The man's face broke into a smile as he gestured Sherlock toward the chair across from him. "Mr Holmes. It's so good of you to accept my invitation. I've been wanting to meet you for some time."

"Thank you," said Sherlock sitting down and accepting the cup of tea poured for him. "I've wanted to meet you as well. Your son and grandson seem very fond of you."

"And I am very fond of them," Brandon said, leaning back in his chair as he sipped at his own cup. He was studying Sherlock, trying to measure him against some mental rule that only he knew. Sherlock wasn't fussed. He had had countless people take his measure over the years, and the only one who had ever gotten it right was his tailor. Even Mycroft got it wrong.

Though, he supposed, maybe John was close.

But, still, he was content to sit here while John's father studied him. It was only fair, after all, since Sherlock was making his own analysis.

Wealthy, obviously, which wasn't as much of a surprise as it would have been had he not known about the private driver. It still didn't match what he knew of John, though. Had he grown up surrounded by this kind of wealth? Or had that come later? No, he decided. John's father did not have the air of a man who had made himself rich. Nor did this club accept any members whose lineage went back less than three well-appointed generations.

"What do you see?" The other man asked after a time.

"Contradictions. Physically, there can be no question that you are John's father, but the rest of this doesn't fit," said Sherlock, resisting the urge to whine at the petulance in his voice. He waved his hand at the room. "Old money, obviously. Your speech patterns support that, as does the manner of dress. Your cufflinks are old, but your suit is relatively new, so there's money to keep the wardrobe current."

Finding comfort in the familiar act of deduction, he let the words flow, "In fact, wealth is nothing new to you, but your surroundings suggest old money. You would not be eligible otherwise and those old cufflinks have a crest on them, so the family has a history."

He paused, checking his host's reaction, but the man looked more amused than offended and just nodded, "Go on."

"The confusion arises from being unsure where John fits," Sherlock said. "The man wears jeans and wool sweaters, and was counting his pennies when we first met. He told me later that he had been paying support for Ian, but having come from this kind of upbringing, he would have a trust fund. Unlike my parents, you don't seem the type to hold it over John's head to ensure his good behaviour, so he should certainly have been able to afford a flat of his own. I suppose you could be estranged over the army or his divorce, but his own body language denies that. When Stephens picked us up from the hospital last month, John took it in stride—there was no tension or discomfort at seeing his father's driver."

"I'm impressed, Mr Holmes. That's quite extraordinary," John's father finally said. "All correct, too. We are an old family—older than the Holmes, even, I believe. Jonathan Brandon, at your service."

"Please, call me Sherlock," he said, trying not to stammer as he tried to cross-reference why that name sounded familiar.

The man just nodded. "Thank you. It's interesting about names, don't you think? How they define us? It's one of the reasons John dropped the his surname. You could think John was ashamed of us—or the other way around—but it's not true. He just always wanted to make his own way in the world, without relying on our name or money to prove himself."

"So, Watson…" Sherlock said.

John's father nodded. "He dropped the Brandon when he went to school and left it off when he joined the army. Along the way, of course, he assumed a certain level of camouflage, you could call it—his clothes, his accent. Though his mother insisted on a local school for him, so he grew up surrounded by a variety of accents. He was always a gifted mimic, my John. He can adapt his accent to just about any situation—I'm sure that came in handy in the army."

"That is one thing I've noticed about John. He is fiercely independent," Sherlock said. "Also protective, loyal, and brave."

"All of those things, yes." The other man nodded. "Sometimes foolishly so. I had hoped he would have burned off some of that recklessness in the army."

"And then he was shot, almost died, and instead of coming home to take up a quiet medical practice, ended up as my flatmate," Sherlock said. "Not exactly a restful retirement."

"No. No, it's not. And that was before Ian's mother was killed."

Sherlock watched as the other man took another sip of tea and waited. Was the man about to threaten him to keep away from John? If so, he must not know his son very well. Sherlock had known him for less than two months and knew that John was stubborn enough to make up his own mind.

He sat patiently, sipping at his quite good tea as he considered. It was true that John was stubborn, but he was protective. Given a choice between helping Sherlock solve cases (which gave John purpose and the adrenalin rush he needed) and keeping his son safe … Sherlock admitted the possibility John would leave.

The silence lengthened and Sherlock waited, even as his brain surged and raced, trying to find a way to make this work.

And all the while, John's father watched him. Accustomed though Sherlock was to scrutiny, this was different. The older man watched and measured with a sharp, knowing gaze, but unlike similar scrutinies from Mycroft or his father, this one was leavened by compassion.

Finally, Sherlock was the first to speak. "You are worried our lifestyle is too dangerous—for John, but more importantly for Ian."

