Waving goodbye, John watched the car pull away from the restaurant and tried not to think about how very well his father was getting on with his landlady. It really just did not bear thinking about.

Neither did he want to think about the consulting genius standing next to him. He couldn't complain about Sherlock's behaviour this afternoon. As he'd always expected, his friend had impeccable manners when he chose to use them and, really, John was grateful he had chosen to do so today. He hadn't spent the entire visit grilling John's father about his past, either, which showed admirable self-restraint on Sherlock's part. On the surface, everything had gone smoothly. No outbursts. No hurt feelings. No squabbles or harsh words. Just pleasant conversation and laughter and good food.

It's just that it had all been so damned uncomfortable … for John, at least.

He watched the car turn the corner and, without turning, said, "Letting them leave together was probably a mistake, wasn't it?"

As if invited, Sherlock stepped forward to stand next to him. "It depends. At least this way you didn't have to carry your presents home. The question is, are you ready for Mrs Hudson to become your new mother?"

"Oh, God, don't even say that," John said with a groan. "I think I need to wash my eyes out with bleach … or my whole brain … to get that image out. I mean, it's nice they got along and all, but … flirting."

"I thought it was rather sweet," Sherlock said.

John glared up at his friend. "You did not. You don't even say that sort of thing. You just enjoyed watching me squirm. Okay, fine. I'm not going to think about this. I just need to … walk. You coming?"

"Of course." Sherlock settled in alongside him as he headed down the pavement, trying not to think about … anything. Anything at all. Like what Sherlock was going to say when he turned the conversation back to John's father.

Still, it was a beautiful day for July—not too hot, so that the walk was enjoyable rather than punishing, not that London's summer could begin to compare with Afghanistan's heat. The two men walked in companionable silence for a time, but John could feel Sherlock's attention on him and finally he said, "Okay, you have questions."

"Your father isn't retired, like Mrs Hudson thought, is he?"

John hesitated. That hadn't been the question he'd expected. "Since he's never technically held a job, no."

There was silence for a time, and John could practically hear Sherlock considering and discarding questions with lightning speed. It was frustrating—John was grateful for this practically unprecedented consideration, and all, but he was anxious to get this interrogation over with. He'd never been one to pick at a bandage. He preferred to pull it off quickly, and so he said, "Spit it out, Sherlock. I appreciate you're trying to be delicate, but … go for it."

An appreciative glance from his friend, who said. "Your father is wealthy."

John nodded.

"It's not self-made wealth, either, but inherited. He's never worked because he didn't need to. He wears bespoke suits and handmade shoes. His car has a driver who has been with him for years, who knew you well enough to call you by name. You were uncomfortable in the car, but it wasn't because of the outward signs of wealth. You've been around them all your life, haven't you?"

"The first half of it, anyway, yes."

Their pace had slowed now, as Sherlock's brain concentrated on the puzzle rather than the physical act of walking. "You get along well with your father, though, so you weren't disinherited, but you yourself are not demonstrably wealthy. You … chose it?"

John gave another nod. "Just before I left for university. I said it earlier—my father's name was too well known. I wanted to make it on my own merits, not because my family money made it easier."

"You put yourself through school?"

"Worked in a sandwich shop to cover expenses," John said, agreeing.

"And then you joined the army … still under your mother's name?"

"I wanted to make a difference. I never wanted to just be a GP. And the name, well … my medical degree was under Watson, and … did you ever read Sense and Sensibility? No? Not surprised. It's an old novel by Jane Austen and had a character named Colonel Brandon who was played by Alan Rickman in a film back in the 90s. Lord, did I get teased about that. All the girls had crushes on him and … let's just say that helped me make my choice to join up under Mum's name."

"But…" Sherlock's voice was uncertain.

"What? Go ahead, Sherlock."

"But when you were shot … I thought you didn't have anywhere else to go?"

"Not entirely true. I stayed with Father when I first came home. I told you that, remember? I might not like being waited on, but with a bad shoulder and a cane, it was … necessary … for a while until things had mostly healed. But I've been on my own for twenty years, Sherlock. I mean, I visit with the family and all, but for day-to-day living, I've always supported myself. Convalescing at Father's was one thing, but once I was back on my feet … I needed a flatmate."

