SwissMiss' Creativity Outlet

Title: Cracks in the In-Between Places
Author: swissmarg
Beta readers: ruth0007, billiethepoet
Rating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 5,957 words
Summary: AU set in the universe of nox_candida's Getting Better. John and Sherlock work together to flush out Mary's killers, and Tristram has to come to terms with what his father's new friend means for him. No series 3 spoilers (or series 1 or 2, for that matter).

See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.

Chapter 8 on AO3



Chapter Eight

They borrow umbrellas from the stand in the front hall. The only shoes Tristram and Emily have are their school shoes, so they stick to the paths, rather than cutting across the lawn as Tristram normally would. Their feet are still wet within a matter of minutes.

Tristram takes them through the garden first. There's a swing that Father strung up on a tree for him when he was very small. Doctor Watson looks a bit surprised when Tristram tells him that, and walks around inspecting the swing with great interest. In the summer, if he swings high enough, Tristram can kick the leaves with his feet. Now, the leaves are almost all gone, but he and Emily take turns standing on the seat of the swing (they don't want to sit and get their trousers wet) while Doctor Watson pushes them.

There are other interesting parts to the garden, like the hollow bush that you can hide in, and the pond that gets black with tadpoles, but Tristram settles for simply pointing them out today. Maybe if the weather clears up later on, they can come back and play. He also tries to explain to Emily and Doctor Watson how to play rat-in-the-maze or circuit-breaker on the paths, which makes Emily look confused and Doctor Watson shake his head and smile and say, "Amazing." Tristram smiles too, even if he's not sure what's so special about a silly game.

The next stop is the old stable. There have never been animals kept there in all of Tristram's memory, but when Grandmother was small, there were horses and sheep. It stands empty now, the windows opaque with dirt and the door almost falling off its hinges. Tristram has never been too keen on playing in here, truth be told, but Emily insists on at least seeing the inside.

Doctor Watson makes them wait outside while he goes in first, presumably to make sure nothing's caved in – or about to - then gives them the all-clear to join him. It's dim, the far corners and the upper reaches blanked out by shadow. It also still smells vaguely of animal. Doctor Watson says that's mice, which sends Emily and Tristram off on a quest to find them, shuffling through the debris littering the floor. They are both disappointed not to find anything, but Doctor Watson laughs and says it's no wonder.

The only place left after that is Grandmother's studio. It used to be the carriage house, back when Grandmother's parents or grandparents had an honest to goodness horse-drawn carriage and a driver, but at some point, Grandmother took it over. She knocked down most of the walls on the top floor and installed a skylight, so she could paint and sculpt and do whatever else strikes her fancy. The bottom floor is where she stores her supplies and finished pieces, and 'in progress' pieces that she got stuck on or lost interest in but didn't hate enough to destroy.

The door is unlocked, which means that she's here. They prop their dripping umbrellas outside the door, and Doctor Watson calls out, "Hello?" when they go in. It smells like paint and damp clay and chemicals. Through one open door, they can see lumpy shapes piled up and covered with tarpaulins, and shelves filled with glazed pottery, mostly blues and purples. It is very quiet.

Tristram leads the way up the stairs and knocks on the open door at the top. "Grandmother? It's Tristram."

Grandmother is sitting on the floor in front of a canvas that takes up nearly half of the wall. It's covered in swaths and slashes of pink and yellow and white, which are cheerful, happy colours, but looking at it, Tristram feels like he's peeked at one of the crime scene photos in his father's files.

"Hello," Doctor Watson says with a friendly wave. "I'm John Watson, we're here with Sherlock."

She turns halfway around to smile at them and gestures for them to come closer. "Come and tell me what you think," she says.

Tristram walks over to her, with Doctor Watson and Emily following. Tristram stops just behind her, and she reaches up to grab his hand. He can feel the way the skin slides loosely over her bones, different from his father's hard, stiff fingers or Doctor Watson's solid, warm fist. He considers starting a new notebook with observations on hands.

"It's nice," he says, not looking at the picture.

"And what do you think?" she says, looking up at Doctor Watson.

