Dear Diary,
I rarely date. Most men remind me too much of my father, the memory in my brain of a cold, disapproving face that took and never gave. I used to hate him so much that I changed my name – to Sawyer, my mother's maiden name – instead of Holmes, the name I had at birth. I hated the way Mycroft would try to please him, showing him more and more evidence of his competence and uprightness, only to receive cold looks and rejection in return. I hated even more the way Sherlock, a kid back then, would look so bewildered and hurt whenever his childish behaviors were the recipient of undeserved harsh reprimands. I could see him go further and further inside, retreating behind his eyes until he was an engine running on autopilot and the real Sherlock was nowhere to be found.
I used to envy my brothers. They got to escape to boarding school, but I never did. I was kept at home to stop my mother from being too lonely. I learned to ignore the coldness of my father and concentrate on my own success. His death was like a rite of passage. I was fifteen, and I determined that I would forget him, take my mother's name, and never feel that kind of rejection again. When my mother died three years later, I tried to feel sad, but I found it difficult to grieve the nervy, weak-willed woman who had failed to protect her sons and caved under the pressure of a cruel husband. For my own sake, I didn't care. I had long ago realized that I could take care of myself. I was angry at her for the sake of my brothers.
Now, I've stopped hating. I know that my father was a broken man, somehow, and that my mother never knew how to find her strength. I also know that my brothers are responsible for the men they have become, and I love them. I love Mycroft, with his three-piece suits and his obsessive need for control, and I love Sherlock, with his craving for drama and the kind heart he tries hard to bury. They are my family. That doesn't mean I always like them, though.
John's different. He's never set off the warning sensors in my brain, the signals that tell me a man is going to treat me like my father did, not even once. He doesn't ask for things he's not willing to give back, and he treats me like an equal. He's also something my brothers can never manage to be – normal. I love the comforting regularity of being with him, grabbing takeaway, watching telly, leaning my head on his shoulder and knowing that he's not harboring any secret observations about what I did with my day based on the dirt flecks on my shoes. He's just John, solid, warm, and safe. I could get used to this kind of security, but I'm a little scared to. Things this nice don't usually last.
