"David, no. I can't." John stammered. "You said it yourself, it's a special celebration for Grandfather. It'll just be terrible if I'm there."

"Nonsense. He would be thrilled to see you."

John laughed. "I doubt it, and my Father would make a scene—he was very firm about what he would do if I ever showed my face again. That wouldn't make it enjoyable for anyone."

"I'm not saying you should crash the party, John. I'm inviting you. In fact, I insist. You too, Sherlock, if you think you could manage some moral support for my cousin here."

Ignoring John's protests, David pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed. "Hello, Grandfather? It's David. I've got news for you—big news. I found John."

John winced when he heard the peal of an upraised voice over the line, but David just smiled at him reassuringly. "Yes, it was a surprise for me, too. What? No, he's fine. I actually met him at the palace yesterday, though it was a shock for both of us. Do you know what he's been doing the last twenty years? A surgeon in the army, can you believe? Yes, I know.…"

John looked despairingly at Sherlock. How the hell had this happened? Twenty-four hours ago, everything had made sense, and now he could feel his entire life tilting on its axis, hurtling out of control.

Sherlock wasn't any help, though. He was just sitting there on the couch with that goddamn smirk on his face, obviously enjoying every uncomfortable squirm. This was all Mycroft's fault, John thought, for dragging him to Buckingham Palace in the first place.

"John?"

He dragged his attention back from his shoes to David, who was holding out his phone. "He wants to talk to you."

John paused, swallowing hard, then reminded himself that he was a soldier and that he lived with Sherlock Holmes. Next to that, how frightening could his grandfather be? What was he supposed to say? He reached out to take it, and feeling like an idiot, said, "Hello? This is John."

"John Brandon, is that you, son?" His grandfather's voice came strongly over the phone, just like he remembered it. "Good Lord, John, what were you thinking, scaring us to death like that?"

"I, er, go by John Watson these days, Grandfather, and I'm sorry if I worried you. It was never my intention."

"David tells me you ran off to join the army?"

John gave a small cough. "Something like that. I actually ran off to become a doctor, and decided the army was the best place to put my skills to use. I wanted to make a difference, Grandfather."

"And why couldn't you do that without worrying your family to death, boy? We couldn't even get a word out of your father, and you know how unlike him that is. You broke his heart."

"It was more the other way around, actually," John said, trying to ignore the lump that had formed in his throat. Despite all the practice, this wasn't getting any easier to tell. "My leaving was his idea, not mine."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Far from it. I told him I wanted to be an army doctor and he said no. He said it would embarrass the family and he wouldn't allow it, and he certainly wouldn't help me, so I did what any stupid, headstrong 18-year old would do. I told him that serving Queen and country was nothing to be ashamed of and that I didn't need his help, and I left. I'm not saying I couldn't maybe have handled things better, but it wasn't my idea. I did try calling a few months later, he refused to take the call."

There was silence from the other end of the line, and then his Grandfather said, in a voice that suddenly sounded much older, "I see. He never said."

John immediately, automatically shifted into his comforting doctor mode. "No, well, he wouldn't have. My father has never liked admitting to anything that makes him look bad—even a fight with his teenage son. It's all right, though, really. It did me good, being on my own."

"You never thought to contact me, to tell me any of this?"

"I'm sorry, Grandfather. He told me not to. He was quite … emphatic."

He made the mistake of glancing up and seeing the dawning horror on Sherlock and David's faces, but he just shook his head at them. Next to basic training, it had been nothing.

"I see I'm going to need to have words with your father, John," his Grandfather said, but before John could protest, he continued. "So, you're in the army, then, as a surgeon, David said? No matter what your father might think, you do your family proud."

John coughed a bit. "Well, I'm not anymore. I was, er, sent home last year."

He really didn't want to have to tell his Grandfather that he'd been shot, but the man hadn't lived 90 years without being able to read a tone of voice, and at his insistence, John explained. "It's not that important … Okay, okay. I'm fine now, but, well … I was shot and sent home. But I'mfine."

