Summary: For the prompt: Watson unknowingly has fathered a son during his travels. A son that, one day, shows up at Baker Street ...

0o0

The helix of his ear curls almost precisely thirty degrees over the scapha. The antihetical fold is nearly flat, a hereditary and defining feature. A particularly large antitragus completes the observational deduction as to the paternity.

"Sir?" The boy's voice was hesitant, but the timber was unmistakable. Add to that the coloring of the eyes ...

Holmes rubbed his nose. "Yes, Doctor Watson is home. I'll tell him you're here."

"But I haven't told you my name ... sir!"

Holmes closed the door in the middle of the boy's sentence and ambled back up the stairs. Watson, typically, was reading and looking smug about not having to answer the door. Holmes wondered how many seconds it would take for that smugness to disappear.

He took a preliminary guess of 'two'. "It's for you," Holmes said, picking up a beaker and examining one of the emulsions inside of it. Left in there a little too long by the looks of it. He'd have to reconfigure the amounts.

Watson flipped a page. "Who is it?"

"Your son," Holmes replied just as blandly.

The book fell from Watson's hand.

Ah. Incorrect. It only took one second.

0o0

The only person who looked more terrified than the boy was Watson himself. He stared at him as if he were an apparition from another world, while the boy - named James - stared at the rug, hardly daring to move.

Holmes was set up as mediator, albeit unwillingly. He examined the letter from the boy's recently deceased mother, explaining the circumstances of his birth, all of which seemed in order, at least to Holmes who had deduced the boy's parentage at the door.

"Can we be sure?" Watson mouthed silently at Holmes. "Absolutely?"

Holmes nodded and cleared his throat. "So you are fifteen years old then, Master Watson?"

The boy looked up, his blue eyes huge, like a deer caught in an open meadow. "Yes, sir."

"And I suppose you are hoping that your father here might assist you in gaining a situation now that your preliminary education is through, am I correct?"

"That was my mother's dying wish, yes, sir," the boy said with only the tiniest hint of bitterness.

Watson winced, his face coloring. "Of course, I will do my duty toward you ... um ..."

Holmes found himself increasingly annoyed with Watson. Honestly, the fellow let his emotions just run riot over his good sense far too often. "James. Your son's name is James. For the love of heaven, Watson, pull yourself together, man. As for you, James, you are welcome to stay here until an apprenticeship is found, although I'm afraid we only have the settee for a bed. Still, you are young and that will most likely suit you as well as anything."

For the first time in the entire interview, the boy looked happy. "Thank you, sir," he said warmly, looking at Holmes with sudden affection. "And you as well ... Father," he said to Watson, almost as an afterthought.

A sour afterthought. Watson shrank back further and Holmes saw that this situation would have to be taken in hand with a delicate touch. "We'll need to inform Mrs. Hudson that an adolescent boy will now be dining here which means we'll likely be increasing our food purchases by triple the amount. Watson, I assume you'll be taking care of that?"

Watson nodded, looking abashed and somewhat beaten. He limped downstairs and James hung his head, his whisper heavy with sadness. "He doesn't want me here."

"Nonsense. He has no opinion of your presence one way or the other except that he's surprised by it," Holmes said crisply. "Your father is not the fastest weave in the loom but once the facts sink into his ponderous brain, you'll be surprised at the depth of his affection and loyalty."

James didn't look convinced, but he followed Holmes' instructions anyway, putting his valise in an empty corner near the settee. He was introduced to Gladstone and they immediately adored each other, as boys and dogs are wont to do.

Holmes told the boy that his chemical table was absolutely, utterly and completely off-limits, unless there was something he wanted Holmes to show him, which meant then they could experiment together. Later, while the boy wasn't looking, he hid away the bottles containing his ... 'medications'.

Watson returned a while later, still distinctly uncomfortable, even more so when he saw that James was already sitting cross-legged at Holmes' feet, listening to him expound on various explosives, with Gladstone's head resting on his knee.

