Note:

I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here.

This takes place sometime after the Pool but before they met Irene.

"What? No, Harry, I do not have to be there. You know I can't."

Sherlock paused on the landing, smirking a bit. John always made such a fuss over his relationship with Mycroft when his own with Harry was just as bad. He wondered what she wanted now, who the 'he' referred to was. A mutual acquaintance, of course, one who presumably was closer to Harry than to John, or she wouldn't be trying to influence her brother on his behalf. Probably a family member.

While he hesitated, John finished the conversation with that frustrated grunt used by younger siblings everywhere.

Sherlock waited a moment longer and then pushed the door open. "Ah, John," he said, noting the faint flush in his friend's face. "You're here. Excellent. I need you to … is something wrong?"

"No, I just …" John's jaw tightened. "Why?"

"You have your phone in a death grip which you probably should relax a bit unless you want to buy a new phone."

John glanced down at his hand, a blank expression on his face, and then something in his shoulders relaxed and he managed a smile. "Good point. That's not really in the budget right now. It was Harry. On the phone, I mean."

"As one younger brother to another, I sympathize," Sherlock said, trying for something light to ease his friend's mood, but he paused as John's eyelid twitched. "What? Harry's younger?"

"In as many ways as I can think of, yes," John said. "Spoiled rotten by our father and still refusing to grow up—and then she calls me up—drunk—and tries to tell me that I'm being the immature one!"

Sherlock blinked, frozen for just long enough to catch John's attention.

"What?"

"I'm just not used to hearing you sound so much like Mycroft."

John's grin came out at full strength at that. "Yeah, well, at least I don't spy on her or kidnap her friends. And the only bribe I ever offered was a Cadbury bar to her best friend when she was 17."

"Really? What for?"

"For her not to tell Harry I'd asked her out," John said, a reminiscent smile on his face. "It was a stupid thing to do—partly because she turned out to be Harry's girlfriend, not just her best friend. Harry hadn't come out yet, so I didn't know about the lesbian thing. And then, well, let's just say she wasn't the nicest of people."

"In other words, a…"

"Let's just say I'm far too much of a gentleman to say exactly what she really was," John said, finally letting go of the rest of the tension in his shoulders.

"So, what did she want? Harry?" Sherlock asked, sitting down in his chair.

"Wants me to go … look, never mind. It's not important."

Sherlock kept his voice level. "You don't sound convinced, John."

"I don't, do I?" John said with a rueful head shake and then looked across with the air of a man who needed a distraction. "So, what did you need me for?"

#

Later, after Sherlock had worked his way through the case he'd been working on, he thought back to John's reactions. No-one knew better than he how frustrating a sibling could be, but he had seen John talk to his sister before. Today's level of irritation was unusually high.

So, after John had eaten and was sitting in his chair with a cup of tea, Sherlock asked again, "What did Harry want earlier?"

He thought for a moment that John was going to refuse to answer, but after a thoughtful sip at his cup, John said, "I think I told you that we don't get along, Harry and me? Well, our relationship is still about twenty times better than the one I have with my father. In fact, it's been about that many years since I saw him."

Sherlock blinked. "Really? Why?"

"He didn't exactly take to the idea of my joining the army. He had barely accepted that I wanted to be a doctor at all, but an army doctor? Let's just say he didn't approve and I haven't spoken to him since."

Sherlock was stunned. He could understand a parent disliking the idea out of concern for a child's physical well-being, or even hoping for a better-paying career choice, but this? Something worth estranging a well-loved child over? (Because John had to have been well-loved, didn't he?) "Why wouldn't he approve? An army doctor is certainly a worthwhile career."

"It wasn't nearly … prestigious … enough for my father. If I had to be a doctor, he pictured something more along the lines of a Harley Street practice with wealthy patients. Medicine to him was something you did to make money. It was never about saving lives."

