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“His name is John.”
He’s looking elsewhere, his eyes on the spice rack behind her. His arms are crossed over his chest but she can see his fingernails digging in the soft skin of his arms. Her son, feigning nonchalance again.
From where she stands she can see the client—no, John—in the living room. He’s in in her husband’s chair—the maroon armchair Siger lets their youngest use to seat his clients whenever he’s working in the garden. John’s looking around. His face shows curiosity, and from the way his eyes keep shifting to Sherlock it’s clear that he’s trying to associate her collection of gardening tools, lawn gnomes, and figurines to her eccentric son. All in all a rather ordinary client. And yet.
“He’s staying for dinner.”
Something new.
-
John’s case is quite simple. It involves his sister, the sister’s current girlfriend, and the sister’s current girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend. It’s not the kind of case that Sherlock would be interested in. Sherlock likes gruesome cases, ones that involve guns and serial killers, but in such a small town he settles for what he can get. But in the fifteen seconds Sherlock asked, well told, her that John would be staying for dinner, Violet already made the conclusion that her son is more interested in John than the actual case.
He’s older than Sherlock, seventeen to Sherlock’s fifteen.
Sherlock already knows this. He probably already knows that John Watson plays rugby, that he owns a dog, that he plans to be a doctor one day, and that he has an alcoholic mother and a dead father. Around his wrist, he wears a red bracelet with yellow-white Help for Heroes printed on the surface, the letters in Heroes peeling so that from afar it looks like Ero. A dead soldier father. Violet can read it on him and she’s positive Sherlock can too. Still, Sherlock listens to John, something he’s never bothered to do with clients unless the information can be used for the case. He’s looking at his plate, but his head is tilted slightly in John’s direction.
There’s a smear of pasta sauce on one corner of his mouth.
“Billy,” she says but John’s already noticed.
He grins, taps his own mouth where the smear is on Sherlock’s, then says, “You have something there.”
Sherlock blinks.
Then he ducks his head, face flushing in embarrassment, and Violet’s mind goes ‘oh’ as everything clicks into place.
-
It doesn’t bother her. That Sherlock likes a boy isn’t a problem. That Sherlock likes someone is the problem.
Her son has never been infatuated with anyone. Until now.
She worries.
-
When Sherlock was born, Violet Holmes had immediately thought of a young bird.
There’d been a nest in the tree near the window of her study when she was pregnant with Sherlock. Violet had watched them learn how to fly, their small wings opening and closing as they tested the strength within them. All the while, their parents hung by, ready to catch them if they crashed. Her hand had been resting on her swollen belly at the time. She wonders now if she had projected the image of those chicks to her son.
Sherlock was a small infant. Red, wrinkled, and screaming when he met the world. A weak one as well. They’d kept him incubated for a week and Violet’s heart had clenched in fear upon seeing all those tubes attached to her small child, keeping him breathing. She knew he couldn’t fail breathing. She wouldn’t be there to catch him if he did.
She feels that fear now. She’s always done her best to protect her sons.
But this. She can’t protect Sherlock from this.
-
John comes over, long after Sherlock’s solved his case. He brings with him James Bond DVDs which Sherlock refuses to watch, food which Sherlock claims he won’t eat, and odd bits and pieces for Sherlock’s experiments. If he visits in the morning, Violet will find them in the backyard where the hives are kept with Sherlock chattering about his father’s bees. If he visits at night, she’ll find John in the client chair with Sherlock sitting opposite him. There will be newspaper clippings and stolen police records scattered on the coffee table, and tea from her ever attentive husband.
John, Violet learns from her husband, has become something like Sherlock’s assistant. Whenever there’s a client, John will move to the end of the sofa nearest to Sherlock’s chair. The clients are usually people who live in the neighborhood: students trying to search for online enemies, mothers with cheating husbands, the occasional child asking if Sherlock can please help search for a lost toy. John’s friendly with them, easily taking information from them as he asks about their lives. He’ll nod and make suggestions and go ‘oh how’s little Mara today did she do well on her test?’
It’s usually fake, the empathy.
