Early the next morning, John crept into his father's still-empty kitchen to brew himself some truly superior tea while trying not to think.
Thanks to Mycroft, he had been able to avoid getting embroiled with hours of questions and had been home by 1:30—better than he'd dreamed possible, all things considered. Sherlock (more shaken than he cared to admit) had allowed himself to be convinced to come, too, since John hadn't wanted to leave him alone at Baker Street but refused to spend the night away from Ian. He had sent Sherlock to his own room and then spent most of the night lying on Ian's bed as his son slept, trying to keep his nightmares away.
John's own nightmares? He wasn't ready to face them yet. He had been exhausted enough to sleep, but not well. He'd spent most of the time staring at his son's face, wondering how much innocence he had lost already, and how much more he stood to lose if Moriarty had his way.
Now, though, in the bright sun of the too-early morning, John needed to make some decisions.
He'd had enough guilt over the years about his poor parenting. He knew his son had been loved and cared for while he was in the army, but there had still been guilt because he'd put his profession ahead of being a father. And now that he had finally gotten back to something resembling an ordinary life—finally, for the first time ever had his son living with him—he had a psychopathic consulting criminal coming after not only him and his best friend, but his son.
In theory, John had known that what he did with Sherlock could open up family and friends to danger—look what had happened to Sarah on their first date. He had always known there was a risk, having Ian with them, but being the focus of Moriarty's attention was a lot more dangerous than a random kidnapper or a building exploding across the street.
Moriarty had targeted his son, his father, his grandfather, and his sister. And Jim Moriarty, John knew, would. not. stop. Moriarty was not your average criminal—he had massive, extensive contacts. If he chose to come after John's family … how could he protect them?
No wonder he hadn't been able to sleep.
"You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders."
John turned to see his father in the doorway. "It feels like it this morning."
He watched as Jonathan collected a cup and poured himself some tea. "How did it go last night?"
John could feel his face freeze at the question. "Not well. It was a trap and I walked right into it."
"A trap? But … you're okay? Sherlock?"
He nodded. "We're both fine. But, apparently having a madman come after my family isn't as much of a rarity as I thought. He had pictures, Father, of you and Grandfather. He mentioned Harry's rehab … I don't know what to do. It's one thing for me to do a dangerous job so long as I'm the only one at risk, but … you? Ian? I can't do that."
"And there's nothing Sherlock's brother can do?" his father asked after a few moments. "Don't look so surprised. I'm not completely out of the loop. You don't think we didn't check into your new flatmate?"
"You did?"
"Of course, John. You weren't yourself when you came home, I wanted to be sure you weren't making a mistake. Your cousin David has some connections—he does work at the palace after all."
John started to laugh—one of those helpless kinds of laughs you make when there's really no other possible reaction other than to scream, or cry. "Because Sherlock Holmes naturally looks like the ideal flatmate for a man suffering from PTSD."
His father gave a small smile. "Not usually, no, but we're talking about you, and you've always been at your best when you feel useful. Add to that his brother's rather extreme oversight and safety precautions … it was a better match than I would have hoped."
"Until Ian moved in," John said, voice thick with regret … or, not regret, exactly, but a wistfulness that that idyllic time had been so short. Because of course he was going to have to give Ian up again now, to keep him safe.
"Especially then," his father said, voice firm. "He's been good for you—but more importantly, he's been thriving. It's good for him to have two strong role models, especially considering the quarrelling Clara and Harry have been doing the last year or so."
John could only nod. "It was good."
"Was?"
"Of course," John said. "You don't think I'm going to let him stay there, with Moriarty targeting him, do you?"
His father was quiet and John sat trying not to clutch his tea cup so tightly it broke. (His mother would come back to haunt him if he broke one of her favourites, it didn't matter how long she'd been dead.) Because of course his father would see reason. The important thing was keeping Ian safe, after all.
"Tell me what happened."
And so he did, and lord, it felt good to explain it. How there was a man who consulted to commit crimes the same way Sherlock consulted to solve them. How his name had come up the night he had moved in with Sherlock. How he had decided to play a game…
"The worst part was that Sherlock was enjoying it—even though there were innocent people out there, wearing bomb vests. He was so caught up in the puzzles … and then Moriarty found out about Ian, and obviously the fact that Grandfather is an Earl just added relish." He just shook his head. "He let us go last night. I mean, Mycroft's people helped, but it was Moriarty's choice. He's still playing the game. He could come after us again any time … and that means Ian is in danger. All of you are, so long as I live and work with Sherlock."
