curls falling into his face. Hamish looked wretched, his eyes ringed with sleep-deprived bruises, his mouth twitching with unspoken words. He might have been thinner too, although it was hard to tell under the nondescript jumper he wore. This couldn’t go on, or Alex was worried he wouldn’t just find his friend curled up in tears. He was beginning to worry that if Hamish kept his secrets, he might one day find his friend dead hanging from a bridge.
Those blue eyes looked up at him, as if sensing the fear that Alex kept, hiding just underneath his skin. They hardened then with resolve, despite Hamish’s shaking. The teen’s voice was tight.
“Okay. Okay…” And straightening his spine, Hamish called upon the Watson courage to tilt his chin defiantly, and to grit his teeth and keep going. Alex thought to himself as his friend went past that he rather looked like the old army photo of John Watson, kept on the mantel by the image of Sherlock scowling with a deerstalker hat forced on his head.
Not Just a Name. Alex thought, and his smile was absent even as he followed, thinking that Hamish was so very wrong if he thought himself not like either of his parents. All three of them were bloody stubborn sods, through and through.
It was a miscalculation, on Hamish's part. After all, sentiment could be hard to quantify.