Hello. My name is Hamish Watson. Hamish James Watson, actually, but I'm only ever called that when I've done something wrong, like knocked over Sherlock's petri dishes. But I haven't done that since I was five, so I rarely get to hear my middle name anymore. Pity. It's amazing how much meaning a name can hold when it's hollered by an angry parent.
I live in a flat on Baker Street, 221B. I live with my Dad, John Watson, and his friend, Sherlock Holmes. A lot of people are surprised when they find out that Dad and Sherlock are, indeed, just (very very very close) friends. Dad's not gay. Personally, I think he and Sherlock are heterosexual life partners. I saw that phrase on the Internet and decided it was fitting. They do everything a married couple does, anyway. Dad nags at Sherlock to eat or to pick up his socks or remove severed limbs from the fridge. Sherlock makes Dad tea. They rabbit at me to do my homework and chores. They even share a bed, but that's only because Sherlock is touch-starved and can't sleep alone. This means the upstairs room in mine, and it's a pit. Even after I've put things back where they belong, it still looks chaotic.
I'm supposed to write these things down so there's room in my head for important things, like school and friends and whatever else teenagers are supposed to focus on. At least, that's what the guidance counselor the school forced me to see said. Apparently I'm abnormal. Sherlock says normal is boring.
I'll start by talking about my Dad and Sherlock.
Sherlock is, as I have discovered during long and slightly uncomfortable conversations, asexual. The whole sweaty-and-naked thing does not appeal to him in the least. Dad is heterosexual. The whole sweaty-and-naked-Sherlock thing does not appeal to him in the least. This works for me because that means I have never walked in on them doing anything that would take years of therapy to fix the mental trauma. It does mean that, every few weeks or so, Dad goes out to a pub and comes home very late, smelling of perfume, sweat, and beer. (Sherlock always makes him take a shower before getting into bed.)
I like to think he's going dancing. Saves me the mental anguish.
I love it when he goes out, though, because that means I can have a conversation with Sherlock without any buffering from Dad. One of the things I love about Sherlock is that there is no filter between his brain and his mouth. Which means I can talk to him about practically everything. Lately we've been discussing Neolithic religions, because of reasons.
People who don't know me or Dad or Sherlock are generally very surprised when I refer to them as Dad and Sherlock, instead of as 'my parents'. Well I haven't got two parents, I've got one and his pet genius. The other person who contributed twenty-three chromosomes to my genetic makeup buggered off when I was eighteen months old. I wasn't too terribly fussed, though, as a toddler, since she would foist me off onto a friend or babysitter whenever possible. I was born during what Dad refers to as his and Sherlock's Break. I don't know what happened during this ominous Break, since Sherlock changes the subject whenever I bring it up and Dad gets this sad-puppy look about the eyes. I just know that the woman whose womb I occupied for eight months and two weeks resembled Sherlock in some ways. Curly black hair, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, pale eyes. I got the hair and the cheekbones, but I have Dad's eyes.
Wouldn't it be funny if we actually took the physical traits we shared with our parents? If when I said I had Dad's eyes, that meant he didn't have any?
I suppose you can understand why I have to see the guidance counselor twice a week, now.
It started when I was ten, and we had to write stories for a class. Since mine involved a decapitation, a family meeting with the principal was called.
Family includes Sherlock, his brother Mycroft, and his husband whom I call Uncle Greg.
Lots of testosterone in that room. I suggested increasing my soy intake to try and even the odds. Dad looked at me funny.
After a long chat in which the severed limbs in the fridge were Absolutely Not Mentioned, the principal said, in a very soft voice, that usually they alert social workers in cases such as these. I knew that was utter cockamamy, and I think Dad did too, but he still went very quiet.
People like to threaten to have me removed from Baker Street since it's just about the only thing that will make Sherlock behave, and because they don't understand our family dynamic. They see two men raising a child, and they either think, 'oh how lovely for them,' or 'how dare they corrupt that poor wee babe!'. Because people assume that Sherlock and Dad are... involved. With each other. While they do love each other very much, and I think there is a bit of romance to it, and they are a couple, it's not the way everyone thinks.
Even if it were, my reaction would still be the same:
Get Out Of My Business.
I'm a peculiar sort. Uncle Greg likes to tease that I'm 'away with the fairies' but he's in his sixties so he's allowed to sound like and old fart. The thing is, people take this as evidence that two men should not be allowed to raise a child together, when it has absolutely nothing to do with them and everything to do with my brain being a little underdeveloped in some areas and overdeveloped in others.
Anyway, the principal made his threat (and it was a threat; if a social worker saw the inside of 221B I would be whisked away before I could say 'hazardous living space'), Dad went quiet, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, Mycroft smiled like a lizard, and Uncle Greg frowned in a way that made me think he was considering reaching for his badge. Or his gun. Or maybe both.
All I know is Mycroft asked to speak to the principal alone and, when we all came back into the room, the man had gone pale and suggested maybe a biweekly meeting with the guidance counselor. I don't speak to her, just stare at her badly dyed hair and imitation designer clothes. The principal resigned the next week and was replaced by a lovely middle-aged woman who was very reasonable and occasionally joined me in the guidance counselor's office with tea.
Anyway, I am now fifteen and still having biweekly one-sided chats with a guidance counselor, though not the one I started with. This one is fresh out of college and reasonably intelligent. She understands that I have nothing to say to her and instead advised that I put my thoughts down on paper. Or computer, because who uses paper anymore?
I think that's enough introductory information for now. Maybe I'll write more later, maybe I won't. Also Dad's back with takeaway, so. Ta.