He is standing there with his hands behind his back, staring at the picture with a slight frown. "It's... a bit disturbing, actually," he finally admits. "Couldn't tell you why, though."

Grandmother laughs. "Help me up, Tristram." She pulls on his hand as she struggles to get her legs underneath her.

Doctor Watson leans over and steadies her by the elbow until she's standing upright. She's just about the same height as him, wearing dark, narrow trousers and an open, paint-speckled jacket over a yellow blouse.

"Thank you," she says, and smooths one hand over her still dark hair, which is pulled back into a neat knot at the back of her head. "You must be my son's associate."

"Nice to meet you," he says, shaking her hand. "This is my daughter, Emily." He puts his other hand on Emily's head.

"Jeanne," she says in return. Tristram feels a yearning, jealous twist, as he always does when she introduces herself, smooth and natural, as if that were really her name. Her real name, he knows, is Edith. It's not ridiculous, or even unusual, not like Tristram, and he's not quite sure why she doesn't use it. But the point is, she doesn't; she calls herself Jeanne, as if she'd been born to it, and Tristram wishes he knew how she does it. He tried out new names for himself when they were staying here one summer, but no one took him seriously, and it's difficult to entrench a new name if you're the only one calling yourself by it. At least Doctor Watson and Emily call him 'Tris', which he was startled by at first, but it's starting to grow on him. It almost sounds normal, like Chris or Trish.

"It's very kind of you to let us visit on such short notice," Doctor Watson is saying now.

"I've learned not to ask too many questions," Grandmother says, "although one does get curious..." She doesn't even spare a glance for Emily, but she looks Doctor Watson over, as if trying to deduce something about him, the way Father does. Her eyes move much too quickly, in Tristram's opinion, to take in anything of note. She turns back to her painting. "I've always hated pink. I thought it was about time I tried to figure out why. Red doesn't pose a problem. It's obvious: blood and danger. Pink, though; disguised as innocence. It isn't innocent at all, is it? What do you do, Mr Watson?"

"Doctor, actually. But call me John."

"A medical man?" At his nod, she smiles, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "And military too, I see. Yes, I can see why he would be interested in you. You understand what I mean, then, about pink. It's the colour of scars, mucous membranes, and orifices. I don't know why some people want to drape their little girls in it. It's obscene, if you think about it."

Doctor Watson pulls Emily closer against his side. She isn't wearing any pink, Tristram is relieved to see. "Tris was just giving us a tour of the grounds," Doctor Watson says. "We didn't mean to disturb you."

"Yes, you did," Grandmother says with an amused tilt to her mouth. "You were curious. Of course. We would have met at lunch anyway. Speaking of which ... It's probably time to head back, wouldn't you say?"

The four of them go back together, Emily and Tristram running ahead a little way while Doctor Watson walks with Grandmother at her slower pace.

Emily is being uncharacteristically quiet. In fact, she hasn't said anything since they went into Grandmother's studio. Tristram tries to think of what might be wrong, but comes up with too many possibilities: the rain, Grandmother's pink comments, their conversation at breakfast, or maybe she's coming down with something... Further observation would likely tell him more, but sometimes the direct approach is best.

"Are you okay?"

Emily shrugs and kicks at a pebble on the path. It skips off into the bushes. "Fine."

Tristram isn't sure what to do with that. Clearly, she isn't fine. However, if his father had given him that answer, he would leave it. 'Fine' in that case would mean 'I am not going to give you any further information, and pressing the issue will only result in irritation, possibly anger.' Not that he has ever asked his father whether he was all right. For one thing, he can tell without asking, and for another, when his father isn't all right (injured, bored, frustrated), there is nothing that Tristram can do for him anyway. Asking about it would only focus attention on the unpleasant state of affairs and distract his father from fixing things using his own methods. Likewise, his father is not inclined to ask Tristram about his physical or mental condition: again, the answer is almost always obvious, and beyond that, Tristram knows that he is expected to ask for any assistance he might require.

