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1.
Angela first meets Andrew David William Watson-Holmes II when he is thirteen months old. He is an adorable baby -- curious and strangely serious, into absolutely everything. He's absolutely massive for his age, but Angela has seen enough kids to know when they're going to stretch out like he is, and he owlishly blinks his dark blue eyes at her from behind thick glasses, all under a mop of curly blonde hair. With absolutely no effort on his part at all she and the rest of the staff are in love.
His father drops Andrew off three days a week with clockwork regularity. He's a serious and stern looking man, and Angela has a hard time imagining him changing diapers or wiping up drool, or rolling around on the floor with a baby. She wonders where Andrew's mother is; Dr. Watson doesn't even mention her in the past tense, and leaves those parts of the form blank. Whatever their history Andrew lights up when Dr. Watson comes to take him home, reaches out with chubby fingers and waddles his way over.
He also has full blown meltdowns when Dr. Watson drops him off, though -- thank God -- they taper off as time goes by. The one time Angela brought it up Dr. Watson had stood stiffly and apologized, which hadn't been her goal. It's a look she only sees once more, when Andrew comes in with eye-patches, first on one eye, then the other, from some kind of corrective surgery -- Dr. Watson had looked like a stiff wind was going to topple him over. Ultimately Angela had caved and the staff had gotten used to handling Andrew's piercing screams for the first hour and a half of the day.
Almost a year goes by and Andrews grows, starts talking and never stops, takes apart everything he can get his hands on. Angela takes to giving him toys she'd never normally let a two year old use, with lots of little pieces and interlocking compartments. Andrew loves them, and never once does anything go into his mouth, which is a minor miracle.
They start to see Andrew's aunt and uncle too, every once in a while -- a couple who must have been related to Andrew's mother, because they look nothing like Dr. Watson. Andrew isn't as happy seeing them as he is his father, but that's typical, and in any case they seemed incredibly interested in Andrew’s life -- to the most obscure, minute details, actually. Angela's daily reports on Andrew start to look like War and Peace.
Then one day someone new comes to pick Andrew up. He's tall and incredibly thin, with his hair growing out of what must have been the patchiest buzz-cut ever. He strides in, pale eyes scanning the playroom through the glass windows. He tells her he's there for Andrew Holmes, and Angela blinks at him in surprise. "And you are?" she asks, trying to balance incredulity with politeness.
"Sherlock Holmes," the man says. His voice is incredibly deep, more a rumble than a tone.
"Dr. Watson hasn't mentioned anyone new picking Andrew up."
He pulls his phone out and dials without looking, his eyes still on Andrew. "You didn't sign a release for me to pick Andrew up," he says calmly, and doesn't react in the slightest to whatever he's hearing. It's frankly creepy. Angela is beginning to wonder what the hell is up with this guy when all of a sudden he breaks into a massive grin. It changes everything about him, turns him from severe to almost... goofy. "I told you he was ready for more complicated mechanical puzzles... because he's just finished putting one together now." He listens for another minute then hangs up, his gaze never wavering.
"He's been using that one almost a month," Angela offers. "It's his favorite toy."
He hums but says nothing else. After a few moments Angela gets called away to deal with a grape juice crisis, but he doesn't even notice her departure.
Twenty minutes later the doorbell chimes and in walks Dr. Watson. He heads straight for the man, who points Andrew out to him. Angela finishes up her phone call and hurries over.
"--that's because his father is an idiot," Dr. Watson says, and Angela pauses, surprised by the man's answering smile but shocked by Dr. Watson, who is smirking and teasing, if his tone is anything to go by. She hadn't thought he was capable of it.
"My point remains. Ms. Carney, am I allowed to collect my child?"
Angela blinks and clears her throat. "I, um -- Dr. Watson?"
Dr. Watson turns and smiles -- actually smiles at her. "This is Sherlock Holmes, Andrew's other father."
Angela smiles back and tries to take that in. "So you'll be wanting to fill out some paperwork, then?"
Dr. Watson nods and starts in the direction of her office, and Angela unlocks the door so Mr. Holmes can go into the playroom. "Andrew," he calls, his voice so imperious half the children and most of the adults look up.
