"You're looking good, John."

John shrugged off his coat and draped it over the chair as he sat down. "Thanks. I'm feeling good, too."

"No cane?"

He shook his head and grinned at his father's tone of surprise as he reached for the menu. "Not since I moved to Baker Street."

"That's wonderful, but … Baker Street? That must be expensive," his father said. "You said it's a flatshare?"

"Yes, but that's fine. My flatmate keeps things interesting," he said, covering a yawn. "Excuse me. I haven't gotten much sleep the last few nights, but I didn't want to cancel again or you'd think I was avoiding you."

His father peered at him over his menu. "Date?"

"No. Well, not exactly. I was chasing after Sherlock … he's a Consulting Detective, did I say? We were working on a case involving—I know this sounds crazy—Chinese acrobats, a smuggling ring, and a jade hair pin worth six million pounds."

John studiously looked at his menu, trying not to smile at his father's shocked expression. "I saw that in the paper. You were involved with that?"

He absently touched the sore spot behind his ear as he made a non-committal sound. "Mm. What's good here? Brunch was really an excellent idea. It feels like I haven't eaten anything decent for ages."

"John!"

He looked up and grinned. "Yes, Father?"

John watched his father shut his mouth on whatever he was going to say as he stared. "You really are better, aren't you? You look like yourselfagain."

He nodded. "I'm managing. I mean, I've got a bit of a headache, but it doesn't matter. My limp's gone—Sherlock got rid of that for me—and the tremor isn't that much of a problem unless I'm bored. Though please don't ask me why it goes away when I'm under stress, because I've no idea. I'm doing some locum work as a doctor which, while it may not be surgery, is at least something. And meanwhile, I'm helping Sherlock. His cases are fascinating."

His phone chimed with a text, but he ignored it. Instead he just calmly read the menu while his father gave him one of those analytical, measuring looks that somehow didn't seem nearly as intimidating as when he was a boy. After the army and the two Holmes brothers, suffering his father's stare was cake.

After a time, his father nodded and went back to his menu. Neither of them said anything else until after they'd ordered. John was sipping his tea when his phone notified him that he'd received yet another message, making three since they'd sat down. Reluctantly, he dragged the phone from his pocket to check. "I just need to make sure he's not bleeding on the floor," he said as he glanced at a plea for milk, and then switched the phone to vibrate and laid it on the table.

His father watched, bemused, but all he said was, "Isn't that Harry's phone?"

"What? Oh, yeah. She didn't want to be reminded, now that her marriage is broken up, so she gave it to me." John saw the appalled look on his father's face. "Really, it's fine. It's practically new and works perfectly well. It's not like I needed a new one."

Jonathan just shook his head, a fond smile on his face. "I'll never understand you, John. Where on earth did you get his strain of thriftiness? It's very un-Brandon-like."

"Well, you know I hate being like everybody else."

"Nonsense. You work hard at it," his father told him.

"No." John shook his head. "I work at looking like everyone else. Not the same thing at all—which is good. If I were like everyone else, I'd never manage to room with Sherlock Holmes. Do you know what he did the other day? I came home and found a head in the fridge for one of his experiments."

"A head?" Jonathan sounded absolutely appalled.

"Yes, the real thing. And of course he didn't bother to warn me … obviously we need to talk about boundaries, but they're not really his thing. I don't think he or his brother are very used to listening to other people, but it's fine. It's a work in progress, and in the meantime, I'm not bored."

John noted the unhappy look on his father's face and gave him a smile. "Seriously, I'm doing better than I have in months. Don't worry."

His phone buzzed again, and he just grinned. "Did I mention he's not the most patient person?"

His father took a sip of his tea and just watched him. "You don't mind that? You've never taken orders well, John—just one of the many reasons I was always surprised at your choice of career."

John thought about it a moment. Since meeting Sherlock, his own life had been at risk several times, they'd both been attacked, they'd chased criminals, solved puzzles, saved lives. What was a lingering concussion and a biohazard of a refrigerator next to all of that? "It was never about taking orders. It was about saving lives, making a difference—and I feel like I'm doing that again, with Sherlock," he finally said. "Despite the frustrations … but you know me. I like a challenge. If things were too easy, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

He shifted the conversation to Harry's most recent bout with alcohol after that, and just hoped his father didn't take it in his head to come visiting. The man had enough to worry about without facing Sherlock.

#

"Sherlock? I'm home," John called days later, as he lugged up three plastic bags of food he sincerely hoped he'd get to eat this time, rather than seeing it all turned into experiment-fodder.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, not lifting his head from his microscope. "You got a package."

