Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked. This is the seventh story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

What if John's father had split with his mother before he was born? What if he came looking for him now?

#

"I'm sorry, but have we met, Dr Watson?"

John looked at the other man, impatient to get after his flatmate, grateful that at least he was wearing clothing instead of just a sheet, but still … it wouldn't do to let Sherlock wander around Buckingham Palace unattended, would it?

Still, there was no need to be rude, and somebody should uphold 221B's honour, after all, shouldn't they? And so he said, "No, I don't think so, unless you've spent time in Afghanistan or come into the clinic with a cough lately."

But the other man was smiling, albeit with a slightly perplexed air. "No, I'm sure that's not it. You just remind me of someone."

John gave him a smile. "It happens to the best of us. Nice to meet you." And with a nod to the two men, he was off, chasing Sherlock down the hall.

He never noticed the intent look on David Brandon's face as he turned to Mycroft. Nor did he hear him ask, "What do you know about John Watson?"

#

John looked up as the doorbell rang and heaved a sigh of relief. It had been days since Irene Adler had tricked her phone back out of Sherlock, and the detective's sulk was reaching epic proportions. He could only hope that whoever was at the door would provide a much-needed distraction.

Which is why he admitted to some small disappointment when he saw David Brandon on their step with an older man. Wonderful. They were probably here to yell at Sherlock, or arrest him, and John would likely be caught in the crossfire as usual. "Mr Brandon," he said as politely as he could. "What brings you here? If it's about the phone…"

"Oh no, Dr Watson, this is something quite different," the taller man assured him. "Er … could we come in?"

"Oh, of course," John said backing away and holding the door and then leading the way up the stairs, hoping Sherlock hadn't trashed the flat any further in the three minutes he'd been at the door.

To his relief, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, now, gaze keen for the first time in days as he looked over their two guests, eyes flicking back to John. Right, thought John. He'd been standing at the window with the violin. He would have seen the arrivals and known John was bringing them up.

"Can I get you some tea?" John offered, wondering whether he should make himself scarce while they talked with Sherlock.

The older man spoke for the first time. "Tea would be welcome, Dr Watson."

John turned toward the kitchen, wondering if he should bother getting out the good tea, knowing that nothing he had to serve would be as good as the sublime brew he'd had at the palace. His only real regret about that entire fiasco had been that Sherlock hadn't let him stay long enough to finish the cuppa. "Please don't let me keep you."

"Actually, we're here to see you, Dr Watson."

John stopped in the doorway. "Me?"

He took a hesitant step toward the sitting room, glancing at Sherlock as he did so. Did his friend know what this was about? "So … no tea, then?"

David gave a smooth smile. "It's possible you might want something stronger."

The older man gave him a quelling look and then turned back to John. From the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock sitting upright now, attention captured. Well, at least that was something good coming out of this meeting … whatever it was. He pulled over another chair and sat down. "So … what's this about, then?"

The grey-haired man was looking at him intently, now, which John ignored with the ease of someone who lived with Sherlock Holmes. He just wished he had a cuppa so there would be something to do with his hands while he waited for the man to find the words for whatever he wanted to say. He couldn't think of anything he'd done that would have attracted the attention of Buckingham Palace, not outside his connection to Sherlock Holmes. Because obviously this had something to do with the palace—or more precisely, meeting David Brandon at the palace, since he was now sitting here in John's flat with an older man who somehow looked familiar, though John couldn't think why. Something to do with Afghanistan, perhaps?

Really, he couldn't think of anything, which was why he was utterly floored when the older man finally opened his mouth. "May I ask your mother's name, Dr Watson?"

John could feel the hinge of his jaw open, pulling the muscles in his cheeks taut as about a hundred thoughts flew through his head. His mother? Why his mother? … Wait. Something with his mother, and the fact that this man looked vaguely familiar, and … the beginnings of a thought began to tickle at the back of his brain as he answered, "Tess. Tess D'Urberville Watson. Apparently my grandmother had a love for the classics as well as a sense of humour."

He was surprised … but also, somehow, not … to see the older man nodding. "And your father?"

"I never knew my father," John said, irritation flaring. "Look, what is this about?"