He looked up with concern at the … was that confusion? … on Sherlock's face.

"If you're blaming yourself for not noticing, don't," John said.

He saw Sherlock's lip curl, but wasn't sure which of them it was directed to. "You've been a series of surprises from the start, John, but … this? How could I have missed this?"

His legs were picking up speed, and John had to stretch to keep pace. "It's not like I deliberately tried to deceive you…"

"Of course you did," Sherlock snapped. "You've been trying to keep your father and me apart for months. I had thought you were afraid I would embarrass you, but it was the reverse, wasn't it? You didn't want your father to 'out' your little secret, the fact that you've been lying to me this whole time."

"Sherlock, you've got to understand," John said, trying to keep the pleading note from his voice. "I've lived with this my whole life. My mother sent Harry and me to the local primary school, but we never fit in the way we should. Then, the summer before I left for Uni, Mum died. The one person who had argued for not letting my class and money define me was gone, and I was about to start my adult life with the same stigma hanging over me—being laughed at for my accent, for my money, with everyone assuming that any success I had was because it was bought somehow, rather than earned. So I decided to change that. I enrolled under Mum's name—which was my name, too, by the way—and supported myself. It's not a lie. I've never lied to you."

"A lie of omission, then," Sherlock said, voice scathing. "You walk around in your jumpers and worn jeans as if that's all there is to you, when it's not."

Now John was starting to feel angry. "Of course it's not, and you know that better than anyone. I'm a doctor, Sherlock, and a soldier—that kind of dichotomy didn't alert you to the fact that I'm not quite like everyone else? I wear jeans because I like them and that's what I can afford. You know, for someone eager to observe and deduce a puzzle, you're acting very anxious to stuff me into a pigeonhole all of a sudden. One that seems to be labelled, Grew up rich, not to be trusted."

"Don't be silly, John. It's not the money that makes you untrustworthy. It's the fact that you've been lying about it."

"Untrustworthy?" John couldn't believe his ears. "Because I don't rely on family money to pay for bespoke suits and a Belstaff coat? I've been supporting myself my entire adult life—you of all people should appreciate that."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Sherlock said, but John put his hand on his arm, forcing him to stop.

"That's bollocks. You know better than anyone what it's like to be different, and you hate like poison to have to turn to Mycroft for anything. You've been trying to cut ties with your family for years. You're just upset that I managed to separate myself from my family obligations without alienating them or having to resort to drugs to get them to leave me alone."

At any other time, John would have been proud to have silenced Sherlock so effectively—because Sherlock looked like he'd taken a blow to the head. Of course, not being a cruel person, at any other time, John would never have said any of that¬¬—but just then, John was too furious. Sherlock was so convinced he was always right, that he knew everything, but he didn't know a damn thing about what John's childhood had been like or what demands had been made on him.

Which is why, before Sherlock could say a word to him, John said, "You know what? Maybe you'd just better leave me alone, too."

And he turned on his heel and stormed off in the other direction, leaving a slack-jawed Sherlock Holmes staring after him as he went.

#

Sherlock watched John march away and felt nothing but frustration. He was the wronged party here, wasn't he? He had been the one John had misled for months now. The man had lied.

Oh, not outright, perhaps, but in all the ways that mattered. Every word John had ever said to him had been a lie because the accent he had spoken with had been false. Every scrap of clothing he wore was a deception, presenting him in middle-class normality instead of in the threads that would befit a gentleman. (Because looking at John's father, there was no question the man was a gentleman in the classic sense of the word.)

No, John's alleged need for a flatmate, for money to make the rent … the necessity of his working at the surgery to make ends meet … all of it was a lie. Not like with Sherlock. He had legitimately been cut-off from his trust fund. He had truly needed a flatmate to share the rent until Mycroft could be convinced to release the money that was rightfully his. But John obviously got on well with his father and could have gotten his hands on some money whenever he needed to.

Clearly John was the one at fault, here. Even knowing Sherlock's need for knowing the truth, he had deceived him by allowing him to work under the misapprehension that John was middle-class.

