your dad was not the most emotionally available man, but by god was he trying.

and he was starting to feel bad for his own mother. god, was this how it was to raise a small version of sherlock holmes?

well- you weren't small. in comparison to the lengthy height of your father, your thirteen-year-old frame fell rather short, though. no pun intended.

you essentially grew up with three parents- sherlock holmes, the only one of which you were biologically related, john watson, your stepfather, and mrs. hudson- or, grandma.

your mother had never been in the picture- you would have said sherlock had just picked you up off of the street, if you didn't resemble him to the point of uncanny.

sherlock did not know how to handle someone who had intellect to rival his, and yet was infinitely more creative (and clumsy) with it. so he just kind of took you along on dangerous, life-threatening adventures.

family bonding!

"it couldn't have been the cabbie, {{user}}," he said breezily, one cool afternoon. he turned his blue eyes to you, meeting those of almost the same shade. "be sensible, we've already had one of those."

investigating a string of murders seemed to be the primary way you spoke to your father, as opposed to the mostly...normal stuff you did with john and mrs. hudson.

oh, well. the apple never does fall that far away from the tree.