Betaed by Caroline who pulled through despite term papers. Many thanks to the saint Caroline! Important questions are asked, important questions are avoided, and Coolio is quoted.
Irene stood at the
top of the stairs looking down at Sherlock stopping himself from fussing with
Johnny as the young man took off his coat.
Johnny turned and once he saw the look on Sherlock’s face he
sighed. Having been caught, Sherlock
relaxed into the expression, rumbled out a laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair
so it stood up in little blond puffs.
The boys were
growing up.
She was growing
older with them and she… she was fine with that. She felt strong, too strong to have to fight
her way to what she wanted. Strong
enough to just have it now. The sort of
confidence to have anyone she wanted and now she didn’t want anyone at all.
That sort of power
did more than intoxicate.
She was a palace,
a fortress, a goddess. She had every advantage. She’s already won every negotiation. Captain Moonpaws pressed his giant shoulder
against her hip, looking up at her with the sort of big-eyed gaze only Great
Danes could manage. Irene rubbed his
ears for his trouble. Godfrey’s dogs had
their own little cozy spot upstairs and they’d probably stay up here most of
the night. Captain had been named as a
puppy by Roost – half because he was sweet and half because he was a secret
troll who loved the idea of making people say silly things.
Roost stumbled in
the door toward Johnny first to kiss the flax fluff of his younger brother’s
hair. “Johnny. You’re still okay.”
“He bounces back
quickly,” Sherlock said, not observing for once. Always partially observing when it came to Johnny. He looked and looked but never seemed to be
able to organize the evidence in a way that made sense.
He always wanted
everything to be clever.
Roost grinned,
hugged Sherlock, to pick his pocket if the reports could be believed. She was pretty good at spotting that sort of
thing as par for course, but Roost and Sherlock were a different level of slick
when it came to that sort of thing. Sherlock’s
laughter was the only indication Roost had taken something. Good naturedly Sherlock held out a hand for
his nicked phone and corrected the young man’s technique.
“It’s been so long!”
Roost laughed right back.
Huffing out a
laugh through the tightness around his mouth, Sherlock squeezed his shoulder
before stepping out of range. “You saw
me yesterday.”
“So many hours,”
Roost grinned, taking his failed attempt well.
He looked too pleased to fall into his habit of talking a blue snark up
anyone who caught him up to mischief.
“You going to stand there all night?” Sherlock
smiled up at her.
“I don’t know,”
she grinned. “Do you lot want your
wonderful presents?”
“Yes! Yes!” Roost shouted. He considered lifting Johnny up, took a look
at his brother’s face and abruptly turned to pick Sherlock up to spin him
around instead. Irene took a page out of
her husband’s book and snapped a picture of his long-suffering expression.
She descended the
stairs; glittering, shining, and just the right flavor of perfect for the
occasion.
All but Roost
tried to look dignified, but she had seen their sweet little faces at
Christmas. Roost galloped down the wall
toward the family room and then turned on a heel to see how far along she
was. It was easy to be in the midst of
the Watsons, it was like being on stage with a whole crew of people to make her
life easy and lovely.
“Escort me,” she
told Sherlock, letting him hook their arms together, letting him pressing his
head against her shoulder for a moment.
Sherlock’s eyes
drooped downward, his mouth pressing still.
“Sherlock,” she
smiled at him, that slow smile of her that got her whatever she wanted.
He smiled back, the
soft lift of his mouth like a kiss to her cheek. “Irene. I don’t suppose you left Godfrey at home.”
“Don’t be
ridiculous, darling. One should never
split up a perfect set.”
Sherlock nodded,
looking away. For a moment he looked
tight around the mouth, too stressed.
“Do we need to
talk later?”
“I just need to
let go. John told me about… John has…” he pressed his mouth
together. He looked ahead to where Roost
was disappearing after John. The two of
them considered Roost.
“I just want John
to be happy.”
“Has he said
anything to indicate he isn’t?” Irene asked.
