John Watson wasn't well. He knew that, of course, but it was another thing to see it. He stared into the mirror, looking into his own eyes as if he'd never seen them before and, in a way, he hadn't. Not like this. Not sunken and gray against his drooping, yellow skin. His cheeks, too, were sunken so badly his patchy growth of a beard couldn't hide it. The whole effect gave off the impression he was already nothing but a skeleton. Had he been shown a photograph of himself in that moment he was sure he would have sworn it wasn't him, but it was very unlikely the mirror was lying. Nevertheless, he touched his fingers to its surface as if it could have been a trick, placed there to fool him like the mirrors which could make him tall or short or skinny or fat. He'd been to a carnival once and seen those kind, but he had yet to find a mirror that could make him seem dead.

He slowly reached for his bag of toiletries. It had been days since he'd so much as combed his hair, and the last time he'd been clean shaven had been in Peshawar when an orderly had helped him prepare to depart for home. His days aboard the ship had mostly been spent sleeping; his body was weak, and there was very little time in the day for anyone to aid him.

He slowly dragged the blade against his face, careful not to cut himself on the suddenly unfamiliar surface. He didn't know how much weight he'd lost and he didn't want to; he was sure it was far too much. He left himself a mustache, quickly debating if he liked it before deciding he did. It made him look older, and he certainly felt older, as if he'd aged decades in the few months since he'd been shot.

He dressed slowly, his every limb aching. That was partially due to his wounds, and partially due to the illness which had followed. He'd languished for a long time, and now his body was malnourished and weak, thus his return home.

Even though he still felt miserable and the mere act of cleaning himself had exhausted him, he was tired of being sick and tired. When it was time, he wanted to step off the boat on his own two feet. And so he did, arriving on the dock trembling and tired, but alive and still his own man. He was leaning heavily on a cane and his body was swaying slightly as if he was still at sea, but it was a victory he'd take.

He looked around the dock, realizing he had no plan and very little energy left. He wasn't even sure he could sling his rucksack over his shoulder. He had hoped he would be met, but he couldn't see anyone coming for him. He closed his eyes briefly, wondering where he should go.

He only had one relation in England. Well, he had two, really, but only one he'd hoped would come for him. Why hadn't he come? Was it because he hadn't received his letter, or had his letter been ignored? If the former, he should go home. If the latter, he might not be welcome if he did. Watson didn't know, wasn't sure. He hadn't exactly been on good terms with him when he'd left. What if…

"John!"

Watson breathed a sigh of relief, turned to greet him. He'd come after all, must have been on the side of the docks.

"John," the man breathed, wrapping his arms around him in a gentle embrace. Watson could feel his hands trembling as they gripped him, could hear that he, too, was breathing a sigh of relief.

"Hello, uncle," Watson murmured.

The man stepped back, holding Watson at arm's length and examining him. "My poor John," he said. He took Watson's head in both hands, kissed his forehead tenderly. "I was so worried about you," he murmured. "And you're an adult now, John. Please, call me Sherlock."

"I'm not a charity," Mrs. Hudson said, frowning.

"Of course not," Sherlock Holmes answered her. "But the boy has just lost his only family, and I have good reason to suspect his life is in danger. I promise you, as soon as it is safe I will take him to an orphanage. In the meantime, all I'm asking is that you let him stay in the room upstairs and feed him for a few days. I'll take care of everything else."

"Isn't he a bit old for an orphanage?"

"Is he? He's only twelve. He's still in boarding school."

"Not for long. He'll be a man soon, and they won't take him. He needs to go back to his school. His tutors will help him, will set him up to stay the breaks there and find him a position somewhere when he leaves. His life will be rough for a while, but if he works hard he'll do well."

"Very well, Mrs. Hudson. When I have determined who killed his brother, I'll send him back to his school and not contact an orphanage. Before then, I'll take care of any expense you come to because of him. He won't be any trouble, I promise."

"He'd better not be."

"He's a good lad. You'll see."

She nodded, but she was still frowning and so Holmes didn't stick around long enough for her to change her mind. He went up the stairs quickly, entering the living room where he'd left the boy.

"Hello, John," he said softly, but the young boy flinched anyway as if he expected Holmes to scold him. "What are you working on?" he asked.

"I'm fixing it," John Watson murmured. "I'm good at fixing things. I'm going to be a doctor. I think. I mean, I was. I don't know what I'm going to do now." He swallowed hard, wiped the back of his eyes with his sleeve.

Holmes peered at what he was doing. An alarm clock that had fallen weeks ago was laid out on the floor. Watson was sitting in front of the pieces, bent over them with his face averted. Holmes knew what was wrong with the clock; there was a broken gear. Holmes had meant to see if he could fix it, but hadn't gotten around to it. He saw that Watson had used a small piece of wire, bent it into the shape of the gear, attached it, and filed it down to be the right size. Holmes watched as Watson put the clock together, wound it, and set it in front of himself. It worked, and Watson watched it tick for a moment before snatching it and holding it to Holmes above his head.

"Thank you," Holmes said softly. "John, I need you to know something." He set the clock on the mantle and sat in his chair. "I want to help you. I want to catch the person who killed your brother. But that means I need you to tell me everything you know entirely truthfully. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded, still looking away from him. "I told Mr. Stamford," he murmured.

"I know. Wiggins, he sent you to Mr. Stamford?"

The boy nodded again. "He said Mr. Stamford would be able to find you. You weren't home."

"And how did Mr. Stamford know you?"

