"…One of my best friends. You should be proud of him."

"I always have been. I'm very grateful to you for saving his life."

"He would have done the same for me. I've lost count of the number of lives he's saved by now, but that's what we do, isn't it?"

John blinked hazily, barely noticing the conversation going on at the foot of his bed until he realized Murray was talking with his father. Damn. He closed his eyes again. As if it weren't bad enough that his father had actually flown out here—and gotten clearance to do so—now everybody would know about his background and start treating him differently. Damn, damn.

He was so busy feeling sorry for himself, he missed part of the conversation, but Murray's voice came through loud and clear. "Honestly, I'm not surprised. He's one of the best men I know. He almost defines the word 'noble,' so I suppose it's not surprising that his blood is, too."

"Just don't spread it around, Murray. Nobody would believe you, anyway," John said, croaking the words with his dry throat. Both men turned quickly and hurried back to the bed, offering him water, asking how he felt. "Breathing, which is what matters, right?"

"It doesn't hurt, mate," Murray told him with a grin, but John's attention was caught by the look on his father's face—relief, yes, concern, but also pride, as if stupidly getting shot had been the best thing John had ever done.

"Speak for yourself," John said, realizing how sore his lungs felt. "Father? Are you okay?"

Jonathan's brow creased as he lifted his eyebrows. "Me? You're the one in a hospital bed, John."

"Well, yes, but … you look terrible. When's the last time you slept?"

If he hadn't known how much it would hurt, John would have laughed at the expression on his father's face, but was grateful when Murray spoke up. "That's the Watson I know—worrying about everyone else instead of himself—because knowing when to duck is so over-rated, right, Watson?"

"I was just doing my job, Murray. Now, make yourself useful and make sure my Father goes somewhere to get something to eat, maybe some sleep?"

"No, John, I came here to see you…" his father protested.

"And you're seeing me. I'm awake, I'm going to be fine, but you look like you haven't slept in days—and I don't even want to know what you had to do to get here. Go take care of yourself. I'll be here when you get back."

He nodded at Murray, who stepped forward and said, "If you'll follow me, sir?" and then led John's father away as John breathed a sigh of relief.

Not that he wasn't glad to see his father. He was actually surprised at how glad he was to see him. It had been years since they had lived together, but there was still something about his father that made him feel safe and loved.

No, what worried him was … well, obviously his 'cover' was blown. With the hundreds, thousands of casualties that had gone through this hospital since he got here, only a very few had gotten personal visits. Usually that was forbidden until the wounded were shipped back home. It took very special kind of pull to manage a trip to a hospital in a war zone—especially for a non-combatant. John still couldn't believe his father had managed it, but since he had … well, it would be pretty obvious to everyone that his family wasn't as middle-class as he'd always professed.

Fine, then. He would heal up and deal with the fall-out when he got back. With a shoulder wound, it would be weeks at least before he could return to duty, all dependent on physical therapy. He would probably be sent home for recuperation, he thought with a sigh, remembering that he had let the lease on his flat run out after his last deployment. All his things were in storage, but it was fine, all fine. He would think of something, and in the meantime the gossip would die down.

"You all right there, Watson?" Murray was back.

John nodded, and tried not to wince at the way it pulled at his shoulder. "It's all relative."

"Speaking of relatives…?"

He sighed. "Yes, he's my father. No, I have no idea how he wrangled permission to come here."

Murray came and sat in the folding chair next to his bed. "He was worried," was all he said, but his face showed his curiosity. After a moment, he offered, "I noticed your names were different."

Closing his eyes briefly, John nodded. "After I left home, I started using my Mum's name. It made things easier."

"Easier?"

"How much did he tell you?"

Murray's face creased in concern. "Nothing, John, he was just worried about you. Frankly, we all were—it was touch and go for a couple days. I was just surprised he managed to come visit. Most parents can't manage that."

Right, thought John. Point of no return, and Murray is one of my best friends… "Most parents aren't the sons of Earls, either. The family doesn't join the military very often, but my grandfather has connections when he needs them."

"Your grandfather … is an Earl?" Murray's voice was flat, shocked.

"Yeah. David Brandon, Earl of Undershaw. My father's the younger son." John tried to heave a deep, cleansing breath but it jarred his shoulder too much. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to keep that to yourself?"

"But … why? Why would you lie?"

"I never lied," John said, pain both emotional and physical making his voice sharp. "I used my mother's name to avoid extra attention—both good and bad, Bill. Remember how Geoffries was treated? I mean, he's a prat, but he was judged before he even had a chance. I wanted to make my own way, prove that I could do it on my own without relying on my family name. I've been supporting myself since I was 18. I can't help that my grandfather is an Earl … though you'd like him, if you met him, you know. Unlike Geoffries, he's a pretty remarkable person."

Murray was watching him with concern. "I'm sure he is, John. But you still lied."

"No, I didn't. I just didn't talk about my family. There's a difference." John gave a little laugh. "If it makes you feel better, most of my family has no idea I've done any of this. They know some of the doctor and army bits, but not that I changed my name, or relied on my own brain rather than my family's influence."

"Which explains why you're still just a Captain," Murray said, teasing, but it made John feel better.

"True. And it doesn't look like that'll be changing any time soon—not for the better, anyway. Christ, my shoulder, Bill. I'm a surgeon, for God's sake."

His friend nodded, sympathy plain on his face. "I know, mate, but you might be lucky. You won't know until you get through the therapy. On the plus side, I bet your Dad will spring for some top-notch doctors so you're not relying on us army hacks to save your entire career for you."

John gave a laugh. "Army hacks like me?"