But he's pretty sure that Doctor Watson wouldn't let it go, and Tristram postulates that Emily will probably react better to Watsonian behaviour than Holmesian in this case. He dredges his memory for a parallel situation to work from. He recalls that Emily has started going to see that lady because of what happened to them on Friday Afternoon. As Tristram understands it, the lady is supposed to help her forget about it. Emily said that all she did was play with Geomag and talk to her. He doesn't have any games or toys to hand, so he tries the other option.

He checks over his shoulder to make sure that Grandmother and Doctor Watson aren't listening, but they are involved in their own conversation. Still, he moves a little closer to Emily and keeps his voice low. "Do you want to... I don't know, talk about it?" he asks tentatively. He more than half hopes she'll say no because he has no idea how to 'talk about' topics that cause emotional discomfort.

Emily shakes her head and kicks another stone, although with less force: it only bounces half-heartedly a few steps away.

Tristram is relieved, but also at a loss. He does want to make Emily feel better, but he's run out of tricks. When they reach the stone, he kicks it so that it lands a short distance ahead of them on the path. Maybe if he engages her in a game, she'll stop thinking about whatever's bothering her. A few steps later, Emily kicks it in turn again and says, "When do you think we can go home?"

Ah. Now he's getting closer. The question is, does she actually want to go home, or does she want to leave Grandmother's? He supposes it doesn't much matter; they haven't any choice in the matter. They are at the mercy of their fathers' wills. He answers as truthfully as he can: "Whenever my father decides it's safe enough."

Emily looks over her shoulder now, too; Tristram isn't sure whether it's to make sure that the adults can't hear them, or because she feels safer knowing exactly where her father is.

She turns back to Tristram with wide eyes and whispers, "Is he doing something? I mean, is he trying to catch the bogeyman?"

Tristram nods. "I think so." He has no idea, actually. But he wants to reassure Emily.

She still waits for Doctor Watson and Grandmother to catch up to them, grabs her father's hand, and doesn't say anything more all the way back to the house.

When they get back, Doctor Watson sends Tristram and Emily upstairs to wash their hands and change into dry socks before lunch. The only other pair Tristram has is the pair he wore yesterday. He wouldn't normally wear the same clothes two days in a row - Father is quite particular about that - but 'needs must', as Mrs Hudson says. And he'll have to wear these same clothes for the rest of the weekend, if indeed they do end up staying that long. He carefully drapes his wet socks over the radiator in the bathroom and washes his hands. He also makes an attempt to comb his hair, which looks more of a mess than usual from the rain and the swing and rummaging around in the stable.

When he's done, he goes across to Uncle Mycroft's room to see if Emily is ready to go downstairs. She is sitting with her legs hanging off the side of the bed and an unhappy expression on her face. Her father is standing next to her. It looks like they've been having a disagreement.

"Your grandmother said lunch will be served in about twenty minutes," Doctor Watson says to Tristram. "Can the two of you find something to do until then? I'm going to find your father."

"Can't we come with you?" Emily asks. It becomes clear that this is the disagreement.

Doctor Watson looks down at her and explains patiently, "I'll be right downstairs, and you'll see me in twenty minutes when you come down for lunch." He smiles, although Tristram can tell it's strained. "Maybe you and Tris can play a game or look at a book until then."

The only book Tristram has with him other than school books is the Harry Potter book, and somehow he doesn't think it would be a good idea to bring that up, as Doctor Watson has expressly forbidden Emily to read it. There are lots of books in the library, of course, but that's downstairs, and Tristram has enough experience with being sent away so that adults can discuss adult things to recognise Doctor Watson's intention that Tristram and Emily remain upstairs, out of earshot.

There should still be a Go board and pieces in his room, though. He found it while rummaging through closets one summer, and appropriated it to amuse himself on those nights when he'd been put to bed before he was ready to go to sleep. His father found him making patterns with the pieces one evening - he'd had no idea of the actual rules - and taught him how to play. They even played a few games, although his father soon became bored with always winning, and told Tristram to practice on his own for a while and that they could play again when Tristram had figured out more strategies. He wasn't condescending about it, just honest. Tristram did practice, but he was never confident enough to ask his father to play again.