"I did?" He followed Sherlock's vague wave and looked toward the desk, to see a neatly wrapped box next to his laptop.

He absently pulled off his coat before walking over. Who would be sending him something? Except for the bank and the people in charge of his army pension (and Mycroft and the police, he supposed), who knew he was even here? Nothing ever came for him but bills.

He cut the tape on the paper (and who shipped boxes wrapped in brown paper these days?) and then stopped, unexpectedly touched. Inside was a brand-new, state-of-the-art mobile phone, along with a card.

With quivering fingers that had nothing to do with his intermittent tremor, he opened the card.

"You may not need it, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve it. You can pay the monthly bills for yourself, son, but enjoy the phone. –Father"

He almost jumped at Sherlock's voice. "What did you have to do for Mycroft to get that?"

John just shook his head. "You know, it's not always your brother, Sherlock. This is from my father."

"Really?" He could almost hear Sherlock's attention shifting to him. "I thought your parents were dead."

"No, just Mum. She died when I was 18. My father, though, is still with us. He just doesn't seem to approve of my using my sister's old phone." He turned it over in his hands—the latest model iPhone with more bells and whistles than he really wanted in a phone—he couldn't hope to master them all—but he was touched. He turned it on and was relieved it was already set to his current number. That was something, at least.

He could practically feel Sherlock's attention, like lasers through his back. "It's an expensive gift from a man who couldn't bother providing accommodation to his wounded son," Sherlock said. "Feeling guilty, is he?"

John turned, nothing that Sherlock's gaze was every bit as intense and he'd expected. "No, more like appalled at my life choices. And I never said he didn't—where do you think I lived during my convalescence?"

Sherlock frowned. "But you … no, you never actually said your family wouldn't help, did you? But you never corrected my deduction on that score, either. Why would you let me assume they were uninterested in helping?"

"I don't remember your mentioning a brother with a penchant for kidnapping, either," John reminded him. "I don't talk about my father much, but I never said he didn't care."

He started to punch at the icons on his new phone and felt his brow crease with frustration. He was never going to figure this out, he thought as he heard a chuckle. "He might care, but he obviously doesn't know you well, or he'd have gotten you a simpler model," Sherlock told him, a hint of fondness in his voice. "Still, welcome to the 21st century, Dr Watson."

John was busy trying to find the Contacts page and just muttered, "Thanks a bunch, Sherlock. I'll just let you put the shopping away, shall I?"

#

Mycroft had barely left when John's phone rang. Sherlock watched as he glanced at the screen and cursed under his breath. John accepted the call and immediately said, "I'm fine, Father. I wasn't even here when it happened."

Ah, thought Sherlock, edging into quieter music on his violin as he listened. It was nice to know someone in John's family cared enough to check on him. Annoying though Mycroft was, he would never have dragged himself across the city just to drop off a minor little case about stolen missile plans. Sherlock was well aware he had come to check up on him because of the explosion and, again—annoying—but he knew that somewhere, deep inside Mycroft's manipulative, judgemental, overprotective, over-stepping self, he did actually care if Sherlock lived or died.

Harry had never shown such an inclination on John's behalf, and that was a mystery to Sherlock because even he knew that John was fundamentally a more likable person than himself. He didn't understand how his sister could be so cavalier about his well-being. It's not like she ever called him on the phone she'd given him, not unless she was drunk.

"It was right across the street, actually," John was saying, "But it's okay. I was at Sarah's last night and only heard about it this morning. I just got back. Sherlock's fine and, other than some broken windows, I think we're fine. It's all fine, Father."

Sherlock wielded his bow thoughtfully as he watched the flicker of panic cross John's face as he turned around to scan the flat. "What? No, really, you don't need to come… The street's totally cordoned off, and there's broken glass … you'll ruin your shoes…"

But it was clearly already too late. John lowered his phone and stared at Sherlock. "Right. My father is coming to visit because apparently he doesn't believe me when I say we're all right. Can I … just … would you, please…"

"John, please," Sherlock said smoothly. "I do have some manners. I'll do my best to restrain myself from insulting your father. Frankly, I confess I'm quite curious."

"Oh, Christ," John groaned, looking even more worried than he had a moment ago It really was curious, Sherlock thought. Almost as if he had something to hide. Suddenly, Sherlock was quite looking forward to this.

Just then, though, Sherlock's phone rang—Lestrade, calling with something intriguing about the explosion across the street. He reached for his coat, and asked John if he was coming—he might appreciate an excuse to avoid his father. (Sherlock was certainly glad to take any and all that would keep him apart from Mycroft.)