"He knows Doctor Burke. Doctor Burke apprenticed me for a while."

"And that was why Stamford took such an interest in your story?"

John Watson nodded again. "I don't know what to do," he whispered.
"That's okay," Holmes murmured. "I'll help you. Tell me everything, John."

The boy sighed, nodded, and finally turned to face him.

Mrs. Hudson began to cry when she saw him. Watson hugged her lightly, and when she'd dried her tears he let her fuss over him. He even did his best to eat the soup she made, but ended up with his uncle supporting him as he retched into a bin. He had started his day with walking and feeling proud of himself, but it ended with him lying prone on the floor and feeling miserable. His head was on his uncle's lap, and Sherlock soothed him gently until he was strong enough to get up and lay on the couch.

Sherlock Holmes had finally drifted off into the beginnings of sleep when he felt the bed shift beside him. He jerked slightly, blinking his eyes open to see that the boy had crawled on top of his quilt. He was crying, and he curled himself against Holmes' side. Holmes could feel that the boy's body was trembling.

He was surprised that the lad trusted him, but it was also endearing in a heartbreaking kind of way. He was also surprised that he didn't feel annoyed or angry. All he really wanted was to soothe the boy and dry his tears, but he didn't want to scare him away.

So, he simply yawned, folding his own part of the quilt over the boy and laying his arm over the bundled form; it wasn't quite an embrace, but he hoped it would help without making John feel smothered. He didn't say anything or try to soothe him, just let the boy cry. He was almost falling asleep again when he felt John snuggle closer. He didn't move, wanting to let the boy be where he felt comfortable. He felt John crawl out of his quilt cocoon and arrange it back over the bed before crawling under the blankets with him.

John hugged him, and he could feel the lad's tears drip onto his neck when he laid his head on Holmes' shoulder. Holmes very gently held him in return, and ran his hand through his hair until it finally seemed that he was asleep.

Holmes closed his own eyes again, but for some reason the sleep that had tried twice to claim him would no longer come. "I'll protect you, John Watson," he murmured to the boy who was trusting him, literally, with his life even though he might not know it. Holmes meant what he said, and he very much hoped it was a promise he could keep.

John Watson woke a few hours later to find Sherlock Holmes was still with him in the living room, sleeping while sitting on the couch with Watson's head resting on a pillow on his lap. As Watson shifted, Holmes woke, yawning widely and blinking down at Watson.

"Morning," he said softly. "Awake enough to make it up to your room to get some sleep?"

Watson nodded. "Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to keep you up."

"Hey," Holmes said softly, "you may not be a child anymore, but you're still my family. I'm here for you. Always."

Mrs. Hudson heard him. She stalked towards her kitchen and followed the sound until she found him in a cupboard beneath the counter. There was an angry scolding on her lips, but it died away when she saw him. He was curled in on himself sobbing, and he began to tremble when he saw her.

"I'm sorry," he gasped in between sobs. "I'm sorry."

Mrs. Hudson fetched a scone off the counter, secreting it into her apron pocket before lowering herself onto the floor. "John, dear, please come out of the cupboard," she said softly.

He did so, hanging his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he gasped in between sobs.

"What are you sorry for, dear?" she asked.

"For being in your cupboard," he murmured, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

"For that, you are forgiven," she assured him. "Will you tell me why you were in the cupboard?"

He sniffed, and kept his head down, not looking at her.

"You're a bit big for the cupboard, you know," Mrs. Hudson continued. "It must have been a tight fit. You're lucky I don't keep many pans in there."

Watson sniffed again, and then coughed slightly. "I was hiding," he admitted in a small voice.

"I see. Will you tell me why you were hiding?"

"Because I was scared."

"Did someone scare you?"

"No. I was scared because… because Mr. Holmes is going to hate me. And I know you already hate me."

"Why do you think I hate you?"

"I heard you tell Mr. Holmes that I'll be trouble."

"But have you been trouble?"

"Yes," the boy said with a nod, and he wrapped his arms around himself. "My father says I'm too old to hide away somewhere when I get sad, and my mother always said I should never make trouble when I'm someone's guest. I shouldn't have been in your cupboard."

"And why do you say that Mr. Holmes will hate you?"

"Because I had a nightmare last night. I was crying, and I went to sleep with him. I thought he was awake and he knew I was there. But when I woke up he'd... he'd shoved me off. He hates me, and I've been trouble even though I didn't mean to. My father told me I was too old to cry when I turned ten, and I haven't shared a bed with Harry since he moved away. But I… I'll never have him again. I'll never have any of them and I just want to be happy but that's never going to happen. I…" his whole body shook slightly and he lowered his head again, beginning to cry once more.

"Now, now, dear, you're not trouble," Mrs. Hudson murmured. "Here," she said, and gave him a handkerchief to wipe his eyes with. "Now, eat this and calm yourself." She gave him the scone.

"Thank you, ma'am," John murmured, and he nibbled on the edge.

"Please, dear, call me Mrs. Hudson. Do you feel any calmer now?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He looked up at her and smiled very slightly. "May I help you make breakfast for Mr. Holmes? My mother always said I was a good cook because cooking is art and I'm an artist."

"Of course you can help me, love," Mrs. Hudson said with a small smile of her own. "I didn't know you're an artist."

"Well, I suppose I'm not. Not really. I'm going to be a doctor someday. But doctors have to be good at drawing, and I am. I'm an even better writer. I'm going to write a book someday.

"I'm sure you will, dear. Now let me show you where everything is. You've already made the acquaintance of the pans."

