Still smouldering, Sherlock pushed open the door to 221 and almost stumbled on the pile of packages in the hall.

He'd forgotten that Mrs Hudson had brought back John's birthday presents and only barely restrained himself from kicking at the box holding the new laptop. (See? He wasn't the only one who got expensive gifts from his family.)

He was just about to sweep past them up the stairs when Mrs Hudson called him. "Oh, Sherlock, dear. Are you alone? Could you come here a moment?"

He really wasn't in the mood for this, he thought, but with a flounce (not that he admitted it was a flounce), he turned and went down the hall to her flat. "Yes?"

She grabbed his arm and bustled him inside, shutting the door behind him. "I feel just terrible. I didn't know it was John's birthday, did you?"

His lips tightened. "Not until this morning. Apparently there are any number of things I did not know."

"His father told me in the car … and he is such a nice man. I can see where our John gets his charm from, can't you? … Anyway, he told me in the car that John doesn't like to make a fuss, that he never has. At most he'll let his father and sister take him out for a meal, but he won't let them do anything special, but that just seems wrong, don't you think? So what if we threw him a party? Even just a small one? Do you know who we could invite? Any of his friends?"

For a moment, Sherlock felt a malicious gleam at the thought of forcing a party on an unwilling John. He would hate it, but be forced to be polite anyway, because that's what John did. It would make him miserable, and Sherlock could envision the whole thing—the gathered friends, the shout of surprise, and then hours of John being polite through gritted teeth, forced to pretend that he was …

But, no. The vision fell away in a burst of static. John spent too much time pretending as it was. Twenty years now, was it, since he'd started pretending to be someone else? Besides, Sherlock would be stuck at the party as well. Before the night was done, he would be wishing he'd invited Moriarty just so he could blow it up and none of them would need to suffer the ordeal but that would hardly seem fair to Mrs Hudson who was just trying to do something nice because she was always doing that even though she didn't have to and it's one of the things he found nicest about her or at least not totally annoying even though sometimes she was but he secretly loved her for that anyway and … what had she asked him, again?

"I doubt he would appreciate any more surprises this week, Mrs Hudson, though it's very … kind … of you to offer."

She nodded. "I suppose you're right. It's rather short notice, isn't it, and some people consider that rude. It seems a shame to do nothing, though. He does so much for both of us."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Really? You think so?"

"Oh, Sherlock, really. Of course he does. He does almost all your shopping…"

"…So do you."

"And he's continually cleaning up after you…"

"…As do you."

"He follows you on cases and helps you out all the time, and he blogs about them, which has to be good publicity for you…"

"Romanticized nonsense."

"Sherlock!" She was glaring at him now. "You're just being silly. I'm just saying it would be good to do something nice for the poor man, his first birthday since he came back from Afghanistan."

Sherlock just shrugged. "If you feel you need to, go ahead. I really can't be bothered."

He started to walk away but she grabbed his elbow. "Sherlock Holmes, whatever is the matter with you?"

"Nothing at all, Mrs Hudson. I'm sure it's very nice of you to be so thoughtful, and I'm sure John will appreciate whatever you do, but leave me out of it."

She looked appalled. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

"Me?" Why did people always assume he was the one at fault?

"Yes, you. You seemed quite happy when we left the restaurant earlier. Did you two have a domestic?"

"I just don't take being lied to very well, Mrs Hudson."

"Lied to…" Her face looked completely shocked. "Who lied … John?"

He gave another small shrug. "Not in words, perhaps, but…"

Now she was dragging him back toward her kitchen "You come with me. You're going to sit and have a cup of tea and tell me exactly what you're talking about."

#

Wearily, John climbed the stairs to 221B. What was he going to do? He admitted he'd crossed a line—he should never have thrown Sherlock's drug usage in his face, no matter the provocation. But otherwise? Why was he the one at fault, here?

Okay, he hadn't told Sherlock about his family, but that wasn't the same as a lie. If Sherlock could deduce an airline pilot by his left thumb, how was it possible he had missed John's upbringing in the sound of his vowels, or the way he combed his hair, or something? Because John had seen Sherlock at work. No matter how natural his middle-class accent was after primary school and the army, surely there were some clues?