"Mrs. Hudson says it's fine to have him here." Watson shook his head. "I mean, you are welcome to stay here, James, as far as our landlady is concerned. She doesn't mind the extra cooking, provided we pay for it. Now ..." He paused, as James bent over Gladstone, scratching his ears closely. "I suppose we should discuss what you are interested in doing with your life."

Holmes made a face at him over the boy's head. "Perhaps we should let the lad settle in for at least one evening while he becomes used to his extremely changed circumstances."

"Of course," Watson replied sheepishly. The room was uncomfortably quiet after that until Holmes got up suddenly, shrugging on his coat.

"The beast is in need of walking." He grabbed Gladstone's lead and shook it at him. The dog happily ambled over. "I can do it myself," Holmes said firmly, waving off the frantic offers of both father and son to accompany him. "See you later this evening."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Watson to face his son alone.

He'd faced worse situations, he'd supposed. Hordes of enemy fighters, great deserts without end ... the fear of death by disease and injury. Still, there was nothing quite like this, the terror of inadequacy, especially when it mattered most.

He drew a deep breath. "I am sorry about your Mama."

James continued to stare at his hands ."She told everyone she was a widow. Only some of them believed her, so we were forced to move quite frequently," he said. He refused to meet Watson's gaze. "I made her life very difficult, but she cared for me anyway. I will do anything to respect her memory." Even put up with you, was the unspoken end of that declaration, Watson was sure of it.

"I did not know about your existence. If I did ..."

"You know now and are helping me. I appreciate that," James interjected. He looked far older than his fifteen years. Watson imagined how unpleasant his childhood must have been. "I will not bother you for a moment longer than necessary, I assure you."

"You ... you are not bothering me. I am merely surprised."

"That's what Mr. Holmes said you were."

Watson perked up. "What else did he say?"

"That you're not the fastest weave in the loom."

Watson's shoulders drooped. "Oh."

"But that once you accept the facts, you are very loyal and kind."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose that will be the most difficult part, for both of us I'm sure. Again I apologize to you, James for my youthful foolishness as I was only a few years old than you when I met your Mama. I should have inquired after her more closely but once I was shipped off to war, I'm afraid I became distracted."

James glanced up at him, rubbing his knees nervously. Watson noticed that his long, thin wrists hung out of his suit coat and he wondered if it were a hand-me-down or if the boy had just outgrown it. "Were you there for a long time?"

"Three years."

"It was suggested to me more than once that I join the military. Perhaps I should do that?" James asked, only to be cut off by Watson's loud exclamation.

"Absolutely not!" Watson cried suddenly, his fists clenching, making the boy blanch. He forced calm into his voice, even though he found himself shaking. "What I meant is that the army is more often the destroyer of lives than it is a viable occupation. You have so much more to offer the world than a human shield for the Crown."

The boy's eyes widened. "Was it so bad?"

Watson's lips pursed. He nodded. "It was a dreadful mistake. I have never recovered from the injuries I received there and I never will. I feel lucky to have escaped with my life. So if I may claim the right to beg anything of you, please do not consider service among your chief options."

James' expression softened with boyish sympathy. Youth, Watson thought, could be terribly forgiving. "I will not join, Father. There are many other things of interest to explore, if it pleases you."

"Thank you. You are obviously a fine young man and your Mama a strong soul for raising you such. Now, enough of such serious talk. Would you like to sample our landlady's cooking? I believe you might be in for a pleasant treat."

His son's - his son's - eyes gleamed. Watson chuckled as he could almost see the unconscious licking of chops. "Oh, yes, sir. The sandwiches on the train were hardly anything at all. I had to eat five of them."

Watson smiled and held out his hand to help James up from the floor. Once clasped, he noticed for the first time that their fingers were nearly identical and wave of possessive joy sparked through his veins. iMy son/i. "Hopefully our larder will survive your ravages, for today at least. Come, let's have lunch and I'll tell you all about the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes."

"He's very interesting, Father."

"He's an obnoxious tit."

"Oh."

They looked at each other and laughed. This might end well after all. Maybe.

0o0o

end

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