When Sherlock Holmes woke, it was to an empty bed and the smell of breakfast. He hadn't slept in the same bed as his brother since, well, he couldn't remember when. He'd been the same as Watson once and had sought out comfort after a nightmare, but Mycroft had only indulged him a few times before kicking him out and declaring him old enough to deal with his nightmares on his own. Holmes determined he wouldn't do that to the young John Watson no matter that Mrs. Hudson had proclaimed him too old to even be accepted by the orphanages.

He hadn't necessarily expected the lad to still be with him, but there was something that had happened… he spied a pillow and a blanket on the floor and it came back to him. He was so unused to sleeping with another person that he'd shoved John off the bed. He sighed, hoping the boy still trusted him.

There was a small creaking of his door, and the lad in question popped his head through. "I made you some breakfast," he said softly, almost nervously.

"Good morning, John," Holmes said with a smile. "Did you sleep on the floor last night?"

John dropped his eyes and hunched his shoulders in. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have stayed in my own room."

"Hey, I'm not angry. I told you that you can trust me and you can. I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't sleep with my brother growing up, John, and if I pushed you away I apologize."

Watson looked up at him shyly. "I'm too old to have nightmares."

"Well obviously not, John, since you did. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

John cocked his head to the side. "What does that mean?"

Holmes smiled broadly. "I'll show you."

Both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock Holmes were by his side when he woke up screaming in the night. He laid his head on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder as he tried to calm himself, and for a moment he felt like he was twelve years old again, except instead of having just watched his family be murdered, he'd just watched all his friends perish. In both instances, he'd been unable to save them. Mrs. Hudson and Holmes had been the ones who had been there for him back then; he hoped they wouldn't resent the need to do it again.

"So…" Mycroft Holmes drawled, "the boy…"

"John."

"John comes home from boarding school, finds his brother dead, and goes to the police. The next day, someone tries to kidnap him. Not knowing who to trust and having no other family to shield him, he flees to London, is found by your irregulars, and delivered to… whoever it was who brought him to you."

"That's about it," confirmed Sherlock Holmes.

"So what am I here for?"

"The boy's last name is Watson. Ring any bells?"

"I don't think so."

"Well perhaps this will: recently John's parents died mysteriously. Killed and found miles from home. John's brother, his senior, moved back home to support John until he finished boarding school. He was a mess. The brother, I mean. Drank heavily, and spent both of their inheritances until they had to sell their parent's house. They were waiting for it to sell when the brother was killed. But, before that happened, he suddenly quit drinking and swore to his brother he knew exactly how to get justice for their parents and turn their own fortunes around. He only needed a little time."

Mycroft rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You think," he said slowly, "that the boy's grandfather was Jack Watson. The American."

"Yes. If he fled, it would explain how the San Francisco police were never able to catch him."

"If it is Jack Watson's treasure we're dealing with," Mycroft said, "then the boy, John, is worth, well, literally his weight in gold. After all, Jack was never prosecuted. He didn't steal anything. He was certainly a scam and a fraud, but no one will dispute the boy's claim to it now. Have you told him?"

"No. Not yet. He doesn't know what his brother was after, or why they tried to get him. Presumably, they think he knows where the treasure is, but he has no idea it exists."

"If it exists. You may be on the wrong track. What else have you considered?"

"If I'm on the wrong track," Holmes said, "I still want you in on it. Come on."

"Where are we going?

"To see my new house."

"Sherlock," his brother sighed, annoyed, "did you buy…"

"And to ask the housing agent who sold it to me about who was set to purchase it before I made my offer."

"You'd better be right about this."

"Oh, and you need to meet John. I have a feeling you're going to like him."

"Would you… let me stay for a while?" Watson asked softly.

"This is your home, John. Of course you can stay as long as you need. The room upstairs has never been anyone else's but yours for as long as I've been here."

"And you're sure I won't be an inconvenience?"

"You're my family, John. Of course you're not an inconvenience. I love you, and nothing has changed just because you're unwell at the moment. You'll recover, and if I can do anything to aid that recovery, I will."

Holmes approached Watson where he reclined in his chair. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "For what I said before you went."

"But you were right."

"No. I was just scared."

"Do you remember," Watson sighed, "what it was like when I met Mycroft?"

John wouldn't look up at him. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," he murmured.

Mycroft grunted.

Sherlock kept up his pacing, counting aloud to himself. They were in the home John had once shared with his family, had presumably been happy in. Now the boy didn't so much as look up. Sherlock paused his pacing, patting the boy's shoulder briefly before continuing.

Mycroft sat back and let his brother work. "Tell me, John Watson," he said, "are those books yours?"

"Yes."

"You must be very smart."

"I'm going to be a doctor."

"I see. Unless you're killed first, of course."

John finally looked at him. "Do you think someone will kill me like they killed my family, sir?"

"No, John Watson. Not unless you are lying to us. Have you told us everything?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't know what your brother found?"

"No, sir. He wouldn't tell me."

"And would you be quite willing to be placed in some kind of danger to aid in the apprehension of your brother's killers?"

John Watson stared at him for a minute. "Yes," he said softly. "I would do anything."

"Good," Mycroft said. "You may have to."

And then, from another room, there was a cry of triumph. "I've got it!"

"I'll be alright, Mrs. Hudson," Watson murmured. "Don't be worried about me."

"You can't blame me," she huffed. "I'd be surprised if you were eight stone dripping wet. This small cough could easily become pneumonia. Or worse. I…" she faltered, her words failing.

