The next few days were a blur, and by the end of it, John had seen way more bombs than he wanted. He felt he had had his fill now, thank you, and hoped karma wouldn't send any more of them his way any time soon … or ever. Especially bombs of the wearable kind.

He made a point of visiting his father shortly after the events at The Pool. (He couldn't help the capital letters, even in his own head.) He still felt guilty about ushering him out so quickly, but considering how fast affairs had gone downhill (and personal) with Moriarty, had no real regrets. That was not something he wanted his family anywhere near.

For entirely different reasons, he didn't want them near Sherlock, either. Once the game with Moriarty was over, Sherlock had started asking questions about John's childhood, his family, where he'd grown up … things that would be perfectly reasonable for any other flatmate, but this was Sherlock Holmes. John might not always know what his ulterior motives were, but he could damn well tell when he had them.

Not that he was ashamed of his family—or of Sherlock, for that matter—but John had kept his upbringing secret for so long. It had never really been an issue before. Other friends had usually picked up fairly quickly that John didn't like to talk about his family, but Sherlock? This was a man who took "I don't want to talk about it" as an invitation for him to do it himself—if John wasn't going to tell him about his family, then Sherlock would simply deduce the answers for himself. The more John tried to evade Sherlock's questions, the more the man would want to know.

The minute-long meeting between Sherlock and his father hadn't really helped, either. Sherlock had been distracted by Moriarty's game, but he had still noticed things that made him curious. (Of course, everything made Sherlock curious unless it was immediately classified as 'dull.')

Still, John normally didn't have much interaction with his family, but that had changed recently. Since his return from Afghanistan, his father had wanted to see him more often. His father wasn't intrusive or pushy (unlike Mycroft), but apparently almost losing John to a bullet—and seeing him daily during his convalescence—had revived his paternal feelings, and John could understand that. Seeing him every month or so didn't seem like a high price to pay.

It was getting it past Sherlock that was challenging. Not that John lied about visiting his father, but coming up with reasons to exclude Sherlock was becoming challenging.

He laughed to himself at the irony. Mycroft was practically desperate to spend any time with his brother, no matter how acidic and unpleasant, all while Sherlock was angling to spend time with John's family, but not because of any weird, bond-with-his-flatmate's-family kind of desire. John was well aware that Sherlock didn't think much of family bonds. No, Sherlock was curious, oh so very curious, about what he had seen of John's father the day the Game had started.

Frankly, John was surprised Sherlock hadn't taken this out of his hands and arranged a meeting himself (probably by stealing John's phone), but he supposed he was trying to be … patient? Discreet? Thoughtful?

Really, he had no idea. All he knew was that it was something of a miracle he made it all the way to July before the inevitable happened.

#

"Your mobile rang at least three times while you were in the shower, John," Sherlock told him absently as John wandered into the kitchen, thinking about tea.

"What? Really?" John asked, reaching for his phone. "Nobody but you ever calls me that oft… oh. Oh. Oh, damn. It's Sunday, isn't it?"

"Well done, John. Extra points if you know the date as well."

"Not funny, Sherlock. I was supposed to meet my father and Harry for dinner last night, but then you figured out the painter had been poisoned with lead in his paint and there was the chase, and then all the paperwork and … I forgot. Damn it. I'm not going to hear the end of this," he said, just as his phone rang again.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said as he answered. "There was a case with a painter whose wife had been … right, you're right. It's no excuse. I should have called. How long did you …? Oh. And Harry …? I am really, really sorry, Father. We can reschedule, any time you … what? Now?"

Sherlock glanced up, amused, at the frantic tone. He'd never heard John's voice go quite so high and squeaky before. "In trouble with your father, I gather?" he asked when John had ended the call.

"You could say that. I left him and Harry alone at a restaurant for my birthday dinner where not only did I not show up, but she got plastered. He is not amused, and is on his way over here, right now." John took one, slightly desperate look around the sitting room and then dashed for the stairs to get dressed.

