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Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
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Joan really didn't expect the quiet morning to go to hell that quickly. She thought forlornly about her toast, while watching London fade away behind the cab's window. There was an impatient shifting on her right, eliciting a resigned sigh. She had been the one to invite him, after all, but wasn't above stalling a little. Somehow, she was (almost) certain that what she was about to do would rather please than annoy the detective. Turning to her flatmate, the doctor said casually: "Tell me, what do you know already? I'll correct or complete you."
Sherlock gave her a quizzical look, tainted with amusement, before rolling out his deductions in one breath: "The call was from someone you know for a long time and feel obligated towards – you answered the phone despite not wanting to talk to them. You make the same face when Harry calls, but it was someone else, a man, judging by the voice tonality. Considering the potential gravity of the matter, a missing child, I'd go with an estranged family member or a family friend, someone you don't keep regular contact with, but who would instinctively rely on you in case of emergency – it is barely eight in the morning, you were clearly their first call. The missing boy, however, you are fond of, it is evident by the worry lines on your face and the fidgeting. The man who called you is his father, obviously. So, you are distant with the father but like the son. Now, it is not your character to let relationships fade, there must be a good reason for you avoiding this person. Something about his moral conduct, I presume." He gave a considering hum, reviewing what he just said. "You asked me to come, because you don't want to leave any doors open for the search, smart of you actually, but you are also reluctant to face the boy's father alone, or you wouldn't have hesitated that much before requesting my presence. You are a war veteran, you wouldn't be intimidated by a man from your own generation, so an authority figure, an uncle or…" he paused, surprised by his own conclusion. "… your father?"
Joan stared at him, mouth agape, for a few seconds. "Wow. Amazing." She shook her head a little. "All that from what, a couple of phrases?"
"Twenty-one words, John" he supplied helpfully. "And three weeks of sharing a flat. Don't underestimate me."
"Right" she smiled weakly. At the demanding glare she was getting, she elaborated. "Yes, it was my father on the phone."
"I thought your parents were dead."
"Just my mother. When I was eighteen. Cancer." How different her life would have been with her still alive? She kept staring in the distance. It was simpler to tell this story to the air. "My father… well, he had always been a workaholic. We'd barely seen him after this. Then he remarried to a much younger woman when I was still in uni, and finally had the son he always wanted, and we kinda lost contact." Sherlock watched her like a hawk, clearly filing away the unveiled bitterness in her voice and posture. "Michael is a good kid" she added more brightly. "I just hope dad and Jen are overreacting, and he just sneaked out with a friend."
"You resent your father for the remarriage?" Sherlock asked skeptically. He wasn't that good with sentiment, but could tell that Joan wasn't one to hold such childish grudges.
She glanced at him, sheepish. "I don't resent him, or avoid him for that matter. He had to get on with his life, and it's perfectly normal. But we haven't talked much for years. It wasn't intentional. Just happened." She sighed heavily. Their father had always been demanding, and not particularly accepting of opinions that differed from his point of view. The bad temper ran in the family, and it was difficult to survive any family dinner without someone blowing up, so the number of said dinners slowly dwindled to zero over time. "He didn't even call me when I was sent home. Or visit Harry after her divorce. So, you were right in your first assessment, my only somewhat close family is my sister."
They fell into contemplative silence, Joan still mulling over her disastrous relationship with her family, Sherlock filing away new information. He had assumed that Joan had a happy, normal childhood. It appeared that he was wrong (never assume). While his own family wasn't exactly normal, he couldn't deny the underlying care in their interactions. He never doubted that his parents loved him, despite disappointment and heartbreak he must have brought at some stages of his life. Joan didn't have this safety net to fall to, and still grown to be someone even Mycroft came to respect. It both intrigued Sherlock and made him more careful in his approach - a puzzle with so many layers, it wouldn't do to mess this up by peeling them off too rashly. The mental image of his own father popped up in his head, smiling ("Are you being humble for once?"), but was quickly tucked away.
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The house Joan's father and step-mother lived in was a typical non-descript two-stories building, rounded by other similar constructs and gardens maintained at various levels of diligence. Upper middle-class, stuck into the work-home-sleep routine, with meaningless gossip between neighbors to liven up their existence. Dull. A single police car was stationed in front of the house, with one constable checking something in his notebook. The door was slightly ajar, his partner most likely being inside with the panicked family.
The cab drove away slowly, while Joan and Sherlock covered the distance to the lawn. Sherlock could see the signs of a child inhabiting the house – a bicycle against the wall, a ball under the stairs. A window just over the veranda was half-open, and he could see colorful stickers on the glass. He lagged behind, letting Joan take the charge. She was literally marching to the constable, determination set in her shoulders and steps, every inch of a soldier.
"Morning" she greeted tersely. The young man looked up, a little surprised, but tiredly resigned to deal with curious onlookers.
"Please, circulate, ma'am, there is nothing to see…"
"I believe there is. Joan Watson, my father called me in." Sherlock smirked inwardly at the dumbfounded expression on the man's face, who fumbled for a come-back. He was saved by the front door flying open, and a grey-haired stocky man hurrying towards them.
"Joan! What took so long?" he demanded instead of a greeting.
Joan nodded briefly at the constable, then turned to face her father. Sherlock watched eagerly the encounter. He could see the resemblance between the two persons, in the shape of their earlobes and the slight crook of their nose tips, the shade of greying blond and the stubborn set of their jaws. Watson patriarch however exuded nervous energy and irritation, while Joan stayed neutral and mild, even if she couldn't hide (from Sherlock anyway) the effort it cost her (furrowed brow, tense shoulders, hands clasped in the back – she worries and not only about the missing brother).
"Traffic" she answered the previous question in a carefully subdued tone. "What happened?"
Joan's father crossed his arms in apparent disapproval, not moving an inch, but started talking nevertheless: "Michael has football training in the morning. I went to wake him up, and the room was empty, his bed made, and he is nowhere in the house. No note, nothing."
"When was the last you've seen him?"
"Last night, around ten, we sent him to bed. At seven thirty this morning, he wasn't there." He frowned even more. "Have you been in touch lately?"
Joan gave him a very sharp look, easily reading the unsaid accusation. "No" she replied curtly.
The older man responded with a sharp calculating glare of his own that made Holmes feel strangely irritated, but didn't push further. He did finally notice Sherlock's looming presence at his daughter's side, however: "And who's that?"
"Father, this is Sherlock Holmes, a friend and a detective. Sherlock, this is my father, Andrew Watson" Joan intoned, making vague hand gestures between them.
"Pleasure" Sherlock commented when no reaction came from Mr Watson. And he thought he was the one inapt in social niceties.
"May we come in?" Joan suggested on the brink of losing her neutral mask. Obviously, she was used to her father's unfriendly behavior, and knew how to manage it, but her temper couldn't take long of this careful balancing either.
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A/N: Sherlock gets a rather extensive family back-story in the series (and I like that), while John only gets an alcoholic sister we never see. A bit not fair, don't you think?