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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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Convincing Joan to take the backseat with Michael wasn't very difficult, and it was a much more relaxed Sherlock that pulled into the driveway. Constables were about to leave, with Andrew Watson watching them from the doorstep.
They all froze when three of them climbed out of the car.
"Michael!" Mr Watson ran to his son, engulfing him in a hug. Probably having heard her husband, a fair-haired middle-aged woman emerged from the house. Stifling a shout, she ran to her family, falling on her knees before the boy and hugging him too. Her eyes were trimmed red, hair in disarray. She had been devastated by worry.
Joan was watching them with a wistful smile.
"Where have you been, Michael?" managed to ask the mother – Jen, was it? – after several minutes.
The kid appeared shaken by his parents' reaction, and replied waveringly: "I… wanted to go to Sandhurst."
Sherlock saw the tension creep back into his flatmate's and her father's bearings. "Army?" asked Mr Watson in a clipped voice.
"Y…yes…"
Joan shifted slightly to stay at parade rest.
Andrew got up to his feet, a vein beating on his forehead. "Did you put him up to this?" he not-quite shouted at his daughter, nearly invading her personal space. . Sherlock noted the rapid change of face color and put down a mental note to prepare an experiment regarding the correlation between strong emotional input and skin pigmentation, involving Anderson, Donovan and their cronies.
"No" was the calm answer.
"My kid won't be involved in this business!"
Sherlock frowned at the appalling display of family distrust. And he thought Mycroft was bad. Joan's eyes flared with repressed anger. "I couldn't have put him up for anything, since we barely keep in touch as it is." She enunciated every syllable as if shooting a bullet. "Tell me, dad, why did you call me today if you are so disgusted by me?"
There was a pained gasp from Jen, who hugged her son tightly, wide eyes going from husband to step-daughter. She didn't seem hostile or disapproving. Just confused and tired. Michael looked like he was about to cry, but well, he was a kid in a middle of an adults' dispute. Andrew Watson was glowering at his daughter with remnants of righteous anger, but seemed at a loss for words, and more than a little disturbed by her outburst. Slowly, his fury seeped away, leaving just an angry front that hid rather badly a blooming shame.
"Right" Joan said sharply, as she brushed past him to leave, already weary of the whole ordeal. She stopped shortly to pat Michael's hair, giving him a small reassuring smile. "Call me next time" she muttered softly to the kid, then she was off like the wind.
Silently marveling at the range of emotions his flatmate displayed in a matter of seconds, Sherlock shrugged at the stunned family, and followed suite.
They walked briskly for about five minutes before he decided to speak up: "He's not disgusted." She gave him a questioning look, still tainted with anger and hurt. "He sees someone else in you. And doesn't know how to deal with it." Joan frowned, trying to reconcile this new tidbit of information with her family history.
"Oh …" she finally said. "My uncle died at Falklands." She rubbed her neck uneasily. "He should say something then. There are things that need to be told."
"Like I always said, sentiment is the enemy of rational thinking."
They walked in silence for another five minutes. Sherlock started to wonder if he should suggest a cab, when Joan Watson surprised him again. "Thank you for coming."
While his mind went in overdrive processing the rare occurrence of being thanked, his mouth went on auto-pilot: "I found the whole experience quite informative."
She looked puzzled for a second, before chuckling: "Of course, you did."
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The next evening she got a call from Jen, who was quite effusive in her gratitude, making Joan more than a little uncomfortable. And being uneasy made her pace the living room, unaware of Sherlock raptly observing her every move. "And I'm sorry for your father's behavior. You know how stubborn he is."
She didn't want to discuss her father with his own wife. "I know" she answered in a clipped tone.
"He's worried about his kids. All of his kids."
She heard herself blurting out: "He has a strange way showing it." There was a shuffling on the other end of the line, then a pregnant pause. "Jen?" Silence. "Forget I said it. Nevermind…"
"I'm sorry" said Andrew Watson. Stunned, the ex-soldier dropped to the couch, eyes wide. She could hear Jen hissing angrily to her father to go on. Good woman, she thought absently. "I don't want you to think that I… that I disapprove of you."
"And do you?" she asked softly. Just a 'sorry' won't make up for years of distance and frowns. But it feels nice nevertheless.
"No" he stated firmly, then continued to stumble with his apology. "It's a father's job to… to protect his children. And you… you grew up too fast. And… got hurt. I hate this. Not keeping any of you safe."
Joan blinked two times, processing what her father just said. "I'm glad none of us inherited your social skills, dad. You suck at this" she sighed, running a hand through her messy short hair. Andrew Watson spluttered indignantly on the phone. "We're lucky Jen bears with you."
"Now listen here, you little…"
"I love you too, dad" she smiled at her feet. This, at least, never changed.
There was a rustling on the line again, then Jen's amused voice came by: "He walked away. Looked ridiculously happy, if you want my opinion."
"I stand by my early statement, thank god we didn't get his social skills."
"You should drop by for a diner someday, John. Harry too." Jen always respected her stepdaughters' eccentric preferences in names.
"That'd be nice."
"You could bring your tall and mysterious friend too" she unexpectedly teased. "He looks absolutely dishy." Joan blushed uncontrollably, to the great delight of the said friend who didn't know what caused this reaction but filed it away for later blackmail.
"We'll see" Joan croaked. "Good night, Jen."
"Night, John".
"Did you make up?" Sherlock asked immediately when his flatmate dropped the phone on the table. She looked up, startled.
"Yeah. Yeah, we did."
"Good. I can't have you distracted."
"Why's that?" she inquired suspiciously.
"I'm bored."
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They were eating take-out thaï, when Sherlock suddenly asked: "Hannah?"
Joan looked up thoroughly confused, but quickly caught up. "Shut up."
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A/N: I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but I don't intend to make Andrew, Jen or Michael permanent characters either (they might pop up at some point again, though...). Strangely enough, Harry really doesn't want to be written. And yes, John's father is a tsundere. So sue me.
Anyway, Blind Banker is being uncooperative as hell, and I want to post only when the entire story-ark is finished (proof-reading and all that). It might be awhile before I update, sorry.