Sherlock smirked a bit as he turned his attention back to his microscope. Some people were so ridiculous about their families. At least John's called first instead of dropping by like Mycroft liked to do.

And then he cursed to himself because, as if summoned by the thought, Mycroft chose that moment to show himself up the stairs. "Couldn't stay away?"

"Not at all, I just wanted to wish John a happy birthday,"

Sherlock's forehead creased. Was that something he was supposed to be concerned with? John was over the age of five, after all (no matter how deplorable his taste in television). Did he still celebrate his birthday?

He was thinking of a biting comeback when John's voice came from the door. "Thanks, Mycroft. You're a bit early, though. My birthday's not until Tuesday."

Sherlock turned his head to agree (not that he had known when John's birthday was), but stopped. John was wearing a suit. A fairly decent one, too, in navy blue worsted with a lighter blue shirt underneath. A mundane choice, perhaps, but it suited him, accenting the deep blue of his eyes and providing a nice contrast for his light hair.

John's face, though, looked anything but comfortable as Sherlock and his brother stared. "My father's on his way over," he said to Mycroft as he crossed to the mirror with a tie in hand. "If he keeps to form, any restaurant he's picked is going to prefer if not require a suit. You really don't need to stare, you know. It's not like I'm wearing my uniform."

"I beg your pardon, John," Mycroft said. "It's probably best not to upset your father after standing him up last night."

A brief shadow flitted over John's face and he swallowed before saying, "Leaving him alone with Harry wasn't the best idea, especially as she apparently … indulged … last night."

Curious, Sherlock thought. John looked nervous, but the way his eyes were flicking between Mycroft and the door, it wasn't about his father … it was about Mycroft, though John had never seemed nervous around him before. It was almost as if he … hmm … as if he didn't want them to meet. But why? Granted, why would anyone want to talk to Mycroft, but John's father had seemed intelligent and presentable—not particularly embarrassing as parents go. There was no reason to worry about introducing him to Mycroft.

For a moment, Sherlock felt smug, remembering how John hadn't minded introducing him, but then he realized that John had seen his father several times since, but that they had always met elsewhere.

Maybe John was embarrassed by … him?

Sherlock felt a brief flash of pain at the thought. This was sadly nothing new, he told himself. Acquaintances had a long history of pretending not to know him, but … John?

No, he told himself. John had seemed harried when he took the call earlier, but he hadn't shown any signs of Sherlock being the problem. He had seemed a bit resigned, perhaps, but that would have been because he was being dragged to brunch by an irate parent (wasn't it?). Obviously, the problem was Mycroft.

Yes, watching the way John kept glancing toward the door, he was anxious about his father and Mycroft meeting. The question remained, why? Mycroft might be a conceited pig with megalomaniac tendencies, but even Sherlock admitted his manners were quite good—Mycroft had always been good with inconsequential trifles. He had no reason to want to antagonize John, either, so his demeanour toward his father would no doubt be impeccable. John had no reason to believe that Mycroft would offend his father, so … was the contrary likely? Was John ashamed of his father?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he considered, staring down the shaft of his microscope without actually seeing anything. It seemed that John had a laudable relationship with his father, and the man had seemed to have good manners himself, so … really, what was going on with John and his family?

"Sherlock?"

He blinked and turned back toward Mycroft. "I asked if you had anything special planned for John's birthday?"

Still mentally analysing John's curious reactions regarding his father, he said, "No, why would I?" and then winced as John just blinked, face carefully blank. "I mean, I didn't know that John would want to do anything in particular, so no, had no specific plans in mind."

"Oh, please, Sherlock," Mycroft said with that smug tone he had mastered at the age of eleven. "You didn't even know it was his birthday."

Remembering John's earlier conversation, Sherlock said, "Of course I did. I don't rely on you to tell me everything, Mycroft."

"Boys, please. My father's going to be here any minute. Could we keep the squabbling down?" John turned back toward the room, hand on his tie. He sighed. "I suppose it's too late to do anything about the mess," he said, just as the doorbell rang.