"Papa!" yells Andrew, who clamors to his feet, so excited he's gone completely clumsy, his arms reaching for his father like he's forgotten how to walk. Mr. Holmes raises an eyebrow but he also smiles, and crosses the room to pick up his son. Angela turns to get the forms.
They leave ten minutes later, arguing happily over dinner options, Andrew clinging to Mr. Holmes' neck. The gossip for the rest of the week makes Angela grateful most of the children in their care can't speak, or they'd all be fined for gross indecency.
When Mr. Holmes comes to pick Andrew up the following week Angela wonders how she could have missed the resemblance - when they smile at each other it's like looking in a mirror.
2.
Grace has been trying to get the scoop on John Watson for months. Working at the surgery has become infinitely more enjoyable since he limped his way in with a mysterious past, several heroic injuries, and a little baby boy he obviously thought the world of. He's widowed, she can tell that much, because she's been fighting her custody arrangement with Jerry for the past year and a half, and she can spot the signs. He doesn't walk around like a part of him is damaged, the way she does -- he's got a huge chunk of himself missing.
She and the rest of the nurses start battling it out to work with him, because he's certainly more interesting than Dr. Harris, who is fast approaching two hundred years old, or Dr. Beauchamp, who barely seems intelligent enough to pass secondary, much less med school exams. Grace quickly learns the way he works, likes assisting him with minor procedures or tests. John is kind and perpetually calm and always straightforward, and the patients appreciate him for it. He hardly notices though, and none of their gratitude, their kind words or holiday shaped cookies seem to really catch his attention. He once diagnoses a patient's liver problem based on the man's shirt-cuff, and everyone is shocked, but he just shrugs and asks to see whoever is next. And Grace is well aware she's being a nosy bint but she can't help it, she wants to know what happened.
"Murder," says Helen, nodding like she's relaying the information from some verified source.
"I say car accident," Peter argues, refilling his coffee mug.
"What about an illness?" Susan asks, sidling up to join the conversation. Helen and Peter shake their heads, and Grace adds, "No way, he wouldn't look so shell-shocked all the time. I think Peter's right, I'm thinking MVA."
"None of the above," John says, walking past them. They all start and look after him, various expressions of guilt on their faces.
"Shit," Peter says. They nod in agreement.
Grace blows out a sigh and follows John into the exam room, where he is preparing to meet another patient. "Um, about that--"
"Are those instruments cleaned from last time?"
She nods. "I can go get the next patient if you like."
"Please." When he looks at her his eyes are very, very blue.
Months go by and John gets more and more serious, and quieter, which she hadn't thought possible. She worries about him even though she knows it's not her job. He never misses a day, never even comes in late, but all the same she breathes a sigh of relief each time he walks through the door.
Then one week he just doesn't show up. Dr. Harris tells them John called, requested indefinite leave, but it's the least reassuring answer she's ever heard, and from the expressions on her coworkers' faces they all agree.
Three weeks go by with nervous tension in the office, everyone waiting for a phone call or notice of some kind, but on the following Monday John walks back in, same time as always. He looks completely haggard, and somehow even smaller than he'd been before, but he's wearing an expression she's never ever seen on him, some entirely unexpected version of happy.
"Feeling better?" she asks, probably more intensely than she should.
He nods, a small, self-deprecating smile on his face. "Thanks for asking; I'm sorry to put you out for almost a month like that."
"No worries," she answers, and her coworkers nod fervently, Peter smiling in that dorky way that makes him look slightly deranged. "We're just happy to have you back."
"Glad to be back."
He goes to hang up his coat. They all exchange looks, but after last time no one wants to publicly speculate, or pry.
It takes another month for them to find out why. Four weeks and then one day a man walks in mid-afternoon, a black bag on one shoulder, John's son holding onto his neck from the other side. "I need to see Dr. Watson," he says, while Andrew looks around curiously.
"Sure," says Peter from behind the desk. "Hi, Andrew."
"Hello," Andrew says, and smiles back at Peter, because Peter was always giving him the sweets or stickers they stock for the littlest patients.
"I'll get him," Grace volunteers, and the look the man sends her has her averting her eyes like she'd just admitted her darkest fantasy. She turns and heads to the back, where John is writing in a patient's file. "John, there's someone here with Andrew for you."