John's father nodded.

"You know what happened last night, obviously," Sherlock said, and received another nod as confirmation. "If you're here to warn me off, you should know that it's John's decision, though it was never my intent to put him or Ian in danger."

"That's it? No remorse? No apologies?"

Sherlock kept his eyes level. "I've already expressed my regrets to both John and Ian. I don't see that I owe anyone else."

He braced himself for the anger that was no doubt coming, feeling a certain amount of resentment on his flatmate's behalf. John was a grown man, after all. He didn't need his father coming to fight his battles for him. Sherlock hadn't realized that John's father was as bad as Mycroft. How dare the man drag Sherlock here to scold him for something that had not even been his fault?

He was therefore surprised when John's father broke into a remarkably familiar grin. "I don't think I've ever met a member of the Holmes family with a sense of humour. Do you suppose that's genetic?"

"I … what?" Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd been taken aback quite so many times in a single conversation.

"I didn't bring you here to threaten you, Sherlock," he said, "I wanted to thank you. You saved both John and Ian last night, and I'm grateful."

Sherlock needed a moment to come up with an intelligible response to that. "To be fair, John saved both of us as well. It was his kick that diverted the arrow."

"Part of what makes you a good team, then," the older man said, and then gave a small laugh. "You really did expect an ultimatum, didn't you? Though, considering your family … it's something your father would have done, so I suppose you come by your suspicions honestly. But no, you risked your life to save theirs, and I'm grateful. Although," he added, " While John is capable of taking care of himself, I'd prefer if Ian were kept away from murderers until at least his sixteenth birthday?"

Sherlock just blinked. So much new information to absorb. He meant to comment on Ian's safety, but instead, blurted out, "You knew my father?"

"Oh, yes. I don't know if you could have called us friends, exactly, but we did know each other. In fact, he did me a favour about twenty years ago."

There was a gleam in his eye as he said it and Sherlock saw it for the challenge it was. A favour that his father could have done for this man, two decades ago … "John's records," he said, realizing.

Again, that familiar smile spread across the face opposite. "Yes. He set up the paperwork for Dr John Watson to keep his professional records separate from those of John Brandon. As I understand it, it wasn't so much that he set up a second identity or anything nefarious, just that anyone looking into the background of John Watson would find everything they expected to find duplicated under that name—birth certificate, school records, all of it. He obviously did a good job of it, since I understand your brother not only didn't find anything suspicious when he did his own background check, but didn't spot the connection to the Brandons, either. That might have changed after Ian moved in, of course, since his name is Brandon. I've learned never to underestimate a Holmes where information is concerned."

Sherlock was unaccustomed to feeling this flummoxed in any conversation. The idea that his father had helped John and his father hide his wealthy connections was … interesting. What had Brandon done in return? He wondered if John knew.

"So … you know what John's been doing?"

"I even read his blog," said the other man, still with that charming smile. "I can read between the lines, too—like when a murderous cabbie conveniently drops dead. My son is a soldier and a doctor, after all, and while I may not be as observant as you, Sherlock, I know my son. I know what kind of shape he was in when he returned from Afghanistan, and how moving in with you did him nothing but good. You could have balked at letting my grandson move in with you, but you didn't. So far as I can tell, you and John seem like you're on your way to being good friends. It would be foolish to interfere with that, and I am not a fool."

Sherlock was struck with an unusual urge to say thank you. Was this what normal parents were like? Supportive of their children's decisions, even if they disagreed with them?

Instead, though, he just nodded. "That puts you ahead of my brother, who can never resist interfering about anything and everything."

"He's in the right line of work, then," John's father said. "After all, somebody has to do it. He'll learn eventually that there are times to interfere and times to let things go. He's young, still."

Sherlock tried to hide his smirk at Mycroft being described as 'young.' His brother had never been young, he was certain. There had been the period of time when he was physically undeveloped and officially classifiable as a child, but mentally? He had been at least forty his entire life, Sherlock was sure of it.

The visit didn't last much longer after that. As Sherlock was driven back to the flat, he wondered if Mycroft's chats with John ever went this smoothly. He didn't believe his brother ever served tea, for one thing, and as carefully as he had watched, he hadn't detected any real threat, no overt or covert warnings not to allow John or Ian to be endangered again.

No, the whole thing had come across as a polite visit.

Extraordinary.

#

John was napping on the couch when his phone rang. This really wasn't helping his headache, he thought with a groan as he looked at the screen. He gave another groan when he saw the name of the caller. "Good morning, Father."

"Did I wake you, John?"

"A bit. I'm trying to get rid of a headache."

"Concussions will do that to you."

Oh. "You heard about that?"

