Investigating with his son trailing along was … different. John was so used to following Sherlock, he barely gave a thought to what he was doing anymore. (Mostly because he usually did what Sherlock told him to do.)
With Ian, along, things changed. Suddenly there were explanations that needed to be made, and with Sherlock, well … that wasn't always easy. Not that Sherlock wasn't being remarkably patient—because he was. Remarkably. John had already known that his flatmate enjoyed an audience. He knew that Sherlock showed him more patience and forbearance than he granted to almost anyone else, but the fact that he extended that to John's son?
There were times he wondered why. Was it just that Ian was so appreciative? Awed like John still was at Sherlock's skill? Because frankly John was always impressed, these days—not only with Sherlock and his deductions, but with the fact that his deductions could break through Ian's cool-teenager façade. Like any other boy his age, Ian worked at being adult and unflappable, but that would melt away when Sherlock started to string together clues and observations.
These days, Sherlock was aweing John not only by being himself, but for being the one factor that regularly broke through to the little boy Ian used to be.
Not that Ian was being particularly difficult … not for a 14-year old who had just lost his mother and found himself living with his father for the first time in a decade. John was constantly giving thanks that Ian had inherited the Brandon good nature that let him take most of this in his stride. If he'd had more of Mary's volatile temper, well … Sally would have been right about there being a trail of bodies around Sherlock.
Instead, they had an Ian who was on his best behaviour, enjoying every minute of tagging along on their investigation. (Well, every minute except the "boring" ones. Between Sherlock and Ian, John would be happy if he never heard the word again in his life.)
Unlike at Van Coon's, Ian had been more patient outside Soo Lin Yu's flat than John had. He contentedly trailed along when they headed to the antiquities museum to interview the young man who'd left her a note.
And when Raz had contacted them to say he'd found more of the yellow graffiti? Ian couldn't have been more pleased.
#
Investigating with John's son was different.
Sherlock found it invigorating in a way he had not expected. He had always found John's participation to be remarkable. Unlike almost every other human being on the planet, he found Sherlock's deductions to be fascinating, and Sherlock had been amazed at how … helpful … that was.
He had never dreamed lightning would strike twice with a second Watson. Or Brandon. He still didn't know why Ian had a different surname than both his father and his mother. (It was a detail that was annoying him, but which he didn't want to ask about. He'd rather figure it out on his own.)
No matter his name, though, Ian turned out to be not a nuisance, mostly. As he'd relaxed into 221B and gotten past the worst of missing his dead mother, he had developed some annoying habits (watching telly, playing video games), but once Sherlock bought him a pair of high-quality, noise-blocking headphones, that problem had been minimized. John had made sure most of Ian's mess stayed in his bedroom instead of their already cluttered living room.
If using the kitchen as his laboratory was still a problem, well, they were working on that, too. (And, really, he didn't understand why John wasn't willing to use the kitchen in 221C. Yes, Mrs Hudson had taken over the space for her own storage, but there was room for food, wasn't there? It wasn't like he could move his lab equipment down there. The mould spores would contaminate everything, and his experiments were important.)
Sherlock had to admit, though, that Ian's fascination with his work was … flattering. Even more so than John's admiration, because while John was smart enough in his own way, he was very much his own man, with his own unique skill set and experiences. Ian, though, was a smart, if unmotivated, blank canvas. He was coasting through school and seemed to have no direction—but he found Sherlock's work intriguing. It was one of the few topics that engaged his interest.
This, he believed, was why John didn't protest when Ian begged to tag along on this case—even once it turned out to be murder. Anything to spark some interest in a son who was wasting his time with stupid mass entertainment. Sherlock wondered how much of that was grief, how much the dead mother's influence. Was Ian naturally lazy? Was he disengaged because he was grieving? Or was he just that boring? Because teenagers often were, weren't they? Regardless, John seemed pleased to see Ian express interest in something off the television screen, and since Ian seemed willing to quietly tag along, Sherlock found he didn't mind the audience.