Muttering to himself, he went down the stairs, returning a moment later with his father in tow. "I'll just get my things," he was saying. "Father, you remember Sherlock, don't you? And this is his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, this is my father."

"Jonathan Brandon," his father said, offering a hand to shake.

Sherlock just happened to be looking at John and saw his minute wince when his father spoke his name, and then quickly looked back at his brother in time to see him blink, apparently surprised. That was odd. Mycroft's self-control was practically impossible for anyone (else) to shake, yet John's father … Curious. He wondered if it was the name; he hadn't realized John had a different surname. He had never mentioned his parents divorcing.

He turned his attention back to John who was looking decidedly nervous now. "Right. I've got my phone, and I'm starved. It was nice seeing you, Mycroft."

Sherlock watched, amused as John's father gave him a look. "In a rush, John? I'm going to start to think you're ashamed of me. I had hoped you'd outgrown that."

John's smile was a fascinating combination of affection and frustration. "Never that, it's just … you were the one eager for brunch, and Sherlock is neck-deep in an experiment, and of course, I know how busy Mycroft is."

"On a Sunday? Nonsense. I thought we could invite them along, since Harry can't make it. I did call her, you know, but considering her … indulgence … last night, her temper is not the best this morning. I thought it would be worse punishment for the two of us if I made her come. But your friend and his brother? That nice landlady of yours, too. The more the merrier, won't you come?"

Sherlock looked up to see a look of mild horror on John's face. For a moment, he was offended. Surely John wasn't that opposed to his company? Did he think he would behave that badly? Because he was actually intrigued by the idea of spending time observing John and his father, surely John knew he would behave. (If for no other reason than that he knew John would make him leave if he offended his father.) Then he realized—this would mean having brunch with Mycroft.

He met John's eyes, knowing that his own face mirrored the horror, but thankfully Mycroft diverted the pending disaster by excusing himself. "It's very kind of you, but I do have duties to attend. Thank you for the invitation, though. John, do enjoy your birthday. Sherlock—try not to ruin it for him." And with another quizzical look at John's father, he excused himself.

That was a relief, Sherlock thought, but John's tension level had barely dropped. Did he not want Sherlock to come?

He lifted one eyebrow slightly and was relieved when John gave a small (albeit resigned) nod. "Thank you, I would love to come."

#

John climbed into the car with almost a feeling of relief. He'd managed to hold off a real meeting between Sherlock and his father for months, but now not only had they met, but Mycroft had, too. With the sole exception of his grandfather's title, the metaphorical cat was out of the bag. God knew he couldn't hide anything from the full attention of the Holmes brothers, and had always known they would deduce his father's (and therefore his own) upper class background. There was nothing he could do now.

He therefore planned to enjoy his brunch.

So he ignored the inquisitive yet casual way Sherlock looked around the interior of the car, how he very politely did not mention the professional driver up front. No, John just listed as his father and Mrs Hudson made small talk about how warm the weather was, and how unusual the traffic was for a Sunday morning.

It wasn't until they were seated and had ordered that Sherlock—clearly on his best behaviour—joined the conversation, when his father mentioned John's blog. (John's was horrified—he had had no idea his father knew it existed. He immediately started racking his brain, trying to remember how much detail he had written about some of the more life-threatening cases.)

Sherlock, meanwhile, was calmly explaining that John's entries were inexact, if entertaining. This was the first time John had ever heard Sherlock refrain from denouncing his blog as poorly written trash dumbed down for the masses, and he could only assume that Sherlock was trying not to embarrass John in front of his father—a delicate attention John wouldn't have thought Sherlock capable of.

John sipped at his tea and hid a smile when his father asked if Sherlock were ever wrong.

"Not often, no," Sherlock said, "Though my data is sometimes incomplete—like when John allowed me to work under the impression that Harry was his brother, not his sister."

"Let you?" John said, sputtering. "That was all of five minutes, and only until you'd stopped talking long enough for me to get a word in edge-wise."

"No, John, you forget. I mentioned your 'brother' when we met at Barts—a full 24-hours before the cab ride to the crime scene."

