Sherlock tried not to pace around the room.
Patience was never his strong suit, and knowing John and Ian Littleston were upstairs, possibly planning John's entire future—without him—made it impossible to sit still.
No, he couldn't sit, but he managed to restrain his worst impulses and instead stood by the window, looking out on the street. Wondering what was being said.
Wondering if Littleston would tell John that he had consulted Sherlock when Geoffrey died.
He was offered tea while he waited, but shook his head. He hoped he was not going to be abandoned here, alone, for that long. He resisted the temptation to bombard John with texts asking how it was going. Or, he tried. A little.
The door opened and the butler ushered him up the stairs and into Littleston's room.
John was sitting quietly, stubbornly, in a chair while Littleston was looking equally stubborn in his bed. "Mr. Holmes," he said, "I thought you might like to actually join both sides of the conversation. I hope you weren't bored?"
Sherlock met his eyes with a smile. "Just trying to amuse myself. How did I do, John?"
"Spot on as usual, Sherlock," John told him drily. "I'll have to examine my jacket for bugs later."
Sherlock waved a hand. "Oh, any of those would be from Mycroft." He turned to the man in the bed. "Mr. Littleston, it is a pleasure to see you again, though the circumstances are far from ideal."
"No, Mr. Holmes, they are not." A second chair had appeared and Sherlock was invited to sit. "I must apologize for my son. His actions yesterday were unpardonable."
Sherlock met his gaze and nodded. "For Harry Watson's sake, certainly. As luck would have it, though, your son is a particularly inept kidnapper."
"Andrew is particularly inept at just about everything, which I was just saying to John."
Sherlock glanced at his friend, noting the sullen slant of his shoulders. "And you think he would be bad for business."
Ian snorted. "I think having Andy within a hundred miles of my business would be bad for my business. I decided that long ago. When Geoffrey died. I removed my personal assets from LSE and am making it public under its current management, in whom I have a great deal of trust. I told Andy months ago, to be sure he was under no illusions."
John still wasn't speaking. Sherlock said, "But he still had hopes for your personal fortune."
"Yes, but he's not getting it. I spoke with my lawyer this morning."
John's head came up, disbelief on his face.
"Due to Andy's actions this week, I am taking him out of the will—or to all intents and purposes, I am. He has a very generous trust fund that I set up for him years ago. It keeps all the principle out of his hands and pays his expenses—to a point. Had these … circumstances … not arisen, on my death he would have received a large sum of money, yes, but without it, he can still live a comfortable life. Assuming he stays out of prison."
He looked at John. "What I want to do with the rest is give it to you."
John shook his head and said, "And I've told you, I don't want it. I do not want to be a wealthy man, Ian. I never have."
Ian sighed. "I know. You wanted to be a good man, and you are. Which is why you deserve this."
Sherlock saw the signs. John's temper was rising, rapidly. "There must be some compromise you could make," he offered.
John rounded on him. "This, coming from you? I didn't think the word was in your vocabulary."
But Ian was interested. "What kind of compromise?"
"I'm sure you could think of something. Say, a charity for wounded veterans? Or one that Geoffrey cared about?" Sherlock lifted an elegant eyebrow. "With Andy on trial for kidnapping, people won't be surprised if you cut him from your will—they of course won't know you'd done it already. They'll think it's a natural effect of his actions. People know that your other son is dead, so leaving your money to charity won't seem that unlikely."
John's face had relaxed now, looking hopeful, but Ian's expression was stormy. "And how does John benefit from this?"
"Other than not burdening him with financial responsibilities he does not want?" Sherlock asked pointedly. "I would think he would accept some kind of annuity so he doesn't have to worry about the rent, wouldn't you, John?"
John was staring at him. "You seem to have thought this through, Sherlock. It sounds like your mind is all made up about the way I should live mylife."
Uh-oh. "I'm just trying to help, John."
"Yes, you're so very bloody helpful lately."
There was a bitter edge to John's words that Sherlock didn't know how to respond to. Sentiment was always so messy. He could understand why John was upset, but wasn't he offering a reasonable way out of this mess? One that would keep John happy? Not to mention help all those compatriots of his from the military?
Ian was watching the two of them from his bed, looking suddenly weary. "A charity could be an excellent solution," he said mildly.
John turned back to him, spine stiff. "The press will tear your character to shreds."
"But I'll be dead, so they can say what they like about me."
John took a small step toward the bed. "I'd rather they say what you deserve, and in my experience, they frequently fail to do."
Sherlock tried not to flinch. It had been John who had suffered the most at the hands of the press during the Reichenbach years. It had been he who had worried about Sherlock's reputation, and John who had been castigated for believing in him when the whole world believed Sherlock had been a fraud.
If Ian when through with his plan now, and forced this inheritance on John, the whole thing would happen again. The press would point fingers to attack Ian's decision and blame John for it.
Ian coughed, a hint of similar thoughts on his own face. "According to my doctors, we have at least a little time to figure this out, John. We don't have to decide this right now." He looked at Sherlock. "What matters right now is what happens to Andy. Your brother can't suppress that story forever."
"I doubt that he wants to," Sherlock said with a smile. A flick of the eyes at John. "Having Andy's … indiscretion … plastered on the front pages would only make it easier for you to cut him off."
Ian shrugged. "I'm not going to be leaving this bed, so it's not like I'll be facing gossips."
John was watching Ian with that doctor look of his, all traces of personal distress gone as his profession took hold. "As you say, this doesn't have to be decided right now. You're tired. We should go."
A small smile. "You're looking tired yourself, John. That minor cold of yours has quite a cough."
"It's still on the mend."
The two men shared matching, small, crooked smiles and then Sherlock and John excused themselves. They were just at the door when Ian called Sherlock back.
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