The closest thing to an answer to your question is what Joan tells Sherlock about her family in 2x15: that her father began showing symptoms of schizophrenia when her mother was pregnant with her, and they divorced a few months after Joan was born. Mary married Henry Watson when Joan was three, and “we all took his name.” To me, that “all” implies more than two people, and that all of them had a different last name before then. While it’s possible that Mary was pregnant again after Joan (and in that case it’s not entirely clear who might be Oren’s biological father, divorce & marriage timing notwithstanding) my sense from what she says is that Oren was born first, before their father got sick.
or, four ruminations on a damning subject: a monograph by s. holmes
[notes:
no real spoilers for s4
carrie is joan’s doctor friend from early on in s1 and i’ve been waiting three years for the show to bring her back so here she fuckin’ is
slow show by the national is an optional musical accompaniment
i’m aromantic, it’s all greek to me]
i. agape
The list of people in Sherlock's good graces is an exceedingly short one. I don't form connections, he says; since when does he have friends?, others say. And he doesn't mind. It's better to remain detached. Goodwill towards others is worthless.
Lestrade is business, Captain Gregson and Detective Bell are business, Ms. Hudson is business, all of the Irregulars are business, Athena and Minerva are a somewhat different sort of business-- (He doesn't form connections.)
He couldn't care less about the morality of a case, the people behind it; it is a puzzle, a distraction, a challenge to be solved and the cold satisfaction of solving it. (It's better to remain detached.)
It's strictly professional courtesy when he catches the wrist of the young woman who has just pickpocketed his watch and offers corrections to her technique, and tells her the watch's precise value so her buyer won't rip her off, and slips her his card if petty theft ever lands her in hot water. (Goodwill towards others is worthless.)
I don't form connections he tells himself as Irene reenters his life and leaves it again just as explosively, and then as Watson is placed in severe danger, and then as Mycroft says I love you, brother, and then as Bell is shot and it's all his fault, and then as Kitty makes the decision she needed to make, and then as Alfredo is kidnapped, and as Watson remains by his side despite it all--
But he doesn't form connections, he doesn't. It's better to remain detached, after all, better to remain objective. Goodwill towards others is worthless.
Isn't it?
ii. storge
Somehow, Oren finds out about their copy of Swords of Saturn.
Sherlock thinks 'somehow' because Watson answers the door with barely the time for a greeting before the man is declaring, in righteously offended tones, "I cannot believe you got ahold of Swords of Saturn and didn't tell me."
It's fascinating to watch Watson's bearing change from that of an awkwardly distant family member to that of a smug elder sister. The difference is night and day. "We were given a copy during the course of a case. I don't tell you about all the cell phone records and credit card bills we get, so why should I tell you about some stupid old game?"
The taunting in her voice is heavy-handed, childish; she holds open the door in an unspoken invitation that Oren accepts. "Yeah, but it's our favorite stupid old game!" he protests, giving Sherlock a brief wave hello before returning his attention to his sister.
"Was it? I don't remember." A blatant lie. He considers pointing out her words from the other day--I told you I had one of these consoles growing up, I've played this game before--but ultimately decides to watch the interaction unfold organically.
The interaction organically unfolds into the TV room and, before he really realizes what's happening, the damned opening tunes of Swords of Saturn are chiming like nails on a chalkboard behind the Watsons' animated chatter. He follows them and stands silently in the doorway.
Joan has the controller. Oren sits next to her and gives advice that Joan completely ignores. Sherlock is perhaps moderately ashamed to admit that the clear joy behind their bickering is just as arcane to him as their terminology.
"If you jump six times while holding the attack button right behind the starting point you'll clip to the next stage--"
"But this is the level where you get the last of the nine Jeweled Rings, remember, it's behind the octopus-looking thing--"
"Who cares about the Jeweled Rings? It's a waste of time, they're not even power-ups--"
"Forget the time bonus. If you find all of them it doubles your final score, that's why you collect them. And that's why my high scores were always leagues above yours." He never knew a human being could look so self-satisfied whilst entering her initials on an eight-bit screen. He never knew a human being could look so mutinous whilst watching someone else enter her initials on an eight-bit screen. And yet, here sit the Watson siblings.
Did Mycroft ever bear the same expression as Joan? Did Sherlock ever share Oren's look? Was there ever a time when their rivalry took the form of harmless teasing, when they enjoyed it instead of aiming straight for the jugular?
Sherlock honestly can't remember.
"I'd kill you in a speed-run, though," Oren mutters.
iii. eros
It's ridiculous, really. He never used to regard his sexual proclivities as inconvenient. Sure, there was the odd client or officer he found attractive, but never to the point of distraction, never to the point of disrupting his work. If they were willing, a physical relationship would ensue; if they weren't, or if conditions were not favorable, ah well. The attraction would disappear as easily as flicking a switch.
These conditions are about as far from favorable as Sherlock can imagine.
And yet.
