CHAPTER I: Father’s Day

Distinctive thumps in quick succession and the roar of reverse thrusts and brakes greeted the British Airways Boeing 777-200 as it touched down shortly after 4 pm Eastern Standard Time on Runway 13-31 at New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. Jarred awake by the garbled public address greeting and command to remain seated until the plane was safely at the gate, First Class passenger John Watson, M.D., powered up his iPhone and began gathering all he carried on the jetliner with him 7 hours and 55 minutes earlier at London’s Heathrow International Airport.

The mostly full flight was unremarkable. Watson used half the time to catch up on sleep, the other to begin composing a new chapter in his memoirs of the crime-detection exploits he shared with his eccentric employer and lifelong friend, Sherlock “Sheerluck” Holmes IV. Watsons’s great grandfather was employed by Holmes’ great grandfather and regularly accompanied the great detective made famous by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s accounts of the duo’s pursuits of murderers, thieves and other scoundrels.

As soon as the Apple Inc. icon vanished, the cracked screen of Watson’s smartphone flashed with a text message from his sister, Gertrude, who lived in New York.

“Johnny, text me when you land. I’ll start supper then so it’s ready when you arrive. Can’t wait to see you, brother! Luv, G.,” the text read.

The SMS brought a smile to Watson’s mustached face. “Gertie,” the oldest of five, was Watson’s favorite sibling. She was the only one who called him Johnny (and the only one who could get away with it).

“Just landed Gertie,” Watson replied, typing ever so slowly with one finger. “I’ll see you in about 90 minutes, with Customs and all that malarkey and blasted traffic.”

It was almost 90 minutes to the minute that a Yellow Cab carrying Dr. John Watson pulled up to the curve in front of Gertrude Watson’s brownstone on Delancey Street, on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Watson tipped the hack and ascended the steps to the three-floor, four-bedroom home Gertrude shared with two spinster sisters. The Gallagher Gals, as they were known in the local pubs they frequented each afternoon from 3 to 6 pm, each paid Gertrude Watson $900-a-month room and board. The brownstone was in the family for over 100 years and was paid for, so Gertie got by with the rent and her schoolteacher pension.

After hugs, pleasantries, chit chat and fully satisfying meal of bangers and mash, the boarders went to their respective rooms. Gertie took a deep breath and then told Dr. John Watson why it was so important that she insisted he hop the pond and visit her for the first time in 20 years.

“I’ve got something important tell you, Johnny,” Gertie started. After a brief pause to check for a reaction, which she didn’t get, Gertie continued. “A young man rang my bell a week ago today, which was why I called you.”

Still no reaction from John Watson, a trait he honed while enduring many evenings forced to listen to the ramblings of Sheerluck over tea or cognac (depending on the time of day) in Holmes’ musty second floor flat at 221B Baker St., in London’s South End.

“Johnny, this young man says you are his father. You may have a son!”

Fifteen minutes passed before Gertie finished relating the account of the strange pop-in visitor and what the 20-something young man had to say. John Watson sat silent for three full minutes before finally opening his mouth to speak.

“Gertie, you don’t believe that story, do you?” Watson said. “I’m so happy to be here and was meaning to come see you anyway, but there’s just no way any of that is true. It makes no sense. Like you, I never married but I had companions of the opposite sex and some I even courted. But a son I never heard of? Malarkey!”

Gertie reached into her oversized pocketbook, moved things aside. Her hand finally emerged with a sealed letter-sized white enveloped with the word “Dad” handwritten on the outside. “He left you this, Johnny. I didn’t open it. If you think it is rubbish, do what you do with trash. If you are at all interested and choose to pursue it, I won’t pry and we never have to speak of it again. More coffee?”

John Watson left the letter unopened, folded it in half and tucked it away in a shirt pocket. “Decaf, yes. One more cup and then off to see the Sand Man,” Watson said. “Tomorrow, we’ll plan the rest of my visit. I hope some of our old haunts are all still there.”

* * *

Tired from his flight, Watson resolved that he would get some rest, adjust to the jetlag he knew was coming and settled into the tiny guestroom with the tiny window reserve for him. The room resembled more of an attic than sleeping quarters. The mysterious letter sat in Watson’s shirt pocket slewn over an armchair for 10 hours before he heard Gertie yell to everyone in the house from the kitchen, “Breakast in 20 minutes. You snooze, you lose!”

Must be an American thing, Watson thought to himself.

Watson wiped the sleep from his eyes, brushed his teeth, combed his hair and dressed. Let’s see what this is all about now, Watson thought as he opened the letter Gertie had given him after dinner and began reading it.

Dear Dr. Watson (or may I call you Dad, Daddy, Pops, Poppa or Father?). I am sorry for this intrusion, and I am sure it is quite a shock to hear that you have a son you never knew about. At least that’s what my mother told me shortly before she passed on to a better place three months ago (smoker, Big C, so unnecessary). I know who you are and that you are a bit of a celebrity back home in England. I assure you I don’t want anything from you in the way of money or anything. I merely want to know who I am. Until Mom revealed your identity to me the night before she died, she was always so vague when she spoke of you — except to say how brilliant and intelligent you were. She was a great mother and that was always enough for me. But as I near my 21st birthday alone in the world, I want to know about the other half of the equation – who my father was.

Watson knew the other shoe would soon drop but waited for it. The next paragraph confirmed his suspicion.

Dr. Watson, the only way I can be sure if you are my father is to meet you, size you up, look at you and see if you are the great genius my mother always told me my father was. If you are all that, you’ll have no trouble finding me. If you cannot, then I need to search for my father elsewhere. I’ll see you Saturday. Or maybe I won’t! Your son. For now, call me Whatson.

P.S. Here’s your clue to finding me. I’ll be there at 12 p.m. this coming Saturday. At five minutes past noon, I’ll be gone.