"Ah, I love you too, Mrs. Hudson. Even though you tried to get rid of me." He grinned at her mischievously.

She sniffed, wiped her eyes. "Only the once," she murmured, "I knew you were a darling the moment I really met you."

"When you found me in your cupboard?"

"Yes," she said with a small chuckle. 'You were so small back then, just a scrawny little boy. I can't imagine you ever fitting there now, you've grown up so well."

"And am I still a darling?"

"Cheeky. You know you are, stop fishing." She leaned down and kissed his cheek. "You call if you need anything. Or send your uncle. Heaven knows when he comes home and sees you like this he'll be a wreck until he feels he's done something to help. He was a wreck from the moment he got your letter, you know. He always regretted what he said."

"I know, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't, but now I'm sure of it. I…" he coughed again, and he couldn't hide the severity of it from Mrs. Hudson.

She sighed, refilled his water, and prayed that he really would be alright.

"You want me to do what?"

"You heard me, Mycroft."

"And why, brother, should I adopt a boy who is practically already grown?"

"That's just the thing. Mrs. Hudson said no one else will, that he's too old."

"He is too old. I'm sure he doesn't even want to be adopted. And if he does, why don't you take him in?"

"Because you've always planned on adopting."

"A child, Sherlock. If I never marry, I'm going to adopt a child. A bright one, whom I can raise to be brilliant. I've never desired to take in an orphan for the sake of charity alone."

"It's not charity, and you won't have to do anything for him. Just adopt him, and he can come live with me. Plenty of young men live with their uncles."

"I repeat: why don't you adopt him if you want him to be your family?"

"Because…" Sherlock Holmes scrunched his nose. "Because I don't want to be a father to him, I suppose. I don't want him to think of me as a parent, even in a vague sense. I don't feel any kind of paternal instincts towards him, except, of course, to protect him. I don't want to feel like I have to tell him to clean his boots or pick up his messes. As you say, he's practically a man. If I adopted him he might see me as some kind of father. I don't want that. I'd rather be… a friend, like an older brother or, if you take him, an uncle. I'll take care of him, and he will be my ward."

Mycroft sighed. "And where am I in this? What will you expect of me?"

"To protect his funds and his reputation. If he'll let you."

Mycroft rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Now that, I can do. And I won't have to raise him?"

"No. He's already raised. He'll live with me. And now, the only question that remains is… look!"

Beyond their hiding spot, John Watson had been sitting underneath a tree with one of his books propped up on his knees. Behind him, a man was beginning to stalk forward. Mycroft and Sherlock separated, sneaking to the left and right to surround Watson's would-be kidnappers. Two more men approached, and the first lunged at Watson, grabbing his shoulder and shoving something over his face.

There was a lot of shouting, then, as Mycroft signaled and the police rushed in. Sherlock paid attention to none of them, however, running straight to Watson. He punched the kidnapper in the nose, grabbed Watson away from him, and pulled the rag off of his face. The boy clung to him, trembling, and Holmes pulled him away from the fighting.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. I'm sorry. It's all over now." He lifted the boy into his arms, not caring about the weight or height of him. The boy wrapped his arms and legs around him, clinging so tight Holmes couldn't have dropped him if he'd tried.

He could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, but even though the boy was twelve years old and far too big to be carried, he refused to put him down. He gazed back at his brother steadily. Slowly, Mycroft nodded, and Holmes couldn't help smiling. If John Watson wanted it, he was going to take him home.

"John? Are you awake now?"

Watson groaned, screwing his eyes shut tightly.

"Here." Holmes laid a cool cloth on his forehead. "Mrs. Hudson said you were running a low fever. I think it's risen, but it's not worrying yet. You've probably just overdone it. Lay still."

Watson kept his eyes closed, but he felt the weight of his uncle sitting next to him and adjusting things here and there, moving pillows and blankets to make him more comfortable. He'd apologize later for being such a burden, but for the moment he simply turned his head to rest on his uncle's thigh and let out a long breath. For just this moment, he wanted to let himself be cared for. He wanted to enjoy being loved.

"I'm sorry you had to carry me," Watson whispered as he sat next to Holmes and watched the men who had killed his family get arrested. "I feel like a little kid again. Helpless."

"But you're not, John. We wouldn't have caught them without you. It's alright if you want to be carried sometimes. It's alright if you want to sleep in my bed when you have a nightmare, and it's alright if you occasionally want to hide in a cupboard. I'd rather have you do that than grow up angry."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes, John. I promise." Holmes reached out, threw his arm around the boy's shoulders and tugged slightly so the boy leaned against him. John sniffed, and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

"Please, John." Holmes whispered so low the words were for himself rather than the boy, "don't grow up angry."

"What's going to happen to me now?" John asked, his voice cracking a bit.

"You'll come live with me," Sherlock answered him. "As my nephew, if you'd like."

"Mr. Holmes? What do you mean?"

"My brother," Holmes said, gesturing to Mycroft, "he'll adopt you if you let him. Not because you can't take care of yourself, but because life is easier when you have family. We'll be yours if you want. You're young, and we'll help you until you're old enough to take care of your own affairs. You don't have to say so yet, but do you think you would like that?"

"I'd stay with you?"

"Yes. I wouldn't try to be your parent, but I'd take care of you. I promise."

John Watson leaned heavily against him, hugged him tightly. "I trust you," he said. "I'll be your family."

"I thought you would," Holmes murmured. "Come on. There will be plenty of questions to answer later, but for now let's go home."

"John? Wake up, John, please."