At any rate, Tristram suggests the game to Emily now, and although she doesn't seem very enthusiastic, she agrees to go over to his room to at least take a look. Doctor Watson looks relieved and mouths 'thank you' at Tristram when Emily isn't looking, which pleases Tristram inordinately.

Emily grasps the concept quickly - the basic rules aren't that complicated, after all - but she doesn't put much thought into her moves, and Tristram quickly dominates the board. Emily's still interested enough to want to play another round, but they have to put it off for another time, since it's time to go down for lunch by then.

When they get to the dining room, Father is already sitting stiffly in his chair next to Grandmother, who is in her usual place at the head of the long table. Tristram is told to sit next to his father, and Doctor Watson is offered the seat Tristram usually has, on the other side of Grandmother. She doesn't say anything to Emily (in fact, Tristram realises she hasn't so much as acknowledged Emily's presence with a word yet), but there is a fifth place set next to Doctor Watson, so it's obvious that she's supposed to sit there.

Mrs Bowen has prepared a fine roast with potatoes, but somehow Tristram doesn't have much of an appetite. There is something strange about the mood. Father is stonily silent, while Grandmother talks on and on, using words like transdisciplinarity, masochism, exigencies, and rhetoric. Doctor Watson attempts to keep up the other end of the conversation, but even Tristram can see that he's out of his depth. Finally, Doctor Watson turns to Father and asks if he's ever had a case that involved art. Father slides his eyes over to Grandmother, but she is using the momentary pause as an opportunity to sip her wine.

(Grandmother is the only person that Tristram knows of who Father ever defers to. Tristram has theorised in the past that the reason might be that she is quite possibly even cleverer than Father. She can hold her own on any subject he's ever heard raised in the house, at any rate, and can read Tristram with as much ease as his father can. But then, Father has admitted on more than one occasion that Uncle Mycroft is also terribly clever, and complained that he could just as easily do the tasks he asks Father to handle, if he could only be bothered to unglue himself from his chair. So Tristram supposes that it might not be Grandmother's cleverness after all that Father is mindful of.)

When it's clear that she's also waiting for his answer, Father loosens up a bit and starts to relate a case he must have had years back, when Tristram was quite small, or even before he was born, as Tristram doesn't recall it at all. It has something to do with an art restorer and old paint and a murder that wasn't a murder after all. It's strange to remember that Father had a life before Tristram; even now, there are probably lots of things that Father does when he goes out of the house that Tristram has no idea about. Like what he gets up to with Doctor Watson. Tristram never felt left out before, when Father went gallivanting about with the police. But now, watching Father tell Doctor Watson about this old case, Tristram feels like he's standing outside a door, looking in.

Doctor Watson's eyes gleam and he leans forward, putting both elbows on the table - something which Tristram has been reprimanded for exactly twice in this house before he learned not to do it, but Grandmother doesn't even bat an eyelash this time - so he can follow Father's story better. He murmurs things like 'how in the world' and 'fantastic' and 'you can't be serious' and 'incredible'.

Father becomes quite animated, and gesticulates with his hands and even, at one point, a meat knife. It's almost like watching the colour change on a pH test strip, going from the dun-coloured mid-tones to the bright orange or blue at the ends of the colour guide.

His father has always liked talking about his cases. Half the time when he's working through something at the flat, he talks to himself under his breath. Occasionally - more so as Tristram has grown older - he will share some points of his investigations with Tristram, explaining how he came to his conclusions. Tristram has always assumed that these were lessons. But watching his father come to life now, enjoyment and enthusiasm written large across his features, Tristram begins to form another hypothesis: his father talks about his cases the same way that Tristram and Emily talk about potions or building a time machine. Only his father has never had an Emily on the other end. And that brings Tristram to an uncomfortable thought: has his father been lonely? Tristram wouldn't ever have said he was lonely before Emily became his friend, but now, if he considers going back to how things were three months ago, he has to admit that he was. Maybe Father has been too.