Every word Watson speaks is fraught with hidden meaning; every movement she makes is a spark on the dry tinder of his fantasies that will not go away. She haunts his dreams, she springs to the forefront of his mind every time he lays a hand on himself, no matter how often he reminds himself just how bad of an idea it would be to bring carnality into their relationship. He's never had anyone stick in his thoughts like this. He's not entirely sure what to do about it. It's just...
... she just has this certain tone of voice, this way of carrying herself, this air about her that jabs directly at the submissive part of his brain such that he's constantly fighting the urge to fall to his knees and serve in every definition of the word. Her presence is headier than half the substances he's ever sampled. Working with her, living with her is the most exquisite torture, but it's true-- he works better with her than without. And living with her... well, he can allow this small weakness, can't he? And if he remembers the sight of her wielding a scalpel more often than he should-- if he catches himself admiring her heels and imagining the shape of the bruise they'd make against his chest-- if he wakes with her name on his lips and pleasure hot in his veins too many nights to ignore-- well, it's not too great a sin, is it, not so long as he keeps it to himself?
He's certainly going to keep it to himself. Mentioning this would scare her off, probably, and she just returned. Never mind the fact that he's not entirely sure he even wants to give in to this attraction. There's a pull, yes, but sometimes that's not enough to overcome the innate repulsiveness of the act, and it... it makes his skin crawl, it ruins every future touch and glance from the other party no matter how innocuous. His working relationship with Watson is far too important to risk for something as trivial as sex. So, he'll ignore this. He'll get over it.
But, in the meantime, it's absolutely ridiculous that the faint wisps of steam from her shower make him dizzy. It's absolutely ridiculous that he lives for late-night cases because she is never more relaxed and peaceful than when she's curled up asleep on an uncomfortable chair. It's absolutely ridiculous that he calls upon his black-haired companions more often than the others, but all they seem to do is whet his appetite.
(It's absolutely ridiculous that he finds himself biting his tongue until he tastes blood to keep from calling out the wrong name--)
iv. philia
Watson is agitated.
Sherlock's not entirely sure why. Everything seems to be going well: their last two cases were both intellectually challenging without being too physically taxing, and Clyde is hibernating well in his box in the fridge, and a brief spate of warm weather has provided a bit of a late-winter reprieve from the cold and slush, and--
Oh.
He's stupid not to have seen it before. Mid-February is fast approaching, and if her grief at Andrew's death hasn't been sparked by the occasion, she's sure to be lamenting her current lack of a romantic partner. Having one is important to her, after all, and he might not be able to understand the urge on a base level but he can understand it on an intellectual one.
And, thus, the beginnings of a panic.
He can speak of love in lofty, dispassionate tones for pages and pages to the woman who used to be the Woman, but this, this is entirely different. His mind abandons him and he's left with a clenching stomach and stuttering tongue and he wants-- no, he needs to find some way to fix this, to repay her for her steadfastness at Christmas. This would be the perfect event, too, a parallel winter holiday choked with complex emotions (New Year's had gone off without a hitch, Watson at a raucous party with her friends, Sherlock at a different-kind-of-raucous different-kind-of-party with a very different kind of friends) but he has no idea what to do, and no idea who would meet her criteria, and no idea who would deserve her attentions.
Three days of chewing restlessly on the problem until a reprieve is granted in the form of Watson all but kicking down their front door.
She's on the phone. He catches her half of an argument. "--God, Carrie, if you don't drop it-- Number one, no. Number two, you already have a girlfriend! Number three, no I am not going to some stupid mixer with the two of you. I don't--" a pause while Carrie apparently speaks, which Watson takes advantage of to throw her keys on the side table and her coat on the hook-- "I don't care. It's going to be insipid-- insufferable-- no, it doesn't matter which bar it's at, the holiday itself is insufferable. No, I don't sound like Sherlock, I've always felt like this."
Another pause. She catches sight of him and makes some complicated gesture of annoyance at the phone, until the other side of the conversation grabs her attention again. "Med school?! Carrie, I only played along in med school because I was trying to get laid. 'Whatever happened to--' Oh my God, I cannot believe you dragged out that stupid nickname. Joan 'Three Continents' Watson grew up and she's not looking for anyone right now. No, not even a fling. End of story. Goodbye."
Watson hits the end call button on her phone and then hisses at it, "This is why we stopped being friends!"
"Bit of a lover's spat?" he asks neutrally, trying to keep the sheer relief out of his tone, too distracted to even comment on the nickname--no, that’ll be contemplated later. (Three Continents? Good lord.)
She glares at him as she flops down on the couch. "I swear, the woman has no fucking concept of letting something go." She sighs heavily, then waves her hand at all the papers he's tacked up on the wall. "What's all this about?"
"Ah! Brilliant thing, the murder of a single man within an internally-locked and very secure room--"
"I abhor tradition," Sherlock says by way of greeting on that fateful night, striding into the kitchen and dropping a small black box tied with a white ribbon unceremoniously in front of Watson as she's eating a late dinner.
Watson's eyebrows are raised, and she stares at the box like it contains a small bomb, or a particularly venomous spider, or some deadly sort of fungus. "I swear to God, if you've bought me diamonds on Valentine's Day I'm punching you in the face," she says flatly.