All right, so maybe he had tried to keep Sherlock from finding out—but it wasn't a deception, more a delaying tactic. He might not have volunteered information, but Sherlock hadn't told him everything about his past, either, and again, Sherlock bloody Holmes was supposed to be able to deduce these things. It wasn't John's fault he had never bothered.

John paused as he reached for the kettle. Had Sherlock truly not bothered? Why had he not? Was it because he found John so boring it wasn't worth his trouble? Or … was he trying to be polite and discreet (not exactly his strong point)? Maybe he hadn't analyzed John that way because he hadn't wanted to pry?

Maybe he had hoped John would volunteer the information?

In anything like a normal friendship, that would be the norm—friends shared information with each other as they grew closer. Was it possible that Sherlock had hoped John would tell him, not because he was unable to deduce it, but because he wanted that proof of friendship?

John considered this. Aside from Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, Sherlock didn't seem to have any real friends. There were people like Mike or Molly or his Homeless Network with whom he interacted amicably enough, but they weren't friends. Considering what Sherlock had likely been like as a child, it's possible he had regularly alienated every potential friend he had found. (Look at the way Sebastian Wilkes had talked to him.)

It was entirely possible that Sherlock had never had a real friend.

If so, it followed that he would probably have a hard time knowing what to do or not do now that he had one. (Because make no mistake about it, if there had been any question, The Pool had established once and for all that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were indeed friends.)

And if he followed this line of logic … not only might Sherlock have been politely waiting for John to tell him about his past, but the knowledge that he had kept it from him (even if it were the entirely benign habit of two decades of simply not talking about it rather than deliberate misdirection) might well make him think that John didn't consider him a friend. His feelings—the ones he kept so well hidden, so deeply buried—could be hurt.

Which, John supposed, would be his fault. He knew how poor Sherlock's social graces were. In emotional matters, he was supposed to be the enlightened one, and he had completely missed this…

The question now was, what could he do?

#

Awash with Mrs Hudson's excellent tea and even better advice, Sherlock climbed the stairs to his flat. The pile of presents had disappeared, so it seemed likely that John was there.

Perhaps Mrs Hudson had a point—John would have assumed that he would have read his history in his posture, his voice, whatever. He might not have so much been deceiving him as labouring under the assumption that Sherlock already knew.

Really, the only saving grace here was that Mycroft hadn't known, either.

Still, remembering how angry John had been when they parted on the pavement earlier, Sherlock drew a deep breath as he laid his hand on the doorknob. No matter how betrayed he (still) felt for John's lies, he hoped he wouldn't find a pile of luggage on the other side of the door. He hoped he hadn't chased him away.

Pulling his shoulders straight, ready for anything, he pushed the door open and … stopped.

No, he hadn't been ready for this.

Standing in front of him in full dress uniform, was John. Or, more precisely, Captain John Watson.

Sherlock stood, blinking as he stared at the sight in front of him. Posture stiff with military precision, John waited as Sherlock absorbed the sight.

"Reenlisting, then?" he finally asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "That was fast."

If anything, John's face softened. "No, Sherlock. I just wanted to show you … this is who I am. Captain John Hamish Watson Brandon, RAMC, MBBS," he said, gesturing to the uniform.

"Yes, I know about your military history, John. That's not the issue," Sherlock said, unable to look away from John's sudden air of authority, the utter competence and dependability that he had seen a hundred times, but never quite connected to his military service.

"It is the issue, Sherlock. Because in my head, this is who I am. Or, at least, who I was before I was shot. I don't think much about my childhood, you know. I've been too damned busy putting myself through school and being a doctor. It's my profession that defines me. Not my parents. Not my accent. Not my past."

Sherlock shook his head. "That's nonsense, John. As much as I hate to admit it, all of us are shaped by our pasts."

