Only Yours

37

Bryce Waterhouse's P.O.V

I sweep into the studio at half seven eight, as usual. Since my big break at this morning, I've hosted BBC news breakfast, the biggest news channel in the UK. And although no one will admit it, we all know that the half eight to ten shift is the most important.

Cheryl, my make-up artist, is usually very chatty in the mornings but is uncharacteristically quiet today. I ask her what's wrong but she just shakes her head, looking close to tears.

It's the same with Helen, the hair girl, and head camerawoman Tracy, and at quarter past eight I ask Hugh, the head of the studio, what's happened.

He stares at me in surprise. 'Didn't anyone tell you?'

'That's the problem, no one's talking.'

'Ok. You know that soldier, the private who died in Afghanistan on the sixteenth?'

'That was days ago. Surely that's not what everyone's so upset about?'

He looks at me for a moment before shaking his head. 'They identified the poor sod. He's Jonathan Watson-Holmes.'

I shrug. The name means nothing to me. Hugh rolls his eyes. 'Jonty?'

I gasp as I register the name. I interviewed his dad, that cocky detective, Sherlock Holmes, a few years ago. Now I think about it I can remember two boys. I thought they were twins, the way they were carrying on. One was the spitting image of Sherlock, a grumpy bugger, and the other was a smiley blonde kid with gappy teeth.

My two daughters love Sherlock, as does my wife.

'Everyone's distraught. Jonty and his brother, Will, have been the sweethearts of the nation since they were born. My daughter's throwing a fit.'

And with that Hugh pats me on the back and throws me onto the huge red sofa. I position myself next to Cindy, my fellow anchor, and pick up the notes on the story. Memorising them quickly, I put them on the table and turn to the camera as the red light comes on and Tracy gives me a thumbs up.

'The nation was saddened today with the news that the soldier shot on August sixteenth at Sterga 2 in Afghanistan was none other than Jonathan Watson-Holmes, son of beloved detective Sherlock Holmes. Private Watson, as he was known, was shot by a lone sniper at the base and was killed instantly. Private Watson, also known as Jonty, leaves behind his parents Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson and his siblings William, Hamish, Saphira and little Benedict, who is only two years old. Rachel Shelly has more.'

The camera cuts to Rachel, standing in front of the familiar doors of 221B Baker Street. Cindy turns towards me, probably to discuss Sherlock, but I shush her and watch Rachel on the huge screen at the back of the studio.

'Thank you, Bryce. I am at Baker Street where the Watson-Holmes family are expected to make an announcement shortly. And- yes, here they are.

And on the screen appears a family. And I have never seen a family that look so torn apart as this one.

Sherlock Holmes, who as I remember it has absolutely no emotion in his entire being, has tear tracks running down his face. His husband, John, is leaning heavily on him, grief obvious in every part of his being. The twins are standing close together and the boy is holding the baby, the only one smiling. The poor little guy wouldn't remember his big brother.

And the eldest son looks the worse of all.

He's a tall lanky kid, probably eighteen or nineteen, with long black curls and intense eyes which are red and puffy. His face is unnaturally pale and his cheekbones stand out on his sallow skin.