#john's father

[breadfacednerd]

[late-to-the-party-221]

Ok so John hates his middle name. Why? It was his father's.

John had an abusive Father, & the fact that his middle name was his dads name, makes him despise it.

He didn't want Sherlock to even know it- Sherlock found out by stealing John's birth certificate.

When he said "John Hamish Watson" to Irene Adler & Sherlock, he was kind of passive aggressive. He didn't like the flirting going on, so he recommended a name he hated.

Idk I'm just speculating.

[etaleah]

A Man Like John

He hears Mrs. Hudson’s tinkling laugh and Sherlock’s warm baritone mixing together in the cozy kitchen where they’re baking biscuits, and it tortures him. Tortures him because he wants, more than anything in the world, to be in there with them. The living room is lonely. Cold. Dark. Empty except for him.

Except that real men like Captain John Watson do not bake. It’s fine for someone like Sherlock, but John is a man man, a fact he’s known since he was four. Mum was teaching Harry how to make chocolate chip, and it smelled so good, and he thought that was what a hug would smell like if it were a scent. He creeps quietly into the kitchen. There’s a cookbook on the counter with a picture of a little boy just like him. Recipes for Mummy’s Little Helper. He’s only four, but he knows the words from having asked before. He wants to be Mummy’s little helper. Put dough into the oven and have it come out a biscuit, like magic. Wear the apron like a real chef. 

John tugs at her leg and says, “Mummy?” He asks to help. She’s touched, and it warms him even more than the heat from the oven. He holds out his arms, thinking maybe she’ll pick him up this time instead of telling him he’s a big boy and he can walk. And wouldn’t you know, she does. She picks him up and he smiles and cherishes the feeling, though it’s far too short. He would have liked to be held a moment, but she sets him on the counter because there’s baking to be done. She adorns him with an apron just like hers and Harry’s. 

For a precious few minutes, he’s happy. John loves the soft, squishy dough that tastes so good, even better when it’s unbaked. He can feel the butter melting in his mouth, the crunch of the chocolate chips under his teeth, though it doesn’t last because he can’t let Mummy see he’s eating raw dough; she doesn’t like that. The biscuits are almost ready and she says she’s proud of her little chef, he is Mummy’s helper indeed, and John’s just got the oven mitts on and is reaching for the baking sheet when a muscled and hairy arm snakes around his stomach from behind and snatches him up. 

Mummy’s frantic but whimpering pleas are drowned by giant feet hitting the hallway floor and the arm tightening. The oven mitts fall to the floor. John is scared but stays quiet as he’s thrust down onto the bed, apron ripped off, trousers and pants ripped down, and CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! He knows there will be marks in the morning and Daddy must have bought another belt because John had hidden the last one in the garbage out back. 

He struggles to stay silent through a few more cracks and don’t-you-evers and no-son-of-mines and no-sissies-allowed-in-this-house and finally, “You’re a boy and you better damn well act like one!” And the last CRACK has let the lesson set. Boys don’t make things. They break them. 

John is thirty-seven years old and still afraid of that belt. His father has been dead for years and he still can’t bring himself to go into that kitchen even though it’s what he wants and he’s a grown man, dammit, why is he still thinking like a child, why can’t he get past it, what’s wrong with him, why is he such a pathetic fucking failure-- 

“John?” He jumps. Sherlock is kneeling right in front of him and he hasn’t even noticed. A thin white hand cups his wet cheek. “What’s wrong?” 

John can’t tell him. This isn’t logical. This isn’t something Sherlock understands. He looks to the kitchen. 

Sherlock must be getting better at reading people, because he asks, gentler than John has ever heard, “Won’t you come into the kitchen and make biscuits with us? We’d love the help.” 

John furiously hides the evidence of losing his man card and takes Sherlock’s hand. It feels so good, why does everything that’s supposedly bad have to feel so good? He leans into Sherlock’s comforting touch and follows Mrs. Hudson’s voice and eyes that remind him so much of Mummy’s. 

“You’re allowed to do this with us, John,” Sherlock whispers. “Wherever I am, I’ll want you there.” 

He hands John a bowl of biscuit dough, and John bursts into tears. 

[almosthumanconfessions]

I want to know what happened to John's father. in the episode when that guy from IA brought him up, John wasn't happy.