"Tell you what, Mycroft?"

The taller man just looked at him, down that long nose in the too-familiar way, but John wasn't having any of it today. If Mycroft had found out that his father was an Earl, then fine. Headache or not, he wasn't going to back down.

Mycroft was just saying that he didn't know how John had expected to keep this a secret, when Ian came stumbling down the stairs. "Dad? How are you this morning?" he asked as he came into the room, stopping short at the unfamiliar face.

"Other than a headache, I'm fine," John told him. "You?"

"I'm fine," Ian said automatically, eyes on Mycroft.

John looked between the two of them and sighed. Ian looked surprised at finding a stranger in his living room, but Mycroft? He looked utterly floored. John stifled a grin—at least he didn't know everything. "Ian, this is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is my son, Ian."

"How do you do?" Ian said politely as John tried not to smirk at the flummoxed look on Mycroft's face.

"I'm quite well, thank you," Mycroft said automatically. "You find me at a disadvantage, though. I'm afraid I didn't know of your existence until this morning."

Instead of looking offended, Ian seemed impressed. "Grandfather kept it quiet that long? But Sherlock said you knew everything?"

"Sherlock exaggerates," Mycroft told him. "Though I would have expected to know that a child had moved into the flat."

That last sentence had been directed at John, who kept an innocent look on his face. "I hope you weren't expecting me to tell you, Mycroft. Not that it was a secret, or anything, but Ian's been here for almost a month. I would have thought you would have noticed by now."

"I've been out of the country, and somehow my staff didn't feel a young child living with my brother was worth mentioning."

"Hey!" protested Ian.

"He's fourteen, Mycroft. Not exactly a toddler," said John. "And he's not some random child, either. He's my son. It's not really any of your business where he lives—as long as Sherlock doesn't object and Ian is happy, there is no problem. Is there?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "One can't help but wonder how you're affording this, John. Your finances were quite constrained when we last spoke."

John gave a sharp nod. "That's because at the time, I was paying alimony and child support. But that changed when Ian's mother died. I no longer need to pay for two residences."

"There was no record of that in your file, John," Mycroft said, musing. "And then, you choose to stay here with my brother? He's not the easiest person to live with, as I know all too well, and not necessarily the best role model for a young … man."

"A teenager can't have too many good influences, Mycroft," John told him. "And Ian hasn't complained about the arrangements—though he still lobbies to get 221C for his own use, which isn't going to happen, so don't even ask, Ian. After last night, you're lucky you've got a separate room."

Ian looked horrified at the thought as Mycroft asked, "Last night?"

"Is last night," John told him firmly. "You've heard the expression all's well that ends well, haven't you? We're all fine. Ian, are you hungry?"

At his son's nod, John turned and headed toward the kitchen, leaving Mycroft looking almost owlish as if he couldn't believe how cavalier John was being about his son's life. "But … he was almost killed," he said, following them.

John really didn't want to think about that, but he nodded. "But he wasn't. I'm not saying it wasn't dangerous, or that I'm happy about it, but … he was with his mother when she was killed, too, and she was just driving her car. Between medicine and the army, one thing I've learned is that life is unpredictable." He reached into the refrigerator for milk and poured a glass for Ian before filling the kettle. "As long as this works for the three of us, it's all that matters."

"Why didn't you tell me you had a son?"

"Was it relevant?" John asked him, ignoring Ian's chortle. "I mean, beside the fact that you'd just kidnapped me and seemed to have far too much knowledge about me as it was—how was I to know you'd missed out on my family? And anyway, you were checking into my suitability as a flatmate and, at the time, Ian lived with his mother and there was no plan to change that. It's not like I'm ashamed of him, after all. Quite the contrary. But he's really none of your business."

"He is if he lives with my brother," Mycroft said, and John heard the steel in the tone.

"You sound as if you think my fourteen-year old could be a threat."

"If he started … experimenting … as teens do, then yes," Mycroft told him.

And that was going too far, thought John. It wasn't bad enough the man was accosting him while he recovered from a concussion and a kidnapping, that he was doing it while Sherlock was out and in front of his son, but now he was going to imply that Ian would be a drug risk? John could practically feel his blood pressure rising, and the look of shock on Ian's face just pushed him over the edge.

"Get out."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, get out," John repeated. "I've put up with a lot of high-handedness from you and your brother, Mycroft, but if you're going to imply my son is a risk factor for Sherlock's being clean? That's beyond the pale, and I refuse to listen to it. I'm asking you to leave."

Mycroft smirked. "There's no need to be rude, John. I'm just trying to make sure no trouble arises. I didn't say your son was a threat, just that it wasn't beyond possibility that his … situation … could lead to future problems."

John tried to unclench his jaw. "And I said to get out. Don't go borrowing trouble, Mycroft."

"Indeed, that's something important to remember isn't it, John? Especially for a man who was so alone not very long ago. It would be a shame to see you struggling that way again."

John was furious. "I was never alone, Mycroft, just lonely. There's a difference. You'd be surprised how many people I can turn to if I need help, though your concern, of course, is appreciated." He saw the scepticism on Mycroft's face and barely resisted the temptation to smirk right back at him. "You didn't even know I had a child, Mycroft, or an ex-wife. What other facts might you have missed while you were indulging your flights of fancy about the supposed drug-filled future my delinquent son is likely to have, coming from a broken home as he has? I swear, I don't understand you. You think you're so superior, but … good God. This is exactly the kind of attitude I've spent my whole life trying to escape. Now, please, don't make me tell you again."