"I'm alright," Watson murmured, but he didn't open his eyes, and his head was slowly rolling back and forth.

"You will be," Holmes said, "I'll take care of you. I've always tried to. I'm your family, this is your home, and I'll make sure you're safe here."

"Uh… uncle?" Watson murmured. "Please, Sherlock, stay with me?"

"Yes, John. I'm here. You're ill, but you'll be alright. I…I'll be here. The whole time. Promise."

"John! Listen to me. Please!"

"Why the hell should I?" Watson screamed. "You lied to me! You've been lying to me since I was twelve years old!"

"No! Let me explain!"

"Explain? Explain what? You bastard! I'm leaving, and with any luck I will die in India so you don't have to deal with me in order to keep using the treasure my family was killed for!"

"John!" Sherlock Holmes screamed after him, but his nephew had already walked away from him, perhaps forever.

"Tell me again," John Watson murmured, "who he was. My grandfather."

Sherlock Holmes sat beside him softly, felt his forehead with the back of his hand. "Sure? It's not a very happy story for sickbed listening, and doesn't invoke happy memories for either of us."

"I'm sure," Watson murmured. "I lost your letter. The one that explained. I want to know. I didn't listen to you back then. Let me listen to you now."

"You're not going to die, John."

"Right. So tell me?"

"Of course."

Jack Watson, your grandfather, traveled to the American West to participate in the so-called 'California Gold Rush,' John, but he arrived too late. No new gold was being found, and the opportunities were not as glamorous as reported. So, he made his own opportunity. In a land where normal men had become rich overnight, I suppose you can imagine what that opportunity was. Through whatever means necessary, Jack Watson convinced those who had struck gold to entrust it to him. We don't know how for certain; some reports say it was on the promise of funding a mining operation in Canada. Whatever the promise, it was a sham. Jack Watson escaped to Ireland, then to Scotland, and on to England. I suppose he thought he was safe, but his crimes, as you know, came down on your family.

As far as Mycroft and I were able to find out, your father found the gold, and made contact with his father's old friends before he realized what he had and why. He was killed for it, and when your brother found it, he was killed for it, too. This, you know, and I do not mean to bring you pain by recalling it to your mind. You also know that the men who killed them were Americans seeking the treasure, so this I will not outline either.

As for what I revealed to you last time we spoke, it is true that when you were twelve years old we decided to keep your heritage and your inheritance from you. Or, I suppose, we kept your heritage from you and your inheritance for you. At first, Mycroft investigated the legality of keeping the treasure for you, and determined no one else had a claim on it. Then, we decided Mycroft would manage it for you until you were out of University lest knowing of it would affect your worldview. John, you wanted to be a doctor from before I met you, and you never stopped talking about it. I wanted that for you. I wanted you to be who and what you envisaged yourself as before you knew of the treasure. More than anything, nephew, I wanted you to be happy. I still do.

I admit I never imagined that would include being an army surgeon. I made the wrong conclusion, John. I thought you were worried about your funds, that you wanted to support yourself independently. I didn't want you to feel that you owed me anything for taking you in, or that I wouldn't support you once you graduated. Which both would have been a false assumption, but perhaps that is besides the point. In any event, John, that was the reason I told you about your inheritance and how it was obtained.

I was unaware of how in earnest you were about taking the army surgeon's course. I know I offended you with my attempts to talk you down from it, John, and for that I sincerely apologize. I won't lie to you and say that I'm not still terribly worried for you. I wish you hadn't gone, but I'll always be here for you when you return. I will always love you, and you have my support if not my complete blessing. Every day I dread to hear ill news of your adventures, and I look forward to your safe return.

Please, John, return safely. Until then I will look forward to the letters I hope that you will write. When you are home, I will provide you with any other details you require regarding your family and the treasure which was its downfall. Please, John, know that I remain your very affectionate and devoted uncle, Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson had kept the letter near to him, usually rereading the 'I will always love you' and 'please, John, return safely,' before he went to bed. Then, one day, it was thrown out with the rest of his blood-soaked, torn coat, and John didn't think to retrieve it. But he remembered it, remembered the words, and repeated it like a mantra even when he was shot, even when he thought he was dying. 'I will always love you,' had banged around in his head even in the depths of fever, and even though his last interaction with his uncle had been a fight, he knew it was true.

"Why didn't you want to be my father?" John Watson's voice was soft, and he'd been awake for a while but hadn't opened his eyes. They still weren't open, but he did turn his head towards Holmes. It was resting on a pillow on Holmes' lap, and Sherlock stroked his hair soothingly. John's fever had finally broken, but he was still weak and emaciated.

"I would have liked to be your father, John," Holmes answered him, and his words were slow, calculated, as if he'd rehearsed his answer. "But only if you were really my child. Or maybe if you'd been younger when I'd met you. As it was, I didn't want to be your father. I didn't want to parent you, because I'm certainly not a parent. I saw you more like… a little brother to me. That was why I wanted Mycroft to adopt you, so you wouldn't even try to see me as a father. But we did have to be related."

"Why?"

Holmes shrugged slightly. "I'm only nine years your senior, John, and so no one would have thought you were my son if I brought you to Baker Street without explanation, but, well, who knows what they would have thought? That I had kidnapped you? That I was abusing you? That I was something worse, some perverted old man who liked your youth and beauty a little too much? The very idea of that, of ever hurting you or letting the world think that I was hurting you still makes me sick. You know, of course, that I'd never lay a finger on you, but that's not enough. I had to make sure you'd never be an object of gossip or pity, you didn't deserve that. No, John, I wouldn't have brought you to Baker Street on any less claim than as my own beloved nephew."

