Truth
Sherlock watched his brother approach the door of the quaint little country house with all the air of their father. His shoulders were pulled tightly back and his feet moved so intentionally that they never scuffed the clay colored dirt. It was such a pathetic portrayal that Sherlock had to look away, focusing instead on the door opening a crack and a boy a bit younger than Mycroft looking out. He hadn’t been sleeping, Sherlock noted by the bags under his eyes and his sluggish movements. His clothing, though faded and terribly washed out, was neatly ironed. Military perhaps. But only recently so. They showed wrinkle around the seems, obviously new to the concept.
“Hello, How may I help you?” The young man smiled but it was forced, rehearsed. Obviously a trait adopted by someone use to greeting strangers on behalf of others. Family business. Hence why they were there. To see the doctor.
“May I have a word with James Watson Senior?” His brother asked with his own brand of forced politeness. Sherlock noted that perhaps older children had a higher expectation of falsified behavior.
“I’m afraid my father no longer doctors, sir.”
“Yes. I had heard as much. But our mother’s ill. There is no other doctor in miles and it will be raining any minute now.” The blond man looked up at the clear sky as if for answers. Sherlock scoffed, dragging the his attention to the younger Holmes for the first time. How observant.
“It looks clear to me.” He said slowly dragging his eyes away from Sherlock.
“Please. Just a word with Doctor Watson.” Mycroft Holmes wasn’t one to say please. Not to a doctor’s son at that, who looks to the skies for enlightenment. Sherlock scowled but looked away a bit concerned with the worry in his brother’s voice. He took a step closer to Mycroft.
James Watson Jr. For the use of Senior, told him that Mycroft had somehow deduced that the oldest was a namesake. Sherlock would have to ask how later though it was probably something as dull as having heard it mentioned in town. James Jr. let out a sigh leaning his forehead momentarily on the door frame.
“What’s wrong with your mum then?” His formality dropped Sherlock noted. His shoulder’s seemed to droop with fatigue a strange, sad look to one developing a military stance.
“An escalating fever and a terrible cough.” Sherlock looked at his brother curiously. He knew that Mycroft could spout off a fairly accurate temperature just by touching their mother’s forehead and that he could give an account to the minute of when each symptom started. He could probably place weather her cough was a throat or chest issue. His brother however had more tact than he and wouldn’t scare people away with his massive observational list. At least not while standing in their doorway.
Suddenly a loud clap of thunder sounded overhead causing the Watson boy to jump. He looked at Mycroft as if he were some sort of soothsayer. “Ok. Let me talk to my father.” He eyes squinted as if the idea was painful to him as he opened the door wider. “You can at least bring your mother in from the carriage before it begins to rain.” He cast one more skeptical look at Mycroft before walking into the house. Mycroft trotted to the carriage for their mother and Sherlock strained his ears to listen to the voices in the house. But they were talking in hushed tones and he couldn’t make out a word except for ‘John’ and a mumbled order to meet the people at the door. John came darting out toward the front door, his too-long sun blonde hair bouncing into his eyes as he absently pushed it back with a small hand. He nearly bumped into Sherlock in his distraction and smiled apologetically. A real smile, unlike their older siblings.
“Hello, I’m-“
“John Watson.” Sherlock butted in, his face a mask of indifference. John’s eyes widened slightly but then his smile returned as he stuck out his hand.
“And your name is?”
Sherlock glanced at the hand with a scowl and sighed in dramatic exasperation. “Sherlock Holmes.”
John pulled his now awkwardly extended hand back to his chest. He frowned at it as if it was offensive and his cheeks blushed a faint pink before it was covered with a smile again. Before Sherlock could comment on the behavior Mycroft came through the door holding their mother by the elbow just as The Senior Watson shuffled out of the adjacent room with his son trailing nervously behind. Sherlock could immediately smell the alcohol on him though his eyes looked clear enough. The reason, he assumed, why the good doctor was no longer in practice. The man did look neat enough though. His clothing still done up in a habitual military fashion. His hair combed back, possibly just before entering the room. He had a thick blond beard and sharp eyes. “I’m no longer doctoring.” He said though he pulled out his medical bag with a sigh. “But I can’t just let you go untreated. I’ll look you over and you can stay until the rain stops.”
“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” Their mother spoke with an unexpected grace for someone who could barely stand. They followed the older Watson into another room. Sherlock watched them go with concern unchecked on his face.
“She’ll be alright.” The boy’s hand was on his shoulder as he spoke softly to him. Sherlock jumped back in surprise, shrugging the hand off. Anger surged through him at being caught so vulnerable.
“You’re mother died recently.” He blurted with every intention of being hurtful. John recoiled. His face lax with shock, before recovering and smiling sadly.