"John … you were shot? Oh, my boy…"

John glared at David for getting him involved in this conversation in the first place. "I promise, I'm fine. I've been home for a year now, and am here in London. … No, I'm not working as a surgeon. There's a trem… never mind. I work part-time as a GP, but I spend more time helping my friend Sherlock Holmes solve crimes … No, really. He does most of the heavy deductive lifting, mind you, but I help and I blog about our cases so that … what? Really?"

Raising his eyebrows at David, he spelled out his blog address. His 90-year old grandfather used the internet?

It took a while before John could get him off the phone, but his grandfather ended by insisting he come to the Christmas party. "And wear your dress uniform, with as many medals as you've got. We're going to teach that idiot son of mine a lesson and visual aids are always useful. And John? I can't tell you how good it is to talk to you again."

"You, too, Grandfather," John forced out past the lump in his throat.

He pulled his own phone out and pulled up the Contacts. "I'm under instructions to stay in touch, so I'll need this number, David. And thanks a bunch for that. Are you trying to give him a heart attack? Or me, for that matter?"

David just laughed. "Oh, please. He'll outlive us all. Call yourself, too, while you've got my phone, so that we have each other's numbers. We'renot going twenty years between conversations again."

"Obviously not—I'll be seeing you next week at Grandfather's Christmas party."

"Indeed," David said smoothly as he rose to his feet. "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it. I'll text you the details."

He turned to take his leave from Sherlock and within a few minutes, the two of them were alone in the flat again.

"So, what just happened?" John asked blankly.

#

Trying not to tug at his collar, John rang the doorbell. "John Watson … er … Brandon, and Sherlock Holmes," he told the maid who hurried to step back, watching with wide eyes as he removed his coat.

"His Lordship is expecting you in the upstairs parlor," she told him, arms full of wool, and John nodded, giving a nostalgic look around the entrance.

"Except for the wallpaper, it doesn't seem to have changed much," he told Sherlock as he started up the stairs, waving off the servant who stepped forward. His feet felt heavy on the stairs as if he were a child again and on the way for a scolding—not that his Grandfather had ever been anything but kind to him, but he had had standards, and even a well-meaning boy like John managed to get into trouble from time to time.

He took a deep breath, and Sherlock said, "But you have. You invaded Afghanistan, remember? This is just a loving Grandfather eager to see you."

John glanced at his friend. "True. Just wait until my Father arrives later, though, if you want to see fireworks."

"But I've seen you with explosives, John. You faced down Moriarty. I can't imagine your father is worse."

"Christ, I hope not," John breathed, but he felt a little clearer, a little stronger and gave his friend a smile before tapping at the door. "Grandfather?"

"John, is that you?" came the voice from inside. "Get in here, boy, and let me see you."

Straightening his shoulders, John pushed open the door.

His first thought was how frail his grandfather looked. The last time he had seen the Earl, he had been seventy, active and strong. Now, though, he appeared to have shrunk and looked small in his chair by the fire.

John took a closer look, though, as he walked across the carpet, noting the man's straight back and the firm gaze. He might be twenty years older, but his spirit was just as strong as ever, which was what really mattered. Even more important was the affection lighting the man's face as he watched him. "Look at you! You've grown, son."

With a smile, John leaned over to embrace the man. "Not as much as I could have wished, Grandfather, but thank you. You look wonderful. May I introduce my good friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock, this is my grandfather, David Brandon, Earl of Undershaw."

Sherlock stepped forward. "It is a pleasure to meet anyone of whom John speaks so highly."

"Does he? Well, that's flattering of him, considering he hasn't dared enter my presence in two decades. It doesn't say much for his courage, does it?"

The Earl waved them both to the waiting chairs and Sherlock gave a very real smile. "Oh, I don't know. John is one of the bravest men I know, and he's saved my life on more than one occasion."

"Has he now?" John's grandfather turned back to him. "Is this true, lad?"

John couldn't help but smile at the diminutive, even despite the nervous knots. "Well, he's returned the favor a few times himself, but yes—though I don't know if I'm really that brave."

"Oh, you are," Sherlock said quickly. "Even Mycroft thinks so. You made quite the first impression with him."

The old man was watching them, eyes alight with amusement. "This is Mycroft Holmes you're speaking of? I've met him. His good opinion is one worth having. Your brother, is he?"

