Chapter One
Present Day
It was a Sunday afternoon at the Watson-Holmes house. My Father, the great Sherlock Holmes, was at the kitchen table typing furiously into his computer, clearly sending an angry letter of correction to the publisher of some online article. My Dad, the equally amazing John Watson, was reading the paper on the couch. I was on the floor reading a textbook and typing up an essay. My older brother, Hamish, was sitting in his chair, playing violin absent-mindedly. The tune was the same over and over again. It was driving me up the wall. He had been doing it for thirty-seven minutes, the same melody over and over again. He did this when he was deep in thought or just trying to irk me. It pissed me off.
"Hamish, do pick another song before my brain leaks out my ears." I requested. I heard my dad make a here we go again sigh. Suddenly, Hamish's violin took a piercing turn as he fiddled out a song he knew I hated.
"Better?" he asked with a devilish smirk. His eyes, they were green currently, were peeking out under his dark curls. He was challenging me.
"Much," I said sarcastically. He played louder and faster.
"How about now?" he said, further prodding me into an argument. He was bored so he was fighting.
"Stop, stop now." I demanded, sitting up.
"Uncultured child!" he shouted.
"I will kill you using your own body against you." I growled.
"Logistically improbable." My Father's voice chimed in.
"Sherlock," my Dad's voice warned.
"Well, look at her. There is no way she could over power him. She is seven and three quarters of an inch shorter and about forty-two pounds lighter. He would clearly come out the winner."
"Small but mighty." My dad said, winking at me. I grinned.
"Small, like you." Father scoffed. Hamish, tall and lankly like Father, smirked. Dad rolled his eyes and I went back to typing. Hamish started playing slowly, another one of his stupid songs he learned at school just to bring home and irritate his family with. Another song he knew I hated. He was trying to be sneaky enough to avoid getting in trouble but obnoxious enough to get under my skin. He was staring at me with an impish grin and dragging his bow deliberately over the strings.
"Stop," I said calmly, trying my best to be the mature one.
"Why?" he asked.
"Now," I demanded.
"What am I doing?" he said lowly, egging me on. He played a high screechy sound that caused both of my parents to look up. I picked up my eraser and launched it at his head. It flew over his shoulder and he threw his head back and laughed. I picked up my textbook and tossed it at him. It landed on his stomach with a thud. It knocked the air out of him. A few seconds later when he recovered he took his bow and prodded me in the arm, poking hard.
"Stop that!" I screeched.
"Andrea, Hamish! That is enough." Dad shouted. We both looked at him.
"Yes, do we need to implement separate corners for you two again?" Father asked. In unison Hamish and I rolled our eyes. He went back to playing, a normal nice song, and I went back to studying. Yes, a normal Sunday in the Watson-Holmes house.
That night we were all invited to Uncle Greg's house for dinner. His wife Susan, second wife I heard somewhere long ago, was making a large supper and wanted to see us kids again. She always cooed over how big we were getting and how it wouldn't be long until her babies were our ages. I always wondered when "you're getting so big" stopped being a compliment. As kids being a "big girl" or "big boy" were compliments. As an almost adult, it was rather insulting. Susan and Greg's children were ten and thirteen. Hamish and I were sixteen and eighteen.
"Alright," my dad said in the car on the way to their house. "Ground rules."
"Always?" Hamish whined.
"Until you stop doing what you do." Dad retorted, looking at him in the rearview mirror. "No deducing anything about them. I mean anything. Don't help the kids with their homework, either. Last time you did you made them cry. This goes for you too, Sherlock." Father huffed, Hamish sulked, and I grinned. "As for you," dad turned his attention to me. "Don't correct them or make snide comments. We get it, you're smart. Leave well enough alone. That one goes for all of you." Dad, satisfied with his job began texting Uncle Greg, telling him we were nearing his house.
The thing Dad said to me wasn't because I was overly excellent at academics. No, that was for Hamish. It was more because I had my Father's attitude problem and couldn't stand grammatical errors. Dad always felt the need to include me in his "public behavior" speech because I had made more than a few people feel uncomfortable in my teenage years. I wasn't the most tactful person in the universe. I blame Father for that. We pulled up into their driveway and piled out of the car. It was cold for September. I wrapped my coat tighter around me. Dad knocked on the door and Susan opened it quickly with a great big smile. She swept Father and Dad into a hug and then moved on to us kids. Hamish and I were not particularly touchy people. He and I both shied away from physical attention, save from our parents or immediate family. The Lestrade's were close but it still made us flinch a little bit. When I pulled back from the hug a bit Dad looked at me, reprimanding, and I hugged back. He nodded and then turned to Greg.
"Great to see you, mate!" Dad said, and clapped Greg on the back. Greg looked at Father and gave him a firm handshake. Greg, knowing we were Sherlock's children, didn't hug us like his wife did. He clapped Hamish on the shoulder and gave me a swift shoulder squeeze. That's what I liked about Uncle Greg. He understood boundaries and didn't push ours. Greg and my Father went further back than even Father and Dad did. I think, once upon a time, Father was an addict and Greg helped him out. No one ever talks about it so I had very little information. Dad and Greg met on a crime scene, the same night Father and Dad met. I had caught word that back then my Father was quite insufferable. I cast a glance towards him. He was standing far from the pack of us, just watching and judging us. Yeah, I could believe he was insufferable at one point.