His father sat, thinking, and John realized how comforting he had always found that—knowing if there was a solution, his father would find it.
He hadn't realized how much, even after all these years as an independent adult, that could still comfort him.
"Do you want to stop helping Sherlock?" his father finally asked.
"No."
Give up the one thing that had given him purpose when he'd returned broken from Afghanistan? It would be unthinkable for any other reason than Ian's safety.
"Do you want Ian to live here, with you just visiting on weekends like you used to do when he was with Harry?"
"No."
In fact, he didn't think he could bear that. What kind of horrible father would put his flatmate above his son?
"And you say that you and he, and, well, all of us, are in this Moriarty's sights, no matter what you do?"
John just nodded numbly. It was hopeless.
He was therefore shocked when his father said, "Then it's simple. You just keep doing what you're doing."
John raised his head and stared … surely he had misheard? "What?"
"If you can't divert Moriarty's attention, then you should focus on what you can do. Give your son a secure home. Teach him to be smart and tough and resourceful—all the things you are. Curious, too, which your flatmate will certainly help to encourage. We can increase our security and institute some safety procedures that weren't necessary before, but … John. You can't let this madman ruin your life."
John was still staring. "This madman almost did, Father, just yesterday. He wrapped my son in a bomb—and then did the same thing to me less than twelve hours later!"
"But he didn't detonate them, did he? He's playing, you said, and with Sherlock, not you. Finding out you had an influential family might have made you a … a better piece to play with, but you're not his primary focus, son. You are, however, a soldier, as well as a doctor and a future Earl. You are just as formidable in your own right as Sherlock is … and the Brandon family is just as well connected as the Holmes family—if not more. If he were actually to kill you, he might get more attention than he expects."
John felt that warm burst of hope inside his chest again as he saw his father's pride in him. "I can't risk Ian," he said.
"No more than I want to risk you," his father said. "And I know, you're a full-grown adult and he is a nine-year old boy. But … that both does and does not make a difference. No father wants to see his son in danger—no matter how old he is."
"I was in my twenties when I joined the army," John said. "I wasn't nine."
Jonathan nodded. "And I still worried every day. Just as I worry about your sister and her drinking. Just like I worry about Ian, growing up with such a … modern … upbringing. But that's what being a parent is. You worry every day, but you do what you can to prevent catastrophe. You protect without smothering, encourage independence but not foolhardiness. And most of all, no matter how hard it is, you do what's right … and that includes not bowing to bullies, whether the usual kind on a playground, terrorists, or a madman with an explosive taste in vests."
John watched his father as he gazed out the window. "And if Moriarty kidnaps Ian again despite our best protection?"
His father turned to look at him, and in his face, John suddenly saw the years, generations of the strength and determination that had led his family to an Earldom in the first place. No matter how elegant and civilized the veneer, underneath was pure steel. "Then you make him pay."
Of course, John thought, and this time the thought felt strong rather than hopeless. He didn't think back to the first Earl very often—but the first Lord Undershaw had earned his title and had passed down an absolute belief in honour to his descendants. Doing the right thing was as much a family creed as the one that appeared on the crest. There was a reason, after all—a good, solid, genetic reason—that John found it so easy to reconcile the two halves of his personality. Protection and Care. Fighting and Nurturing. He knew any number of people believed being a doctor with a gun was contradictory, but he knew better. A Brandon did whatever he must to protect his people.
He sat quietly, sipping his tea, but now the warmth he felt had nothing to do with the hot beverage, but everything to do with a renewed sense of purpose. "I think I'll call David this morning," he said after a while. "See if he has any tips he might have picked up from his … employer … as regards living a normal life while staying safe."
His father didn't say anything, but just nodded, lifting his teacup in the smallest of salutes.
They sat there in companionable silence, listening to the house starting to wake around them, and now John found he couldn't wait to start the day.
#
Feeling better, John went back up to Ian's room, walking carefully across the floor to watch the sleeping boy. He couldn't get enough of it, watching his son breathe, and suddenly he felt better than he had in days.
"How did he sleep?"
Somehow he wasn't surprised to hear Sherlock's voice, though he hadn't expected to find him in Ian's room, lurking by the window.
"He had a nightmare while I was out last night, but otherwise slept … he woke up enough to say hello when I got back." John looked over at Sherlock, but with the sun streaming in behind him, he couldn't make out his face. "It's unusual for me to be up before you."
"I've been awake," Sherlock said. "I've been thinking."