There aren't many people he can discuss his cases with. Inspector Lestrade, of course, but that's his job. Some of the other police officers, although when Tristram's heard his father speaking to them on the phone, he's usually exasperated and insulting, and his muttered comments about them around the flat aren't any better. Uncle Mycroft, but only when Father has no other option, and those conversations are never exactly friendly.

But now, Father seems, well, happy. Happy to have a receptive audience in Doctor Watson. Tristram wonders now if he should have been more engaged, more enthusiastic, more curious, when Father mentioned his work. More like Doctor Watson. He can't change it now, of course, but the regret looms large.

And Doctor Watson seems genuinely interested, not just being polite like he was with Grandmother. There's something more, too, in the expectant way Doctor Watson raises his eyebrows and bites his lip when Father makes a dramatic pause, and in the almost self-conscious smiles Tristram's father falls into at Doctor Watson's laudatory comments.

Grandmother, throughout the recounting, sits calmly and eats her roast, following the exchange between Doctor Watson and Father as if it were a tennis match.

At the conclusion of the story, Doctor Watson leans back and flops both hands down on the armrests of his chair. "I never would have seen that coming."

Tristram's father smirks and lifts his wine glass. "No one did, John, that's why they called me in."

Doctor Watson chuckles and picks up his glass as well. "And modest to boot." To Grandmother, he says, "You have quite an incredible son, you know."

Grandmother smiles. "Intellectual pursuits have always been highly prized in our family. It stands to reason that Sherlock finds gratification in exercising his mind."

Doctor Watson doesn't look entirely pleased with that answer, but right then, Emily leans against her father's arm and asks in a small voice, "When can we go home?"

Grandmother raises her eyebrows very slightly but doesn't say anything.

"Soon, Ems, it won't be long," Doctor Watson answers her softly. "If you're done, you and Tris can go play."

"I don't want to play," Emily very nearly whinges.

Grandmother lays her cutlery down. "Why don't you take the children to the beach this afternoon? It will do them good to get out of the house."

Tristram is a little surprised at the suggestion. It's still raining, for one thing. And they were just out of the house for a good portion of the morning. But Doctor Watson latches onto the idea with enthusiasm.

"Hey, the beach!" he exclaims to Emily with more feeling than Tristram feels is warranted. After all, it's winter. They won't be able to do much. "We haven't been to the beach in ages,” Doctor Watson continues. “Years, probably. Do you remember when we went to Bournemouth for the weekend? You must have been... six, I guess. And we built that sand castle with the princess in the tower?"

Emily looks interested, but still doubtful. "It's cold and it's raining," she points out, quite fairly.

Doctor Watson glances out the window. "It's not that bad. I think it's even letting up. And we don't need to go in the water. I'd quite like to see the sea, anyway, as long as we're here. Sherlock?" He looks across the table for support.

Tristram looks up at his father, too, genuinely wondering what his answer will be. If they were here alone, just he and his father and Grandmother, Father would certainly say it was a stupid idea, and that if Tristram needed fresh air, he could go out into the garden. But Father's reactions have broken his usual patterns several times now where Doctor Watson and Emily are concerned.

In fact, Tristram's father does seem to be fighting an internal battle; possibly regarding how much rudeness he can get away with. After a few moments, he acquiesces: "If you really want to, you can take the car. Perhaps Tristram would like to go as well."

Tristram wouldn't normally jump at the chance to visit the beach on a cold, rainy November afternoon, but so far, Doctor Watson and Emily have managed to make nearly everything fun. This will certainly be no exception.

"I don't know where it is," Doctor Watson points out. "You should come along."

Tristram's father frowns. "My time will be better spent here."

"It might be best if we all stayed together," Doctor Watson says carefully, as if he's trying to get some extra meaning across. "You can take your mobile along. Reception might be better there."

"Yes, the reception will be better behind a hill and further away from civilisation," Tristram's father says in a way that means he doesn't believe that will be the case at all.

Still, half an hour later finds the four of them back in Uncle Mycroft's car. Doctor Watson was right: the rain has let up, mostly. Father looks like he's on a case, with the olive green windcheater he scrounged up from somewhere. Tristram wonders why he didn't bring his big black overcoat.