He saw a shadow of doubt cross the other man's face, but he just gave a nod. "It was nice meeting you, Ian. Good day, John." And then he was gone.

#

John turned back to his son, and was relieved to see he was more amused than insulted now. "He doesn't know us very well, does he, Dad?"

"Not at all. And nowhere near as well as he thinks he does," John said, agreeing. "He doesn't know about your grandfather, you know."

"Really?"

John was just opening his mouth when he heard Sherlock coming up the stairs. "Neither does Sherlock, but I'm about to tell him. I don't know if this is going to go well or not, so it's your call as to whether you stay or leave right now."

"Well, I am kind of hungry."

"That's why you're supposed to be eating your breakfast," John said, wishing it were time to take more painkillers for his headache. This had not exactly been a restful morning. He looked up to see Sherlock striding into the flat, plastic bag of shopping swinging from his hand. "That took you a while."

Sherlock's face was practically gleaming with interest as said, "I had an unexpected detour."

For a moment, John considered playing dumb and pretending not to know about his father's interference, but decided he was too tired. "Yes, I heard you met my father."

For a moment, Sherlock looked disappointed, but rallied. "He told you?"

"He thought a heads-up was appropriate," John said. "He didn't threaten you, I hope?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. As if Mycroft would let your father get away with that, even if he is a wealthy man. And, kudos, John, for keeping that secret so long. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well … there's more, actually," John told him, feeling almost embarrassed. "What did he tell you about our family? Or, more important, what have you deduced?"

"That your family is far more powerful than I suspected, and goes back far enough for your father to belong to that particular club. That you dropped the surname because you didn't want to rely on your family's reputation for your own successes. That you grew up wealthy…" He paused there, as if still trying to assimilate that knowledge.

John tried a grin. "Scary to think about, isn't it? That our backgrounds are more similar than you thought?"

"Not only that, apparently our fathers knew each other," Sherlock said. "When you decided to drop your surname? Apparently my father helped modify the records."

"I didn't know that. Your father? So it's his fault that Mycroft didn't know?" John asked, delighted.

"Indeed," said Sherlock, with his own wide grin. "I think I may need to buy your father a Christmas present, John."

"He enjoys a good scotch," John told him. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

"He didn't seem overly happy with the fact that Mycroft had kidnapped you. Stymying Mycroft's insatiable information gathering, however briefly, seems reasonable payback. Mycroft hates being uninformed even more than I do."

John nodded, mentally bracing himself. "Which is why I need to tell you something else, right now."

Sherlock stilled. "What's that?"

"My family's not just old, Sherlock," said John. "It's … well. My father … He's the Earl of Undershaw."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, even as his eyes flickered as he absorbed this new information. "So … that makes you…"

"Next in line," said John. "With Ian after me. I know I didn't tell you, but…"

He stopped as Sherlock lifted his hand, waiting as patiently as he could.

"But Mycroft doesn't know?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Not yet."

"So, you not only successfully hid your own noble background from me, despite my not inconsiderable observational skills, but from Mycroft as well?" John just nodded. "Why, John, that's wonderful! I knew you had hidden depths, but … this takes my breath away."

John felt so relieved. "Not only that, Mycroft didn't know about Ian until this morning."

He'd never seen Sherlock look so delighted. "Really? How do you know that?"

"Oh, well, he stopped by—I'm surprised you didn't pass on the stairs. He more or less asked what I could possibly be thinking, letting a child live with you, and when I said it was none of his business, he basically said that it was because teenagers experiment with drugs, which would be a risk to you."

He couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's anticipatory grin. "What did you do?"

"I told him to get out," said John. "He said he'd hate for me to be as poor and alone again as I was when I met you, at which point I told him he had no idea—and pointed out that he hadn't even known I had an ex-wife or a son, so what else might he have missed? I rather expect he's going to be doing some serious digging today. My only regret is I won't see his face when he learns about the title."

"Well, let's call him back," said Sherlock. "You can tell him while I watch. Ian could make popcorn. It will be enormously entertaining."

John couldn't deny that was probably true, but they were obviously out of time, because just then, there was a tap at the door.

#

Mycroft stood in the doorway. "Sherlock," he said, "Why did you just get out of a car belonging to the Earl of Undershaw? Please don't tell me you're insulting the nobility now."

Sherlock could barely contain his glee. "You were sitting in your car running his plates, weren't you?"

"Why, Sherlock?" his brother repeated.

"How is this your business, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, just as John said, "I thought I asked you to leave, Mycroft."

Mycroft just looked annoyed. "Yes, John, but this time I'm here to see my brother. And, Sherlock, I thought you knew. Everything to do with you is my business. Especially if it concerns the Earl of Undershaw."

Sherlock noted John's curiosity at that and he was unsurprised to see Ian at the doorway. "What do I care about the Earl of Undershoe, or whatever it is?" he asked. "I only care about cases. You know that."

"What. Case?" Mycroft asked, intent.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked again. "I am aware of your general reluctance to offend anyone with a title, naturally, but what difference does it make if it's this Earl rather than any other?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, considering, then said, "Father told me once that he'd done him a favour and, if ever asked, I was not to go digging into his files."

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow. "And you listened? That's hardly like you, Mycroft."

"Well, I may have glanced at the file," his brother said with an unabashed shrug. "It wasn't something scandalous or illegal. Just something about a son who disappeared—not in a way you would care about. It wasn't a crime. Just that he wanted to mask his identity when he went to university and … joined … the army…"

He stopped, staring now at John and then glancing over at Ian, a sudden realization crossing his face and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had been so entertained as Mycroft asked, "What did you say your son's name was, John?"

#