A/N: From Chapter 1 of SIGN, the infamous watch bit and the introduction of the Doctor's late brother.

Prompt # 14 – Why didn't Holmes find out about it before (you'll have to address the lack of mourning clothes issue here) and what was his reaction to finding out why Watson didn't tell him?

Compelling Curiosity

Prompt 14 – Digressive Discussion

Sherlock Holmes noiselessly pulled open the great oaken door—barely a crack, just so that he could peek out and survey the territory. His face was impassive, which I would have found unusual given the circumstance, if not for the fact that I knew him so well. Nothing could shake that man's steel.

He satisfied himself and pushed the door shut again and turned to me with an impish grin, rubbing his hands anxiously. I couldn't return his fervor, for I was a bundle of nerves.

But then, who would blame me? For every man is nervous on his wedding day.

"Ready Watson?" he said with a zealous smile.

"Rather not," I replied bitterly. I should have been overjoyed, and in my heart of hearts I was. But I could not shake that ill feeling that had settled in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh come now, you've been dancing about giddily for no less than a fortnight and now you faint at the critical moment? That is not my Watson."

I scoffed, "You would feel the same way were you in my position."

"And why, pray tell?"

"Because marriage changes one's entire outlook," I said, drawing a shaky breath, "Your life is no longer your own once you take a wife and your priorities and responsibilities change. You no longer have the luxury of thinking only of yourself, but now have to provide and care for another."

He was thoughtful for a moment, "And that is different from lodging with me in what way?" he raised his eyebrows with a smirk.

"Well, I am not in love with you."

"I hope not," he snorted, "I'm afraid I could not return the sentiment." I laughed heartily and he smiled from ear to ear, rocking back on his heels. "Ah, now there is my Watson. Full of life and joy and a quality of beneficence that sets you apart among men. Miss Morstan is indeed fortunate."

I blushed at his compliments and fiddled with my buttons. When it suited him, Sherlock Holmes knew precisely the words to say for any occasion.

"Thank you," I finally answered, not yet able to meet his eye. When I looked up he was peeking out the door again, a distracted look upon his face.

"How many are you expecting?" he asked, turning to me curiously.

"Oh, twenty-five to thirty at the most. Why?"

"It just seems rather overdone for so few people."

"Oh well, you know how women are," I shrugged, "Extravagance in a wedding is of capital importance to them." The blank look he gave me showed me he did not understand. I rolled my eyes and chuckled a bit. "You see, most women have this idea of the perfect wedding. And they only have one chance to achieve it—"

"Unless a woman is married more than once," he interrupted.

"Perhaps," I frowned, "But in Mary's case only the one time," I emphasized, "and she is rather frivolous with the details, regardless of the number of guests."

"But really, I only see nine people out there. This seems a bit much."

"Only nine?" I went to have a look for myself, and sure enough it was as he said. There were only nine guests at my wedding. Unless of course the wedding party, musicians, and priest were included. Then the number was eighteen. "Good heavens…" My mind went straight to my bank account and the money we had spent on decorations and food for the reception.

"Don't worry about your purse my dear fellow," Holmes read my thoughts, "I'm sure your consulting room will be overflowing with patients by the time you return from your honeymoon."

I couldn't repress a smirk at the mention of a honeymoon and the subsequent trail my thoughts laid. Holmes again read my thoughts, and he flushed a bright red and fiddled with the ends of his collar for a moment before recovering himself.

"Well, small or large a wedding is a joyous occasion to be shared with friends and family alike," he said, "I imagine Miss Morstan has brought all of her relations with her. Do they approve of you?" he winked at me.

"Actually she only has one family member who will be in attendance. A second cousin who happened to be in London. She also invited Mrs. Forrester and her family, and some friends from her sewing circle." Holmes was peeking out at the sanctuary again.

"That accounts for seven people including the maid of honor and the flower girl, and three more with the musicians. You and I, plus the priest and your bride make the number fourteen. Who are the others?"

"Ah, well that would be Thurston and his wife. And have you met Messrs Bartholomew and Castile? They and I were the only three students idiotic enough to take Doctor Edwards's proctology class in our freshman year." Holmes grimaced and I smiled inwardly. I was the only one who could say anything to shift his granite countenance. "We stuck together after that, for moral support. I've kept in touch with them over the years."