Emily has cheered up a bit at the prospect of an outing (and the promise of a stick of rock, should they find a store that sells it), and she teaches Tristram I Spy and the Alphabet game to pass the time. They're both devastatingly easy, but somehow Tristram finds himself having fun, especially once Doctor Watson joins in. He plays several rounds with them, until Father receives a message on his phone.

All Tristram hears is something about 'Mycroft' before Father's and Doctor Watson's voices get too low to make anything out. Emily keeps shouting out letters, and it's nearly impossible to hear the whispers from the front seat over hiss of the wet tyres on the macadam road anyway.

When they pull into the gravel field that serves as a car park, the wind has picked up, twisting ragged wisps down from the dark gray clouds and whipping Tristram's hair into his eyes as soon as he gets out of the car. The sea is laced with foam as it sloshes up against the rough, dark stones protecting the beach. Tristram can feel the wild energy of the abating storm, and he and Emily barely need to exchange delighted grins before tearing off pell mell onto the expanse of pebbles and shells.

"Come on, Dad!" she screams over the wind and surf.

Tristram barely hears the answering "Be there in a minute!" before he and Emily reach the high tide line marked by a contour of green and gray froth mixed with bits of wood and other detritus. Emily checks behind her, momentarily uncertain, but her father waves and signals that she and Tristram are fine where they are. When Tristram looks back, he catches his father angling his phone so that Doctor Watson can see the screen. It'll probably be more than a minute before they come down.

Tristram thinks that Doctor Watson would appreciate it if Tristram engaged Emily in something so that she doesn't worry, like he did with the Go game. "Come on, let's see if we can find some spider crabs," he says. He scans the debris until he finds a likely stick, then crouches down and starts flipping rocks over. A moment later, Emily joins him. Tristram smiles.


&&&&&&

Sherlock holds his right arm across his body so that John, on his left, can see the phone. The angle is less than practical, so he edges in until he's nearly behind John and puts his left hand on his shoulder. John's stance is stiff, but he reaches up with his left hand to tilt the screen in order to get a better view. His fingers overlap Sherlock's on the back of the phone.

"Do you know any of them?" John asks.

Sherlock scrolls through the four attached images from Mycroft, waiting for John to nod, indicating that he's absorbed the details of each face, before clicking to the next one.

Sherlock shakes his head. His chin brushes the side of John's head. "No," he says. "It's better this way. They'll come at the assignment without prejudice."

John turns partially toward Sherlock. His shoulder makes contact with Sherlock's chest and his frown quickly gives way to a half grin. "You mean you haven't pissed any of them off yet."

Sherlock makes a discontented noise. "Do you have their faces memorised?"

John glances down at the phone. "Yeah, I'm good. You can go ahead and delete them." He lets go of the phone and Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock thumbs through the controls. When he's finished, he stays where he is, though, tightening his grip on John's shoulder slightly in order to pull him in closer against his body.

"We should get down to the kids," John says, but he doesn't move away.

"Nothing is going to come at them from the sea," Sherlock says. "They're perfectly content to poke in the mud." He turns his head until his cheek rests against John's temple. He can feel John's respiration increase under his hand and against his chest.

"Sherlock, I thought we... We can't afford a distraction. Not now." John leans into Sherlock's touch, belying his words.

Sherlock lowers his head in order to speak directly into John's ear. "No one is here." He waits, giving John one last chance to move away, before dragging his lips over the curve of John's ear. He feels the slight vibration of the choked sound John makes in response more than he hears it.

"The kids..." John says, his eyes already fluttering closed.

"...are perfectly safe. I can see them." Sherlock sounds impatient; irritated.

"That's not what-" John starts, but he stops when Sherlock gently kisses the side of John's cheek. John twists farther to meet him, and then they are kissing properly. John gets one hand inside Sherlock's jacket and Sherlock slides his hand up onto John's neck so he can feel the solid warmth of John's skin, under the military-clean line of his hair.