"I see. And… I thank you, Sherlock. I suppose I hadn't thought about that. But… you wouldn't be my father."

"No. I didn't want to do all the 'father things.' Like… like telling you not to stay out late, or to pick up your things, or punish you for talking back, or…"

"Or teaching me to fish," Watson murmured. "Or caring for me when I was sick, or helping me with my a-levels, or consoling me when boys broke my nose and girls broke my heart."

"John…"

"Or sacrificing your own comforts for mine, or…"

"I get it," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "I did plenty of fatherly things to you. And if you want me to be a father figure, then that is the role I will take."

"No," Watson sighed. "I wanted you to be, once. But now, I suppose, you're more of… an older brother. Like what my brother may have been had he been sober and smarter. That was the problem, I think. I didn't want to replace him in my mind. But it has been your care that has saved my life, and Harry wouldn't have been upset by that. You're not a replacement for him. He wouldn't have seen it that way."

"No, John. I never tried to be a replacement."

"I know. I admired you for that. Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What would you withhold from me if I asked?"

"What a strange question. Of course you know there's very little I would withhold from you."

"Even if I asked you if I could call you father?"

"No, Watson, I wouldn't forbid you from calling me father. Are… you going to?"

"No. But what if I asked you for my inheritance? All of it, so I could move far away from you."

"I'd have Mycroft give it to you. I hope you're not planning on that one either, though."

"And what if I asked you to trust me?"

"John, if this is about joining the army, you know I regret what I said back then. You have my love, my support, and even my blessing no matter what you choose to do. Why, are you considering setting up a practice when you're well?"

"I want to join you."

"What?"

"You practically apprenticed me as a consulting detective since I was twelve years old. Let me be your partner."

"My job is dangerous, John."

Watson snorted. "I think I know a bit about danger."

"I… I'd like that," Sherlock Holmes said softly. "I'll think about it."

"He's a dock worker," John Watson said confidently. "He has… a wife, at least two children, and a mate he goes to the pub with on Thursday nights."

Holmes chuckled. "How do you get that last one?"

"I guessed," John admitted with a shrug, "but I bet I'm right! He looks like he likes darts, and Thursday is darts night at the 'Owl and Shrew,' the most popular pub around the docks. He doesn't go often; he likes to be home with his wife and children. When he does, though, he certainly wouldn't go alone. Thus the mate. Well? How close was I."

"Don't rely too much on guesses, John. And you missed that he's a bicyclist, a chess champion, and recently inherited a small piece of land in the North. Other than that… well done."

Watson smiled broadly. "Does that mean I can stay when he comes up?"

"No."

"But…"

"I said no, John."

"Why do you let me do everything besides go on the cases with you?"

"You know very well," Holmes snapped. "The criminals I face are dangerous, and so are some of my clients. I can deduce some things about our visitor, but I can't know why he's here. I'll share it with you later if I decide to. Now go to your room."

"Uncle…"

"Go to your room!"

Watson brought his shoulders in slightly and lowered his chin. "Yes, uncle."

"John. Wait. I'm sorry. Come here." Holmes folded the boy into his arms. "You're a bright, wonderful boy, and I am so, so proud of you. But I have no business putting you in danger; the only reason you ever were in the past was because we needed to lure out your would-be kidnappers. I regret that, John. I should have found another way. You need to be worried about things like cricket and your internship and young Ms. Mary, who you're so sweet on, not murder and blackmail and all the worst things the world has to offer. I'll tell you about the case if it's interesting. Promise. And we'll do some more deduction training later. Now please, go to your room, and I'll call for you when he's gone."

"Thank you, uncle." Watson kissed his cheek and headed to his room, determined that one day, maybe when he was older, he would go on cases with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'd like to introduce you to my nephew and colleague John Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself."

That was how Sherlock usually introduced him, and somehow John never tired of hearing it.

"Uncle?"

"Yes, John?"

"I… never mind."

"John? What were you going to ask of me? Please, tell me."

"I… can I go to a different boarding school."

"But you leave in a week… tell me why you're asking. Are the other boys cruel to you? I thought you said you were excited to see your friends."

"I am. The problem is… well, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I… I hate my math tutor!" John blurted out.

"I see… Moriarty? I heard he's supposed to be the best. What makes you say you hate him?"

"I… it's nothing."

"John. I believe you. I swear I do. Please tell me why."

"You may think I'm crazy, uncle, but I think he's a criminal! I mean… he has all these things in his office. Expensive things. Paintings and vases and even furniture and rugs and… everything. He keeps his back to the window even when we're in a tutorial. It's like he doesn't really want us to get a good look at him. And if I'm ever called to his office… I don't like going. He's creepy, and asks me… weird questions."

"Weird questions?"

"Like… am I happy being adopted by Mr. Holmes, and is the adoption final, and would I like to stay the breaks at the school instead of here. And have I ever stolen anything, and what happened when I was almost kidnapped. I don't even know how he knew about that. And he has all these different visitors who look mean and rough. At least one of them carries a gun; I've seen it. I mean, I'm sure it's all just nothing… but whenever I have to be around him I feel sick, like I'm part of something illegal."

Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and his frown was deep. "I don't think I can enroll you anywhere this close else to term, but I'm pulling you out of there. I'll tutor you myself until I can find someone else. And from this moment on, professor James Moriarty is under my scrutiny. My eye shall be on him, and when he makes a false move, I shall be his downfall."