"I'd love to, Sherlock," John said, looking sincerely regretful, "But if my father's on his way over… I really can't. He sounded too worried, especially since it was an explosion. You know, after Afghanistan … Call me if you need me?"

Sherlock fought a sense of disappointment, but couldn't deny the logic. If, in fact, John's father was concerned for his son, it was reasonable that he would want to reassure himself as to his well-being. He looked at his flatmate for a moment, trying to determine whether John actually wanted to see his father, or if he just felt obliged, but John's eyes were clear and unshadowed by anything other than concern for his father's concern. This circle of worry made no sense to Sherlock, but he'd never understood sentiment.

Still, it made him feel better for John's sake—that someone in his family did care.

So he nodded. "I'll be lost without my blogger, but I'll fill you in when I get back. Mycroft sent cleaners last night, so there shouldn't be any broken glass, but I still wouldn't take my shoes off, if I were you. There's milk, if you want to offer your father tea."

"Right," John said absently as he looked around the room. "You weren't hurt, though? Mrs Hudson?"

"Luckily I avoided the worst of the glass until I got my shoes on," Sherlock said, "And Mrs Hudson was in her kitchen, never in any danger."

"Thank God," John said. "You'd better go, though. Lestrade, Scotland Yard, remember?"

Reminded, Sherlock nodded and turned to leave, smiling when John called after him, "Call me if you need me."

He pondered what he'd seen as the cab neared Scotland Yard. John had had the demeanour of sons everywhere, of "Dad, I can handle this on my own," but it had been tempered by affection, and the realization that his father would not be happy without actually seeing him. That, of course, was John all over. He frequently put other people's needs ahead of his own. (Sherlock couldn't understand that, but found it most convenient at times.) But still, John's reaction had been nothing like Sherlock's would have been in the same situation. He had seemed … fond.

There was something he was hiding, though, and Sherlock was determined to find out what it was, but not just now. Right now, Lestrade had another mystery for him.

#

John was just rummaging for tea things when the doorbell rang. That would be his father, he thought, and jogged down the stairs, only to meet Mrs Hudson in the hall. "I've got it, Mrs Hudson. That will be my father."

"Oh, really?" she said. "Checking after the gas explosion? It gave me quite a turn."

John turned to her, eyes searching. "You're all right, though? No dizziness or nausea? Any ringing in your ears? Sherlock said you were in the back when it happened?"

"Yes, dear, I'm fine," she reassured him with a smile and then gestured toward the door. "But don't you think you should let your father in?"

"Oh, Christ," said John, and practically lunged for the door. "Father, I'm sorry. Come in. This is my landlady, Mrs Hudson. I only just saw her for the first time since the explosion and got distracted. Mrs Hudson, this is my father, Jonathan Brandon."

He saw Mrs Hudson's surprise at the different surnames, but he was used to that by now, and after a few minutes' chat, invited her up for tea. "Really, it's no trouble. Father is just checking up on me, and knowing how well you look after me above and beyond what any reasonable landlady would do will only set his mind to ease."

"Yes, please join us," Jonathan said. "John will tell me whatever he thinks I want to hear, but I can tell that you'll tell me the truth."

John laughed. "Oh, wonderful. This was a terrible idea. Maybe you'd like your tea to go, Mrs Hudson?" But he was leading the way up the stairs, trying not to watch his father's face too carefully as he looked around the comfortably worn room. He found he was grateful to Mycroft, though. Except for the boards on the windows and the new bullet holes in the wall (what had Sherlock been thinking?), the room looked as neat as it always did … which wasn't very, but still … it did not look like an explosion had just happened.

He left his father and Mrs Hudson talking while he started the tea. It sounded like they had hit it off, which didn't surprise him at all. Mrs Hudson was such a friendly soul, and his father had plenty of the Brandon charm. John had a flash of the two of them going out on a date together, and shuddered.

Waiting on the kettle, he stepped back into the sitting room. "As you can see, Father, we're fine—except for the windows. I wasn't even here. I wish I had been, though, I could have helped. Was anybody hurt outside, Mrs Hudson?"

"Luckily, no," she said as she slid past him toward the kitchen. "That's one blessing, anyway. Sherlock was near the windows when it happened, but was standing between them, Other than a couple of small cuts from broken glass—which, yes John, I made sure he bandaged properly—he was fine."

John just shook his head. If Sherlock had been standing at the window when it happened … It didn't bear thinking about. John had had enough experience with bombs and explosions to last a lifetime. "Sherlock's at the Yard," he told his father. "Lestrade called just after you did, or he would have been here. He seemed quite eager to meet you."

His father smiled. "From what you tell me, I can't say I'm surprised."