John, as it turns out, can be as manipulative as Sherlock. He’s easily bored as well, although he hides it better than Sherlock. His eyes glaze over at small talk but when the discussion moves to more dangerous topics (war, crime, rallies) he’ll sit up and listen with rapt attention.
No wonder Sherlock finds him so interesting.
But even without a case for him to help Sherlock with, John still visits. Some days, John visits right after a rugby match with some of lads in town. He’ll come with his hair still wet from a shower and Violet will catch Sherlock staring at John a few seconds too long, his face turning a bright pink whenever John turns to him. It’s amusing. Adorable. The kind of moment that ought to be captured and preserved in a photograph, framed and displayed on the mantelpiece for guests and relatives to coo at.
See, as worried as she is about her son’s heart, it’s quite amusing to find that when it comes to boys, Sherlock acts like any normal teenager.
Sherlock’s uncharacteristically unsure of himself when with John. He worms John’s name in casual conversations. When he’s with John Violet listens to him stammer, watches him move with less grace whenever John’s eyes suddenly fall on him. He even tripped once and John had laughed before helping him up. The strop that followed that was epic, a full two days of sulking on the sofa. Siger had eventually coaxed him out of it by sharing a new discovery with the bees and Sherlock had leapt from the sofa, his inner-five-year-old-on-Christmas-day lighting up at the prospect of seeing something new.
-
“Are you sure it won’t be an inconvenience?” John asks for the third time.
“Oh, John, it’s all fine,” she says again. She’s patient for his sake. He truly does look sorry that he had to bring their dog with him. John told him a story but it’s a fake one. The true story, the one that she reads on his wrinkled clothes and the bags under his eyes, is that his sister has been gone for a few days now and that his mother is currently passed out in a bed that’s too big for her. This is an escape. Many of John’s visits are.
There’s a cut on his lower lip. A small jagged cut that a ring would make. She wonders what stones are encrusted in his mother’s wedding ring. Diamonds, perhaps.
God, John brings out the maternal instincts in her.
The dog yips. It’s a bulldog, really just a pup. A tag hangs from its collar, glinting gold in the morning sun. She bends down to read it. GLADSTONE.
“Sherlock will love him.”
Sherlock does love him. The moment he sees him, in fact. The five-year-old makes another appearance. Sherlock’s mouth actually drops open and John’s eyes widen in surprise when Sherlock drops to his knees and begins to play with the dog, completely ignoring John’s presence. John looks at her and Violet shrugs.
She doesn’t tell him about Redbeard. She doesn’t tell him that Sherlock had loved that dog so much because it had been his only friend, that he’d cried when they’d had to put him down, that Sherlock refuses to get another dog because he doesn’t want to go through that again. He goes to pet shops instead, offers to walk the neighbors’ dogs for free, takes cases involving animal cruelty, but when asked if he wants to own a dog he’ll shake his head.
The problem with her son is that while he doesn’t love easily, when he does love it’s with his whole being. And when he loses that love it never fails to knock him off and make him crash to the ground.
John looks at Sherlock who, bless him, is still playing with Gladstone. It’s sweet and tender, the way he looks at him, and Violet allows herself to hope, just a little bit.
-
It’s only the second time since Sherlock turned fifteen that Violet managed to drag him out shopping with her. He’s sulking, choosing to walk ahead of her so that it doesn’t look like he’s out shopping with his mother dear god. It doesn’t annoy Violet. Such a silly boy, her son, trying to be angry with her when his socks are peeking out from under his trousers.
It’s the main reason why she took him with her. He shot up three inches in the past week and none of his clothes fit right, especially his shirts which are now too tight around his shoulders. He looks ganglier, a bit like a scarecrow. She would voice it out had she not seen Sherlock staring at himself in the mirror with a disappointed look on his face.
“I can choose on my own, Mummy,” he whines and Violet relents, pushing him towards the giggling sales ladies. She takes a seat on one of the benches and contemplates on whether or not she should go buy Sherlock new pants when she spots John.