"Oh, okay," he says, surprised. "Thank you." When he sees his guest he raises an eyebrow but seems otherwise at ease. Andrew calls out "Daddy!" and smiles, but seems content to stay with the man holding him.
"Hello, sweetheart," John says, kissing his son on the head. "What's up?" he asks the man, who stands almost a whole head over him.
"You weren't clear with your list, and you didn't answer your phone," the man said.
"How are vegetables this complicated, Sherlock?" John asks, but he's smiling. Peter looks at her and mouths 'Sherlock?'
"There's conflicting information on whether green onions and leeks are in fact the same thing," Sherlock tells him.
"Down, Papa," Andrew orders, and Sherlock puts him on the ground, where he immediately runs over to the toys in the corner while Grace thinks Papa?
"Just give me back the list, I'll get it on the way home," John tells him, but Sherlock shakes his head. "How much time can you have left here, anyway?"
John looks remorseful, "I can't leave this early-"
"John, it's fine," Grace interrupts. "We're pretty light the rest of the day, go ahead."
John looks between them and caves gracefully, gives her a grateful smile. "Let me get my coat," he says, disappearing into the back.
Sherlock looks back at her, scans his pale eyes up and down in a way that's not remotely lecherous, is instead strangely calculating. "Oh," he says, then leans on the counter, pitches his voice low. "He wouldn't have been interested, even if he wasn't married to me." She blinks in shock - married? - and he continues. "He doesn't respond positively to well-intentioned but amateurish attempts at seduction, prefers instead to be the pursuer. And he's under enough stress without the fallout from a messy divorce -- or, no, separation, you haven't even signed the papers yet. You're going to want to get going on that, your ex has clearly moved on."
Whether he would continue to spread her life out for display is unknown, because John comes back out, shrugging his coat on. "Okay, let's go," he tells Sherlock, who stands up and turns. "Thanks again," he says, while Sherlock goes to pick up Andrew.
"No problem," she answers faintly. They leave, Andrew waving goodbye over Sherlock's shoulder, a wave of silence in their wake.
"Married?" Peter says.
"After we finish today," Grace says, "we're all going out for a drink."
3.
Mr. Harold Soo Chin graduated second in his class at UCL; he received his specialized degree from RCOphth with top honors; he is a member of both the BOA and the Royal College of Ophthalmologists. He’s listed as an author in fifty-three papers, three book chapters, and countless presentations. He’s routinely asked to speak at conferences, occasionally to give the keynote address. In other words, Harold’s bloody good at what he does.
Then he meets the Earl of Abingdon, and is reminded that none of it matters one damn bit.
It’s not the kind of scenario any surgeon appreciates: a man (or more accurately, his older brother) who has a great deal of prestige and even more money and who expects immediate results that resolve a complex issue completely in one go. Harold’s dealt with these kinds of expectations before (there are not many people who can do what he does in this country), and he’s coolly pleased by his first interaction with the family and his patient, an otherwise healthy boy he meets at four weeks old. He examines the infant, an easy-natured child who's already crossed the ninetieth percentile for weight, and congenital cataracts, while uncommon, are a reassuringly straightforward diagnosis. The Earl says very little, his eyes latched onto his son like he might disappear if he looks away, and his partner knows enough about medicine to be succinct in his questioning. Harold lets them know their options and tells them to schedule a second appointment.
The second meeting does not go as well. They’ve very quickly come around to the idea of surgery, and the Earl’s partner -- who reveals he is a surgeon in his own right -- announces that he’ll be watching from the observation platform, just to ‘make sure everything goes smoothly’. Harold has never wanted to veto an idea so quickly in his life. Everything about this man suggests there will be no surgery perfect enough to meet his standards, and Harold is not about to be responsible for the post-operative reallocation of funds to the hospital, or a military-style re-examination of his methods. Based on the look in the man’s eyes alone Harold would rather go up against the ethics and malpractice committee.
So instead Harold goes for the metaphorical jugular, gets visual and detailed about what the surgery entails -- the tools he uses, the necessity for lens removal and eyelid peeling, the stitches -- and watches both the patient’s parents turn eight different colors before the Doctor gives in. Harold leaves the room and breathes a sigh of relief.
