Summary: Two excerpts from Watson's logs.
Sunday, 25 Dec 2895
We got back to Baker Jet-street early. Christmas dinner with the Holmes' was not outrageously awkward, as Mycroft suggested, but I could be wrong, considering that I haven't had any other Christmas dinner to compare it with. The food was exquisite, by any standard. Mrs. Holmes was asking lots of questions, because apparently Sherlock had not brought anyone home previously, ever. I was quite flattered by the attention. In fact, she assumed that I was to spent the night in Sherlock's room. LOL - maybe in another universe where I don't have a bunch of chips in my body. Nevertheless, the visit to Sherlock's old room proved to be fascinating. I doubt that all real boys could get their hands on the sort of collections and inventions belonging to Sherlock; if they do, I envy them.
Before starting a new entry, Watson reads through his older logs with a grin, the memories of his first Christmas in the real world coming back vividly at him. The definition of merry-making at the family home was not exactly in line with the installed social norms in his brain, but such is a life shared with Sherlock Holmes. The accomplishment of jotting down something uniquely his each day totally outweighs the spookiness of the S-field and the risk of a discovery by the M-Lab. It's like a secret double-life. But he was already living a double-life, so that makes it triple. What would be a good name, if I were to make it into a book, Watson entertains the thought to himself. The Secret Triple Life of the First Holistic Humanoid Surveillance. Mmm. Rotten idea.
Saturday, 21 Jan 2896
It's a rainy day, and with no case at hand, Sherlock is grumpy and bored. He stayed in bed until almost lunch, took some tea, and scratched at the violin for a while. We watched some crappy show afterwards. He hated it. I loved it, secretly – not the show, mind you, but watching it together. I guess the thirst for adrenaline has been wired into me, along with many other things, but simply having him by my side and knowing that everything is OK makes me more than content. I'm actually guilty about it – he was suffering so badly. Sorry, Sherlock.
A familiar knock on his door interrupts Watson's favourite daily pastime. So engrossed in his one-sided affectionate narrative, Watson absent-mindedly calls back, "Just a minute, Sherlock." Then he realises what he has said. Shutting down his log-pad, he quickly opens the door to make amends. "Apologies, Holmes, I was - "
Holmes squints his eyes. "No, Watson, it's OK. I would not be adverse to addressing you as John if you so prefer."
"All right, it's, erm, shorter." John nods, lamely.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. How would that justify calling Holmes by his first name?
Sherlock does not seem to have caught the illogic. He simply says, "Dinner is ready when you are, John." Before heading downstairs.
John could not help but to beam like a loon. Is this what family feels like?
A note (AKA ramblings):
Does this count as light-hearted? Because things are going darker down the road. By the way, did you know that people have already made calendars for the 29th century and beyond?