John just snorted. "And then you were out the door so fast, you almost forgot to tell me your name. That hardly counts."

Sherlock just smiled. "Of course it does. Though perhaps you just don't like to talk about your family—after all, you let Lestrade believe your father's surname was Watson."

John drew in a hard breath … and there it was. He was stumbling around, trying to think of what to say when his father spoke up, "It does get confusing sometimes, doesn't it, since John uses his mother's name. He has ever since he was 18—the summer she died."

Sherlock just blinked as Mrs Hudson made sympathetic noises. John couldn't help but gaze at his father with something akin to adoration. What a perfectly misleading explanation for his name change—one that most people would accept as a slightly unorthodox tribute to a beloved, departed parent. That those two facts had nothing to do with each other was irrelevant. The juxtaposition made its own perfect logic.

Except, of course, this was Sherlock. "But that wasn't the reason, was it?" he asked, eyes narrowed as his brain chased down this latest mystery. "John had told me his mother was dead, but there was no undue emotional cues to the telling. But—the summer he was 18? So, just before he headed off to school, then? But why that name?"

John could sympathize with the flummoxed look on his father's face. He really could have told him it was a mistake, trying to mislead Sherlock, even as he applauded a truly noble effort. His only problem was being undecided as to whether he should help, here, or wait to see what his father came up with next.

Except—changing his name had been his decision, all those years ago, and one that had likely embarrassed his father enough over the years. It was hardly fair to let him handle this while under the laser-gaze of Sherlock Holmes. "Brandon was too well known a name, Sherlock, between me and my cousins. I wanted to succeed on my own. It was just easier … and Watson was always part of my name, anyway."

Sherlock's eyebrow lifted. "I can understand that. I would have loved to drop the Holmes from my name, especially after Mycroft went through his grades like a dose of salts, but, well, family tradition wouldn't let me."

John nodded, too uncomfortable to look at his father as Mrs Hudson said, "That's the thing with tradition, isn't it? Even for the best of reasons, it can be hard doing something different—like all the girls today who keep their names when they marry. I would certainly have preferred not to keep Jack's name, but … well, that was a different time. You took your husband's name when you married, and it stuck. It's just less common for men to change their own names."

"Exactly," John said, just as his father said, "And John has always been headstrong. Nothing I could say could change his mind."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me at all," Mrs Hudson said with a fond look at John. "I've noticed that about your son, Mr Brandon—he's quiet about it, but when he sets his mind on something, he won't let anything stand in his way."

"Oh, please," John said. "I can't even get Sherlock to keep body parts out of the fridge."

"Give it time, dear. I have faith in you," Mrs Hudson told him while Sherlock clearly restrained himself. Maybe inviting their not-a-housekeeper had been a good idea, after all. She often helped keep Sherlock's worst impulses under control and he did seem to be on his best behaviour. Maybe it would all be fine, thought John, just as Mrs Hudson asked, "So, what do you do, Mr Brandon?"

Oh, no.

"Please, call me Jonathan," his father said with a smile. "And I'm afraid I don't really do much of anything. There is some necessary paperwork and accounts to maintain … I do keep busy, but not with anything like an actual job."

John could see Sherlock's attention practically riveted on his father—if his gaze had been any sharper, he'd have cut the man in two.

"That's a good thing about being our age, isn't it?" Mrs Hudson said with a light laugh. "Not having a full-time job. Being landlady to these two is enough for me, these days."

"Is John causing you trouble? I thought he'd been raised better than that."

"Oh, no. John is a dear," she said, a fond smile on her face.

Oh, God. Were they flirting, John wondered as he tried not to squirm. And here he'd thought Sherlock was going to be the difficult one. This was like a nightmare. He didn't know which was worse—having Mrs Hudson there to distract Sherlock from his family history or watching her flirt with his father. This might just be the worst birthday ever. It didn't help that Sherlock was looking so damned amused by it, either.

He looked around for the waiter. Where was the food, already?

He had a sudden feeling that this was going to go very, very badly.

#

(Hint: John's right. things are about to go very, very badly.)