John Watson scowled darkly as he stared down the barrel of a gun. He raised his eyes, and tried to calm himself as he looked into the eyes of his former math tutor.

"Hello, professor," he said, his voice only shaking slightly.

"Hello, master John. Or perhaps I should say 'Doctor Watson,' now. I was very put out that you left without so much as a goodbye, you know. You were one of my most special students. A boy with a fortune to his name, no family, a connection to Mycroft Holmes, and a formidable brain to boot. How I wanted to get you on my side! You could have been great. Powerful! But you chose to side with Sherlock Holmes instead. What a regrettable position you put me in! To have to kill my star pupil. Goodbye, John Watson. You should have paid more attention to your studies."

"No!" The scream was Holmes', but his uncle was too far away. They were standing on a path near a waterfall in a country far from home, and there was a very small chance they'd both be getting home alive.

Moriarty was distracted for a brief moment, and Watson lunged at him, knocking him aside though not subduing him. For some reason he couldn't, could only watch as his uncle wrestled with his professor, watched as Moriarty wrapped his arms around Holmes and tried to drag them both over the edge.

Watson wasn't sure what exactly happened next. When he finally came back to himself he was on the ground, and he was grabbing his uncle's arm so hard his fingers ached. His side ached, too, and that was because the arm he wasn't grabbing was putting pressure on it.

"John!" Holmes was calling. "John! Wake up, damn you! Oh, thank God. You're going to be fine, Watson. Just fine. The bullet passed through your side cleanly and I doubt it hit anything vital. Just hang on. I need to get you back down the path. Just hang onto me. I'm not going to let you die."

And even though, as a doctor, Watson knew that wasn't a promise he could keep, he trusted him nonetheless.

The first time John Watson met Mrs. Hudson's niece, his brain seemed to stop along with all his breathing and blinking and every other bodily function. He stuttered when he got some senses back.

"H-hello, Ms. Morstan."

"Please," said the girl, "call me Mary." Her voice was soft yet confident, and when she smiled at him John felt like he was seeing in color for the first time.

"You're about the same age," Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "John, perhaps you'd like to show her around Baker Street? She's employed by a family here in London, but she lives on the other side of the city."

"Of course I will," John replied so quickly his words didn't sound like English. He smiled sheepishly at the blonde girl, and to his eternal delight she giggled and grinned back just as sheepishly. She took his arm, and the two walked out together.

"I have a very good feeling," Mrs. Hudson murmured when they were gone, "that my niece will be visiting much more often."

"Hmm? What makes you say that?" asked Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. "You're hopeless. It's a good thing you adopted him, else you'd never get one of your own."

"John isn't…"

She snorted. "He isn't your boy, my foot. And it looks like you and I may be family sometime in the future."

"Oh, you mean… John won't be crying over any more girls?"

"No. Not unless… well, unless he ends up crying for a very long time. But here's hoping!"

"Will you marry me now that I'm a hero?" John asked with a small smile.

"A hero? John Watson, you scared me half to death. It's bad enough my aunt didn't tell me you'd been shot the first time, but then I come home to find you've been shot again!"

"How was America?"

"What? Fine, until I finally learned what had happened. I…" she took a deep breath.

"And will you be going back? I mean… if your job's still there. If there's someone special waiting…"

"No," she said softly. "I don't plan on going back. I had hoped there would be someone… or that you would have someone."

"Why, Mary? Will you at least tell me why?"

"You know why, John. We can't be together."

"No, Mary. I don't know why. First you said we were too young. Then you said I should finish university, then you simply said no, that you were leaving for America and maybe we'd meet again. Now you say you were worried about me and you came home, and you still won't marry me? Please, Mary, tell me why."

"John, please don't make this hard. You are… wonderful and kind and I would marry you if I could. But you're also one of the richest young men in all of England. One day you'll live in a large house with servants and you'll be able to marry any lady you like. John, how could I live like that? Knowing you belong but I don't, knowing you're surrounded with beautiful people all the time and…"

"Mary!" John Watson didn't care that he was still recovering, he rose quickly and went to her. "Mary, even if I wanted to live like that, and even if I lived like that with you, do you really think I'd ever let you feel inferior? But I'm not going to. If I'm ever lucky enough to marry you, I want to have the life we've always dreamed about. You know, a medical practice, occasional cases with uncle, maybe a bull pup, maybe something more..."

"And when you tire of that life? When you realize you want more? That we're not on the same level?" Despite her protests, she leaned into his embrace.

"Oh, Mary." He kissed her cheek. "I have a solution. Wait for me for just a moment." He ran upstairs, ignoring the pain in his side. He came back with a small, gilded jewel box.

"John?"

"This is yours," he said, and even though he'd practically been professing his love for Mary Morstan from the time he was fourteen years old, he was blushing a deep red.

"Mine?"

"Yes. It was always only meant for you. I… always imagined it as a wedding gift. But even if you don't want me, it's yours."

She opened the case and gasped. "John… this is too much."

"No, it's not. And now, my dear, you are a rich young woman." He took the pearl necklace out of the jewel box and affixed it around her neck.

"John…"

He knelt in front of her. "Marry me, Mary Morstan. Please, say you will. And if you really won't, I won't pester you, won't force it upon you. But, if you will, I swear I will always love you and I will never allow you to be second place to anyone in my life."

"Oh, John…" she bent down towards him as he rose towards her.

They met somewhere in the middle, and when they embraced it was impossible to know where one ended and the other began.

