REMEMBER, IT'S FOR CHARITY

John goes to a charity fund-raiser and has to put up with his uncle who is still disgruntled about, well, everything to do with John. Not surprisingly, things don't go as smoothly as one would hope-though the tabloids are going to be thrilled.

The next time John saw any of the Littlestons was at the first big fund-raiser for Ian's charity, "Gratitude from a Stone." It had been a two months since Ian died and the invitation had been in his pile of mail when he and Sherlock had returned from their holiday.

All things considered, he didn't think this was a fund-raiser he could legitimately miss, especially considering the only reason the charity existed at all was because of John (and Ian).

He was here alone tonight. Sherlock had been invited, but had just muttered "Dull" and tossed the card aside. Knowing how badly a bored Sherlock behaved, John hadn't pressed the point, much as he would have liked the company. He thought about asking Sarah. She was a doctor, after all, and most women enjoyed dressing up for these kinds of things, didn't they? But he thought she might have taken it the wrong way, and so hadn't asked. Still, it was a charity for wounded veterans, and he was not only a doctor and a soldier, but a wounded veteran himself. He was sure he'd find somebody to talk to.

He wandered into the room and looked for the bar. Any event like this would be better with a little social lubricant. He tried not to tug at his suit. Sherlock had practically dressed him for the evening. He had all but buttoned the shirt for him, he'd been so insistent that John dress properly for the occasion. John smiled at the memory. Despite being determined to avoid non-essential data, Sherlock was an expert in clothing and all the societal permutations of a person's wardrobe. When he had handed him the suit and laid out the shirt and tie for him, John knew he'd have no choice about what to wear. He wouldn't get out of the flat in anything else.

He had resisted wearing his uniform, though, or any of his medals. So far as John was concerned, tonight wasn't about him. He was here to support Ian, the charity, and above all his wounded brothers-in-arms. He hoped not to draw any more attention to himself than he had to.

Circling the room with his glass, he spotted Tobias Leonard, Chairman of LSE. He had met him at Ian's funeral and so headed over to say hello.

"Dr. Watson, hello! How are you? Having a good time?"

John smiled. "It seems quite a nice affair, though it's not really my thing. I felt I owed it to Ian to come out, though—and, well, it's thanks to him I can afford to come, anyway."

"He'd be delighted. You've nothing to worry about, though. You're not the only military man standing about looking uncomfortable. Come, let me introduce you around."

Great, thought John as he followed him. No doubt they all out-rank me as well as being able to out-spend me. Still, he was here to be polite, not to have fun. After years with Sherlock Holmes, he could keep his countenance in almost any situation.

To his surprise, though, the evening wasn't as dull as he'd feared. He might not be the wealthiest person in the room (though there were still some people under the impression he was), but there were some people willing to talk about medical services needed for soldiers and veterans, and this was a topic John knew well. He found he had a unique perspective as both a surgeon and a soldier—not to mention one who'd been invalided home after being shot. That, plus his unusually high profile in the press and the cachet of being Ian Littleston's son, meant that—here at least—his opinions were taken seriously by some very serious people.

All in all, the evening was going remarkably well.

Someone tapped on John's shoulder. He turned, interrupting a conversation with his old therapist of all people, and then felt even sorrier when he saw his Uncle James.

"Don't let me interrupt," his uncle said with a fake smile. "I just wanted to be sure you weren't feeling adrift, since I don't imagine this is your usual kind of event. I was concerned when I saw you arrive by yourself, but I suppose the spots are rather dear."

John just blinked, letting nothing show on his face, though he licked his lips as he responded, "That's kind of you. I did pay for two, but Sherlock decided not to come. It's all for the best, really, since that would rather be like bringing a child along. He'd be bored silly inside ten minutes."

"And we all know what happens then, don't we?" his uncle asked with a snide smile. "We wouldn't want any inappropriate … behavior … here, would we? I mean, it's just as well your … flatmate isn't here, don't you think?"

"I think he would be pleased to see everything going so well," said John calmly, looking past him. "Ah, Mycroft. It's good to see you. Do you know James Littleston? My new uncle, apparently. James, this is Mycroft Holmes."