"I see. No distant cousins on your side then?"

"No, I've no family." My tone must have betrayed me, for he gave me a singular look and I was disposed to continue. "My unfortunate brother was the last of my family, or at least the last of whom I am aware."

"Unfortunate?" he asked tentatively, and I wondered at his sudden curiosity. But it did no harm to me or my poor brother if I were to share his circumstances.

"I barely knew him, but what I did know of him I did not much care for."

"No?"

"He was twelve years my senior, and only my half brother." Sherlock Holmes pushed the door shut telically and leaned against it. He could be incredibly pestiferous sometimes, but I could use the distraction from the matter of the moment. "His mother died in childbed, and my father did not marry again for ten years. So by the time I knew him, Hebert was almost a grown man and he had as little interest in me as I had in him. He had little regard for his fellow man, now that I think of it. He was so focused on his work that if he let anyone into his life it was a veritable miracle."

"What was his vocation?"

"He was an engineer. His work was on the underground, specifically the routes under the Thames."

"Underground?"

"The railways that are being built below ground." He looked at me blankly. "Do not tell me you are unaware of this? Good heavens man! It's bad enough not knowing the earth travels round the sun, but to not know of the remarkable innovations being employed in your own city is really disgraceful," I shook my head at him.

"How innovative can they be, really? They have simply moved a railway underground."

"It is rather more complicated than that my dear fellow. That is what my brother struggled for so long with and what sent him to his grave."

"Ah…" he looked at me expectantly, and I rolled my eyes.

"Not literally. You and your morbid speculations," I muttered, "No, it was drink that was his end, as you deduced from his watch."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. He was obsessed with his work, determined to find a better way of shoring up the tunnels so that the tubes could run longer with less labor. His ideas took him in and out of the poorhouse for most of his life. He would get an idea and try to market it. He would get investors and twice was actually able to employ some of his techniques. But they always failed, and he turned to the bottle. And one morning he was found dead on his face in bed," I concluded. Holmes looked at me curiously.

"Is that all?"

"I suppose so. I really did not know the man. I did not even learn of his passing until a month after the fact."

"And that is why the lack of mourning?" he asked tentatively.

"That and the fact that you don't mourn strangers," I shrugged, "I truly did not know the man, anymore than you know a client after a case is concluded."

Holmes thought for a moment, "So I take it were he living, he would not have stood next to you today?"

I laughed warmly, "No my dear Holmes, that honor belongs to you and you alone." I was gratified to see a touch of color come to his cheeks and the flicker of a smile as he turned to glance out the door again.

Just as he opened it, the priest walked in, startling my friend into stepping back several steps.

"All right Doctor, whenever you're ready."

"Thank you," I nodded and he left, leaving me suddenly nervous all over again. Holmes approached me and laid a hand on my shoulder, running his fingers across the red embellishment there.

"Blue is not your color," he sighed.

"I know," I answered, looking down at my military uniform, "But Mary insisted," I smiled.

"I imagine you will compliment her dress. Is she following the Queen's tradition?"

"I don't know."

"Well then," he said, turning quickly and taking up his violin from the open case upon the table beside me, "Let's find out," he grinned at me. And with a final nod of assurance, he left the room to go make the fourth of the string quartet.

I felt my heart race as soon as the door was closed behind him, but it was now or never. And 'never' was not an option.

I heard the sweet music begin and I opened the door one final time, closing it confidently as I left one chapter of my life behind to start another.

Author's notes: Let me say that the family history of our dear Watson was entirely made up by me for the purpose of this story, and I may not even hold to it in future writings. It simply fit at the moment. Ah, the joys of fanfiction!

Oh, and for the life of me I couldn't find out specifically what Watson's full dress uniform would look like. So I guessed. I expect my email/pen pal to correct me if I'm wrong ;-)

Queen Victoria broke tradition and wore a white wedding dress, which has now become a world-wide trend.

One other point; Hebert is pronounced "ay-BAIR" in case that was confusing. It's French.

Oh yes, and if anyone can discover why I chose the names Bartholomew and Castile for Watson's peers, I'll write you a ficlet as a prize ;-)