John gave a nod. "Me, too. I don't think I could go through many more days like yesterday."
He saw a tip of Sherlock's head. "No," he said. "I … John, I never thought Moriarty would come after Ian."
John just held up a hand, shutting off whatever apology or defence Sherlock was about to give. "You couldn't have. It's okay."
"No, it's not okay. I just … we'll do what we have to do to keep him safe, John," Sherlock all but blurted out. "You don't have to take him away. We'll think of something…"
"Sherlock."
"No, really. I'll even talk to Mycroft. We'll increase the security at the flat…"
"Sherlock."
"And of course I'll help you vet everyone who comes in contact with him. The Hannah situation will not come up again, and…"
"Sherlock, stop!" John finally said with enough force to get through. "We're not going anywhere."
"You're … You're not? I mean, no, of course you're not."
John could see Ian's eyes were cracked open now as he listened hard, and smiled. "Lucky for you, my father talked some sense into me this morning—not that it was hard, since he was encouraging me to do what I wanted to do anyway."
"Really?"
John shook his head. "And you say other people are idiots? Of course we want to stay. Yesterday aside, I love helping you with cases, and Ian has this unaccountable fondness for you. And Mrs Hudson, well, someone has to help protect her real estate values from you."
It was all he could do not to laugh at the flummoxed look on Sherlock's face. It was so seldom he looked truly out of his depth, but apparently the idea that John and Ian actually enjoyed living with him was incomprehensible.
"But … I thought you'd insist on taking Ian away, to keep him safe."
John didn't think he'd ever heard Sherlock's voice sound so small. Nor did he miss the stiff stillness that froze over his son's form. "Ian already told me I wasn't to hold this against you—and I don't, Sherlock. You might be an idiot, but I know you wouldn't endanger my son willingly—outside the possibility of chemical burns or fume inhalation from the experiments I know full well you're demonstrating downstairs. It's not your fault Moriarty came after Ian yesterday."
He stressed his son's name a bit and gave Sherlock a pointed look to keep him from mentioning anything about the Pool last night. Ian wasn't going to learn that his father had worn a vest matching his own just hours later until he was much, much older … eighty, maybe. In John's memoirs. On his own deathbed. Not if John could help it.
"The point, though, is that we live a dangerous life. We do. The choices are either to deal with it, or for me to take Ian and run, and … I'm not willing to do that."
"I didn't think you would … I knew you wouldn't give up Ian, and I thought that …"
Christ, thought John. Sherlock couldn't even complete a sentence. He was having a harder time holding on to his grin, now, and he could see Ian's shoulders quivering under his blankets. "Like my father pointed out, Brandons don't run … not even when they're called Watsons. That doesn't mean some things won't have to change, though."
Sherlock had stepped forward, eyes gleaming in the slanting sunlight. "Increased security. I can talk to Mycroft…"
John cut him off. "I'll be calling my cousin David for some advice later. Brandons might not control the CCTV cameras, but that doesn't mean we don't have security experts of our own. I figure David's employer knows something about trying to live a normal life while staying safe, so … he'll be a good place to start. We'll work out a plan, and at least where Ian's safety is concerned, we'll all do what we're supposed to do, won't we? Sherlock? Ian?"
It just proved how upset Sherlock had been because he almost startled as a gleeful Ian bounced up in his bed. "Yes! Anything. I don't want to go anywhere else. I love 221B."
Sherlock had turned to watch the boy, something that could almost be called sentiment on his face. "Even after yesterday?"
Ian nodded. "I knew you would save me, you and father. I mean," he paused, obviously rallying his thoughts before continuing, sounding almost embarrassed, "I was scared … really scared … but that's what you do, isn't it? Catch bad guys? I knew you'd be looking."
John and Sherlock exchanged a look, neither letting on that they hadn't even known that'd he'd been missing until that phone call. That was definitely the sort of thing that needed to be addressed—right along with him going off with a former nanny. And he really wanted to have a long talk with Hannah one of these days. For now, though, John settled for sitting on the bed and pulling Ian in for a hug, grateful he hadn't outgrown them yet. "We always will," he said, pressing a kiss against his forehead. "And I'm sure Sherlock will try not to annoy any other criminal masterminds."
"You agreed it wasn't my fault, John," Sherlock said, protesting sharply until he got a closer look at John's face as he and Ian started giggling. His tone of voice was much lighter as he continued, "I only look for the best, you know—in flatmates as well as archenemies."
John let out another burst of laughter. "Mycroft will be touched to hear you think so."
"That's not what I meant!"
#