He’s at the other end of the department store. She raises her hand, about to wave at him. She freezes. A cold feeling settles in her stomach when she sees that he’s not alone. There’s a girl with him, a petite blond with her hair cut in a short bob. Their arms are hooked together and when John turns to her to make a joke, the girl laughs and leans against him.
They should leave, she thinks. She ought to spare Sherlock this.
“Mummy?”
Sherlock raises one eyebrow at her. She forces a smile on her face. “Did you find one you like?” she asks. It’s blatantly forced and Sherlock frowns, quickly noticing her discomfort. He glances past her.
It’s painful to watch. It’s only a second but the hurt she sees in Sherlock’s eyes can’t be mistaken for anything else. He looks away, at his feet that are bound by shoes now half a size too small. He inhales, his breath shaky, and then he beams at her (wrong, wrong, wrong) and says, “Nope. We could try the other stores.”
He’s quiet after that. He skips dinner that night and the night after.
-
Sherlock doesn’t put a stop to John’s visits. But there’s tension in the air and Violet hears Sherlock snap more often, his patience with John wearing thin with each visit. She gives her son a look whenever he hides in the kitchen. You’re hurting but you don’t have the right to be jealous. It’s not fair on John.
Sherlock glares back at her. But it lacks heat, lacks reason. He tries to be nicer to John after that, and even asks about John’s relationship with his girlfriend even though Violet knows Sherlock doesn’t give a damn about who John is dating. And John, sweet boy that he is, replies with enthusiasm, oblivious to the way his words cut Sherlock.
-
“Sweetheart.”
Siger’s voice is gentle. It's the same voice he used when the boys were younger and they would come to their room, complaining about bad dreams or awful schoolmates. But Sherlock’s shoulder’s tense. The hand on the doorknob stills.
“I might need help with the bee catalogue tonight?” Siger asks. It’s a suggestion and Violet can hear the unsaid words beneath it. You don’t have to go out with John and Mary tonight.
Sherlock shakes his head. “John’s waiting,” he says simply.
The door closes behind him with a thud.
-
“You’re too quiet.”
John slides the book off his lap and focuses on Sherlock.
“What’s going on in that big head of yours?”
Sherlock mutters an excuse that John doesn’t seem to buy. He bites his lip then, to her surprise, glances up and looks at her.
Help.
“John,” Violet says in a cheery tone. “I could use some help in the kitchen.”
-
A month later, Violet picks Sherlock up from the police station. He’s barely holding it together and her heart breaks at the sight of him. To the policemen shouting at him, he looks stoic, arrogant even, his head held high and his back straight. But she can see how agitated he is. His hands are clenched and his lips are pressed tightly together. He’s frightened. He’ll cry if she doesn’t get him out there soon.
A boy had drowned in the pool and Sherlock, sensing that something was wrong, had sneaked in the crime scene, only to be dragged out by several policemen and humiliated in front of the crowd that had gathered. They find that John is there as well, having a yelling match with another policeman and Siger quickly intervenes, pulling John aside before his fist can land on the policeman’s nose. Violet takes Sherlock by the arm while Siger argues with the policemen because honestly scaring a minor like that, what where they thinking?
“He was murdered,” Sherlock says quietly. His head is still ducked, his shoulders still trembling. Violet tries to touch him but he moves away, embarrassed by his emotions. “I could prove it. I could. I just need to find his shoes. But they won’t believe me. If they could just give me a chance.”
He sniffs.
“Sherlock.”
John nods at her in acknowledgment, perhaps permission. And then he’s got his arms wrapped around Sherlock, her son’s head tucked in the crook of his shoulder. Sherlock tenses but slowly begins to relax, his body melting in John’s arms. “I’ll punch them all for you. Every single one,” she hears John whisper to him and Sherlock’s shoulders begin to shake again. But this time, from laughter.
-
“Why don’t you talk about Mary, anymore?”
Sherlock’s voice carries over from where she and Siger are seated. The boys are in the backyard. Sherlock’s sitting on the grass with Gladstone on his lap.
“We broke up.”
