Chapter Text
Foul is fair or fair is foul, sunny or cloudy, sitting on the bench in Regent’s Park has become my Sunday afternoon. It’s not a chore, and it will never ever be one. Watching Rosie grow delights me. It’s a wonder watching John watching Rosie.
I wish I could say it completes me, but I cannot.
I have long thought about what it might be like to have a complete relationship with John Watson. It is hard not to be reminded of it as John raises and lowers Rosie on the seesaw with one hand.
We lost our chance over and over. I’m married to my work, my great fall off Bart’s, or Mary’s shot to my chest. Yet after all these long months and years, I have been granted the opportunity to watch them together. At last I have hope. My heart bangs and crashes like cymbals as John’s hand pushes the green painted board down. Rosie squeals with delight as she soars up high. My stomach flips when it’s time to lower her. John doesn’t let go. No, he would never do that. Hand hovering over the board, he allows for the thrill of the drop. He let’s gravity take Rosie down, but he pads the blow before she hits the ground and applies the perfect opposing force. She slows just enough. Her bottom bounces as the seesaw bumps the ground. Rosie’s laughter is clean and clear. It reminds me of butterflies fluttering against the blue skies.
I feel as if I’m on the same seesaw with the same unspeakable highs and lows with John in control on the opposite end. Some days, I am suspended in the air, waiting for that stomach-flipping drop. Other days, I am in free-fall, never to land, never to have that satisfying moment at the bottom like Rosie. Will I never know the joy of what it is to safely land?
I sigh. At least John and Rosie are with me back home at Baker Street. I know I should feel cheated or that I’m in limbo, but today I am fine with the way it is. Today is fair.
Her little fists grip the handle tightly. She giggles sweetly. Rosie soars into the blue air sky above. Her blonde curls shimmer and bounce. And again, he makes certain to let his end of the board spring to the ground with just enough force that the bump sends her bottom off the wood but keeps her steady in her seat.
“Higher, daddy, higher!” she squeals with glee, with no worries that the next bump could propel her into mid-air. It seems three-year-old Rosie and I have that same taste for excitement but with one difference: I know what it is for John to let go of his end. I remember too well those times when he did.
As he lowers her safely, the breeze whips John’s hair off his forehead. Since I first met him, the ratio of gold to silver strands has reversed, but the value to me is beyond measure.
“It’s time to go,” John says.
She’s not happy when her dad says it’s time to go. “No, I want to stay. More, more,” she begs.
John picks her up and she kicks her legs. Her little pink trainers dart around as she squirms in his arms in a desperate effort to get back down into the seat again.
I am so much like her.
I walk next to John. He gives up carrying her, and sets her down. He holds Rosie’s tiny hand, and she follows along with us. We’re a domestic snapshot of what might be as we walk together.
I had a dream two nights ago that John and I were picking out bumblebee wallpaper and a cozy baby bed. There was no Mary in this dream world and there never was. Rosie was our child. I would like to say it was my subconscious mind at work, but it wasn’t. It’s what I really wish could have been.
More than one psychologist has told me that dreams are the window to the unconscious. From personal evidence, I know it is true. It is my window, my escape, and my prison. But it’s not real. It’s a window that separates me from the outside. I can’t touch, I can’t hear. The bees buzz from flower to flower, and I can only observe. What I feel for John remains unspoken. It’s my fondest dream to wake up and stand in the garden next to hives, to tell John what’s in my heart. I want to hear the bees hum, to feel the breeze of summer, and the crisp nights of fall. I want to speak what’s in my heart, but my voice fails me. I am afraid of the answer I may get, so I say nothing. Still, my dreams mock me and shout: “Ha, you fool! Here is the life you will never have.”
He is not mine, she is not mine. I love them like mine, but they are not. I still hope that they might be. I dream that John and I hold hands as we walk through Regent Park. I dream that John hogs the blankets, and his beard burns my face when he kisses me. Then I wake up.
At least he lives with me again. At least he is here with Rosie.
I could ask how long, but I don't want to know the answer. Why ever would I want to know if there will be an end? Endings hurt. It’s best to not think about it and stuff it into my mind palace in a room and lock the door. Until that day, I have them near me. I no longer have to pretend John is upstairs in his room. He is here where he belongs.
I pretend it really doesn’t matter. They live with me, and that’s enough. Emptying pots and pans from the cupboards, crayons scribbled on the walls, and tiny overalls with apple juice stains on the bib, I cherish. They are the talismans of my longing. I push back the memories of the dark time before when I didn’t even have them.
“Mary is in every space. I can’t live there. Not with the memories,” he’d said only weeks ago. His eyes were misted over, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
“Your room is still upstairs.”
Stupid invitation. I should have said so much more.
I should have said, “Your room is the way you left it, waiting for you,” or “You and Rosie are more than welcome to come live here,” or even better “Please come home where you belong.”