Watching them shake hands, John felt a quiver in his stomach. Not nervousness, exactly, but an anticipation that something was about to happen. The worst part was that he had no desire to try to head it off, but rather an eagerness to sit back and watch. He wasn't surprised to bump into Mycroft there. This sort of event seemed like his proper place in the world—when he wasn't twisting diplomat's arms in boardrooms, or scanning CCTV footage. High-class charity events were the kind of thing he seemed born for, but still, John hadn't expected to see him. He said as much and Mycroft replied, "Naturally, I took an interest, John. Ian would be proud, don't you think?"

John nodded. "Yes, I think he would. It seems an excellent turn-out."

Mycroft said, "I meant, proud of you, John. He did all of this for you, after all."

"That's not what matters, though," John said with a typically English sidestep to the compliment. "We're here for the soldiers."

"Of course." Mycroft gestured to the men standing behind him. "General Robert Anderson and Dr. Anna Sulieman. May I introduce Dr. John Watson, former captain of the RAMC, and Ian Littleston's son. Also his uncle, James Littleston."

"Ah, the reason we're here tonight. It's a pleasure," said Dr. Sulieman. "We were just discussing ways to make triage in the field more efficient. I'd imagine you have opinions on that, Dr. Watson, with your field experience? I so seldom get to talk with doctors who actively worked in the field, most of my experience has been in hospitals here at home."

Before John could answer, his uncle said, "I forget that Dr. Watson was in the war. I've only known him a short while, you see. Only since my brother died and I learned he'd had a son he'd kept secret for all those years." He gave a tight laugh.

John was actually amused. It seemed hard to believe that this man had been Ian's brother. "It's true, we haven't had much time to get to know each other. I'm still getting used to having a whole new family."

General Anderson grimaced. "As if one family weren't bad enough," he said sympathetically, then nodded at James. "But there are worse families, of course."

"Of course. You can't pick your family you're born into, though thankfully you can build one of your own," John agreed, ignoring the sideways look from his uncle who seemed under the impression that John wanted to be part of his boring, close-minded family.

John glanced at Mycroft, who was studying James as if he were a new, particularly ugly insect that had just crawled from beneath a rock, but James was smiling at the General and completely missed it. Then Mycroft caught John's eye and seemed surprised to see him enjoying himself. John wasn't bothered at all by James' insinuations. He honestly didn't care what the Littleston family at large thought of him.

They fell into a conversation about the kinds of treatment soldiers needed, both in the field but also once they returned. The conversation was so engrossing, it was easy to ignore James' fidgets. He kept staring at John in disbelief, as if a dog he didn't particularly like had started discussing the plot twists in the latest film.

Seriously, John was starting to enjoy this, so when another person tapped his shoulder, he turned with a smile which grew even broader. "Colonel Brady! What are you doing here?" he asked, delighted.

"It's a fund-raiser, Captain, I thought you knew." The Colonel grinned as he nodded at the rest of the group. "I haven't seen you since we shipped you back home, Watson. How's the shoulder?"

John shrugged. "I know when a storm is coming, but otherwise, not bad. How long have you been back?"

"About a year. Getting used to sitting at a desk."

"It's not nearly as exciting as dodging bullets," John agreed, "But still, it's necessary."

The older man sighed in agreement and John remembered his manners and introduced the rest of the group. "So you all know Captain Watson, then? One of the bravest men I've had the pleasure to serve with. It was a sad day when we lost him."

"Well, you didn't lose me," John said. "Quite the contrary."

The Colonel snorted. "We saved your life, but lost you your profession, lad. I always regretted that." He looked at the others. "Watson, here, was one of our best surgeons, but he took a bullet in the shoulder which caused just enough nerve damage to kill his career. Bad enough, but worse when he was one of ours and should never have been hit in the first place."

"Really?" asked Dr. Sulieman. "What happened?"

"There was a firefight which he should not have been near." He gave John a mock-stern glare, which John just waved off with a smile. "But he was, because while he's an idiot, but he's a brave idiot, so he managed to save, what, three lives?, before getting himself shot. And even after that, he managed to save one more while bleeding out. Luckily, one of the medics got him bandaged up enough to make it back to base. Damn close thing, though."