"Does … does the name Jonathan Brandon mean anything to you, Dr Watson?"

The tickle in the back of his head changed to a firm click, but the rest of John's brain seemed to have turned to mud. Thick, glutinous mud, even as his head dipped into a nod. "That's my father's name. Why?"

"Amazing," David said, leaning forward in his chair, face earnest.

John had pulled his jaw back into line, now, setting it firmly into place as he responded, "What? Why?"

David's companion had an indescribable look on his face—a blend of hope and trepidation, disbelief and joy. He also looked as if he doubted his legs would hold him if he stood, so John wasn't surprised when he merely sat up straighter and said, "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jonathan Brandon, and I believe, Dr Watson, that I am your father."

#

Sherlock was almost amused by the look of shock on John's face at the man's pronouncement. The signs had all been there, after all. Not only all the genetic markers that practically screamed 'relation,' but the man's nervous-yet-eager body language, the fascinated disbelief as he watched John … it was obvious, surely? And then when his first question had been about John's mother? Well.

He and John had never spoken about childhoods at all (thankfully). Signs or not, he supposed John could be forgiven for not recognizing his own father if they'd never met … particularly if John had been led to believe the man was dead or had abandoned them. One can be excused for not recognizing a ghost risen before one, surely? Emotional shock and all that.

John was still blinking at the man as his brain tried to catch up with the startling news. "My father?"

The other man swallowed and then nodded. "Yes, I believe so."

"But that's not … how?"

The two of them were staring at each other, both having trouble finding words and assembling sentences. Sherlock glanced over at David, reading a satisfaction at being right, and then looked back at John and his father, fascinated. The resemblance could hardly be stronger as the two of them faced each other, identical expressions on their faces. John could almost be looking at a mirror image of himself in twenty years.

"What did your mother tell you, John?" Sherlock finally asked, "About your father?"

"Nothing, not even his name," John said. "She never answered any questions and I learned pretty young not to ask. I wondered, of course, and toyed with the idea of trying to find him ... you ... when I was a teenager, but … I figured if he wasn't interested in my, why should I return the favour? I never even knew the name until I joined the army and needed to show my birth certificate."

John's father was shaking his head, his face pained. "Dr Watson, she never told me about you. I swear…"

"It's okay," John said, and Sherlock was once again surprised at his friend's compassion. Even in this emotional moment, he was thinking about the other man's pain before his own. "If she wouldn't tell me, I have no trouble believing she didn't tell you either. Mum was … private that way."

"She's ... no longer with us?" Jonathan asked.

John shook his head. "She moved to Bermuda almost twenty years now—left shortly after I joined the army. She died in a hurricane a few years ago."

Jonathan was shaking his head now. "I … I don't know what to say. I hadn't expected…"

John just nodded. "Yeah. I …" He glanced over at Sherlock and then stood up. "I just … I'm going to make that tea now."

He retreated to the kitchen … and Sherlock could tell this was a retreat, a chance to regroup, not an abandonment of the field. John Watson was not so cowardly as to back from a fight. As he left, Sherlock watched the two Brandons exchanging looks, an outstretched hand for comfort. Interesting, he thought. They hadn't specified, but he suspected them to be uncle and nephew, but with a closer relationship than was the norm. Mycroft hadn't gone into detail when he introduced David at the palace, but, well, the man worked at Buckingham Palace, so there were connections there. Both men had well-tailored, bespoke suits, as well, and accents from the upper echelons. So, in the absence of a son, one might postulate that Jonathan Brandon had been in need of an heir, and his nephew had fulfilled that need. Was the fact that he was male an issue? There were some fortunes, some titles that could not be passed to women, but … well, without knowing if there were female relatives, there was not enough data to speculate.

John, though … if David had been raised as Jonathan's heir (for whatever reason), it spoke well of the man that he would bring attention to John when he found him. He gave credit to the man's observational skills, for recognizing John's similarities to his uncle. Since they had not known that John even existed, it was an impressive leap upon meeting a stranger to recognize the family connection. For him then to bring it to light … well, David was an honest man.