Violet turns just in time to see Sherlock’s look of surprise. His hands drop from Gladstone. “Why?” he asks. Demands rather.
John shrugs. She can’t see his face from where she is but his voice betrays a smile.
“She didn’t like that I spend a lot of time with you. She made me choose. So I picked the obvious choice.”
“Right.” Sherlock coughs, clearly overwhelmed. “Obvious.”
-
Violet soon catches John staring at Sherlock.
It’s been three weeks since the incident. Carl Powers remains dead because of an accident and Sherlock, after having gotten over the humiliation at both the crime scene and the station, seems more determined to prove that Carl Powers had in fact been murdered.
Sherlock is reading out loud from a file when she enters the living room, bearing a tray of snacks for the boys. His voice has gotten into that hazy quality which happens when Sherlock’s half in his mind palace. She turns to John to joke about it when she sees it.
John staring at Sherlock’s lips with interest.
She clears her throat and John jumps, eyes widening when he sees her. His cheeks flush and he mutters something about Sherlock having a basil leaf stuck between his two front teeth.
She doesn’t bother telling him that she hasn’t cooked anything with basil in two days.
-
The change isn’t subtle.
They’ve moved from the armchairs to the sofa, the two of them sitting close, their thighs almost brushing. John’s giving out more praises, ones that never fail to make Sherlock blush and stammer even when he rolls his eyes and tries to pretend that they don’t affect him. John keeps taking Sherlock out: for movies, for dinner, for support because he has a rugby match and maybe Sherlock might be interested in that?
Once, Sherlock comes home wrapped in John’s old rugby jacket.
She’s hoping, dear god she’s hoping this works out for the both of them.
-
She knows she’ll forever remember the exact date John Watson kisses Sherlock. Sure enough, she’ll remember it years later, will even mark it on the calendar at Sherlock’s flat to tease her son.
It’s on the 29th of January.
They’d left them alone. She and Siger had gone out to dinner with some of her husband’s colleagues. It was a fancy dinner, the dress-to-impress kind, the kind where you ate and conversed for four hours in a posh restaurant with plates that held more air than food. John had promised to introduce Sherlock to Doctor Who so it didn’t bother her to leave them alone for such a long time.
The house is quiet when they return, the boys nowhere in sight. “They’re probably in Sherlock’s room,” Siger says and Violet hums in agreement.
She’s in the kitchen, taking off her earrings—the tiny sapphire ones Mycroft had bought her on a whim—when Sherlock stumbles in. His face is red and he’s biting his lower lip. The back of his hear is a wild mess.
He stands there for a bit. Arms crossed over his chest. Eyes on the spice rack.
Violet narrows her eyes at him.
And then, it clicks.
“We’re…” Sherlock trails off. “He asked, well said really, that we’re dating now and that I should inform you even though I think it’s unnecessary but well…well…Anyway we’re going out in a bit because we should celebrate. His words not mine and I’m only saying this because John’s afraid you might kill him. Stupid really, you adore him and—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says in a choked sob, cutting him off, and Sherlock huffs, feigning annoyance. But he’s biting his lip, still, trying his best not to smile. And failing rather spectacularly.
-
“Mummy!”
Sherlock glares at her but it isn’t the least bit threatening. His hands are still clutching the front of John’s jumper, his cheeks still tinged with pink from the kiss John gave him. John’s buried his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck but Violet can see how red his ears have turned. A sprig of mistletoe hangs above their head.
“Oh come now, you’ve been sticking your tongues down each other’s throats since you got together,” Mycroft remarks snidely. Siger swats his arm with a roll of unused gift wrapping.
“Yes, well…” John clears his throat, clearly embarrassed by Mycroft’s (true) remark. He lessens his grip on Sherlock but his hand stays on the small of his back.
He kisses him again once the camera is no longer in her possession. It's chaste and sweet and Mycroft makes another joke, this time about the possibility of marriage.
It's a joke that will turn into a fact years later.
-
She has two copies of the photograph printed. The first lies between the pages of her album, the second is framed and is currently sitting on the mantelpiece of John and Sherlock’s flat.