That wasn't to say Sherlock couldn't admire the achievement. Not many people could deceive him, much less a flatmate he saw for hours every day. He had no idea that John's camouflage skills were so good. Even the accent—he had never detected an anachronism or flaw.

No, John's chameleon skills were laudable to have fooled him for so long. He could almost admire him for that, except John hadn't deceived him as a test or a game. He had deceived him because it was all a lie. Everything Sherlock knew about him was based on false assumptions.

How had he gotten this image in his head, that John had grown up in a small, middle-class house? That he had been, perhaps, the first of his family to go to university, to better himself? Because none of that was true. Quite the contrary, John had had every advantage and had chosen to throw them away.

Sherlock's stride was eating up the pavement as he tried to consolidate this new knowledge with the man he had thought was his friend. Past-tense, yes, because no-one who was truly a friend would indulge in such a long-term deception. He had thought John Watson was one of the most honest, most transparent people of his acquaintance, but, no … he'd been mistaken. The persona of John Watson might be, but that was just a false identity hiding John Brandon, whoever that might be.

Because John Brandon? Sherlock didn't know him at all.

A small voice suggested that he did, that John was John, regardless of his surname, but he snarled at it to make it shut up. John Brandon was anathema to him, a liar, a thief—a thief who had stolen John Watson away.

That annoying little voice of reason spoke up again, suggesting that maybe what Sherlock was upset about wasn't that John had lied, but that he—the Consulting Detective—hadn't noticed.

Even if that were true (because he was admitting nothing), that still didn't change the facts, he told himself. John's entire life was based on a lie, and how could he forgive that?

Because when it mattered, Sherlock did not lie. He would fib to encourage a confession from a suspect, and naturally one couldn't expect him to be forever honest to Mycroft … but to those who mattered? Mrs Hudson? John (or John-that-was)? No. Lying to them was beneath him. They might not always interpret correctly, but he laid the facts—himself—out before them for them to see what they might. His past, his drug history, even the family money which showed in every thread of his beloved Belstaff coat … it was all there to be observed, not hidden beneath shabby jumpers and old jeans.

John had lied.

He didn't know if he could ever forgive him.

#

John was marching down the street, still fuming, when the black car slid alongside him.

"You've got to be kidding," he muttered to himself as he glared at the shiny finish. As the window rolled down, he just stood there. "Now is not a good time, Mycroft."

Sherlock's brother nodded. "Nevertheless, we need to talk, John."

John just heaved a deep breath and glanced toward the front seat. He really didn't want to be man-handled into the car, not today. "I am not in the mood for this right now."

"Understood," said Mycroft. "Nevertheless…"

"Fine," John said, and climbed into the car. "Well?" he asked as they pulled out into traffic.

"The Earl of Undershaw?"

John sighed. "My grandfather, yes, as I'm sure you know."

"I do now, yes, though I really must speak to my people for not having spotted this earlier."

"Careless of them," John said, pursing his lips. "I'm surprised, actually. I wouldn't have thought it would be that hard to spot. It's not like it was a deep dark secret, or anything."

Mycroft played with the handle of his umbrella. "And yet you went to such lengths…"

"I wouldn't go that far. I dropped the Brandon from my name and started supporting myself. It's not like I bought a stolen ID and cut all ties with my family. I talk to my father regularly, and he's always known my reasons and been supportive. What you're really saying is that I didn't tell you. I swear, you and Sherlock are just the same sometimes."

"He took the news badly, then?"

"Don't you know?" John was surprised. He would have thought Mycroft would have seen the fight.

"I knew the two of you had split up on your way home, but not … er … how badly?"

John gave a short laugh. "Very. Apparently not only have I deliberately deceived him, but my entire existence is a lie, which makes me untrustworthy. Untrustworthy. Because even though I support myself and haven't relied on my father for money since I was 18, the fact that Icould have makes this so duplicitous and changes everything."

Mycroft's voice was tentative as he asked, "And when you say it changes everything…?"

"It's hard to say. At this precise moment in time, it means that we just had a fight and said some nasty things and are both angry. How long that will last?" He shrugged. "I don't take kindly to being told I'm untrustworthy—especially not when that's solely based on the fact that I didn't tell my flatmate—the man who is continually bragging about his observational skills—that I grew up in a large house with money."