Sherlock observed the way Jonathan watched but tried not to watch John in the kitchen, soothing his frazzled nerves with the familiar act of making tea. The man could barely tear his eyes away, for which Sherlock could hardly blame him. Sherlock knew all too well what an unlooked for blessing John Watson could be.

There was a clatter of porcelain, then, as John came back, carrying a tray of tea things and resting it on the coffee table. Sherlock wasn't surprised at all when John's hand remained perfectly steady. Just before he poured, he looked over at the liquor tray and asked, "Anyone want a shot of whiskey in theirs? Because David was right about needing something stronger."

It was said with a smile—John's signature means of deflecting stress by using humour—but Sherlock detected an underlying strain. Apparently so did his father, because Jonathan accepted the offer and John fetched the bottle, pouring shots into two of the tea cups—a snub to years of British tea tradition, perhaps, but adequate treatment for shock.

After he'd settled with his cup, John looked straight at Jonathan. "So, Mum was far too nice with the secrets, obviously. I mean, clearly I knew I had a father somewhere—biological necessity, and all that—but she never told you that you had a son, either?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Not a word."

"I wish I could say that's not like her, but … Mum hoarded things, always did. I can picture her deciding to keep it quiet, the baby, in order to keep me to herself. If you had known and, I don't know, wanted to be involved…?"

"Oh, I would have," Jonathan said, voice earnest. "Please do believe me, Dr Watson, I would very much have wanted to…"

His voice broke then, and John just said kindly, "Call me John, since we're family, apparently." He gave Sherlock a questioning look.

Sherlock was looking between them and nodded. "I'm sure they'll want DNA tests, but there's no question. The resemblance is remarkable."

"That's what I thought, too," David said, "At the palace the other day. I couldn't think why you looked so familiar until I remembered this picture of my mother's, one of her and Uncle Jonathan when I was born. He would have been about your age then. I asked Mycroft if he could get me information about your parents and when he showed me your birth certificate with Uncle Jonathan's name…"

John was nodding, eyes wide. "Right. I think that naming me for him was the only thanks she'd ever give my father for, well, me. Because, Mum might have been a bit selfish, but she was a good mother. Fiercely independent, though, which shouldn't be a surprise. She was so young when she had me…"

"About twenty, yes?" asked Jonathan.

"Two months shy, yes. In some ways, it was fun having a mum so much younger than my friends. But I think that, once I was grown and in the army … she wanted some time for herself, a chance to reclaim some of that youth while she could."

"And so to Bermuda."

"Yeah."

There was silence for a few moments as they all sipped their tea in the classic British reaction to shocking news. Finally, Jonathan said, "So … if you only knew my name from your birth certificate … you don't know anything about me, do you? Or your family?"

John tipped his head. "I never really had a family. Just Mum. Her own parents had died when she was young, and since there was nothing coming from the other side … a boy can only wonder for so long before giving up. I made up lots of stories when I was a kid, of course. Dreaming that my dad was famous or rich. Make-believe that he was, oh, a lord who would come take me away to his castle…" He laughed, then. "Ironic that this all came out because of me being at Buckingham Palace and meeting, god, my cousin. I have a cousin."

Sherlock watched the other two looking uncomfortable with a sudden interest. They had been reasonably relaxed just a moment ago. What had John said?

Jonathan cleared his throat. "It's … interesting … that you say that, John. Your imagining your father was rich or … an earl, because…"

John's eyes had gotten even wider now as all traces of amusement drained from his face. "No."

David nodded. "I'm afraid so. Dr John Watson, may I introduce Lord Jonathan Brandon, Earl of Undershaw."

#

TBC

#

NOTE: I've had this unfinished story sitting on my hard-drive for about two years now. Real life (like losing the Chappy who gave me my screen-name four months ago) got in the way of giving it the attention it deserved, and it's never going to be explored any further than it is right now ... But, that said, it seemed a shame to not do something with it. So, I took the two existing chapters and added a third just to bring it to a conclusion. It won't be long-only three chapters-but it will be complete. I promise I won't leave you hanging. (Unfinished stories nagging at me is one thing; unfinished ones nagging at the rest of you-that's just cruel.)