“Yes. She died two months ago. Did you hear that in town?” He asked as one who has been meeting many strangers who knew too much about the Watsons.
“No. I could see it in your clothes.” Sherlock pointed to the wrinkled shirt and the dirty trousers. “Your father and your brother are both military men and know how to care for their clothes. You are too young to be in the military and do not have that same imbedded upkeep so you had someone else doing it for you, your mother, who is no longer around to do it and your father and brother aren’t concerned about your appearance.” John looked embarrassed at that but stuck his chest out. “They do not care about your appearance for the most fitting reason, that your father is no longer in business. I assume because of his drinking which most likely began in extreme after the death of your mother. And your hair. It is grown out enough to be bothersome. A mother would have noticed and had it trimmed.”
“Yes. That’s all right.” John nodded. His fingers fiddling with his hair thoughtfully. “That was rather brilliant actually. Well done.” That was not a response Sherlock was familiar with and looked John over very carefully. “You don’t have to worry about your mum though.” John stuttered out suddenly. “ I mean she’s not going to end up like my . . . I mean it’s not . . ..” He took a flustered breath to get his emotions under control before he continued. “She’ll be fine is what I’m trying to say.”
“And what are you a doctor too?
“A doctor’s son.”
“I see, that qualifies you to diagnose my mother? Tell me. What did you see that would assure you she is as ‘fine’ as you put it?”
“Her eyes.” John smiled again, Sherlock found the expression rather fitting on the boy. He was definitely one who wore his emotions on his face. He shrugged. “I’ve seen lots of eyes come through here and you can always tell the ones who are going to walk out alright. She’s got a fire in her eyes.”
“How cliché.” Sherlock waved a disinterested hand. “I hope you don’t plan on a career in writing.” John laughed openly. His eyes sparkling at the strange boy.
“You say whatever you think don’t you?” Sherlock was surprised by the question. More so surprised that John was still talking to him when he was putting in a great deal of effort to scare him off.
“I do.” John nodded with that goofy smile on his face.
“I appreciate that.” He looked back in the direction their family had gone. “It feels like a long time since anyone said anything truthful.” Sherlock found himself tipping his head in agreement without realizing it.
“What’s your favorite color, Sherlock?” Sherlock blinked.
“I don’t have one.”
“That’s unfortunate.” John was as lighthearted as ever. He phased through emotions faster than anyone Sherlock had ever met. “You seem like a purple to me. All mystery, and nobility and wisdom.”
“And mourning.” Sherlock added automatically.
“No, not for you.” John smiled, unconsciously placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock let it stay.
“Hello, How may I help you?” The young man smiled but it was forced, rehearsed. Obviously a trait adopted by someone use to greeting strangers on behalf of others. Family business. Hence why they were there. To see the doctor.
“May I have a word with James Watson Senior?” His brother asked with his own brand of forced politeness. Sherlock noted that perhaps older children had a higher expectation of falsified behavior.
“I’m afraid my father no longer doctors, sir.”
“Yes. I had heard as much. But our mother’s ill. There is no other doctor in miles and it will be raining any minute now.” The blond man looked up at the clear sky as if for answers. Sherlock scoffed, dragging the his attention to the younger Holmes for the first time. How observant.
“It looks clear to me.” He said slowly dragging his eyes away from Sherlock.
“Please. Just a word with Doctor Watson.” Mycroft Holmes wasn’t one to say please. Not to a doctor’s son at that, who looks to the skies for enlightenment. Sherlock scowled but looked away a bit concerned with the worry in his brother’s voice. He took a step closer to Mycroft.
James Watson Jr. For the use of Senior, told him that Mycroft had somehow deduced that the oldest was a namesake. Sherlock would have to ask how later though it was probably something as dull as having heard it mentioned in town. James Jr. let out a sigh leaning his forehead momentarily on the door frame.
“What’s wrong with your mum then?” His formality dropped Sherlock noted. His shoulder’s seemed to droop with fatigue a strange, sad look to one developing a military stance.
“An escalating fever and a terrible cough.” Sherlock looked at his brother curiously. He knew that Mycroft could spout off a fairly accurate temperature just by touching their mother’s forehead and that he could give an account to the minute of when each symptom started. He could probably place weather her cough was a throat or chest issue. His brother however had more tact than he and wouldn’t scare people away with his massive observational list. At least not while standing in their doorway.