John almost cringed, waiting for Sherlock's usual disparaging comment, but all his friend said was, "Yes, and I quite agree with his opinion of John—he does best when he's on a battlefield, whether it's literal, medical, or figurative, and his loyalty is paramount. I couldn't ask for a better friend."

"And you're a detective? I saw your website—and yours, John. It seems almost unbelievable, but I know how bright the Holmes family is. So … show me. What can you tell me?"

John smiled at the fleeting shadow that passed over Sherlock's face. His friend had promised to be on his best behavior and was probably worried at the older man's reaction. "Go ahead," he said. "Show him."

Thus encouraged, Sherlock took one last glance at the old man across from him and said, "You're wealthy, obviously, which one can tell from the house, but it's not all inherited wealth. The house might be, but it's well-cared for and up-to-date, which keeps you busy. You've got a ridge on your left middle finger from the pressure of a pen—you're left-handed, like John—which means you spend a large amount of time working. You're accustomed to computers, but you prefer the old-fashioned touch. You are head of the family and proud of it, but not dictatorial—the family portrait over the mantel. Your sons' body language clearly shows they felt free to express their opinions—though your older son's expression is much more open than his brother, who looks more arrogant, full of his own authority even while respecting your own.

"You are in good health for a man your age—Happy Birthday, by the way—and your mind is as alert and sharp as it ever has been, though your memory isn't quite what it used to be, which is why you keep a pad of paper handy, for reminders. You are also quite delighted to have John here, which shows excellent judgment, in my opinion. You've barely taken your eyes from him since we entered. That can be explained out of pure curiosity after a two-decade absence, but the slight moisture in your eyes, and the way you're turned toward him denotes extreme affection. You also have a gleam in your eye which bodes very ill indeed for your son when he arrives later—which I am also looking forward to."

John watched the look of awe on his grandfather's face and couldn't help but smile when the old man said, "That was amazing."

John looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "It always is."

#

Later, John paced, waiting. His grandfather had been very clear about not coming in until the family was gathered. "You'll want to make an entrance, my boy—or at least, I want you to, and it's my party so you really have no choice."

And so, Sherlock watched John fidget as the family gathered below. The chatter of a family happy to gather and catch up (nothing like his, therefore) rose up the stairs, lifted on the music provided by a string quartet in the hallway. "I hate this," he told Sherlock.

"Waiting?"

"Mm. That last moment before diving into action is always the longest and most stress-filled—especially when you're expecting to be attacked."

Sherlock looked at him, noting the high points of red in his otherwise paler-than-normal cheeks "I thought soldiers lived for this kind of thing."

"Oh no," John shook his head. "You dread it, every time. The planning and prep is easy enough, the actual fighting is automatic once you're there, but the last moments before combat? Never, ever easy."

"Especially for a doctor," Sherlock said, thinking about John's fascinating dichotomy of being both a healer and soldier. "Does it help, knowing that if your appearance causes any heart attacks, that you are uniquely equipped to help?"

John laughed—a tense, short bark of a laugh, but Sherlock considered it a success anyway. "Not really, no."

He was just opening his mouth to say something when the door opened and David walked in. "Grandfather said I should come up and settle your nerves, though knowing you of old, John, I can't imagine that's a problem. Good evening, Sherlock."

John smiled and shook his cousin's hand with an air of relief. "It's good to see you, David. And, me? Nervous? Why on earth would I be nervous, I'm just reintroducing myself to my family for the first time in twenty years. Nothing to worry about."

"Not next to invading Afghanistan," Sherlock said, relishing the flash of humor that crossed John's face.

David couldn't appreciate the joke's provenance, but he smiled. "Much less gunfire, at least." He turned to Sherlock. "I should warn you, though, that Grandfather insisted on inviting Mycroft. He said something about you being more John's family recently than we have been, and that it wouldn't be right not to invite him. I've seen how well you two get along, though, so I thought I'd mention…"

Sherlock grimaced, but with a glance at John's slightly desperate look, he reminded himself that John was tense enough already tonight and gave a nod. "It was good of you to invite him, I suppose."

David nodded and turned back to John. "Your father arrived a few minutes ago, so we should be ready to start any minute. Are you ready, John?"