"Well, we can't all be like you, John," Murray said as, with a glance at the clock, he stood up. "Don't worry, mate. I'll keep your dark secret, though I should tell you that the grapevine is mighty curious about your Dad."

John smiled, already feeling himself drifting back to sleep. "Start a few rumours for me? MI6? Professonal thief? Media mogul making a documentary? Highly successful tailor? Time traveller? By the time the truth comes out, nobody will believe it."

He felt a warm hand pat his and Murray's "Sure thing, John," followed him into sleep.

#

"So, what do your doctors say, John?" his grandfather wanted to know.

John lifted the china cup to his lips, cursing at the tremor causing ripples in the brew. "It's early to say for sure, but it looks like at least most of my mobility will come back."

"Most?"

"Mm," was all John said, but there was a world of worry there. A month after returning home, and he still had a tremor—not to mention a limp he had no idea how he'd gotten. There was no physiological reason for it, and even psychologically … He had been working on Singh's chest wound when he'd been shot, not his leg. Why had his subconscious made his leg a weak point? How was he supposed to take care of himself with a bad shoulder and a bum leg?

He had acceded to his father's demands that he come home for his rehabilitation. After all, John was stubborn, not stupid. He was well aware that he needed help for the immediate future. For those first couple weeks, he had been content to lounge around and let his father's staff wait on him. It wasn't like he was used to cooking his own meals anyway, and his father's chef produced far superior meals to the army food (if you could call it food) he'd been eating for the last fifteen years.

No, he'd been content to laze around being pampered for a couple weeks as if he were on holiday—though the pampering had stopped at the physical therapy office. The specialists his father had found put him through a gruelling course of rehab that had done wonders for his overall shoulder mobility, but … there was still this damn tremor he just couldn't shake.

He smiled bitterly at the pun, but even that bit of humour dropped away as the china cup rattled in its saucer. Yet another reason to appreciate mugs, he thought, as he carefully put the fragile cup on the table.

He looked up to find both his father and grandfather watching him carefully. "What will you do if you can't go back to the army?"

"I have no idea, but I'm hoping it won't come to that," John said, but as he took in his grandfather's expression, his face froze. Oh God, no. "Why?"

Silently, calmly, his father passed over an official-looking letter, postmarked the day before. "This arrived this morning, and your father was concerned."

The last thing in the world John wanted to do was to open that letter, but his hand reached for it automatically, even as he felt the blood draining from his face. "Do you know what this says?"

"I didn't open it, son."

"That's not what I asked," John said, his voice sharper than he intended.

They let it slide, though, and just watched him. Then, a calm sympathy on his face, his grandfather said, "I may have gotten a call yesterday from a friend," he said finally.

John let his hand fall in his lap, clenching the envelope. "No," was all he said, but his head was screaming, No, no, this wasn't possible. It's all I've worked for, all I've wanted. No, please.

"Leg aside, apparently they're concerned about a surgeon with a tremor, John. I am so sorry."

John stared down at his hands. He had relied on them his entire life and now, they were letting him down. He had spent the last twenty years concentrated on his career and now, just like that, it was gone—blasted away as thoroughly as if that bullet had found his heart.

It might as well have. For all intents and purposes, it had.

After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and then tucked the unopened envelope in his pocket and reached for his teacup, leaving the saucer where it was. "Right. Enough about my health. How are you doing? Your arthritis still bothering you?"

#

Dismal. There was no other word for it, but did it really matter? For now, this was all he could afford. He would think of something later, when he figured out what to do with his life.

"Are you sure about this, John?"

His father stood uncertainly in the doorway, immaculate in his suit, face creased with concern.

John nodded. "Sure enough. I've been making my own way this long, I can't sit back and be pampered for the rest of my life."

"It doesn't seem to have hurt your grandfather any. The Brandon family has thrived for years on being pampered."

John dredged up a smile. "True, but you forget—I'm a Watson these days. I appreciate having you there … I can't tell you how helpful it's been these last few months … but I'm a big boy now, Father. It's time for me to get back to my own life." He looked around the dreary room. "Or what's left of it, anyway."

Jonathan nodded. "I agree. Certainly my son would never be one to sit around—believe me, I've noticed how crowded you've been feeling. But still … here? You could do so much better."

"And I will, I'm sure. This is just temporary," John told him, trying to sound as if he believed it. All he really knew was that he had to get out of his father's house. He was used to being surrounded by comrades-at-arms, not servants, and after terrifying that poor maid the other day with his nightmare…

"You just …" His father looked around the colourless room again, eyes despairing. "You have that trust money, don't forget. I know you don't want to rely on it, but just for now, while you're getting back on your feet? Wouldn't it help?"

"It's there if I need it, I know. I just..." John stopped. He didn't even know how to finish that sentence. "I need to do this on my own."

Understanding shone in his father's eyes as he nodded. "Do you remember, when I visited you in university? We had almost this same conversation."

John smiled, though it had a wistful edge. "I do. I was starting fresh then, too. It just seemed … easier."

His father reached over and pulled him into a quick hug. "Everything's easier when you're younger. If we knew ahead of time what the world was going to throw at us, nobody would do anything. The difference here is that, even so, you're starting again and not letting anybody stop you. Not even me. It's certainly more than can be said of your sister."

"Well, that's Harry for you. She's always been happy to take the easy path and hates to be reminded of her mistakes."

His father nodded. "Not that she ever admits making any, though splitting with Clara hit her hard," he said. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, and then Jonathan gave another, brisk nod and turned toward the door. As he opened it, he paused. "I'm proud of you, you know. I may not always understand, but I am always proud."

"I know," John told him, feeling his eyes prickle. "I am, too."

#

It was a month later that John bumped into an old friend at the park.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike grinned. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

#