The surgery goes smoothly, and the patient recovers as expected. Harold assumes that’s the last he’ll see of the Earl and his family, and adds him next to the Duchess with amblyopia and the third cousin to the Queen who had glaucoma.
It means he’s mildly surprised to see them six months later, having asked specifically for him to correct the developing strabismus in the patient’s right eye. “Andrew,” the Earl tells him, as Harold comes into the prep room. “His name is Andrew.” It’s very clear this is not a suggested title.
This surgery goes equally well - it’s simple stuff really, the loosening of one eye muscle, the tightening of another. As usual the parents -- Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson -- are more traumatized by the experience than their son, who has continued to grow to some extraordinary proportions. “He’s probably a half a stone away from being my weight,” Harold mutters unconsciously as he hefts the baby on to the post-op exam table, and startles when Dr. Watson laughs loudly. He smiles down at the -- at Andrew, who grins gummily back.
A year later it appears everything has gone to hell. John comes in with Andrew, who is fast approaching two years old and reminds Harold of his own children, chatty and into absolutely everything. But John looks beyond exhausted, just worn to the bone, and so very sad. Harold isn’t a moron, and his skills at discretion are exceptional, so he doesn’t ask questions, just gives Andrew an eye-patch, explains to John when to switch it to the other eye, when to take it off entirely, and when to come back and see him again. He puts an eye-patch on himself to convince Andrew to try out his own and John gives him a look so grateful it strikes rather too close to heartbreaking.
That night Harold searches the internet for Sherlock Holmes and finds his obituary listing; he thinks of how utterly alone John had looked. Harold doesn’t care how cliche it is, the first thing he does when he logs off is go into the sitting room and wrap his arms around his wife, kiss her gently on the temple.
Harold passes another year in the usual manner -- his family, his work, his school friends and his social engagements -- until before he knows it the name Andrew Holmes is on his registrar, scheduled right after lunch. Harold is half-pleased and half-dreading the encounter; the last time he hadn’t been able to get John’s expression out of his head for a week.
This is not like the last time. He hears Andrew well before he sees him but that’s not what’s surprising -- what shocks Harold is the other voice, the one telling Andrew that he’s on the fast track for accidental electrocution if he keeps playing with that wire. It’s not John, because John is telling the first voice that it would be more helpful to take the wire away and not just comment on how dangerous it is.
“Mr. Holmes,” Harold blurts out as he turns the corner, staring in shock. Sherlock looks exactly the same as ever did, down to the sardonic tilt of his eyebrow. “You were--”
“--And now I’m not.” Sherlock cuts him off, standing. “Come along, Andrew, it’s your turn.”
Andrew takes off down the hall, yelling something that starts off, “To fix visual defects--” and ends with John berating Sherlock for telling Andrew the ‘defective genes’ were from the Watson side of the family.
Harold spends the entire appointment trying not to stare too obviously, then gives it up as a lost cause. The first time Sherlock met Harold he’d told him he was only forestalling the inevitable family argument by letting his oldest think she was getting away with changing her clothes in the school bathroom every morning; the second time he asked Harold if his youngest was the first or last member of the family to come down with the flu, because he didn’t want it to interfere with Andrew’s scheduled surgery. There’s no way he doesn’t already know every thought Harold’s had since he rounded the corner, so why pretend otherwise.
Instead all he says is “Welcome back”, genially enough that it could apply to everyone. John smiles, and Sherlock looks mildly surprised but almost appreciative. Andrew yells back hello and proceeds to pull every glove in the size large box onto the floor.
4.
There is a very hard-earned lesson that David has unfortunately learned over the years: there are some days where it simply doesn’t pay to get out of bed.
David doesn’t have them often, thank Christ for that; not like when he’d been young and his entire life had been upside down, when he’d been existing on Chinese and coffee and he didn’t clean the flat he’d rented after his divorce for eighteen months. His life is put together now – slapdash and roughshod, true, but he’s a fully functioning adult so there’s something to be said about that.