He hadn't expected John to be so angry after the meeting with Raz, though. When he had arrived back at the flat to find John and Ian eating lunch (boring), he had been treated to a lecture on abandonment. How had ducking away from the police qualified as abandonment? Surely John and Ian had had the same opportunity? It's not like he was used to having an entourage.
He tried to explain, but kept being thrown by Ian's suppressed giggling. It wasn't a malicious laugh, which he found to be a relief. It was almost as if he were sharing a joke with John, and yet John was angry and not joking at all … except … he was?
It was confusing, and he was just as glad when the other two were done eating and he was able to send them on their way to get Brian Lukis' diary from Dimmock while he headed back to the bank to talk to Van Coon's PA.
Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the beaming Ian when they bumped into each other on the street outside the Lucky Cat later. It was really remarkably pleasant to have someone so happy to see him. Ian even trailed along to the antiquities museum contentedly enough
He stiffened as they left, though, when they were approached by Raz. Odd. Ian had seemed impressed by Raz earlier. Why would … Oh. That yelling John had done earlier. Hadn't he said something about Raz leaving Ian with his paint, and how Ian had almost been arrested? He thought an ASBO might have been mentioned. Did people really worry about those?
It was interesting, though, watching John's clean-cut son circling the edgy, streetwise Raz.
Fascinating in its way, but there were more important things at stake.
#
Standing in front of an entire wall filled with yellow graffiti, John stared at his phone in frustration. "Right, obviously he's not answering, but he needs to see this. I'm going to go find him. You…"
He stopped. What was he thinking? He couldn't leave his 14-year old son behind, not in this area in the middle of the night. He would cover ground quicker on his own, yes, but the very thought was irresponsible.
"I can wait here," Ian told him, face earnest.
"No, that's not an option," John said. "It's not safe."
"Then stay with me. Sherlock will show up eventually, won't he? I'm tired."
John just huffed a laugh. "You don't know him very well yet, do you? And you're too young to be tired."
He was considering his options when a voice spoke from the dark. "I'll stay with him."
John spun, torch light spreading an arc of brightness that ended on a familiar face. "Raz? That didn't go so well last time."
Raz just shrugged while Ian looked altogether too excited about this. "Last time I told you I only had two minutes. But I figure you did me a favour, getting me off the hook. So, I'll stay with the kid while you find Sherlock. Just this once."
John drew a deep breath, buying time to think. His son looked both insulted at being called 'kid' and excited about the after-dark adventure … all overlain with an attitude of 'cool' that he'd layered on like a cloak the minute Raz showed up. He considered—it shouldn't take him long to find Sherlock, and Raz was obviously street-smart enough to keep Ian out of trouble for that long … wasn't he?
"Go on, then," said Raz, starting to look offended. "Kid's got a mobile, doesn't he? You can call him if you worry."
"Yeah, Dad, it'll be fine. Go find Sherlock."
John pursed his lips and then gave a sharp nod. "Right, but unless there's a gang war going on, you had both better be right here when I get back."
"We will. Go."
John turned and took a few steps away, then pivoted back to see both boys watching with matching expressions of irritation, so he gave a nod and was off into the dark, tracking Sherlock.
#
"It was right over here," John said as he led Sherlock to the graffiti. "A whole wall…"
His feet stuttered and paused as he stared. The wall was entirely blank, covered with black paint.
But more importantly, Ian and Raz were nowhere to be found.
#
(Note: I KNOW it's a short chapter, and I'm sorry. It doesn't help that this story is set in the middle of my least-favorite episode (what was I thinking?). Though, speaking of least favourite parts, I'll be doing you the favor of skipping Soo Lin's monologue-of-narrative-death at the museum. Just so you know. On the plus side, I just realized this is going to need to be eight chapters rather than the originally-planned seven, so you're still getting more bang for your buck.)