They were all staring at John now, in varying degrees of respect. He wished they'd look away, though. He'd only been doing his duty, after all, and still felt guilty about not being able to save that corporal's leg because he couldn't get his left arm to work properly. The fact that he saved his life didn't seem to matter, he should have saved the leg, too, and that failure still rankled. He gave a little smile and waved his hand, searching for a way to change the subject. "Just doing my job, and that was a long time ago, Colonel, it's not why we're here tonight," he finally managed.

Mycroft said, "Indirectly, it is, John. We're here to raise money for wounded veterans, after all."

"I've got all I need, Mycroft, but thank you," John told him.

"That's true. He's got more than enough money." His uncle's face had twisted into a grimace as not only had John become the center of attention, but one that was being lauded.

The others looked at him in surprise. "What are you saying, Mr. Littleston? It's thanks to Doctor … Captain Watson, here, that this charity exists at all."

"I beg to differ, Dr. Sulieman, but it's thank to my brother, who was far too generous with his money. Not that I object to it going to such a good cause, of course."

"But you object to any of it going to his son?" The Colonel's voice was disbelieving.

James took another sip of his drink. "Well, if you want to talk about his son, let's not forget that he is still in prison, trying to get a decent lawyer because his father didn't provide him with his fair share."

John was stunned. Was this man seriously standing here defending his criminal nephew? In front of him and Mycroft? After he'd kidnapped both their siblings? They were all staring at him now and James looked around suddenly, as if realizing he'd said something he shouldn't. "I, that is, I just mean that the legal system costs money, and, I mean, poor Andy is stuck in jail …"

"For kidnapping my sister, Mycroft's brother, and threatening my life? Yes, he is." John said as calmly as possible, trying to ignore the appalled look on the others' faces.

James swallowed. "Mycroft's brother?"

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft said, leaning forward. "I think you'll find that your 'poor' nephew is exactly where he deserves to be, with his murderous tendencies. Although, naturally, that's up to a jury of his peers to decide. Unlike you, I have admirable faith in the legal system. Excuse me." He turned and walked away, and after a moment, the General and doctor followed, after polite good-byes to John and the Colonel.

Then it was just the three of them, and John was eyeing the Colonel warily. He knew the look in his eye. He was fuming and likely to explode. To be honest, John was tempted to let him, but that wouldn't be fair. They were here to raise money for Ian's charity, after all. Letting a brawl break out in the middle of the room would scare away the donors.

So, he just looked at his uncle calmly and then wished him a good night before turning away … but it was too late. "What kind of idiot are you?" The Colonel's voice was too loud and easily overrode all the polite chit-chat going on around the room. John spun back around as everyone turned to look at the source of the noise, but it was already too late to head him off. Brady had a good head of steam already and was anxious to let it out.

"Do you seriously want to stand here and imply that this charity and the men and women it's here to help is a waste of your brother's money?" The Colonel was clearly enjoying himself, his voice carrying to all corners of the now silent room. "First, of course, it's my understanding that it was his money, and therefore his to do what he liked with it, isn't that true?"

James was pale as he stammered out an agreement. "Yes, yes, of course, it was his money. I only meant, that is, he was going to leave it to thefamily …"

"Like your nephew? The one who took matters into his own hands and kidnapped two people to try to blackmail this man into giving up his own share of the inheritance?"

"That's not what happened! I mean, he hasn't even had a trial yet! For all I know, the evidence was completely made up. I certainly never heard of John Watson before my brother died. How do I know he didn't trick him? He showed up at his deathbed and changed everything!"

John couldn't help it. He stepped forward and casually put a hand on the Colonel's arm as he said, "I showed up because your precious nephew forced me to by kidnapping my sister and my best friend. I was there, James. I saw him. And I've already told you, I talked Ian OUT of giving me his money. I didn't want it. I still don't. That's why this charity, and Geoffrey's Gathers Moss even exist. It was Ian's choice to give his money to charities rather than to the rest of the family."

Now James was flushed red with rage. "No! I don't believe that! You tricked him! If you'd cared, you would have been there Ian was alive, like the rest of us. But where were you? Nowhere"

Colonel Brady shook of John's hand and stepped forward, staring down at the enraged man. "Where was he? In Afghanistan, saving lives andgetting shot to keep berks like you SAFE. Then he comes back and puts his skills to putting away criminals and turns down a multi-million pound inheritance and convinces his father to give it to charity instead, and you're accusing him of being GREEDY?"