Sherlock thought John's smile was a bit forced, but all his friend said was, "Ready when you are," and with another quick, encouraging look, David was gone.

As if the door clicking shut was a signal, John started to pace, looking both at home in his uniform and uncomfortable. It was fascinating, Sherlock thought. "You're really nervous?"

John darted him a glance. "Of course I am."

"But … after everything you've gone through, why is this so upsetting for you?"

John spun on his heel and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, and you'd be feeling entirely comfortable if it were your family out there?"

Sherlock almost stepped back at the heat in his glare. "Point taken. The difference is that, unlike me, you've never actually done anything to make your family ashamed—no matter what your father might have said to you. Your grandfather seemed quite eager to show you off, as well. Believe me—if it were the Holmes family out there, they would be the ones cringing in anticipation of my arrival, not the contrary."

John's hand was curling and uncurling into a fist. "That may be so, but I'm guessing your family never actually disowned you."

"No, but there were times when they would have been grateful had I dropped the name and forged out on my own."

John exhaled a hard breath through the nose and leveled a look at him "Then they're fools."

Sherlock blinked at the unexpected compliment. "I could say the same of your father. I'll just remind you that you are no longer 18, and that you have a wealth of experience facing down everyone from the Taliban to Moriarty to Mycroft, and you remain the bravest man I know. Nobody else could put up with me, after all. No matter what your father may have said or done then, you have nothing to be worried about now. I have no doubt that you outmatch him 100%. And you've got me for moral support, for whatever that's worth."

"It's worth a lot, actually," said John, with the faintest relaxation to the set of his jaw. "If things look like they're going really badly, feel free to snipe at Mycroft all you like to divert attention … but only if it gets extreme. I'm hoping not to embarrass myself—or Grandfather."

"Oh, please, John … that's what friends are for."

"Embarrassing me? Like, say, by wearing nothing but a sheet to Buckingham Palace? Oh, God … this is going to be a nightmare." Thoroughly amused, Sherlock just grinned at him. John was usually the calm, collected one. Seeing him coming apart over something as dull as a family party was entirely unexpected.

There was a tap at the door and one of the maids opened it enough to say, "He's just starting his speech now, sir."

"Oh, God," John said.

#

John could hear his grandfather's voice coming up the stairs.

"I'd like to thank all of you for coming to our annual Christmas celebration—one which my grandson David has insisted on trying to turn into a 90th birthday party for me, even though I expressly told him not to."

A rustle of laughter.

"Nevertheless, I've always appreciated efficiency, and can only applaud his efforts to celebrate twice on the same budget. In that vein, though, I'd like to expand this even further. Tonight we're not only celebrating two birthdays, but a resurrection. Some of you are too young to remember, but my son Jonathan used to have a son. It's been a family mystery for twenty years now—how young John apparently took the grief at his mother's death so hard, he went off on his own, and never came back, despite our efforts to find him. Well, tonight, I can finally tell you—we found him."

There was a wave of gasps and John could almost hear the crackle of attention suddenly being brought to bear on his grandfather.

"It turns out that after my young grandson John left home, he not only earned a medical degree, but he joined the army. He has spent almost all the time since working as an army surgeon, climbing the ranks to become a Captain before he left the service earlier this year."

John drew a relieved breath as he realized his shoulder wasn't going to be mentioned.

"Since then, he's been working with the Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and writing about their cases in his surprisingly popular blog. Some of you might have even read it, though you wouldn't have recognized the name. All of this, he has done on his own. He was so determined to make his own way, he dropped the Brandon from his name entirely and has lived his rather remarkable life under his mother's maiden name.

"I am exceedingly proud of him, and only regret that we've lost twenty years together—but, thankfully, no more than that. Please let me reintroduce all of you to my grandson, former RAMC Captain, Doctor John Hamish Watson Brandon."

The expectant silence was almost palpable as John exchanged one quick look with Sherlock before turning and heading for the stairs.

As he started to descend and the crowd below saw him (when did his family get so large?), they burst into applause. John bit his lip uncertainly and stopped next to his grandfather, several steps from the bottom as he looked out at the gathered, smiling faces.

Smiling, except for one.

In the back of the crowd was his father, glaring murderously at him in a way that would have made Jim Moriarty proud.

#