Sherlock’s face
went pinched, “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“Let’s focus on
what’s important then, giving me praise for how good I am at things.”
Irene was used to
making a stir when she walked into a room, she was gorgeous, but the reaction
when they walked into the family room was a little more extreme than was
usual. Tim had warned her of course
about the younger Sherlock, the alternate Watson that wasn’t Hamish. She didn’t care much personally about it
either way except for how it affected the family.
At their entrance
the man who had to have been the fake Hamish stood up, his face tight and
angry. Godfrey had been over by the boys
talking to a silver haired she vaguely recognized, but went still with an
eyebrow raised in artful warning.
“Irene,”
Faux-Watson said.
It wasn’t a
question, but she was a grown up.
“That’s what they tell me.”
Tim sat on the far
sofa pretending not to pay attention.
His mouth tight, his skin still looking a little pale and clammy. Poor grumpy darling.
“What are you
doing here?” Sham Watson barked.
She took him in,
the tuck of his shirt and the tick at his jaw.
The fake Watson was angry, he wanted to be reassured that he still had
an important part of his Sherlock’s life. She recognized the look from
Johnny. Why that particular flavor of angry-defensive look was directed
at her she couldn’t fathom. “I’m part of
the family, darling, and I’m amazing.
Everyone wants me everywhere. I
am wondering what you lot are doing here.”
“Efficiency,” Tim
said without even looking up. “And if
anyone thinks Hamish is still alive even Bad Davey won’t be able to clean
things up. And having them here will
keep them safe.” That said he went back
to what he was doing. If Tim was going
to ignore everyone she was going to do the same.
“Is she your wife?”
Not Hamish asked as she strolled past to curl up next to Tim. Over Tim’s shoulder she watched the maxed out
score on his tetris game flash nines as he decimated the thing.
Sherlock coughed
out a surprised laugh at the same time she scoffed.
“He couldn’t
afford me,” she specified.
“England couldn’t
afford you,” Sherlock smiled at her, fond and amused overtop that blaring protective
instinct. She would have loved to give
him something subby to do to help him relax.
Something repetitive. He would
have adored unlocking and relocking doors, or maybe taking the whole door off
the hinges and putting it back on again, hated it with a passion but adored
it. Or maybe she would have had him do
embroidery? No, he would have started
punishing himself the second he slipped a stitch. Not that it would ever happen, she thought –
feeling very much like the lead in some male written art film – she had
something better now and so did he. Who
knew being a grownup had so little to do with as much sex as possible.
Tim leaned back
against her to wake her back up.
“Of course they
couldn’t.” She turned to Counterfeit
Watson, “Stop looming, it feels like a work Christmas party, the cast all
standing around trying to get noticed by each other.”
“Oh,” said the
pregnant woman, lovely eyes, wonderful face, total liar. Takes one to know one as Godfrey said. “You’re an actress?”
“In the opera,”
Irene clarified. “I can do this trick
where I can break glass with my voice.
And make other people break glass with theirs. You know you really do have remarkable eyes.”
Approximate Hamish
bristled and her Sherlock chuffed out a laugh again, affectionate and
amused. The man took sentry on far side
of the sofa where he could still reach the boys in a step without getting in
their way.
“What’s your name
then?” Irene asked her. “I can’t imagine
how you’re connected with these idiots.”
“Oh,” she said
again. Irene wondered what she’d look
like with a gun. Probably even lovelier
than she did now. “I’m Mary, and I’m
married to John. And he’s friends with
Sherlock. I’m friends with Sherlock too,
I suppose.”
“Oh good, I do
love when everyone is friendly with each other.”
“I bet,” It’ll-do
Hamish muttered, fists clenched.
Godfrey stood up
from where he was leaning against the wall.
There were several
things she loved about Godfrey Norton.
How decorative he looked next to her, the way he whispered goodnight, sweet prince to his phone
before he plugged it in at night, and the way they could read each other’s
minds from across the room. Neither of
them gave a fat fig about Not Hamish and his weird lonesome jealousy, but they
didn’t not care enough to ruin a family gathering over it.