Sherlock sipped his own tea, thinking about that, fighting down his anger at John's idiotic, blind, small-minded father. He supposed that the money could be an issue to a middle class family, but still. "He must not have known you very well, if he thought the prospect of money would sway you from doing what you believed was right. Even Mycroft learned that the first time he met you."

John gave a laugh, but it was a small, bitter thing that Sherlock hated to hear. "Well, he hadn't been the first person to try to bribe me—and he'd just kidnapped me. Even if I had been inclined to listen, that would have just made me stubborn anyway. But you're right. My father never knew me very well, and he gave up his right to when he kicked me out."

Sherlock almost choked on his tea. "He kicked you out?"

John nodded, eyes far away. "Said I was a disgrace and he was ashamed of me, that my grandfather would be ashamed, my ancestors … pretty much everyone back to William the Conqueror—though being a fighting man, I like to think he at least would have approved. My Mum would have, too."

"Your mother is dead, then?" Sherlock asked gently. It was so seldom John talked about his past, he didn't want to shake him from this reflective mood.

"When I was eighteen. Cancer."

Sherlock absorbed this. So John had lost his mother, joined the army, and essentially lost his father as well, all within a few years of each other? It was so appalling, it almost made him feel grateful for his own family. Annoying, they might be, but even he knew there was a foundation of caring down at the bottom of it.

"So, what did Harry want? Is your father dying?"

John gave another harsh little laugh. "That I could almost understand, but no. It's my grandfather's 90th birthday and she wants me to come to theparty."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That is rather audacious of her, isn't it?"

"You have no idea. It's simply not possible for me to go."

Sherlock was relieved to see a glint of John's familiar humour in his eye. "Oh, I don't know, John. Think of the impression you'd make if you went in your full dress uniform, medals displayed proudly … I concede that it would be unfortunate to actually give your father a heart attack at the party, but a case of indigestion doesn't sound unreasonable."

Now John did laugh, and without the edge of bitterness. "No, he does, at least, deserve the heartburn. It's supposed to be a big, family affair, with all the cousins … cousins, I might add, who have probably thought I was dead for the last two decades. Cousins who have also probably been obedient and biddable and are therefore all wildly successful and wealthy by now. And I'm what? An invalided ex-army doctor who can't keep a steady job. About the best you could say is that at least I don't have the limp and the cane anymore."

His friend just stared. How was it possible that John thought so little of himself? Didn't he realize that he was the most remarkable man Sherlock had ever met?

He was just opening his mouth to say so when John stood and poured himself a drink.

No, he didn't think John knew that at all.

"When is the party?"

John just shook his head and reached for the television remote. "It doesn't matter. Is there anything worth watching tonight? There must be something on that we can mock at least."

#

John didn't mention his family again the next day, and Sherlock—showing a rare sense of discretion—didn't bring it up. Then they were inundated with cases and were busy solving puzzles, helping chase down leads and criminals, that John's family troubles were soon the last thing on Sherlock's mind. If John occasionally seemed more pensive than usual, well, it didn't seem to be worrying him.

And then there was their unplanned trip to Buckingham Palace.

Sherlock had been surprised to see John walk in, but considering this was all Mycroft's doing … he probably thought John would make Sherlock behave or some such ridiculous thing. The minute John sat down and asked, "Are you wearing any pants?" though, Sherlock knew that plan was out the window. John might be more concerned with appearances and (boring) civilities than Sherlock, but ultimately he enjoyed the thrill just as much as Sherlock did.

What Sherlock hadn't expected was the way John froze briefly when "Mr Smith" joined them.

Oh, he shook it off quickly, and his manner was stiff anyway, due to the intimidating surroundings no doubt, but still … John had recognized him, and Sherlock found that fascinating. How would an ex-army doctor have met a top-level palace official?

#

"And that's as polite as he gets," John said as Sherlock swept from the room. "Pleasure to meet you."

