aka two little drabbles I wrote about Watson’s father and brother a few months ago over on my rp blog. tw for alcoholism, implied child abuse, and death.
HARRY WATSON SENIOR
There exactly two days and a half left until he goes back to school. Watson knows because he’s counting them, although not out of dread so much as anticipation. He sits in the library trying desperately to focus on the book of poems in front of him. Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The English master has tasked them each with memorizing a poem over Christmas and Watson has chosen The Poet’s Progress. What else? In the corridor there is the sound of a crash and his father’s voice, wordless in his rage. Watson stares at the lines of the book poem so intently his eyes begin to hurt.
The peopled fold thy kindly care have found,
The horned bull, tremendous, spurns the ground;
The lordly lion has enough and more,
The forest trembles at his very roar;
His eyes gloss over the words without really taking them in, but he doesn’t dare look away. Perhaps if he tries hard enough he can stay like this until it’s time to go back to school, caught in his own separate reality made entirely of words and the smell of old books. After all, what did he come into the library for in the first place if not to be by himself? It could be called hiding, of course, but Watson simply calls it sensible. There is the sound of raised voices in the corridor and he blinks until the lines of the poem stop being blurry. Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell.
At least, he thinks, his friends at school know him well enough not to ask too much about his Christmas, nor too talk too much about their own in front of him. After all there’s nothing exciting a fourteen year old can tell about a Christmas dinner where the father is drunk before it’s even started, and the brother spends the whole time glaring. Above his seat in the library a portrait of his mother looks benevolently down on him; the closest thing to a saint that ever comes near this sad house. E'en silly women have defensive arts.
The library door flies open with a bang, and Watson’s knee collides painfully with the desk. He looks up, trying to look as innocent as possible despite having nothing to be guilty about. His father is red with rage and wheezing through deep breaths. He throws his gaze around the library, letting it come to rest on Watson. For a moment he seems to look through him, as if he isn’t sure who he was or why he is there. At length he speaks, his voice low and threatening.
“Has your brother come past here?”
“No sir.”
“If you’re lying-”
He doesn’t finish the threat. He doesn’t need to. They stare at each other for as long as either of them can bare. At length his father snarls and slams the door shut, bellowing Harry’s name. Watson’s shoulders slump, all his breath leaving him in one relieved sigh and he sinks ino his chair like a puppet without stings. Two and a half days. In front of him Robert Burns’ words began to blur again until he closed his eyes. No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun, No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun:
Two and a half days
HARRY WATSON JUNIOR
The cafe is one of Watson’s favourite; small, cozy and yet still busy enough to feel sophisticated. You can see the castle, too, from this seat, and hear the distant sound of pipers trying to make some money. There’s even a log fire crackling cheerfully. By all accounts it’s a beautiful place. He regrets bringing Harry. After all he should have known his brothers visit would end like this, and it doesn’t feel right to bring an argument into the gentle little space. At length Watson speaks, his Scottish brogue far thicker than when he started university.
“I can’t give you that kind of money.”
Across from him Harry frowns in a way that would be intimidating did Watson not know him so well. Still, it does remind him of their father and the thought makes him feel slightly ill. Thankfully he’s wise enough to keep the observation to himself.
“Liar, I know he left you money too.”
“Yes, but I need to eat and pay for my education.”
Neither of them say anything out loud for a moment, they dob’t have to. In the heavy silence between them an old argument rears it’s head. Medicine, what the hell do you want to go into medicine for? The idea of doing something to help others has never occurred to Harry Andrew Watson, apparently. It’s a bitter thought and one that Watson doesn’t say, but Harry knows he’s thinking it all the same. Their ability to having blazing rows while simply glaring at one another in silence is truly spectacular, if a little disconcerting for those around them.
“I’ll be able to give you it back this time I promise. The investment’s practically guaranteed money. James said-”
"Oh well if James said then it must be true.”
"You’ve never liked him.”
"Because the man’s an idiot”
A few heads turn in their direction and the owner glares at them. With a slight murmur of apology Watson turns back to his brother, now speaking in a hushed but angry whisper.
“I’ve already given you enough, any more and I’ll be living off bread and water until I’m thirty.”
"John please I need this.”
"That’s not my problem.”
“I’m your brother.”
"More’s the bloody pity.”
Harry winces, actually winces, and Watson finds himself regretting the words almost as soon as they leave his mouth. Maybe they’re words Harry needs to hear, but that doesn’t make him feel any less guilty.
When they were younger Harry had made him a bow and arrow out of sticks and piece of string. They had sword fights, too, and more often than not Harry would let him win. He still remembers laughing while his brother acted out an overly dramatic death. Later that night Watson had reminded him that he wasn’t allowed to die, not really, not ever. He remembers the letters Harry sent him while he was at school and how he was smart enough not to mention anything to do with him. Watson sighs and realized that he was never going to say no. The money was Harry’s before they’d even sat down. It is better to just bow the inevitable. Who knows, this time it might work. He might stop drinking and and sort his life out for good, but he doubts it.
“Fine. But you’re paying me back Harry so help me God, and I swear this is the last time.”
A lie. There will be plenty more times. Enough to land Watson in the army rather than a comfortable practice somewhere in the city. Harry lets out a breath, relief washing over his haggard features like a rare patch of sunshine. Watson tries to focus on that, and not the way Harry’s hands are shaking. He’s trying, he tells himself, at least he’s trying.
(A few years later Harry Watson dies in a slum in Aberdeen and thousands of miles away in an Afghanistan war field his brother tries to convince himself that he didn’t see this coming.)