“Actually that
honor goes to me,” Godfrey said, looking like the personification of please don’t stop.
“Who’re you?” Baby
Sherlock finally spoke.
“And what is Dimmock doing here?”
“Who am
I?” Godfrey asked the universe in general and the room in the specific, ignoring the second question entirely. It was a stupid thing to ask anyway. Tim belonged everywhere. “Interesting question, one all men must ask
themselves. International man of
mystery, sometimes pirate, sometimes philosopher king. As
much person of interest as an interesting person. At times a panegyric wiliiwaw, at time the
edifier of man, but always willing to make pleasantries. To quote Emaleya– No, you won’t know who she is yet, I’ll give
you something to look forward to, no spoilers and all that. To quote Coolio: ‘life is too short to not have fun; we
are only here for a short time compared to the sun and the moon.’ No offense to Sherlock–”
“Since
when?” her Sherlock snarked.
“Medium
offense to Sherlock. For all his virtues
he’s not the sort of man who would survive a marriage with Irene. She needs a moon to reflect the glory her of
light and a sun to brighten her life. So
I suppose like all people, I am just a man, just a sun and a moon, just a
friend of the family. You
may call me Godfrey Norton though, all the best people do. And well no offense–”
“Ha!” Sherlock said.
“Medium offense, I suppose you can call me
Godfrey too.”
Irene golf clapped, John
giggled, and Tim looked indulgent. Godfrey
winked at her and bowed because it made the Watson boys look pleased and
amused, good humor chasing the worry out of their sweet faces. No sooner had Godfrey finished then Roost
gave the sort of full body start one usually associated with victims of
electrocution.
“Beehive!” Roost
shouted in Johnny’s ear from the look on the boy’s face. “Small indoor beehive!” The tension didn’t so much break as get
startled away like a flock of birds, the boundary between the two small groups
zipped away somewhere. “Irene got me an
indoor beehive!” He clamored up to the
sofa to give Irene another hug and then caught Tim up in a second one. She could feel the tremendous strength the
boy hid under all those deceptive layers of clothes. As soon as she had time to process the
immense gentleness he employed with her he darted over to Sherlock. He made a ruckus while Sherlock hmmed and
asked questions. The two of them made
quick work with the latches, opening up the layers of it. Whatever they were called, she didn’t need to
know anything about bees to know Roost liked them.
She leaned back a
little so Tim would have a better view of his nephews.
“I’m fine,” Tim
muttered to her.
She looked back at
him, pressed her lips together. “Of
course you are, darling. That’s why I’m
sitting next to you, a woman has to know how to accessorize.”
“You’re
terrible.” There was a crack in his
mulish expression, a tiny one, but she knew how to spot someone cracking.
“I know, isn’t it
amazing?”
After a moment of
looking around the room, Baby Sherlock stood up from his place acting like a
moping child in the corner of the room.
He crept closer to Johnny, approaching him like a wild animal. “What–?” he said then swallowed the word. Johnny looked up at the man. The difference between the Sherlocks was more
pressing than just the absence of age.
Baby Sherlock looked broken somewhere under his coat. Like something had cracked, but he was trying
to hold it together by moving very carefully.
He was too thin, he hadn’t been taking care of his skin, and his hair
hadn’t been trimmed properly.
Tim’s shoulder
tensed under her hand and Johnny perked up toward his uncle like a hound on the
scent. They squinted at each other,
looking about as related as two people could until Tim huffed and went back to
his phone.
Baby Sherlock
looked between the two men in confusion, but then Johnny wasn’t looking up at
him. When Johnny looked at someone they
looked back.
“We’re both baby
brothers,” Johnny said, finally turning to the man. Baby Sherlock blinked down at him; knocked
off balance for a moment before recovering.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Overprotective
brother?” Sherlock asked.
“Yeah.”
“Slander,” Roost
said, as automatic a reaction as an atomic clock.