But today, for some reason, the world began working against him from the moment he woke up. It started with coffee down his shirt and a text from his ex-wife letting him know he’d be having the girls for an extra weekend this month – it had nothing to do with the Harbinger of Death wanting him to have more time with his kids, and everything to do with her new Latin boyfriend.
He stopped a theft attempt on the Tube and got cut to ribbons for his troubles, hauling the idiot into the MET with blood running down his neck and onto not only his new suede jacket, but his second fucking shirt of the day. The lot downstairs patched him up, chitchatting about how ‘they always enjoyed a live patient now and again’, and by the time he finally, finally settled at his desk, it was to his computer gasping, groaning, and then dying with a puff of gray smoke. Geoff called a meeting before he could get the lads in from IT, but David did manage to play round three of phone tag with the C.P.S., which was always a romping good time.
When he stood up, Rolanda bumped into him and spilled her coffee clear down to his trousers.
Now here he is, seven o’clock, and instead of having a pint and something to eat and forgetting this day ever happened, he’s mucking about in the dirt and grime, collecting evidence around a dead woman.
Which is, of course, the very moment Sherlock Holmes shows up.
David hadn’t quite believed it when Geoff had told them about the wunderkind’s miraculous return. Even now, looking at him, it’s difficult to believe it’s the same man. He’s thin, even thinner than David remembers, practically swimming in that enormous coat of his. His hair is cut close to the scalp, making his already dangerously emaciated face frighteningly skeletal. There are marks under his eyes that make it look like he hasn’t slept in a week.
He’s carrying Andrew.
“Now, wait a minute,” Geoff says in lieu of a hello, kissing Andrew when the little boy beams at him with all the love in the world. He’s carrying his toy frog under his arm. “When I called you I wasn’t giving you directions to a picnic, Sherlock.”
“John had to work late,” Sherlock replies, as if John wouldn’t kill him when he found out. “It’s fine.”
David ducks his head down and waits for it, waits for it, and then Andrew squeals, waving his hands wildly. “David hi, hi, hi!”
“Hi!” David replies, pulling his gloves off with a snap, and blocking the view of the woman sprawled dead in a puddle of dirty water. Sherlock’s face does something obscene, pulling a dozen expressions David is fairly certain he has no control over, before puckering like he just sucked a lemon. It would almost be funny if it weren’t also a bit sad. “How are you doing, then?”
“Guess what, guess what! My Papa took me for foods, and then we saw the ducks at the park, but it was too dark to play at the park because the sun is going down now early, and my teacher said it’s because the sun gets very sleepy when it’s time for jackets,” Andrew says, and David will never not be impressed by his completely linear thinking, unheard of in a child so small. Andrew could make connections better than most people at the precinct.
“It has been getting dark early,” he tells the boy, smiling. “Are you excited about Christmas?”
Andrew’s eyes get enormous, that beautiful blue under his curls. “Christmas?” he repeats, and looks up at his father with something akin to awe. “It’s almost time for Christmas?”
Geoff glances between them like he’s at a tennis match, uneasy, before coming to some sort of decision. He takes Andrew from Sherlock. “Right, you kids play nice while I show Andrew the cool ambulance.”
They watch Geoff stride away, Andrew asking, “It’s Christmas soon? Really?”, until they’re left, the two of them, like a pair of bulls. All it’ll take is for David to see red before he charges. “You seem overly familiar with my son,” Sherlock opens.
“I see him often. He and my girls belong to the same swimming class,” David replies, neutral.
“How often is ‘often’?”
“Every Saturday. We haven’t seen Andrew for two weeks now, the girls have been asking about him.” David’s eyes narrow. “It’s good for him to be with other children.”
Sherlock looks him over like he’s mud beneath his shoe. “Don’t presume to believe you know anything about my child or his needs.”
It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock that he’s seen more of the boy in the past two years than his own father, but he stops himself at the last second. He won’t be cruel to a man who looks like he ought to be in a hospital bed, not traipsing around a crime scene. David crosses his arms. “None of your funny business. Touch as little as possible, and wear gloves.”
The glare he receives in return, as well as the snotty, “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I take orders from you, Dimmock,” makes it feel just like old times.
And if David notices Sherlock discreetly lifting a pair of gloves from one of the techs, he doesn’t say a word.
5.