Despite my awkward invitation, they came to stay, at least for a while. John had said, “Until we find somewhere suitable.”
Thank god, he hasn’t looked. For the last few days, I’ve hidden that section of the paper from John. Each time John searches on the internet, I distract him with a case or a question or an inappropriate comment.
It is so easy to overlook pink rattles on the coffee table and wooden building blocks on the floor. I embrace it all along with Rosie’s stuffed Teddy in my chair. In fact, as we walk, she holds Teddy to my face, and I kiss him because it means they’re here with me walking back from Regent’s Park.
“Good, Teddy,” she says. “Give a kiss.”
I give Teddy his kiss. “Very good Teddy,” I smile back.
I cherish every Teddy kiss and sippy cup because one day we’ll have to pack those away. But not today. Today I am happy walking near them. Tomorrow I hope to still be happy. As long as I keep John from moving out.
I decide I need to stop looking at my life as what I can never have and remind myself of what I do.
I watch Rosie giggling as John chases her out of Mrs. Armstrong’s flower bed. My breath catches in my throat and I know I am happy.
I am .
We climb the steps to 221B, and as usual, after the first four stairs, Rosie smiles at me and raises her arms. “Pick me up,” she insists. “Up!” and I carry her the rest of the way as she squeals just to hear the echo. At the top of the stairs, she always, always squeezes my nose between her chubby fingers and blurts out, “Beep, beep!”
Her face lights up with a wide smile as she pinches my nose. “Honk, honk!” I say, and she laughs at my silly voice.
Why did I ever believe Mycroft when he told me caring is not an advantage? There was a time before John when I thought love wasn’t something that I was capable of feeling. My heart didn’t know army doctors or little girls with runny noses existed. I was wrong. I know now that I always had loved. I just didn’t recognize it. I can love. I do love. I love John Watson. I love Rosie Watson. I even love my obnoxious, pompous brother.
I think about this too much and too often. I think about it as we take turns watching Rosie and making dinner. Tonight it’s quick and easy, warming up chicken fingers in the oven with beans and potatoes on the stove.
Rosie handles her chicken fingers the same way she picks up insects on the pavement. She plucks each up between her fingers and holds it out for all to see. She eats every piece of processed chicken on her plate. She also begs for mine. I gladly give her the disgusting morsels.
I’m reminded of my own childhood, Mycroft and I with Mum and Dad at the table. And if I reach back, I can now see Eurus. She hated carrots as much as I did.
After supper it’s on to pajamas and a story. John takes her upstairs and tucks her in, but I’m the storyteller. Tonight it’s Goodnight Moon . I read it to her three times and then “one more” before she’s fast asleep. It’s always the last words she says before she shuts her sleepy eyes.
I gaze down at her before turning off the light. I look around the room. Two beds in John’s small room is a tight squeeze, but we’ve made it work. There will be a time soon when Rosie needs her own room. She can only share one with John for so long. That would only prompt John to begin anew looking for another place. Mrs. Hudson says I should speak to him about staying.
I thought it best to have a good plan in place first before I ask. Hudders and I have been making plans on how to expand our living space. I have floor plans ready.
As I come back downstairs, I see John has made some tea for us. He recently found a smokey, spicy blend from the new tea shop on Baker Street, and it’s become our favorite.
“This is addicting,” I say.
John agrees. He takes a sip and moans before he gathers his laptop and takes a seat in the old wingback. I found another floral chair. I took particular care to find one that not only resembled John’s former chair, but felt the same when seated, the cushions hugging all the same spots. He crosses his legs and takes another sip before he sets his tea aside with his laptop in front of him on his lap. As he writes on his blog, I lie on the couch and watch him under lowered lids. I sprawl out and sip my tea, resting my laptop on my stomach. I review some emails of possible new cases, then decide to read over what John has written recently. It’s always good entertainment. He hides his posts before publishing them, but I know the password.
Nothing of interest in the current post he’s editing. I scroll to his most current entry. I’m reading the comments when I come upon this: “You are one BAMF, Dr. Watson.”
I flex and curl my toes before I pop my head up from my screen and look over at John. He’s pecking away two-fingered on his keyboard. I clear my throat. He doesn’t notice.
“John?” I say to direct his attention.
He harrumphs at my interruption. His reading glasses slide down his nose as he raises his eyebrow. My heart speeds up in my chest.
I stare at him, puzzled. I know he’s annoyed I’ve interrupted him, but I must know.
“John, what is a BAMF?”
“A what?” John blinks.
“Jacob Sowersby wrote on your blog that you are a BAMF. What is a BAMF?”
John shakes his head and laughs at me. “A bad ass mother fucker.”
“ Really ?” What my voice conveyed was shock that I had been blind to this. I honestly didn’t mean for my tone to sound incredulous, when in actuality every cell in my body believed this to be unquestionably true. When watching James Bond movies and that atrocious Die Hard series, I have often heard the term from John’s own lips. Reflecting on John’s past actions and flashes of him standing, feet apart with his SIG-Sauer in hand, I know it’s true.
