"John Brandon? Whatever are you doing here?"

Oh God, this can't be happening, thought John. How had he lost track of their location in the cab? Why hadn't he realized how close they were?

"Mrs McTavish," he said. "I can explain … or, no, I can't really. But really, it's nothing…"

"Nothing? I don't see you for months, young man, and then I find you brawling in the street? Come over and give me a hug"

John could almost feel his toes curling in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I was just … I don't even know how to explain."

"Just do what you always do, John, and blame me," Sherlock said, practically oozing charm as he introduced himself. "Sherlock Holmes, friend and flatmate. I do apologize for the disturbance."

"You should," John muttered. "It was your fault."

"I asked you to punch me, not tackle me to the ground."

"Yeah, well, it was too good a chance to pass up," John said, trying his own smile out as he rallied his manners. "Sherlock, this is Mrs McTavish, who makes the best mince pies in the country. And, Mrs McTavish, seriously, there's nothing wrong. We didn't mean to bother you. It was just … well…"

"Are you coming to see your grandfather, then?" Mrs McTavish asked, hands on her hips.

"Well, not right now. We're on a ca…"

"…Tight schedule," inserted Sherlock. "And we're going to be late."

"At least come in and let me see to that face of yours. You're bleeding, young man."

But Sherlock was already edging away, leaving John with the explanations like always. "I really don't have time to explain," he was starting to say when one of the upper windows opened and an elderly man leaned out, asking what all the fuss was.

"Oh god," John muttered under his breath as Sherlock spun on his heel, face lit with sudden interest. "Hello, Grandfather. I'm so sorry to bother you. Believe me, this was not my idea." He cast a dirty look at his flatmate and wondered if Sherlock had somehow set all this up, if Sherlock knew his grandfather's address.

"For not wanting to bother, you're doing a fine job of it, John."

"Yes, I know … I'm sorry. