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The late January sky was slate grey. He shrugged his arms into his jacket and draped the hand-knit scarf his mum had given him at Christmas around his neck. He hadn’t planned on walking out of the house. His gloves were with his car keys in the dining room. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he headed across the frost-tipped lawn towards the beach. The rickety wood steps that wound from the cottage on the cliff to the beach were blue-grey with age and salt air. His jeans brushed against the slumbering branches of the rosa rugosa. In summer these branches would be a riot of soft green leaves and bold hot pink flowers. The tide was out. The ocean was still, leaden. His navy jacket and red scarf made him stand out on the monochromatic landscape.
He stood facing the water, not looking at anything. Why had he made this trip so soon after Christmas? He had just seen his parents a month ago. It had been a happy visit. But he wasn’t happy. He’d been lying to his parents for far too long. No lying, he reminded himself. Just not revealing. Same bloody thing, his father’s voice said in his mind.
“John?”
He turned to see his father and the two yellow labs. The older man nodded to the dogs. They barked and raced off down the shore line.
“Dad.” He nodded.
“Let’s walk, son.”
They fell into step, side by side. They did not turn to look at one another. After a few yards, the older man pulled a pair of black leather gloves out of his pocket.
“Thought you might need these.”
“Ta.” He slipped his numb fingers into his gloves.
“Been reading your blog. You and your… um… gentleman friend live quite the adventurous life.”
Not the opening line he expected, but this was fine. “Mmmm,” he nodded.
“I hadn’t read it before your visit at Christmas. I had figured if you wanted to let us know about your life after the army, you’d have called or come for a visit sooner. Your mum has been reading it all along, since Harry told her about it. She tells all her friends at the church about her ‘famous son the consulting detective’,” he changed his voice to mimic the lilting Scots accent of his wife.
“Well, I’m not the detective. I’m just a doctor and a blogger.”
“Doctor Watson, GP and investigative blogger. It’s quite a life you’ve made for yourself.”
“I suppose,” John sighed.
“When we didn’t get invited to your wedding to that woman, you broke your mum’s heart.”
John straightened his back and squared his shoulders. Trigger words indicated battlestations should be manned. He clenched his jaw.
“But we understood, son. We never made your life easy. We said lots of hateful things to you when you joined the English army…”
“ British army, father. Brit-ish. We are British. One country. I enlisted to serve and to help.” Would his parents ever give up the thought of an independent Scotland? They hadn’t even lived there since before they married over forty years ago. The cottage on the cliff face here in Barmouth was where they had chosen to make their home and raise their children. This craggy coastal village in Cardigan Bay was far from their families who did not want them to wed.
“When Harry told us that your wife was killed, well, your mum thought for certain you’d come home.”
Jake, the male lab, ran up to John with a bit of damp drift wood. John smiled at the dog and paused to throw it as far as he could. Jake barked with joy and chased it.
“I had thought about it. Coming home, I mean. But my life is… well, you said you read my blog.”
The elder Watson nodded.
“There’s more to it than all that. His brother is in the British government. There is often stuff we get involved with that I can’t write about.”
“What, like MI-5 sorts of things?”
John chuckled. “Yeah, actually.”
“Is that your gentleman’s real name? I mean, Sherlock sounds very public school, very posh.”
“It’s a middle name, but it’s what he prefers to go by.”
The dogs, tired from rushing up and down the water’s edge, trotted along beside the men.
The wind picked up at the turn of the tide. The only sounds for a long while were the lapping of the waves on the sand, the clicking of the dogs’ tags and the squelching of their shoes on the wet beach.
“You know we love you, son.”
John stopped short. “Oh yes?” He snapped sarcastically. The elder Watson shot him a withering look. “Oh, yes, I know,” he changed his tone to attempt to maintain the peace.
“It’s not easy being a parent. We had ideas about how our kids should turn out. Neither of you became who we wanted you to be. Harriet’s an alcoholic lesbian who can’t hold a job and you’re a…”
“A doctor, a soldier and a semi-famous detective…”
“Bufter…”
“Jesus Christ, dad!” John threw up his arms. He stopped, one hand in his pocket, the other fussing with his short hair. “I’m not defined by who I love!”
“So your sister has been telling us for years.”
“And Harry’s right. Also, what parents wouldn’t want a child to grow up to be a doctor or a decorated soldier? I thought that’s what parents wanted for their children? Grow up to have better education, a better job, better house, better life than they had. And I do!”
“Harry said you live in a dismal little flat.”
“It suits us, Sherlock and me. It’s not dismal to us. It’s home.”
“I wanted you to be a quantity surveyor and live close to home. Marry a local girl, make lots of fat grandchildren for us.”
John cocked his head. “A quantity surveyor?”
“Or a green-grocer.”
John narrowed his eyes. “Are you putting me on?”
“I didn’t want you to be famous. I didn’t want anything big or glamorous for you. A simple life.”
“You can’t decide who your children will be.” John pressed his lips into a hard, white line; jaw set with tension.
The older man looked down at his feet. Both dogs lay in the sand, panting, waiting for the men to move again. “What about Olivia?”
“What about my daughter?” John snapped.
“What will she grow up to be with no mum?”
“A well rounded little girl who will be loved and cared for by both of her fathers. And she’ll be whatever she wants to be - a doctor, a detective, a lawyer, a teacher, an astronaut. And it won’t matter a tick who she loves. Because that is how Sherlock and I will raise our little girl.”
John stormed off down the beach. His father whistled to the dogs and headed back towards home.
***
Where are you? Olivia wants her daddy. - SH
Fought with my dad. Ended up in The Ships Aground pub. - JW
We’ll be there in twenty minutes.- SH
I miss you - SH
Miss you, too. - JW
John looked into the half empty pint glass and pushed it away. The barkeep looked in his direction. “Can I have a cup of coffee and some chips?” The wiry man paused in wiping the mug he held to whisper the chip order to his daughter as she bustled towards the kitchen.
The door opened, letting in a brisk, salty draft. The wind was nearly howling as the tide came in. John shivered. Someone took a seat on the barstool next to him.
“Oi, Bryn. Pint, please.”
“You got it, Hamish.”
“What did you do with the dogs?” John reached for his glass and took a large swig.
“Brought ‘em home to your mum. She’s a weeping mess. Thought they’d keep her company.”
The bartender slid a fresh pint towards him.
“Ta, Bryn.” Hamish Watson sipped his dark ale. “Your gentleman showed up at the house with the baby.”
“Sherlock came to the house? Mum saw Olivia?”
The elder Watson nodded. “I wasn’t there. It happened while we were on the beach.”
“Christ…”
“Your mum says she’s a beautiful little girl.”
“She is.”
“She says she looks like you and Harriet did as bairns.”
John swallowed. “Yeah.”
Bryn placed a cup of coffee and a plate of chips in front of John.
“Do you see that painting up there?” Hamish pointed to a large picture on the wall of two sailing ships. One ship was close, the detail on the painting showed the folds in the sails, the riggings, the smooth boards in the hull and the name painted on the side. From this distance John couldn’t make out the name. The other ship was on the horizon, sailing in the opposite direction.
“Yup.” John held his coffee in his hands and studied the painting over the rim.
“That’s us, son. Your mum and I love you. But we can’t go where you are going. You may have come from us. But we can’t support you in this lifestyle you’re choosing to live.”
“It’s not a choice. It’s who I am. I am a man in love with a man. It’s how I was born. It may not be how you raised me. It may not be what you wanted for me. But it’s me. And no, you don’t love me if you can’t accept me for who I am.” His voice was a harsh whisper.
The door opened again. Both Watson men turned. Sherlock swept in, his Belstaff swirling around his calves. Wrapped against the biting winter air, Olivia Holmes-Watson was nestled under his coat. Her little green pixie hat stood out next to her papa’s pale face and wind-swept dark curls.
“There’s daddy. See, I told you we’d find him. He’s a such a silly daddy, playing hide and seek on such a cold day.” His tone was soothing to his child, but his eyes admonished his partner for his behavior.