"What? No! Why would I buy you diamonds?" His lip curls. "The entire industry is rife with exploitation, mine owners creating a false scarcity to artificially raise the price, and their workers see barely a single cent of the profits--" He cuts himself off abruptly. His fingers have started twining together anxiously, so he shoves one hand in his pocket and waves the other vaguely. "Besides, you prefer sapphires. Just-- open it, please."
Watson unties the ribbon and lifts the box's lid with no small amount of apprehension, but then her expression breaks into delighted shock as she picks up the pair of tickets inside.
"Oh my God!" she breathes. "How did you... These are impossible to get! How did you even know to get them?"
"Well, the means are simple enough, I know several scalpers who owe me a favor. As for the gift itself..." He bounces in place a little; his eyes dart around the room. "Also simple. The two-and-a-half-hour-long cast album has been played in its entirety no less than thirty times on your phone, some individual songs as many as fifty repeats... and I overheard you lamenting to a friend some weeks ago, something along the lines of 'what's the use of living in New York City if I can't even see a Broadway play' ... so I thought you might, ah, appreciate the chance. I hope the seats are acceptable."
She holds the tickets as delicately as one would hold the most priceless of jewelry, and a strange smile he can't describe is lighting up her face. But she's not saying anything, just staring at them, and it makes him nervous; his thumb flicks against the outer seam of his trouser leg in perfect 3/8 time.
"I thought perhaps we could both attend," he continues in a rush. "But I, I would not be offended in the slightest if you had other company in mind. Honestly, I couldn't care less about the history of the colonies, but as an American yourself I imagine it holds different significance, and the play has grown into something of a cultural phenomenon--"
"Sherlock," she interrupts, still wearing that odd smile. "You're babbling. I'd love to go with you."
He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. And then she stands and hugs him tightly, lingering to murmur in his ear, "This is one of the most thoughtful gifts I've ever gotten. Thank you."
His arms move of their own accord, jerkily, his hands settle on her back. Watson squeezes him once more and then lets go, steps back, and she's looking up at him with eyes so soft that what happens next seems nothing if not inevitable.
"You are worth every moment of thought that went into its purchase," he says quietly, "every moment and more. I care about you more deeply than I thought possible. I, I want to protect you from any and every harm, and I want to make you happy, and I really ought to have practiced this speech before this moment, because now I've distracted myself with the nuances of the word platonic."
She laughs a little. "Oh?"
His heart is pounding so hard in his chest he's surprised she can hear his words over it. "Yes. Lowercase platonic: nonromantic. Capitalized Platonic--" and one hand lifts to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear but stops in midair-- "... perfect."
Her high cheekbones carry a flush so beautifully. His voice is raw and inadequate but it's all he has and this is important, more important than anything. "I've come to the conclusion that I, ah... I love you, for certain definitions of the word love, and to all the extent of which I am capable of feeling such an emotion. I don't want-- nonsense social trappings, tiresome courtship rituals, any of that-- I don't want anything. But I... I needed you to know just how much I value our partnership. How much I value you."
"I love you, too," she replies, and seems to find herself surprised at what she's said; her lips quirk up in a small smile. "Lowercase platonically. Capitalized is impossible on the mortal plane, I think? It's been decades since I took a philosophy elective."
"We shall have to rectify that immediately." The weight of the moment is too much to bear; he bounds to the library and searches for the most essential texts in the Philosophy, Western and Eastern section where it's located between History of Transportation and Nineteenth-Century Cookbooks of Europe and the Americas.
"Seriously?" Watson follows him, stops at the threshold and folds her arms. "You couldn't just do something nice, no, you had to follow a Valentine's present with Valentine's homework."
Sherlock freezes and glances back at her, but she's smiling, gentle and teasing, and he turns back to the growing stack of books on the floor and says in a slightly strangled voice, "Never know what might be the vital piece of the puzzle during a case, Watson. I should probably go over it with you, make sure you're absorbing all the material..."
"Well, then I should probably make us some hot cocoa," she says lightly, and returns to the kitchen and the rest of her meal.
Love, as perhaps most people would define it, looks like candlelit dinners and shiny rocks and heart-shaped chocolates, like holding hands and passionate kisses and tender sex, like exchanging cliché vows in front of a collection of your friends and family and members of the clergy. But, if you're lucky, sometimes love looks like sitting on the couch arguing the finer points of anamnesis until you drift into sleep leaning against each other's shoulders, and that is everything, and that is enough.
3 sentence fic, either or both: Jesse Flores & Cameron, chemistry class; Mary & Oren, bailing Joan out of jail (again)
“Why did you have to bring Ma??” Joan hissed, when she came out of holding to find that Oren had betrayed the sacred bonds of siblinghood and brought Mary Watson down to county lockup with him.
“Because I had to! I’ve got nothing left to use for security,” he hissed back.
“You couldn’t get a bail bondsman to accept your credit? Oren, what’s going on?”
“Yes, Oren,” their mother said, with the long-suffering resignation of a woman whose children had spent forty-five years failing to get away with anything. And yet still they tried. “Joan. What precisely is going on?”