Jenny and Tyler were watching telly on the sofa. Hamish and I joined them while the adults talked. All four of them transferred to the kitchen to discuss life. Life usually entailed work, crime scenes, investigations, and teenagers. Thirteen year old Jenny had the remote in her hand she was rubbing the buttons mindlessly. Hamish was watching her, probably deducing how she was anxious or worried or stressed. I just thought she was bored and wanted to do something with her hands. Ten year old Tyler was playing a handheld video game, not paying attention to anyone.
"Hey," Jenny greeted, looking at me.
"Hi," I said. "What are you watching?"
"Animal Park."
"Oh, I love that show. It's about the zoo keeper's right?" Hamish asked. Jenny looked up at him and beamed.
"Yeah! I love this show. I just hate that they cancelled it."
"Yeah, that was rough. A show you should check out is On Safari.It's old but really good. Or at least, I like it."
"I'll look into." Jenny said enthusiastically I looked at her smiling up at my brother. I was doing some deducing of my own. We all sat and watched telly for awhile before we were called to dinner. Hamish left first followed by Tyler who had shut off his game. I was heading to the kitchen when Jenny stopped me.
"You're bother is so cute!" She swooned.
"Yeah…" I said uneasily. He looked just like my Father so I didn't see the attraction. I mean sure, he wasn't bad looking. Dark curls, light eyes, high cheek bones, tall, thin. He looked just like Father. But I guess, to a thirteen year old girl, he was cute.
"You two looking nothing alike." She observed.
"I know." I said simply. Hamish and I were only half biological siblings. We had the same mum, a surrogate we know nothing about. But Hamish was bred from Father's sperm and I from Dad's. They had Hamish and then when he started walking and became toilet trained they realized they wanted another one. Thus, I was brought into the picture. I looked just like dad. Short, blond hair, blue eyes. I was in no genetic way related to Sherlock Holmes and Hamish was in no way genetically connected to John Watson. We were kind of a mash up of DNA with a hyphenated last name. Watson-Holmes. I was proud to be hyphenated, even though it was quite tedious on standardized tests.
At the dinner table conversation was dull, as it usually was at these events. I picked at my carrots as Greg and Father and Dad debated how a case involving a husband killing his wife should have been handled. Dad and Greg were on the same side, saying that Father should have not straight out told the toddler that his mum was dead and his dad was going to be incarcerated for the rest of his life. There was a lull in conversation when Susan piped up.
"So, Hamish. Where are you thinking of going to university? Any thoughts?"
"Umm, perhaps Bristol. Or maybe Dundee. Nothing's final yet." He said with a mouthful of potatoes. I rolled my eyes and groaned a bit. My brother was such a pig.
"Might want to hurry up." Greg said with humor.
"That's what I keep telling him." Father said sternly, looking coldly at his son who rolled his eyes to the ceiling dramatically.
"We are not having this conversation here, Sherlock." Dad warned. "Hamish will make up his mind soon enough and everything will be fine. So, stop. This pork chop is wonderful, Susan."
"Thank you, dear." Susan said, completely ignoring the minor outburst between my men. Father and Hamish frequently butted heads. They were too similar, said my dad. Their minds were too close for them to always get along. Each man thinks he is right and won't back down.
"What about you, Andrea? Any thoughts as to what you want to do in life?" Greg asked.
"I want to go to art school. I am going to be a novelist, painter, sculptor, poet person." I said seriously. Greg laughed, trying to hide it. Under the table Dad patted my knee.
"Well, who would have ever thought that a man like Sherlock Holmes would not only have a daughter but have a daughter who wants to be an artist? I'm sorry, Andrea. Your career isn't funny. Rather, the way your father's life turned out is."
I smiled a little bit at the look of discomfort on my Father's face. He truly did despise my dreams to be an artist. Though, Dad stopped him anytime he tried to talk to me about it. After much small talk the Watson-Holmes gathered their things and left the Lestrade's. We drove in silence for a few miles.
"Thank you for behaving like humans." Dad said easily. Father shot him a look and Dad smiled slightly. They bickered constantly, but it was gentle loving bickering. Sometimes I caught them kissing or hugging away from every one. One time their song was on the radio and Dad dragged Father out of his chair and made him dance. They were happy in a weird subtle way. I think, before Hamish and I were about, they were more romantic. They were married two years before Hamish. I have seen pictures of them on vacations, when Dad could tear Father away from work. A favorite of mine is a picture where Father and Dad are actually smiling at the same time. They were looking at each other, not the camera. They were wearing bee hats and there were bees all around them. It looked dangerous and not a place I would want to be. I loved that picture so much that when I was ten and went to sleep away camp I plucked it out of the picture album and put it in my luggage. I still have that picture folded in half in my wallet. I look at it when I'm sad sometimes.
We drove in silence for awhile longer before Jenny's comment rang in my head. I started giggling and Hamish looked at me.
"What?" he asked.
"Jenny thinks your soooo cute." I laughed. Without missing a beat he responded,
"Well, I am cute." The entire car burst into laughter. Up front I saw Father lace his fingers with Dad's and I smiled. My life as the only girl in the Watson-Holmes household was pretty nice.