He started to follow, but Mr Smith called him back. "Dr Watson? Have we met before? You seem so familiar to me."

John closed his eyes briefly before turning around. He'd hoped to avoid this. "I've spent most of my time in the army, Mr Smith, up until the last year. It seems unlikely."

"Yes, I suppose, but … Oxford, perhaps?"

John shook his head. "No, that was a bit out of my price range, even with a scholarship. I studied medicine at Bart's, though, if that helps?"

"No." The man stared at him a moment longer as if chasing a mental ghost and then shook his head and looked down the hallway where Sherlock had disappeared. "I'm sorry to have kept you."

"No worries," John said, already turning. "Good day, Mr Smith. Mycroft."

He didn't quite run down the hall, but he could feel that little extra bit of military snap to his stride as he walked, hoping that Sherlock hadn't left him there. But no, Sherlock was adjusting his scarf and pulling on his gloves as John rounded the corner. "A last appeal to your good nature?"

"No. Mr Smith thought he recognized me. It's probably from the blog."

"He doesn't seem the type to read your purple prose, though."

John shook his head. "No, he doesn't, does he? It was nothing."

"Maybe he was flirting with you?"

John just sighed. "I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"I know that, and you know that, but countless others seem confused on that point, John. You can hardly blame the man for trying."

"Jesus … he wasn't flirting, Sherlock. He just thought I looked familiar." He looked around at the gilt wallpaper and fine mouldings and gave a small sigh. "Buckingham Palace … It's just weird to be here."

"Just another old house, John. I'm sure it's old and drafty like the rest of them, no matter how superficially grand."

"You're the oddest kind of elitist I've ever met, Sherlock," John told him as they walked to their cab. "You could care less about money and wealth, but put a genius in front of you and you practically roll over and beg to play."

#

Later, once John had gotten Sherlock to bed (with Lestrade's help, even if he'd been a little too gleeful about recording Sherlock's raving on his phone), he called Mycroft to tell him what had happened.

"Incidentally, John, my friend David was quite intrigued by you."

Surprised, John splashed the water he was pouring into his mug. "Damn it," he said.

"Yes, I know. You're not gay, but I assure you, John…"

"No, not that, Mycroft. I just burned myself. Hold on a sec." He turned the cold water on in the sink and tried to think quickly, past the shock—shock not so much from the injury as from his past, coming back to haunt him.

He turned off the water and wrapped his hand in a towel, fumbling the phone as he picked it up. "Sorry, Mycroft. What were you saying about … David, was it?"

"He was intrigued. He said you were the spitting image of his uncle Jonathan. He then mentioned that he had had a cousin, once, who disappeared twenty years ago … whose name was also John."

John swallowed. "It's not an uncommon name, Mycroft."

"John Hamish Watson Brandon, in fact. An interesting coincidence, don't you think?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John asked with a sigh.

"Want? Nothing. I'm just passing on an inquiry from an old friend."

"And indulging your curiosity," John said, walking past the kettle directly to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

"It can't surprise you that it's a family trait." Mycroft's voice was gently encouraging.

"Well that's true." John sat down in his chair. "But why should I indulge yours when Sherlock was just as curious?"

"Interesting question. Perhaps you didn't want my brother to know of your family history? Though he would certainly be sympathetic to someone trying to escape their family … obligations."

John just laughed, even if it was a bit bitterly. "It's the other way around, Mycroft. My family didn't want me. My father made that quite clear when I was 18. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go check on Sherlock."

Ending the call, he sat for a moment, thinking back to the summer he was eighteen. He remembered the look on his father's face as he shouted that he was throwing his life away, would never amount to anything, that it was all his mother's fault. The irony still stung—that it was his mother's devout belief that each person had the responsibility to help others that had helped him make the decision to become an army surgeon. His mother, from her middle-class home and "common" upbringing had had more nobility in her smallest finger than his father ever had.

Not that his father had ever, in any way, lived up to his own potential, John thought, staring down at the glass in his hand. Neither had Harry.