“Yeah, Sowersby wrote that.”
Acceptance. John knows he is one. Of course a BAMF knows they’re a BAMF.
In that moment of enlightenment, I realize what I’d missed all these years. I understand human nature to a degree. I’ve studied it to enhance my deductive reasoning. John has always been my go to. He is a paradox. I realize that this side of John Watson helps to define him. It may explain his reticence about admitting to that part of his sexuality, even to himself. As a bad ass motherfucker, he most probably has a certain persona to uphold. I think of the references to these characters and common traits.
John continues to write as I google “Bad Ass Motherfucker” + definition. Along with youtube videos and Samuel Jackson links, I find an enlightening blog about the subject.
John yawns as he closes his laptop and sets it on the table next to him. “I’m going to bed. Turn off the lights when you go.”
John stands and stretches.
“You can turn them off now if you like,” I say.
John nods and clicks off the lamp near him, but leaves the one near me on.
I watch John climb the stairs with a sigh, then return to my screen.
According to the blog on twelve characteristics of BAMFs, they take comfort in being uncomfortable. It’s not just metaphorical. They love tight spaces. Closets, ends of alleyways. Give them a tight space, and they revel in it. I knew that about John immediately. That’s why I lured him in with the words “could be dangerous ...” and John was there body and soul.
There were so many instances where we were together in a tight space, our sides pressed together, mouths only a breath apart, yet we did nothing.
I shut my laptop and turn off the light behind the couch that John missed. Moonlight is all that illuminates the living room as I go into my mind palace. Within it, I recall John as the badassmofo.
“Get your elbow out of my bloody face,” John giggles.
I shush him when someone enters the room. Ahh, Mrs. Faberton. His heat radiates into me as his body presses down on me. Yes, it was a very large trunk, but there was very little space left inside. John’s breath is moist on my neck. John’s gun pokes against my hip. Or at least I think it’s John’s gun. I find myself as hard as his weapon and try to move away from the friction that’s John Watson, but only create more.
I hear Mrs. Faberton’s heels click across the floor and out the door. I wait twenty seconds before I tell John to throw the lid back.
I replay all the times we have been in similar tight spaces. Hours later, I open my eyes. It’s morning, and here comes the sun. I do enjoy that Beatles song. I play it for John on the violin along with other popular tunes that are his favorites. Both he and Rosie enjoy them. John says my classical spin on this song gives him “a rush of the sun as it pops out of the clouds” and it indeed makes him feel “it’s alright.”
I feel that the conclusion that I’ve come to regarding John is very much like that. It’s indeed enlightening and makes me feel the world is a good place.
There was a time when it was unusual for me to be introspective. After John, it’s a constant in my life. Prior to the day I met him at Bart’s, I rarely looked inside myself to see if I “am okay.” I find that since, it’s been a question we pose to each other regularly.
I wish I had passed that introspection beyond checking for okay and looked to why much sooner. While it is healthy to recognize one feels, understanding the cause is key. It also prevents misunderstandings.
Although John was one to hold the truth and truthfulness close to his chest, as my moral compass, he still is blind to the truth of us and what we are to each other. I am sorry I have lied, not just about the big things, but the little. I wonder how often we have both said we are okay when we are indeed not okay. This perspective shifted with my heart—or the one that I denied for so long. When will I stop telling John I am okay when my heart is in pain.
I told myself that I gave up that chance. I’d let that choice slip through my fingers like sand. I thought I’d lost the chance long ago. I’m okay, I’d said. I’m married to my work, I’d said. I had a beach full of sand, then it came to a few grains in an hourglass. I must turn the hourglass over soon, before it is too late.
Somewhere between thinking about an extra bedroom and John’s new acronym, I fall asleep.
I wake to hear Rosie singing, “Oh, do you know the muffin man” before the creaking stairs even give them away.
I don’t need to see them to know that John has his arms full of a whole lotta Rosie. Take comfort to the sound of John slippers padding down the stairs. He moves through the kitchen, and he stops in the doorway to see me sprawled on the couch.
“You didn’t go to bed?” His faded flannel housecoat brushes the doorway.
I sit up and run my hand through my tangle of hair. “Dozed off here again, I’m afraid.”
“Down,” she demands.
John sets Rosie on the floor, and her bare feet slap against the floor. She races across the room and throws herself into my lap. I now have Rosie flailing on top of me, filled with giggles and too much energy for seven-thirty in the morning.
There’s something about the way John smiles when he watches Rosie and I together. It’s happy and sad at the same time.
“I’ll make coffee.” John does. And breakfast. Eggs and toast with tomatoes. Again.
Rosie never tires of the meal, except ...
“No toe-ma-toes.”
It's the same every breakfast.