They rode in silence for a few moments as Mycroft considered what John had just told him and John continued to try to calm his heartbeat, trying not to think of what he and Sherlock had shouted at each other.

"What did you say to him?" Mycroft finally asked.

"We both said things we shouldn't," John said with a sigh as he rubbed his hand over his face. "I might have told him not to blame me because I didn't have to resort to drugs to get away from my family. Which, yes," he added as Mycroft drew in a hard breath, "I know was over the line, but he had just told me my entire life was a lie, when I don't see him broadcasting the Holmes family background to all and sundry."

"No," Mycroft said, stretching out the syllable, "But … John. The drugs?"

"I know. I wish I hadn't said it, but he's got to realize not everything's about him."

"I thought you knew my brother better than that, John. To him, everything is about him—it always has been."

Silence reigned for several more minutes, and then Mycroft said, "He'll probably forgive you if you tell him you were waiting to see how long it would take him to figure this out—that it was a challenge."

"I'm not looking for tips on managing Sherlock," John said wearily, "Especially from the one person who upsets him more than anyone else … until today, at least. I do realize that he's angry at himself for not having deduced this, and I know how sharp his tongue can be … but he went over a line too, today. There's no point in my apologizing if he doesn't realize he was wrong also."

Mycroft gave a small nod. "It's not just the fact that he missed this, you know. It's also that you…"

"…Managed to do what he didn't," John said with a sigh. "I cut ties with the family tradition, head out on my own, but did it without leaving a wake of hurt feelings behind me. I know. We both rebelled against our families, Mycroft, just … I did it tactfully."

He caught a glimpse of respect on Mycroft's face. "You did, indeed. I've never met your father before, but I believe I know your cousin, David. It's only now that I realize who he's meant when he's spoken of his cousin John—one whom he respects for being an army doctor, though he never mentioned the name change."

"He probably didn't know," John said. "When I told my father I wanted to do this, we agreed that it would be something we wouldn't deliberately hide, but that we wouldn't advertise. Most of the family knows I'm a doctor and in the army, but not necessarily that I go by Watson and haven't touched my trust fund in twenty years."

"Fascinating," Mycroft said. "I begin to see why Sherlock is so intrigued by you, Captain John Hamish Watson Brandon, MD. You are full of what appear to be contradictions and yet are in fact remarkably consistent and strong in your moral stance."

John just rubbed at his forehead. "Yes, well, I doubt he would agree with you just now. And for the record he doesn't know about my grandfather being an Earl yet."

"If you'll take my advice, John, you won't wait long before telling him," Mycroft said as the car pulled up at Baker Street. "You just need to remind him that you are the same man you've always been—and that your apparent contradictions are all part of what drew him to you in the first place."

John pushed open the door and then turned back. "It remains to be seen whether we'll be talking about anything at all, but yes, I know."

"My brother trusts very few people in the world, John. I would hate for him to decide to cross you off that list."

John nodded a bit to acknowledge that—he'd never heard Mycroft sound so urgently sincere—but all he said was, "Thanks for the ride."

He paused on the pavement, watching the car drive away and trying to reconcile the minute differences between this "kidnapping" and his others by Mycroft. Some indefinable dynamic had shifted, as if Mycroft knowing of John's upbringing and close connection to one of the realm's Earls had altered the way he spoke to one John Watson. He had still come over the Big Brother, but there had been less condescension than usual. That just underscored the reasons why he had changed his name in the first place, he thought with a sigh as he turned to the door.

And while it was one thing for Mycroft's attitude to change—and John wouldn't object to invitations rather than kidnappings, after all—John was terrified that his relationship with Sherlock would never be the same.

#

—You shouldn't blame him. I didn't know about his family, either. MH

—Bugger off, Mycroft. It's none of your business. SH

—No, but you are, and I worry. I'm sure he just thought you would see his past for yourself. You are forever reminding us all that you don't need to be told things. MH

—Go away, Mycroft. I don't need you OR John Brandon telling me anything. SH

—You mean John Watson, don't you? MH

—There is no such person. Now GO AWAY.

#