He heard Sherlock calling his name, and as he hurried down the hallway, John could only wonder if he had truly managed to do any better.

#

The next morning, Sherlock was back to his usual self and John was tucking into one of Mrs Hudson's bountiful breakfasts when Mycroft stopped by. He was his usual, pompous self as he nagged at his brother. It wasn't until he was ready to leave that he asked, "May I have a word, John?"

Sherlock lowered his paper. John? Mycroft wanted to talk to John? Hadn't he learned the futility of asking John to spy on him yet?

He glanced at his flatmate, expecting to see him looking irritated, but was surprised to see John looking nervous. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, noting the awkward way Mycroft was holding his umbrella, remembering the way Mr Smith had waylaid John after their meeting. There was some kind of mystery here, but he wasn't sure what.

He looked again at John, the way he glanced toward his phone and shifted in his chair. "This is something about your father, isn't it, John? Harry hasn't been nagging Mycroft, has she? I'm crushed. I would have thought I would have been her second choice if she was trying to guilt you into a family gathering … though, really, Mrs Hudson would have been the logical place to start."

John's shoulders hunched in slightly tighter for a moment and for a moment he had the lost look of a stray puppy. Only for an instant, though, for immediately he pulled his head back and sat soldier-straight in his chair. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

Sherlock watched Mycroft's eyes cut in his direction before he said, "I thought this was something you'd want to address in private?"

John threw his napkin onto the table—an unusual sign of frustration. "Right, which is why you brought it up right in front of Sherlock. Even if I'd wanted to, there's no way it could stay a secret now, could it?"

Secret? Sherlock's mind swept through the possibilities. It had something to do with John's family and Mycroft's colleague from the palace. They were of similar age, more or less, but couldn't have attended the same schools. But John had said the man thought he looked familiar?

"Is it a secret, John? Because I confess I can't see why," Mycroft said.

John glanced at Sherlock and sighed. "Really? I thought you were brighter than that, Mycroft. You can't think of any reason why using my mother's name wouldn't make my life easier when I joined the army? You can't see why I didn't want a daily reminder that my father threw me out of the house when I was 18?"

Mycroft blinked and Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction—he hadn't known that—but Mycroft ploughed on. "Regardless of your father's behaviour, Brandon is still a name to be proud of, John."

Brandon? A common enough name, really, even if it was also the surname of the Earl of … Oh.

Oh.

John nodded wearily. "I never said it wasn't, but it hasn't been my name in twenty years, Mycroft. I'm damn proud of being a Watson, thank you."

"As you should be. But … you said your father…" His voice trailed off delicately.

"Threw me out, yes, when I told him I wanted to be an army doctor. It wasn't prestigious enough for him, and he blamed my mother for filling my head with ridiculous democratic nonsense. My mother had been dead for all of two weeks at that point, mind you, so I may not have been thinking as clearly as I should, but … it came down to an ultimatum he never thought I'd take him up on, and I left. I started using my mother's name, put myself through school and training and never asked him for a thing."

"Not even after you'd been shot," Sherlock said quietly, remembering a string of deductions in a cab. ("You're a war hero with no place to go.")

John just shook his head. "I don't know what my father told the rest of the family after I left. I've really no idea if they think I'm dead, exiled to one of the colonies, or working in a shop, or what. The only one who's ever even tried to keep in touch was Harry, and, well … we never got on, anyway."

"And your grandfather knows this…?" Mycroft asked.

Another shake of the head. "No idea. He's turning 90 next month and there's a big party which Harry's been trying to get me to go to, but … it's absurd. I haven't seen or heard from him since I left home. So far as I know, he agrees wholeheartedly with my father as to what a disgrace I am. I can't just show up…"

Mycroft leaned forward slightly, leaning on his umbrella. "That's actually what David was curious about. I told you he was struck by the resemblance. I wouldn't be surprised if he dropped by sometime today."