Sherlock cares about the judgments of others only as they impede or improve his ability to do as he likes; there are exceptions, of course, but for the most part everyone else can go hang.
He's not sure why, then, he's having such a hard time schooling his face into something appropriately dispassionate. He doesn't even know this woman, and she certainly doesn't know the first bloody thing about him.
"I don't normally get involved in things like this," she's saying, arms on her desk, fingers laced. "But we're always working with the child's best interest in mind."
"Are you suggesting we're not?" Sherlock asks, and thinks that depending on this woman's answer this conversation could turn quite ugly. John's expression seems to suggest this is a foregone conclusion.
"Certainly not," she says, and tries out a smile that neither Sherlock nor John react to. "But nonetheless, there have been some -- concerns."
The fingers on John's left hand, curled over his knee, twitch. "Such as?"
"Andrew's schedule has become increasingly erratic, Dr. Watson," Headmistress Leigh says. She only addresses Sherlock when she has to, seems entirely put-off by him. "He's being picked up early, dropped off late, missing days entirely."
"It's a nursery," John says flatly. "It's not as though he's missing exams."
"We have a rigorous program here, Dr. Watson, which until recently you were very approving of," she points out, just kindly enough that calling it a rebuke would sound ridiculous. The look John sends her is disbelieving, like he's never seen her before in his life. Of course, she's never sounded so much like his mother before, Sherlock's certain, so perhaps he simply didn't realize. Six months since he's been back, and Sherlock is still only beginning to realize how deep a fog John had been living in.
"Mrs. Leigh," Sherlock says, trying for conciliation. "We are well aware of the needs of our son."
"Mr. Holmes," she interrupts, "I'll be honest, it's hard to believe that considering this is the first time I've met you."
Sherlock freezes, but only to keep from saying something that would likely provoke her to involve security.
She takes his silence as having acceded the floor and ignorantly continues on. "At other programs they may allow parents to take a back seat, but as you know we're a select, premier institution. When our students enroll here we ask that their parents remain involved, or at the very least, not impede the learning process. Your sudden... return into Andrew's life is one thing, but this behavior is something else altogether." She thinks Sherlock is some kind of deadbeat, an addict back on the wagon, taking advantage of his loved ones. If he wasn't so startled by it he'd laugh, and then he'd laugh at himself, for expecting anything else.
John has never actually been so offended, and certainly not to this degree. He can't actually believe the words that are coming out of this woman's mouth, only that they're hurting Sherlock. What's worse, if she's behaving this way in front of parents -- and in her business, customers -- then it's a good bet her staff is, too, and probably worse.
A dozen little things seem to coalesce all at once -- things Andrew had said that alarmed him, ways he'd behaved, comments from his teacher and her assistant that had made John question the way things were run. Before he'd been so fucking tired, but now that he's not as much anymore, now that he has Sherlock, he's sharper, clearer, sees things as they are, not how he wishes they could be. If she wanted to play this game, fine. They would play. "Mrs. Leigh, as you know my mother-in-law recommended me to your school. She reassured me that not only was your school top-notch, but that my son would receive a well-rounded education in history, mathematics, and the arts. While I agree, and approve, of your establishment's goals regarding education, I also feel that a renewed connection to his returned father is not only important, but vital to my son's growth and development." He tips his head. "Calling an emergency meeting on the subject was neither necessary nor helpful, considering I've received no previous word on the matter."
"Mr. Watson, while I understand the stance you're taking, you simply must see that constantly removing Andrew from his peers is detrimental to his wellbeing," Mrs. Leigh says.
John's fingers clench in his pant leg. "Are you trying to imply that I'm not being a good father, Mrs. Leigh?"
"I would never imply such a thing," she says, which is answer enough. "Surely you must see how this is harming Andrew."
"I see a happy child who's emotionally fulfilled," John replies, furious. "His interpersonal skills have improved by leaps and bounds since Sherlock came back into our lives."
"Yes, but how long will that last before he's once again--"
"My mother is going to find this very interesting," Sherlock interrupts, conversationally. "She’s having tea with Elizabeth on Friday -- remind me if I'm wrong, didn't she send William and Harry here as children?"