"Of course we are," John said with a nod. "But you know better than anyone that your past doesn't have to define you. You are as much a self-made man as I am, Sherlock. You created your own profession, for God's sake, and treat everyone equally, regardless of background. It's just one of many remarkable things about you."

His stood comfortably now, hands clasped behind him, body still erect but relaxed. Sherlock considered him, considered what he was saying. "But this isn't you anymore, is it? Not since…"

"Since I got shot," John finished for him. "No, sadly it's not. In my head, though, this is still who I am—and you've always seen it. You deduced this the first time you met me, despite my cane, despite my jumper and jeans. You never had to see the uniform to believe it. You have always seen past the surface, Sherlock. You do it for everyone. You've never needed to see my uniform to tell you any of this. And you certainly didn't need me to tell you."

"You're saying I should have deduced your childhood as well?" Sherlock asked, voice brittle.

"I'm saying that my childhood doesn't matter as much as who I am as an adult," John told him, eyes warm. "You never fail to amaze me with your observations, you know, but I'm not in your head, Sherlock. I don't know what you see or don't see. Maybe I shouldn't have assumed you knew, but honestly … I wasn't trying to deceive you. How could I possibly have hoped to? You're Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, the man who sees everything."

John's posture had relaxed now, and Sherlock was having trouble holding on to the remnants of his sense of betrayal. "But you lied," he said.

"No, or not deliberately," John told him. "I told you, I don't know what goes on inside your head, and…" He pulled in a deep breath, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I'm still trying to redefine myself. I've thought of myself as an army doctor for almost twenty years, and it hasn't even been a year yet since that got taken away. I'm too busy trying to figure out who I am now to think about who I was thirty years ago."

Sherlock hadn't thought of that. "But that's part of you as well, isn't it?"

"Of course it is, and I'm not saying it hasn't affected the man I am now." Looking suddenly exhausted, John sat down in his chair, though not with his usual boneless sprawl—his posture tied to the uniform he wore. "I'd imagine your childhood wasn't a picnic, either, you know. I'd bet you were bullied in school and didn't make friends easily—considering how your mouth gets you into trouble now, I can only imagine how bad it was before you learned to filter—but those things contributed to the man you are. They contributed, but they don't define you. Any more than my childhood defines who I am now."

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, uncertain when he had actually sat down, but he nodded. Why hadn't he thought of that? His own childhood had influenced him, yes, but it didn't define him—if it had, he'd probably be a government flunky like Mycroft, stuck in an endless round of mind-numbing meetings and reports instead of here at 221 Baker Street with Mrs Hudson and John.

"So who are you, then? John Watson? Or John Brandon?"

"It's not like dissociative personality disorder, Sherlock. I am the same person, regardless of the name … though I haven't answered to Brandon in twenty years, not really. Some of my cousins still call me that because they don't know about the Watson thing, but I'm the same person whether I'm here with you or at an awkward family gathering. That was one good thing about the army, though—it got me out of a lot of those."

Sherlock found himself smiling. "I wish I'd had as good an excuse, then."

"You get shot at often enough here," John told him, smiling back.

"True," Sherlock said, and suddenly it all felt all right again. He studied John, taking in all the details of his uniform. "You've more honours than I expected."

John tipped his head in a modest shrug. "Just being in a combat zone gets most of them."

"And being shot."

"Yes, well," John was clearly uncomfortable talking about this. "I was there to do a job. Outside the paycheque, I never expected to receive anything for it—certainly not medals. That was never the point."

He seemed to brace himself and then added, "I've never been one to attach too much importance to superficial show. Not military medals … or, say, the Brandon family crest, either."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Family crest?"

"The one for the Earl of Undershaw, yes," John said. Then after a moment, added, "That would be my grandfather."

Sherlock just blinked as he absorbed this new information. John's grandfather was an Earl? After the rest of the day's revelations it was almost unimportant … almost. "The Earl of … so, your father is…?"

"The younger son," John told him. "My uncle died a few years ago, but my cousin David is next in line. Grandfather is still going strong, though. He's 89 and healthy as a horse, God bless him."