Sherlock looked between the two of them. "By David, I assume you mean 'Mr Smith' from yesterday? And he is…?"

"My first cousin," John said with a sigh. "Our fathers were brothers."

"So you're …?"

"The grandson of an Earl, yes, if that's what you're looking for. Marrying Mum was the one and only thing my father ever did without having pound signs in his eyes, and he never forgave her for trying to teach me and Harry that it was the person that mattered, not the bloodlines. How she managed to convince him to let us go to the local schools, I have no idea, though I suspect the crumbling finances contributed. He was more than happy to spend money where it could be seen, but something as unimportant as his children's education?"

Sherlock felt unaccountably as if he'd been hit on the head. This was a John he'd never expected to see—cynical, with a bitter edge as acid practically dripped from his tongue as he spoke of his father. He had never really thought about it before—the kind of childhood John had had. He'd just assumed (stupid, why had he assumed, never assume) that it had been average and happy except for squabbles with his sister. But instead his childhood had been one long series of battles of class warfare. No wonder John had gone to war—physical battles must almost have been a relief.

He looked across at his friend, noting the lines on his forehead, the concern written in the press of his lips. He thought about how John Watson—one of the finest men he'd ever known—had spent the last twenty years trying to prove himself worthy of a man who clearly was not worth the trouble. A man who had thrown his son out because he had disapproved of his choice of career—that army doctor was somehow beneath him rather than being brave and self-sacrificing.

Sherlock thought of his own childhood. True, the children at school had been mindless bullies and he had frequently been misunderstood and punished for honest mistakes by stupid nannies. He had often been lonely—especially once Mycroft went off to school—but he had never doubted that his parents had loved him.

The idea that John had never had that kind of support, and yet had grown into the man he was, strong and kind and good … he glanced at Mycroft and for a moment the brothers shared a look as strong as a hug or a warm hand-clasp. They might fight and squabble, but they both knew that the other cared.

"Why did your father…?" Mycroft asked.

"Because my choice of career was beneath me, supposedly. He felt my, what was it, 'grubbing in the dirt' in the army and 'wasting my time' on common soldiers would shame the family, somehow. He said no Brandon had ever joined the military at a lower rank than Major and my insistence on wanting to earn my rank was foolish and short-sighted. In short, Mycroft, he was ashamed of me and said I was letting down generations of Brandons in my foolishness. He said he wouldn't allow it while I was under his roof … so I left."

Calmly—almost too calmly—John rose from his chair. "That's when I dropped his name, Mycroft. I never expected my father to be automatically proud of me, but if my serving Queen and Country was going to embarrass him, leaving his name out of it was the least I could do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should shower before David arrives, don't you think?"

He walked out of the room, and Sherlock tried not to wince at the painfully straight back and the merest hint of a limp. As soon as John was gone, he turned back to Mycroft. "I almost feel I owe Father an apology. Apparently he wasn't the worst father in the country after all."

Mycroft's face was solemn as he nodded. "Apparently not. The question is, what can we do about it?"

#

Note: Apparently I LIKE giving John unusual backgrounds. So far I've given him an extraordinarily wealthy blood-father he never knew, the gift of invisibility, and now this … grandson of an Earl. Mostly because I really liked the idea of him having grown up with money and all the trappings that we regularly assume Sherlock grew up with. (And the thought that somehow this isn't his first visit to Buckingham Palace seemed kind of delicious, though I'm not sure why he might ever have visited as a child … but he theoretically could have if he's an Earl's grandson, right?) Anyway, I needed a way to merge his current accent/wardrobe/lack-of-money-ness into this idea, though, so … estranged from the family seemed to fit. I'm trying hard not to let this feel too much like "Mistaken Identities," though, even if, again, there's a wealthy family he's suddenly reunited with. Don't expect any kidnappings though—unless it's maybe one of Mycroft's specials.