John wasn't sure how long he sat there, but he was pulled back to Baker Street by Anthea handing him a plate of pasta. He blinked at it for several seconds before he came back to himself. Feeling like an idiot, he thanked her, suddenly hungry. The hot food felt like balm on his sore throat, and it was only then that he realized he had been so engrossed in his memories that he had completely forgotten how miserable he felt. Other than Anthea's soup, he hadn't eaten anything all day. His lungs were sore, his eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand in them. His skin felt sticky from the fever, and he didn't trust his legs at all.

He didn't know if the dizziness was because of the fever or because of the day's revelations.

He was just finishing this depressing mental catalog and had put his dish aside when Mycroft sat softly down in Sherlock's chair, carrying cups of tea for them both. "I know. He's never going to forgive me if I have a relapse," John told him.

Mycroft just gave him a level look over his tea cup. "He certainly has gone made an effort to see that you had time to recuperate this week."

John choked down a laugh, hoping to avoid another coughing fit. "That's true. Hiding my phone so I wouldn't see Harry's texts, drugging my meds so I'd sleep through a kidnapping, pretending to be me so I could stay safely home in bed while he risks his life to save my sister. He's been very … helpful."

"You do realize that he would have acted differently if you'd not been ill."

"Of course I do, I'm not an idiot," John said. "Part of me is grateful and reassured to know that Sherlock is taking care of this. With the two of you on the case—Greg, too—I'm not really worried. But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

He glanced down at the diary and handed it to Mycroft. "It's this that I'm worrying about. September 25th." He waited until Mycroft had found the page and then said, "That ink color only shows up after she's made a new friend named Ian at a lecture, but all the entries in that color are about him."

Mycroft flipped through the pages, but made no comment. After a time, John said "I think my dad must have known. Maybe not at first, but when I got older and didn't look anything like him. That's when the rows with Mum started, and when his drinking got bad. It's got to have something to do with all this," he gestured at he diary.

Mycroft ran his finger along the diary cover, tracing a rose petal. "I've been doing some digging, and have found two interesting things. One, starting in 1972, the mortgage on your parents' house was paid by a holding company controlled by LSE. The same company funded the scholarship that covered your school fees when you left for university."

John could feel his face pale. His father had to have known, then. "And the second?"

"Secondly, it shouldn't surprise you that I know Ian Littleston. Not well, of course, but we meet occasionally at charity events and such." He gave John a tight smile. "In fact, he knew my parents, as well, and as such, he knew I had a younger brother."

Mycroft sipped his tea, and John could almost see him choosing his words. "He spoke to me about Sherlock after, well, while he was away. He told me he was sure my brother couldn't be a fraud because he knew the Holmes family. He also said that he read your blog and was impressed by your loyalty and intelligence." He paused to sip his tea, then went on. "Later, after Sherlock had returned, he congratulated me, and said that he 'imagined Dr. Watson was relieved' to have him back after fighting so hard to restore his reputation."

"At the time, I thought he was merely expressing his regards as an old family acquaintance, but in retrospect … I think he must have known about you, John." He tapped the diary. "In light of what we've found here, I think he must have watched you your whole life. From a distance, obviously, and in secret, but enough to know the kind of man you are. Enough to be proud of you."

John was dumbfounded, mind whirring dizzily. Ian Littleston read his blog?

Mycroft smiled gently at the stunned look on his face. "Sherlock is not the only one to see your sterling qualities, John. You really shouldn't be so surprised when the rest of us do what we can to show our appreciation."

Putting aside his tea, Mycroft stood. "My team reports that Littleston took Sherlock back to his own house." He made a small noise of agreement at John's expression. "Not a wise move for a kidnapper, I agree. We've determined that Harry is not at your childhood home, and are setting up a perimeter for taking care of this problem as soon as it's dark. I imagine you'd like to come along?"

John was already on his feet, adrenalin helping keep him upright. "When do we leave?"

"Five minutes. Don't forget your medicine before we leave. You know Sherlock will ask."

John laughed. "The antibiotics, yes, but I won't be taking more of that cough syrup."

Mycroft nodded, glancing past his head and holding his hand out. "Anthea was kind enough to get your correct prescription filled. I assure you, you can take this one. In fact, we won't step foot from this flat until you do."

John was a doctor, for God's sake, and perfectly capable of taking care of himself, he thought. The last thing he needed was to be nurse-maided by the Holmes brothers. He knew he should resent such high-handed control over the smallest details of his life.

But, damn it. He had to admit it felt good to be so cared for.

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