She turned. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and crying. Her blue eyes were wide and damp. “Daddy!” The toddler squirmed out of Sherlock’s arms and dashed across the pub to her daddy.
John scooped her up, her snotty nose rubbed all over his oatmeal jumper.
“What’s the matter with my poppet?” John removed her hat and smoothed her hair. Tiny blonde ringlets curled around her face. “Didn’t you have a nice afternoon with your papa?”
She nodded her head and reached out a chubby hand towards Sherlock. He kissed her tiny fingers as she wrapped them around his pinky.
“Love papa. Missed my daddy,” she nuzzled her face into her shoulder, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock leaned in to place a kiss on her head, then on to John’s forehead.
“I missed him, too,” the baritone rumbled softly, thrumming in John’s core.
Hamish Watson coughed as he watched the domestic scene. Bryn’s daughter came out of the kitchen with a food-laden tray. “Cor, isn’t it nice to see such a lovin’ little family? Such handsome daddies and their sweetie.” She winked at Olivia before she sashayed between tables to deliver her plates.
Olivia stuffed her fist into her mouth and sucked on her fingers. Both John and Sherlock reached up to gently remove it.
“No thumb sucking, poppet. It’s not good for your teeth.”
“You don’t want Uncle Mycroft to have to pay for braces for you.”
The child tittered. “Uncle Mike buy me chem’stry set.”
“Bought you a chem-i-stry set,” Sherlock corrected.
“She’s a year and a half, Sherlock. Leave her be.” John pressed his lips to his daughter’s forehead.
Hamish slid off the stool, back to the little family.
“You, sir, are Hamish Watson, I presume.” Sherlock’s commanding voice halted him in his tracks.
“That’s right,” he straightened his shoulders and looked up into Sherlock’s scowling face.
“I can see where my John gets his good looks,” he bowed his head slightly. “Would you care to meet your granddaughter?”
“Sherlock…” John groaned.
Sherlock turned John and his barstool to face his father. Olivia, eyes dried and happily clutching her father’s jumper, studied the older man.
“No, actually, I would not.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He tried to keep his gaze from falling on the soft cheeks and springy blonde curls.
“No? I am perplexed, Mr. Watson. My own parents were delighted when John and I brought Olivia to meet them. They relish being grandparents.”
“They aren’t her grandparents,” he said through gritted teeth.
Sherlock bent slightly at the waist so his face was closer to his. “I adopted Olivia. She is my daughter. Your son is my partner. And if he ever gets around to saying yes, he will also be my husband. My parents are delighted to have such a brilliant son-in-law and a lovely granddaughter.”
“That’s very nice for them,” his jaw was so tense John thought his father would grind his dentures to a pulp.
Sherlock straightened. “Did I not use the word delighted enough, John? I felt that word would get the point across.”
John put a hand on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Forget it, Sherlock. He isn’t interested in me, in us, or Olivia.”
“How can he not be interested in Olivia?” He hissed. “Every newspaper in London, half the British government and all of Scotland Yard is obsessed with our daughter. She’s the biggest thing to happen since Princess Charlotte!”
“I’ll not acknowledge a child of a couple of poofters as my grandbaby,” Hamish’s face was bright red, his hands trembled.
“Ah, I wasn’t positive if it was John’s homosexuality or his choice in partner that made him afraid to introduce me to you. Now I can see it is the fact that your son - the brilliant army captain, doctor, blogger, and father - is gay that bothers you.”
“It is, sir.”
“Sherlock, please, let’s just get Olivia to the hotel. He isn’t worth it.”
“I don’t like my parents very much, but they were worth it.”
“Your parents are good people.”
“Subjective. But I’ll concede the point as they adore the two most important people in my life.”
John stood and slid Olivia into his partner’s arms. He pulled on his jacket. He was about to put the red scarf his mother had knit for him around his neck, but he paused. Folding it neatly, he placed it on the bar between his uneaten chips and his father’s pint.
“This is where we part. Ships that pass in the night. Right?” John choked.
Hamish nodded slightly.
“Very well, then. Come on, Sherlock. We’re leaving.”