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He’s home. Home home home. Dad is euphoric. I am euphoric. Sherlock himself is bloody exhausted. He’s like a limp noodle. But he seems happy, like really happy to be home, and that’s not a mood we often see him in. Usually even if he is really happy, he’ll make faces and act crotchety to hide it.

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We weren’t really acknowledging the possibility that Sherlock could die. That we’d get him back in a box. We knew he was with dangerous people, people who’d kill him to keep their own secrets. But Sherlock couldn’t die, could he? He was immortal. At least he’d always seemed that way to me. Invincible and eternal. Larger than life and bigger than everyone. Taller and louder and deeper and smarter and just more. Who could kill him, and how? Surely it wouldn’t do to just use a gun or a knife or your bare hands. Wouldn’t you need silver bullets or magical incantations or some sort of ancient Mayan voodoo?

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Ideally, we would have woken up this morning to find Sherlock sitting beneath the…oh, well, we don’t have a tree, but you know what I mean…with a ribbon around his neck. That did not happen. But we did get a present. Not from Father Christmas, although it might as well have been.

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We weren’t feeling very festive. We hadn’t even managed to get the tree up this year. Mum had hung up our stockings like usual, but then there was That Awkward Moment when she hesitated over hanging up Sherlock’s. She hung it up anyway. I caught Dad staring at it later that night.

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When I was thirteen, I saw my father kill a man. I suppose I ought to be traumatized by this and have nightmares, and spend hours recounting the incident to my therapist while suddenly going Goth and drawing disturbing watercolors using only black and red paints. Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I’m not traumatized. Do I lack human empathy? Am I some sort of disconnected monster? Or am I just that bloody tough? Dad says some people are wired to be able to deal with trauma better than others. I guess – yay for me?

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We’d emailed him the video of my chat with Sherlock the night before, so he’d have had plenty of time to study it. I was just praying that he could find a clue or a hint or something, anything, that would let him charge in with the Light Brigade and rescue Sherlock. I didn’t care if it bruised Sherlock’s ego to get rescued by his brother. I didn’t care if Mycroft had to carry him out over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I just wanted him home. Period.

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I sat there with Dad for awhile. We didn’t say much more. My heart was a big clenchy mass in my chest with fear for Sherlock, so I can’t imagine how Dad must have been feeling. I thought of something like this happening to Zack and it made me feel sort of dizzy and sick, and I’d only been Zack’s girlfriend for a few weeks. Dad and Sherlock had been together for nine years, or twenty, depending on where you start counting.

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I’m so bloody sick of crying. I’m disappointing myself. I ought to be strong and tough and keeping of a stiff upper lip. I’m a Watson, goddammit. I’m a Watson and a Pepperidge and a Holmes, and my parentage is so damned full of badassitude that it ought to be coming out my ears. This isn’t me, this weepy scared girl who can’t even sleep alone. I don’t know who this is. I don’t like her, not at all. I want her to go far away and never come back.

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I tried to picture my Dad without Sherlock and I couldn’t do it. I’d never known my Dad without Sherlock. I’d never been without him, either. I knew I was being dramatic, but I couldn’t help but worry that if he never came back, or if he died, that all of it would be just broken into a million pieces. Mum would be okay, she’d deal with it. Dad and me might not be so okay. I think even I would be okay eventually, but Dad? I don’t think so. I think that if you’re in love with a man like Sherlock, you’re done for. There’s just no moving on from that. Who could possibly compare?

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I’ll get this out of the way up front: still no sign of Sherlock. From the time I last saw him it’s now been – lemme check the time – two days, eight hours. I am on the plane home. I’ll catch you up, don’t worry, Mythical Nonexistent Blog Reader Who Is Rapidly Becoming My Secret Imaginary Friend and Confessor.

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This is why I like having Sherlock as a chaperone when I go to tourneys. For one thing, he can (almost) understand the level of chess-playing that goes on in competition. If you can’t follow what’s happening, it gets boring. Second, he doesn’t bug me with conversation and attempts to buck me up between games like Mum and Dad do. I know they mean well, but it’s just distracting. When he’s with me at a tournament and we go for a bite, he doesn’t try to talk to me unless I talk first. He leaves me alone to obsess over the thirty-fourth move of my last game and whether or not it could have left me open to attack from the opposing rook.

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We did a bit of shopping – don’t let him tell you otherwise, Sherlock was just as interested as I was in the designer clothing stores – and he took me to dinner to this mad crazy restaurant that seemed utterly dedicated to beef in all its forms. “It’s America, we’re required to eat copious amounts of beef,” he explained, although he himself had nothing but a bowl of lobster bisque. I had barbecued ribs and they were divine. And messy.

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The point is that the Watson-Pepperidge-Holmes household is not an activist one. You will not find a rainbow flag or a sticker or a placard anywhere in our house. Nobody’s ever marched or chanted or even written a strongly-worded letter to an MP. I remember being oh, twelve or thirteen, and hearing peers and grownups talk, sometimes with fervor, about gay rights. I never connected it with myself or my family. One day an older kid yelled at me for not seeming to care. “Why should I?” I said. She was agog. “Because your dads are gay!” she shouted.

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I pushed the door open. Dad was asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. I snickered to myself, because Sherlock was untidily sprawled over most of the rest of the bed, half over Dad, still fully clothed. He’d clearly pulled one of his marionette acts, wherein he bounced about in full Sherlockitude, then exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d collapsed like his strings had been cut. It was something of a miracle that he’d actually made it to the bed before losing consciousness.

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But there’s a lot that I don’t know, too. I know that he loves my father so much that he’s a little afraid of it, but I don’t know why or how. I know that he doesn’t think of himself as a hero, but I don’t know how he does view himself. I know that he would never have had a family if left to his own devices, but I don’t know if he has any regrets that he’s ended up with one anyway. I know how I feel about him, but deep down, I’m not sure I yet know who he really is.

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Sorry about the delay all!

I don’t know if I want Zack to be my boyfriend. I don’t know that I want to be his girlfriend. How am I supposed to know these things? Some magical switch that clicks over in my head and tells me to start feeling all romantic about him? How do I even know what that feels like? I am not exactly Our Lady of the Fluttering Hearts. I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. I’ve had a couple not-so-serious semi-boyfriends, and one torrid affair. That’s Metsy’s term, not mine.

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Edit: Link fixed! No more skipping :)

Sherlock might be my legal father now but he never really tries to parent me, not in a real imparting-of-values sense. His idea of raising me has always been to tell me the unvarnished truth, show me things as they are, and let me twist in the wind when I need to. He’s the one who’ll give me frank answers about things like sex and drugs and weird lifestyles, and it’s rather brilliant because for one, he knows everything and for another, nothing embarrasses him.

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So. This is what it feels like to be one of those kids. You know, the ones always getting dragged to the headmaster’s office, spray-painting train tunnels, getting ASBOs. It’s interesting, in a way. Sort of like going undercover.

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I just laid there, surrounded on all sides by my most important people. I have vague, happy memories of climbing into bed with Mum and Dad when they shared one. I used to do it to Dad and Sherlock, too, on the rare occasions that I’d catch Sherlock actually sleeping in a bed. One gets too old for such things, I suppose, but I don’t think I could ever outgrow wanting that warm security.

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I’m aware that I’m writing about happy memories to avoid thinking about the fact that I am stuck in a room in a safe house and I have no idea where Dad and Sherlock are. Wouldn’t you avoid it too, if you were in my spot?

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