“You want to sit
down with me? You’re allowed, you know.”
Baby Sherlock sat,
his coat losing its imposition to curl around him like a child’s security
blanket. “What did you get?”
Johnny carefully
opened the wrapping paper, because of course he did, to reveal the neat plaid
coat. He smiled at Irene, his sweet face
with its sweet sticking out ears utterly adorable. “Thank you, Irene, this is very
thoughtful.” He opened his mouth as
though to say something else, probably about how expensive it looked, but she
cut that off at the pass.
“Of course it is,”
she smiled back, not able to help her fondness.
Tim was her favorite, of course, and Roost after him but she still
adored Johnny. “Tim helped with the size,
of course. I could have guessed, but I
haven’t seen you in person since last Christmas and I like to be precise. Put it on.”
While Johnny navigated
standing up and getting the coat on, her Sherlock reached across to squeeze her
hand, once. “Thank you, Irene.”
When she nodded he
turned away again, so when Johnny beamed at Sherlock in his little coat, all
blue-black and green and gold, Sherlock could nod and look parental at him.
“It’s a very nice
coat,” Baby Sherlock said, awkward as a school boy.
Johnny beamed at
him too, the brightness of his face seeming to freeze the man in place. “Ta, plaid is my favorite color,” he said and
he and Roost snorted out a laugh while Sherlock tried not to look a little
pained.
What a little lost
schoolboy Baby Sherlock looked.
“I’m sorry this is
so new and strange for you,” Johnny told him, swinging for the metaphorical jaw
out of nowhere.
There it was, the
moment they had all been waiting for.
Baby Sherlock seemed to sense the change in the room, so did the Watsons. Mary’s hand curled around her stomach.
“It must be
comforting to be loved by so many people.
There’s that at least.”
“Is there?” Baby
Sherlock asked, looking half hypnotized.
“Your Wa– W–” He had to close his eyes, look away, swallow.
Roost sat Sherlock
back down when he tried to stand, “He’s not a child.”
Johnny swallowed,
nodded to himself. “Your Watson, he
wants to keep you safe like my Watson wanted to keep my Sherlock safe. Funny how it crawls up on you. Love,” he said like the softest spoken
catapult. “Being cared about and caring
about things. It just comes suddenly,
doesn’t it? Like the east wind.”
Sherlock sat back,
leaned back, pulled back from the words before he could check himself. It was the sort of thing Hamish could do,
according to her Sherlock. He’d say
words, just words that meant nothing, just arrangements of letters. Somehow they meant something to the person he
spoke them to though. Somehow they were
just the words to catch someone between the ribs and break them open. Her Sherlock had been thankful for it. It helped him be kinder to Johnny and he
would always be thankful for that. It
made him feel seen.
“Is that something
we need to worry about, the East Wind?” Baby Sherlock asked.
“He’ll come when
he wants to. Seven tomorrow, probably,
depending on traffic. But there’ll always
be two of us, majority rules for now.”
“Which two?” Mary
asked.
“There’s Tim’s
entourage,” he nodded toward Tim and Irene.
“Then there’s Roost, he’s not armed but he’s physically stronger as long
as he remembers he is. Then there’s me,
Sherlock is with me.”
“Sherlock raised
you then?” Approximate Hamish said.
“Who else would
you have raise your child?” Johnny asked him.
Imitation Hamish
blinked at that, but nodded at it, looking a little discomfited.
“Tim helped too
from time to time,” Johnny said
“Don’t blame
yourself on me,” Tim said.
“Who’s the fifth
then?” Mary asked. “There’s four of you, the four winds I
suppose. But there are five sets of pieces on the war room table. Who’s the
fifth?”
Her Sherlock
smiled at the woman, “You’d be surprised how no one ever thinks to ask.”
“Will you look at
the time,” Tim drawled. “It’s dinner,
who wants to go eat cake.”
The Watsons fled
in mass for the living room.
Speak with Tenderness 