Suddenly a loud clap of thunder sounded overhead causing the Watson boy to jump. He looked at Mycroft as if he were some sort of soothsayer. “Ok. Let me talk to my father.” He eyes squinted as if the idea was painful to him as he opened the door wider. “You can at least bring your mother in from the carriage before it begins to rain.” He cast one more skeptical look at Mycroft before walking into the house. Mycroft trotted to the carriage for their mother and Sherlock strained his ears to listen to the voices in the house. But they were talking in hushed tones and he couldn’t make out a word except for ‘John’ and a mumbled order to meet the people at the door. John came darting out toward the front door, his too-long sun blonde hair bouncing into his eyes as he absently pushed it back with a small hand. He nearly bumped into Sherlock in his distraction and smiled apologetically. A real smile, unlike their older siblings.
“Hello, I’m-“
“John Watson.” Sherlock butted in, his face a mask of indifference. John’s eyes widened slightly but then his smile returned as he stuck out his hand.
“And your name is?”
Sherlock glanced at the hand with a scowl and sighed in dramatic exasperation. “Sherlock Holmes.”
John pulled his now awkwardly extended hand back to his chest. He frowned at it as if it was offensive and his cheeks blushed a faint pink before it was covered with a smile again. Before Sherlock could comment on the behavior Mycroft came through the door holding their mother by the elbow just as The Senior Watson shuffled out of the adjacent room with his son trailing nervously behind. Sherlock could immediately smell the alcohol on him though his eyes looked clear enough. The reason, he assumed, why the good doctor was no longer in practice. The man did look neat enough though. His clothing still done up in a habitual military fashion. His hair combed back, possibly just before entering the room. He had a thick blond beard and sharp eyes. “I’m no longer doctoring.” He said though he pulled out his medical bag with a sigh. “But I can’t just let you go untreated. I’ll look you over and you can stay until the rain stops.”
“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” Their mother spoke with an unexpected grace for someone who could barely stand. They followed the older Watson into another room. Sherlock watched them go with concern unchecked on his face.
“She’ll be alright.” The boy’s hand was on his shoulder as he spoke softly to him. Sherlock jumped back in surprise, shrugging the hand off. Anger surged through him at being caught so vulnerable.
“You’re mother died recently.” He blurted with every intention of being hurtful. John recoiled. His face lax with shock, before recovering and smiling sadly.
“Yes. She died two months ago. Did you hear that in town?” He asked as one who has been meeting many strangers who knew too much about the Watsons.
“No. I could see it in your clothes.” Sherlock pointed to the wrinkled shirt and the dirty trousers. “Your father and your brother are both military men and know how to care for their clothes. You are too young to be in the military and do not have that same imbedded upkeep so you had someone else doing it for you, your mother, who is no longer around to do it and your father and brother aren’t concerned about your appearance.” John looked embarrassed at that but stuck his chest out. “They do not care about your appearance for the most fitting reason, that your father is no longer in business. I assume because of his drinking which most likely began in extreme after the death of your mother. And your hair. It is grown out enough to be bothersome. A mother would have noticed and had it trimmed.”
“Yes. That’s all right.” John nodded. His fingers fiddling with his hair thoughtfully. “That was rather brilliant actually. Well done.” That was not a response Sherlock was familiar with and looked John over very carefully. “You don’t have to worry about your mum though.” John stuttered out suddenly. “ I mean she’s not going to end up like my . . . I mean it’s not . . ..” He took a flustered breath to get his emotions under control before he continued. “She’ll be fine is what I’m trying to say.”
“And what are you a doctor too?
“A doctor’s son.”
“I see, that qualifies you to diagnose my mother? Tell me. What did you see that would assure you she is as ‘fine’ as you put it?”
“Her eyes.” John smiled again, Sherlock found the expression rather fitting on the boy. He was definitely one who wore his emotions on his face. He shrugged. “I’ve seen lots of eyes come through here and you can always tell the ones who are going to walk out alright. She’s got a fire in her eyes.”
“How cliché.” Sherlock waved a disinterested hand. “I hope you don’t plan on a career in writing.” John laughed openly. His eyes sparkling at the strange boy.
“You say whatever you think don’t you?” Sherlock was surprised by the question. More so surprised that John was still talking to him when he was putting in a great deal of effort to scare him off.
“I do.” John nodded with that goofy smile on his face.
“I appreciate that.” He looked back in the direction their family had gone. “It feels like a long time since anyone said anything truthful.” Sherlock found himself tipping his head in agreement without realizing it.
“What’s your favorite color, Sherlock?” Sherlock blinked.
“I don’t have one.”
“That’s unfortunate.” John was as lighthearted as ever. He phased through emotions faster than anyone Sherlock had ever met. “You seem like a purple to me. All mystery, and nobility and wisdom.”
“And mourning.” Sherlock added automatically.
“No, not for you.” John smiled, unconsciously placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock let it stay.