"She did, yes," John says, so mad he's cold with sweat. The only thing that makes it worth it is to see the blood drain out of Mrs. Leigh's face. "That's how Adella knew about the school, Elizabeth recommended it."
Mrs. Leigh looks, for one single moment, like a fish out of water, all gaping mouth and wide eyes. It's almost worth it. Almost. "Gentlemen, let’s not be hasty," she says.
"What a pity," Sherlock continues on, "for a school so prestigious to be so unaccommodating, especially in light of the circumstances. Of course, we would never request special treatment for our son, regardless of the peerage he will one day inherit. After all, fair is fair."
"Of course," John answers. "We're paying customers, like all of the other parents who have their children enrolled here. I wonder, Sherlock, if they know about Mrs. Leigh's blatant homophobia--"
The woman makes a choked sound not unlike a drowning cat. "Mr. Watson!"
"--and her discrimination against the children of same-sex partners."
Mrs. Leigh looks like she swallowed an entire football, stitches and all. It's deeply gratifying. John stands, Sherlock at his heels. "I'm going to collect our son and his things. I sincerely doubt we'll be returning."
"I'll get his paperwork, and a refund for the rest of the semester." Sherlock's eyes bore into Mrs. Leigh's. "Don't forget his cups."
They have dinner at Angelo's, coats piled in the corner of their booth, Andrew next to Sherlock so he can look out the window and loudly demand Sherlock explain everything Andrew sees. Dinner here takes ages, which should limit the number of times they stop by but somehow never does.
"It doesn't bother you?" Sherlock asks John.
John looks up in surprise. "Of course it does." He gives Andrew -- who is swirling his meatball around on his plate with the most serious intent -- a sideways look, but when the meatball stays put looks back. "She was completely out of line."
"Not that," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. "There's nothing new or worth caring about with that particular class of morons."
"Well, what then?" John asks, his eyebrows knit together. He looks strangely young, bright-eyed and warm.
By comparison Sherlock still looks worse for wear, to say the least. It's unfortunate, but there is only so much he can do about it, and there are more important concerns in any case. "As insipid as her argument may have been, Mrs. Leigh is hardly alone in her assessment."
"About what?" John asks, "About you? I know you're not going anywhere."
"Of course I'm not," Sherlock snaps. "But you're the only one who knows that, or why I even left in the first place. It doesn't bother you that in the eyes of your coworkers, your acquaintances, everyone who knows you, your son has a recovering addict for a father? Someone who ran off, a wastrel?"
"What's a wastel?" Andrew says, looking up from his food.
"Wastrel," Sherlock corrects.
"Sherlock," John says.
That Sherlock expects an answer to such a stupid, useless, ridiculous question is maddening; that Sherlock asked such a question means that John needs to consider his answer, not blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
Angelo comes personally to serve them, as always, and Andrew bursts into giggles when he sets Andrew's plate down with a dramatic flourish. It's only when they've all tucked in, and John's poured another glass of wine for both of them, that he answers. "They can all go hang."
His husband snorts, concentrating on getting the ketchup their son insists on squeezing himself on Andrew's plate, not all over his person. "Uninspired."
"They can go jump in the Thames?"
"We're going swimming?" Andrew asks, eyes lit up.
"No, love," John says, spooning a bit of carrot into Andrew's mouth while his son is distracted. "The Thames is too dirty to swim in, because of all those big boats."
"Oh." Andrew looks up at him. "Daddy." His little face twists with disgust, but he chews the carrots dutifully. John gives him another spoonful before letting him have at it with his chicken.
The old Sherlock would have pressed John to answer truthfully. The old Sherlock would have harassed him until he did, bringing it up again and again until John gave him an honest answer, if only out of sheer annoyance. But this Sherlock is different, fragile in a way John hasn't been able to define, and he won't press. He won't ask, not about this.
John reaches across the table, links their fingers. "People will ask, and wonder, and gossip; it's the nature of things," he says, matter-of-fact. "I couldn't care less. Let them talk." He meets Sherlock's eyes dead on. "I love you, you know. So much, and I'd rather have you here with a tarnished reputation neither of us give a shit about than buried in Ascot."
"Give a shit," Andrew agrees. "Papa, can I have some of your pasghettis?"