"He has a good heart," Mrs Hudson added, walking back in with the tea tray with a sly look at John (who had had every intention of doing that himself). "Though he does his best to hide it and would hate me for saying so. I can never forget what I owe him."

"True," John said. "Me, either. When you meet him, Father … because I know you will … just ignore the rough edges."

John could see his father relaxing a bit as he watched Mrs Hudson pouring the tea and listening to John tease her that this wasn't something landladies usually did. He had tried to tell his father that he was happy, but seeing was believing, he supposed. He watched his father's eyes as he looked around the room, filled with (mostly) Sherlock's clutter and wondered what he was thinking. His father knew he didn't have a lot of things, and John found the clutter oddly cosy—when it wasn't taking over the entire flat, at least.

His father was too polite to make judgements, though—or at least, to share them in front of a stranger—and it wasn't long before he stood to excuse himself and the three of them headed down the steps, assuring each other they'd enjoyed their visit.

Which, naturally, was just when Sherlock and Lestrade breezed in.

#

Sherlock was already calling for Mrs Hudson when he realized she was standing right in front of him, along with John and an older man. Of course, John's father. He had almost forgotten.

"Ah, excellent," he said. "Mrs Hudson, we need to get into 221C. Would you be good enough to get your key?"

She looked surprised, but hurried off to her flat as Sherlock turned to John. "It turns out it wasn't a gas explosion after all, John. It was a bomb."

"What?" Worry leapt into John's face, increasing the lines in his face.

"I know," Sherlock said, all but rubbing his hands together. "And at the middle of the explosion was a message for me." He whipped out a phone in a pink case. "Just like on your blog, do you see? And on it, there was a message. Five Greenwich pips, and this photo which, well, we'll wait for Mrs Hudson …."

John hesitated. "You should probably go, Father."

"What? No, I'm not leaving you here with a possible bomb, John."

"Wait, John, is this your Dad?" Lestrade asked, a pleased look on his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

Sherlock had spun back around on his heel, eyes raking over the scene. Why was everybody being so dull when there was a case? He was about to say as much when he remembered his earlier promise to John. "Sherlock Holmes, John's flatmate," he said, shaking the man's (soft, well-manicured) hand. "And no, it's highly unlikely anyone would go to such lengths to send me a clue just to hide a bomb in my own basement. I'm sure John will be perfectly fine."

This was met with a slightly stunned silence and he sighed. There was a reason he didn't usually bother with social graces. A moment later, though, John said, "Right. You were leaving anyway, Father, and we've got everything under control, don't we, Lestrade?"

With only a brief conversational stumble, Lestrade spoke up, "Er, yes, we're just following up on a lead, but I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. It was nice to meet you, Mr Watson."

"There? See? We're fine, and you have things to do. I'll give you a call later," John told his father as he ushered him to the door as the others watched on, bemused. John gave them a quizzical look when he turned back from the door. "What? It's not like I want my father hanging around a potential bomb now, do I?"

Lestrade just shook his head. "No, that I completely understand. It's the fact that you're not fussed for yourself that worries me."

"Yes, well, I saw my share of bombs in Afghanistan," John said. "And I'd rather keep my father as far away as possible."

Sherlock stood still, intrigued by the fact that John called him "father." That was usually reserved for more formal relationships, and the two of them seemed to get along well enough. His father had been wearing what looked like an excellent suit, as well, though covered by an overcoat. Somehow Sherlock had expected something different for his jumper-loving flatmate's father. He wondered what he did for a living, and for a moment regretted the bomber's sense of timing, no matter how glad he was of the distraction.

Then John's voice intruded on his ruminations. "And here's Mrs Hudson. Shall we go?"

Recalled to the case, Sherlock turned back to 221C. He would go over the intriguing body language between John and his father later. For now, the game was on!

#

NOTE: For the record, the original plan for this story was to tell roughly the same story as "Heritage Trust," just with that one, crucial difference of John's father being supportive and loving instead of, well, the complete opposite. When I started writing it, though, I had to start earlier in the timeline. Canon-John seems like an independent fellow who hasn't relied on anyone over the years, so removing his familial support network was surprisingly easy—all it meant was he'd had a richer childhood than we usually expect. But here? With a rich background AND a family that he keeps in contact with and that loves him? There was too much I needed to know to make the new POV work, and the best way to do that is to write it out, even if only in vignettes that touch on earlier parts of his history. Rest assured, though, this WILL catch up to "Heritage Trust"—or at least, that's the plan! I'm not lingering on the events from The Great Game any more than I need to. (Though, that said, I don't know if it's going to be possible for John to stave off Sherlock's rampant curiosity for, what, 8-9 months between the Great Game and Christmas?)