Below them, Mrs. Hudson was loudly declaring she 'knew it!' but they were far too distracted to notice.

"Uncle, do you think I'm odd?"

"I'm odd, John, and so therefore I'm not sure I'm one to say, but from my view you are perfectly normal."

"Mary thinks I'm odd. She says she likes me anyway, but that I'm not like most boys. She says that's a good thing, really. But is it? I mean, it can't be bad, not if Mary says but… am I odd?"

Sherlock Holmes paused for a long time, bringing his hands to his lips to think. "Yes, John, you are odd, but Mary is right; it's a good thing. After all, how many young men would bother to learn the science of deduction? Who among your friends is more interested in livers than liquor? Yes, John, you're odd. But I love you for it, and, it seems, so does young Ms. Mary. Does that bother you?"

"No… I suppose I haven't been normal since I was twelve years old."

Sherlock hummed sympathetically and crossed over to his nephew, patting his shoulder.

"And do you really think she likes me?" John asked hopefully.

"You'd better consult Mrs. Hudson. When it comes to these kinds of things, I'm hopeless."

Sherlock had, when he'd first taken John Watson in, thought he'd made a great mistake and there was no possible way he was ready to care for the lad. For a week he'd been terrified to do the wrong thing and ruin the boy's life, and for about a month he thought he'd be happy the day Watson left him to be his own man.

Later, when John was as dear as any "real" nephew could have been and perhaps dearer, he'd thought he'd be devastated when the boy moved out. In a way, he had been, but mostly he'd been terrified because John had left to join the medical corps.

In the end, when it really was time for John to be his own man, when Holmes had stood outside a church and threw a handful of confetti over his nephew and new niece, watching them walk out hand in hand and happier than he'd ever seen them, he found that he couldn't feel anything other than proud.

Sherlock Holmes sighed heavily. "John, I…"

"I'm not sorry."

"You can't fight the other boys without reason."

"He made fun of you. He called you a 'Scotland Yard harpy' and said the things I write about you are lies. I told him to apologize or I'd punch him. He didn't apologize, so I punched him. I'm not sorry."

"You may not be sorry, but you need to learn to be smart about these things. Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To buy some gloves. It's long past time I taught you to fight. Next time you decide to punch another boy, you'd best win."

Sherlock Holmes paced back and forth restlessly, and for the first time in a very long time he bit at the small hangnails on his fingers.

"Oh, calm down," Mrs. Hudson chastised him. "They'll send word when they're ready! You're acting like it's your child. You're a grandparent now. A grandpapa, a gramps."

Holmes blushed, then smiled sheepishly. "What do you get to be?"

"Nan," she said proudly. "Look. Here comes a messenger!" Despite her having been the one to chastise Holmes to be calm, she practically ran out the door.

"I love you."

John had said it for the first time late one night when he couldn't sleep and was curled up next to him on the couch, his head against Holmes' side and his uncle's arm around him.

Holmes froze, his mind suddenly stalled.

"I… I love you, too, John," he said softly when he'd thought about it and realized he meant it. John was already asleep by then, but Holmes decided it wouldn't bother him at all to tell John again in the morning.

Sherlock Holmes hadn't thought he could ever love anyone as much as he loved John Watson. After all, John was his friend, nephew, son, and brother all at once. He would die for John Watson; he would kill for him. He had been apprehensive, therefore, to meet his grandchild. What if he didn't connect with the baby? What if he found he wasn't a good uncle after all?

His every doubt vanished the moment he stepped into the room to find his niece-in-law sitting propped up by pillows and cradling the most perfect human Holmes had ever seen. His breath caught in his throat and time stopped. He lived in that moment for a lifetime, and he'd never felt so much love. He was stuck frozen, and he wasn't sure he took a breath from the time he saw her to the time John left his wife's side and touched his arm gently.

"It's alright, Sherlock. She's fine. They're both fine. She was born early this morning and she's happy and healthy. Come meet her."

Holmes' feet moved, and he found himself by the bed.

"Uncle," Mary said softly, "Meet your grandniece, Martha Jeanne Watson."

"I…" he stuttered. "Hello, Martha Jeanne." He reached out hesitantly, not touching her as if the dream would end and she'd vanish if he tried to make contact. Then, like a miracle, the little girl yawned widely and stretched one tiny hand. When her fingers touched one of his, her tiny fist closed around the digit. He felt himself let out an odd sound, and he realized tears were falling down his cheeks.

"Sit down, uncle," John said, and he was smiling broadly. He lifted Martha from her mother's arms and showed Holmes how to hold her so she was cradled safely.

Holmes stared down at her, and he wanted to make a million promises. 'I will always protect you. I will always love you. I will make the world safe and sound for you if I have to raze this city to purge it of crime. There is nothing I would withhold from you. There is nothing that could make me stop loving you.'

"She's beautiful," is what he said aloud. "She's…" he choked slightly.

"We think so, too," John said, and he kissed his uncle's cheek.

Sherlock Holmes looked up at him, then to Mary, then back to Martha. He was smiling from ear to ear, his heart was full, and it felt like the first moment of a million more stretching into infinity, each greater than the last.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading my story. I sincerely hope you enjoyed.

This was written for the user sabra jaguar, who both pitched the idea and approved the first draft (back when it was 6,000 words lighter! I warned you these things tend to go off the rails, haha. Hope you liked it!). I admit I wasn't, at first, a big fan of changing Holmes and Watson's dynamic to adult/child, but I'm super happy with how this turned out and had a lot of fun writing it :)