"That's … that's not something I can deduce, you know," Sherlock said, his voice suddenly hoarse. What were the odds, truly, that John Watson would be part of his life? He had grown up with every privilege—they might almost have ended at the same school had John's mother not insisted he attend the local primary. (Had he known any Brandons at school?) John had joined the army and been shot, yet he had survived and somehow ended up here, across from Sherlock, the embodiment of contradictions and layers and … John-ness. It was unfathomable and incredibly lucky. Any other flatmate he might have found would have been boring and two-dimensional like everyone else he knew, but instead he had found John—all because they had one shared acquaintance who miraculously heard both of them mention needing a flatmate on the same day.

And dancing in his head behind the dumbstruck daze fostered by this latest bit of news was the realization that John had not lied to him. Not on purpose, at least, and that was what mattered. He was who he was, self-made, much like Sherlock himself was.

He realized he was staring at John, finally noting the blend of concern and amusement on his face, so he said the first thing he could think of. "Mrs Hudson wants to throw you a birthday party."

"Oh, God," John said. "Please tell me you talked her out of it."

"I almost didn't," Sherlock admitted. "I knew you would hate it and I was still angry with you … but then I realized I would have to attend as well."

John laughed, and it sounded so good to hear it. "Well, thank you for that."

"She's going to cook us dinner instead," Sherlock said.

"Really?" John's face brightened. "Now that's a celebration."

"Indeed. I might actually eat," Sherlock told him, all so he could see John's expression.

"There's no need to go crazy, Sherlock. I mean, you did eat this morning."

"True, but that wasn't Mrs Hudson's cooking."

"No, though she seemed to enjoy it."

"And the company," Sherlock said, teasing.

"Oh, God, don't remind me." John sat quietly for a moment. "I am sorry, by the way."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "You are?"

"I should never have thrown the drug thing in your face before. That was over the line."

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said, but John didn't seem like he believed him. "No, really. Do I seem the type to be ashamed of my past? And you weren't entirely wrong—I did cocaine because I was bored, yes, but also desperate to get away from my parents' expectations of me—they were so determined to force me into their image of a good son, to be like Mycroft. I may not be proud of it, but it's in the past, done with."

"Okay," John said with a nod. "I still shouldn't have brought it up, but … okay."

"I shouldn't have called you untrustworthy," Sherlock said, remembering how that one word had transformed John's face into the rage that driven him to pull up Sherlock's drug history. "You are by far the most trustworthy person I know."

"Really?" John's voice was almost small.

"Nobody else would have shot that cabbie for me, John. Or tackled Moriarty while wearing a bomb vest. Or stood up for me how many times now when people call me names? My only real regret is that we never did get a chance to go to school together."

John got a distant, nostalgic look on his face. "Wouldn't that have been interesting? I would have defended you from bullies and you would have helped me with my chemistry homework—even though you would have been at least a couple years behind me."

Sherlock smiled. "All those opportunities lost. Of course, had we met at school, things would have been different."

"It's unlikely we would have started with Mycroft kidnapping me, at any rate. Or facing a serial killer," John said. "Mycroft told me he hadn't known about my family … do you think that's possible?"

When had Mycroft talked to John, Sherlock wondered, but all he said was, "He told me the same thing, so he's either being consistent or heads are going to roll in his intelligence department. It does seem like a fairly large detail to overlook."

John nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll say. Look, I'm going to get out of this uniform and make some tea. I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Don't be silly, John. Your birthday's not until Tuesday."

He laughed. "Maybe not, but I've got presents, so I'm counting from today. Tell you what, you can start installing your anti-Mycroft software on my new laptop while I change—just don't make the password anything I can't remember, yeah?"

Sherlock grinned back at him. "I thought you lived for a challenge, Captain Watson?"

John was already unbuttoning the collar of his uniform jacket. "Jesus, I'd forgotten how uncomfortable this was. And, you know I'm better at the kind of security that uses guns, not computers. That's what makes us a good team."

"True," Sherlock said, already unpacking the new laptop from its box. They were a good team, and he wouldn't forget it again.

#