&&&&&&

Tristram keeps his head down, grateful for once for the unruly curls that fall into his eyes. His body is positioned parallel to the shore, but he has a perfectly good view of his father and Doctor Watson from the corner of his eye, through his hair. There is no mistaking what they are doing. Tristram has gone absolutely numb. He cannot think. He cannot even say anything to Emily, who has her back to them and is completely engrossed in the little air holes winking open and closed in the wet sand. He doesn't want her to know, suddenly, even though she's the one who always said they were kissing, before.

It's not that his father is kissing a man - although he's perfectly aware that is a behaviour which the majority of men would not engage in, and in fact is likely to garner ridicule or worse. The percentage of his father's behaviours which coincide with the majority of the population is so small as to be statistically insignificant anyway; and the percentage likely to garner ridicule conversely large. He doesn't even consider the fact that, if anyone from school were to find out, it could make life difficult for him. The difficulties that come with being Sherlock Holmes' son are the warp of his life's weave, so omnipresent that they don't even register.

He just... It's always been him and his father. All of the other major players in their life - Uncle Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade - have remained more or less outside their twin existence. Even Tristram, if he is brutally honest, has never entirely penetrated his father's shell. The fact that Tristram's father is letting Doctor Watson kiss him feels like that door Tristram was standing outside of before is now being slammed in his face.

He feels betrayed from the other end as well: Doctor Watson is his friend's father and, he'd thought, his friend as well, in a way. Tristram is the one who brought him into their lives. Doctor Watson made Tristram feel special: he wanted to hear about his soil experiment, he gave him the phone, he told Tristram he was brilliant, and he asked for Tristram's help to make Emily feel safer. He pushed Tristram on the swing, just this morning. But maybe none of it was because of Tristram. Maybe Tristram's father was the one he was interested in all along. His stomach tightens, in an unpleasant way.

He must lose track of time and place for a short while, because the next thing he knows, there are long legs standing beside him, and Doctor Watson's voice is saying, "What are you two up to, then?"

Emily pulls excitedly on her father's hand until he crouches down beside her, and starts chattering about crabs and shells and tsunamis, of all things. Tristram's father remains where he is, several paces away. He doesn't say anything, and Tristram doesn't look at him. Tristram pretends to be interested in a hole he's digging. When Emily pauses to take a breath, Doctor Watson asks Tristram what he's found. Tristram just shakes his head and shuffles a couple of meters to the left, mumbling something about everyone scaring the crabs away.

He is suddenly utterly miserable. He doesn't want to be here, not at the beach, not at Llanbroc, not in Wales. He wants to curl up in his bed at home, in London, and read a book that will take him far away from everyone and everything. Or else go downstairs to Mrs Hudson's and let her prattle on about Mr Chatterjee and Coronation Street and her hip, while he eats apple crumble with vanilla sauce and kicks his feet against her kitchen table. He wonders, with a stab of insight that is both painful and triumphant, if this is how his father feels when he clatters down the stairs and out of the house for hours at a time. Only that would mean his father had someone who had misled him, shut him out, and abandoned him, but he doesn't. There isn't anyone.

Emily is in a better mood on the way back to the house, keeping up a steady stream of questions mixed in with her own speculations about the oceans. Doctor Watson, in the driver's seat, responds patiently and with what Tristram has come to recognise as his special brand of indulgent good humour. Tristram's father even chimes in without being prompted to tell about a case involving a body that had been washed up in the Estuary. Tristram has never heard it before, and normally, he would be fascinated, but now he just wishes everyone would stop talking. He is resentful of Doctor Watson and Emily both, how they have drawn his father out of his habitual reserve and engaged him. And at the same time sickeningly guilty, because Father is happy in a way that Tristram's never seen him before. Shouldn't Tristram be happy about that too?

When Father finishes the story, Emily says, "Cool!" and Doctor Watson shakes his head and says, "Incredible," and Tristram's father doesn't even try to suppress his smile. Tristram's stomach twists uncomfortably. He squeezes himself further into the corner of the seat and looks out the window and lets his eye swoop along with the rise and fall of the power lines strung beside the highway.

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