James opened his mouth, ready to respond, ready to burst with words, but instead, he suddenly stopped, a look of shock on his face, and dropped to the ground. Oh god, thought John, as he jumped forward, trying to catch his head before it hit the floor.

The Colonel was right next to him, checking for a pulse as John peered into his eyes. "Heart attack?"

"Yes, I think so. You," he said, pointing to a bystander, "Call 999. Shit. He's not breathing." He started chest compressions and asked the room at large, "Does this place have a defibrillator?"

"They're checking, John," he heard Mycroft say. "And the ambulance is on its way."

John just nodded, counting, as he continued to work on his uncle. After a few minutes, he swapped with the Colonel and looked around, catching his breath, just as someone arrived with a defibrillator. "Great," he said, turning it on. "Okay, Colonel. Clear."

The bystanders held their breath as James' body jumped at the shock, but his heart still wasn't beating. Another shock. Then another … and, with relief, John felt a pulse, just as the paramedics arrived. He helped them get James on the gurney, running off the things they needed to know before watching them wheel him away. They'd gotten the heart beating again, that was a good sign, but he wondered if he should have gone with them.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Good work, Captain," the Colonel said, then he turned and announced. "That was Captain Doctor John Watson, everyone. An example of our fine military medical corps, and the reason we're all here tonight. I don't think he planned on putting on a show, but I think he did a fine job, don't you?"

John favored his friend with a glare as the onlookers burst into applause. "It was nothing, really," he protested. "I'm a doctor, this is what we do" But for the next while, he was surrounded by well-wishers, congratulating him, gushing that they'd never seen someone save a life before. He tried to be as polite as he could, but the attention made him uncomfortable. They were here to raise money for the charity, to talk about wounded veterans, not … him.

At one point, he managed to get a moment alone to call his aunt and pass on the news about James' heart attack. When he finished, Tobias was standing nearby, with another man he introduced as Bill Gregory, the head of the charity. "I am so sorry," John told him. "I didn't mean to make a scene…"

"Are you kidding?" Gregory asked as a smile spread across his face. "That was amazing. Watching you and that other fellow jump in to save that man's life—in the middle of an argument, nonetheless? Short of actual gunfire, it's as close as any of these people will ever come to seeing the military's medical teams at work. It was amazing, impressive—and just the shot in the arm we needed. Do you know how many donations we've gotten in the last half hour? We'll be the talk of the fundraising scene for weeks—people will expect something this exciting every time!"

John laughed a little. "Let's not get carried away. I don't carry a full kit in my pockets. I'm just glad you're not upset at the chaos."

"Quite the contrary, Dr. Watson. You should do this every year."

John laughed uneasily, not entirely sure the man was joking.

#

Sherlock was in his room when he got home later, and John was just as glad. It had been a full night and he really wanted nothing more than to go to bed without having the entire evening deduced by his flatmate.

The next morning, he stumbled down the stairs, yawning and thinking yearningly of tea, and found Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room, hands on his hips. "I let you out of my sight, and this is what happens?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

Sherlock held out the newspaper. "Oh, Christ," said John. "There are pictures?"

Under a banner headline "Millionaire Hero Saves Life at Charity Gala" was a picture of John kneeling over his uncle, performing CPR. He started to skim the article, but decided it was too early to stomach the purple prose singing his praises. Not before breakfast, at least.

"I should probably call the hospital and see how he's doing," he said as he headed toward the kitchen, then stopped in surprise.

"If I'd known you were going to provide entertainment, John," Sherlock said, handing him a cup of tea and turning to the toaster, "I would have come after all. These things are usually so boring. A little life-and-death suspense is just what they need."

John just stood there, shocked. Sherlock had made him tea? And he wasn't even sick?

"Sit down, John. Your breakfast is getting cold."

NOTE: I'm not perfectly happy with this chapter, but decided to share it anyway. Please don't forget that I know nothing about medicine other than what I see on television-not exactly the best place to draw medical knowledge-so be forgiving.