"I might not be as omniscient as your flatmate's brother, but I do have my sources, John. How are you?"

"I'm fine, really," John said. "And more importantly, so is Ian. He's still asleep."

"It was a harrowing night for him, I would think."

John's mouth was dry. "Yes. He seemed okay, but … I'm keeping an eye on him."

"Is this going to be a regular thing, John?"

"Ian being in danger? Christ, I hope not," John said. "I don't think I could bear it."

"Indeed." His father's voice was as dry now as John's mouth felt. "It's not easy, knowing your child is in peril."

"No, no it's not." John paused, suddenly realizing how his father must have felt the entire time he'd been in Afghanistan. Though, his father hadn't actually seen him in danger, had never seen him tied to a chair with a giant crossbow pointed at him. No, he'd just had to sit by the phone, fearing the worst for years at a time. "I'm sorry."

He could hear the amusement as his father asked, "About Ian, or about the army?"

"Both?" John said. "I never realized how hard that must have been for you."

"It was different, son. It's not like you were a child when you joined the army, and you were a doctor—you should have been safe." There was a pause. "And you kept Ian safe last night. That's what matters."

"If you say so," John said, unconvinced. "But he wouldn't have been in danger at all if it weren't for me."

"Maybe not, but he's growing up. You can't wrap him in cotton wool forever," his father said. "God knows it didn't work for you."

"Me?"

"Oh, yes. You were impossibly independent, and were always throwing yourself into dangerous situations—climbing ancient trees, walking on the roof … sometimes I think it was a miracle you made it to the age of ten."

John laughed. "I can't have been that bad…"

"Trust me, John. You were. I just thought we'd missed that with Ian."

"Maybe it's Sherlock who's the bad influence," John suggested, with a laugh, but then sobered. "Or maybe it is me. Maybe this was a mistake. I can barely make sound decisions for myself, much less for Ian."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit. You're doing fine, and Ian is adapting well. He misses his mother, of course, but your flatmate has provided a good distraction."

"I don't think Sherlock would appreciate being considered a distraction," John said.

"Maybe not, but I think he is adapting well, too."

"You think…" John stopped, struck by a sudden thought. "Father, when did you meet Sherlock?"

"Why, just this morning," came the reply. "It's one of the reasons I called, in fact. I didn't want you to accuse me of sneaking behind your back, kidnapping your friends … that's best left to other people."

"Like Sherlock's brother, you mean."

"Exactly."

"So … what did you say to him?" John asked. His father hadn't threatened Sherlock, had he?

"Nothing you need to worry about, John. I wanted to introduce myself—and thank him for saving your life last night." There was a chuckle down the phone line. "Stephens said that he was quite rude because he thought it was Mycroft's car at first. Does his brother make a habit of showing up unexpectedly?"

John shook his head, and couldn't help but smile. "His brother has a habit of random kidnappings. Did I ever tell you about our first meeting? He had every pay phone on the block ring as I walked by and then showed off by manipulating the CCTV cameras before having his car pull up. We ended up at a deserted warehouse … if it wasn't beneath him, I'd think he'd been watching too many James Bond movies."

"He didn't … threaten you, did he?

"No, no," John said, hastening to soothe the worried tone to his father's voice. "He just wanted to check up on me, make sure I wouldn't be a bad influence on his little brother. He tried offering money for me to spy on Sherlock for him. He even had my therapist's notes … but he didn't know about you."

Sherlock didn't either," his father said, amused now. "I'm sorry I couldn't capture the look on his face for you."

"So … he knows now, then," John said.

"Only about the money. I gave him tea at the club, though, so I'm sure he'll be curious now. I figured you'd want to tell him about the title yourself. I wouldn't wait, though.

John swallowed. Part of him had enjoyed Sherlock not knowing, but he knew his father was right. "Right because if Mycroft finds out..."

"If Mycroft finds out what, John?"

He turned to find the man himself standing in the doorway. He gave him a nod and waved him toward the chairs as he said, "Speak of the devil. Father, I need to go."

"He overheard, did he?"

"That's right. This headache just isn't going away." He disconnected as his father chuckled, and gave Mycroft a polite smile. "Sherlock's not here right now."

"I know," Mycroft said, standing by the fireplace, leaning on his umbrella in much the same way he had at the warehouse when they met. "I wanted to speak to you."

John lifted one eyebrow and tried to think. If Mycroft found out about his father before Sherlock did, he would never hear the end of it.

Did he really have to have this conversation right now? Why did people keep bothering him this morning? Didn't they know about the concussion? He was supposed to be resting.

"What about, Mycroft?"

"It has come to my attention that you weren't entirely forthright to me at our meeting. When were you planning on telling me?"

Oh, crap.

#