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I am writing this entry on my tablet from some room inside one of Mycroft’s houses. I don’t know where. Somewhere near Hull, I think. The car that brought us here had blacked-out windows. Mum is pacing back and forth. She keeps looking at the windows. They’re covered with heavy curtains and she wants to look outside, I can tell, but we were told not to do that and she’s trying to do as she’s told. I’m really scared.

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First point of update is that Sherlock is having way too much fun tormenting me in his new capacity as my legal dad. He has taken to answering every question I ask him with “Because I’m your father, that’s why.” Meanwhile Dad just snickers in the background and Mum says “hey, you asked for it.” So I’m to expect no help from the people who actually conceived me, in other words.

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We walked up and around the corner to the ice cream shop by the park, one of my favorite spots. Not only do they have divine ice cream but they’ve got a lovely terrace with a big koi pond, and it was a beautiful night, not too cool yet, and not damp for once. I walked behind, arm in arm with Mum, Dad and Sherlock ahead of us on the pavement, holding hands. They don’t normally do that in public, but Dad was probably feeling extra snuggly tonight.

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I told myself I could handle this. I’m no big girl’s blouse. I’m the daughter of a woman who boils people for a living, a war hero with nerves of steel and a man that the most devious criminals in the world run from in terror. I can deal with being lost in a strange neighborhood.

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We do this, you see. Me and Dad. A couple of times a week he’ll come find me and say “Let’s make our escape” or something like that and we go off somewhere. To a park, or to get an ice cream or a coffee, or down to the secondhand store on the next block that I love love love. Just get away from home and Mum and Sherlock and chess and homework and crime-fighting and bones and everything else and hang out. Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had with Dad have been on these little impromptu dates. Me and Mum do early-breakfast-outings and late-night-telly-talks. Me and Sherlock do not-strictly-necessary-cab-rides and not-really-chess-games. Me and Dad do escapes.

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When they finally let us see him, he was awake. He smiled when he saw us. But Dad was mad. Maybe as mad as I’ve ever seen him. I totally got that. I’d seen how scared he was, how long those hours had seemed until the doctors told us Sherlock would be okay and we could go in. I’d spent that time trying to deal with the idea of life without Sherlock and what if he’d died, and how would any of us handle it, and I couldn’t deal with what it would mean for me so I just thought about what it would do to my dad. He’d never get over it. I might joke about it and make fun of them and say “eww” but the truth is that I will feel very lucky if I ever know what it’s like to be in love like they are.

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If there are two people in my family who are alike, it is not me and my mother, or me and my father, or my father and mother. It is my mother and Sherlock. Which, I admit, is weird, and brings up suspicions about what my dad found attractive about her to begin with. They are both tall and willowy in a fashion-model sort of way, dress impeccably, and are analytical to the point of driving a person crazy.

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Today I came home from school not in the best of moods. Had an irritating day of classes and I was still rather hacked off at my stepdad because he’s a bloody wanker. But it turned out to be a good night after all. Nothing like coming home to the smell of decomposition to set things to rights.

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The (Voice) Blog of Eugenia H. Watson

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January 2013

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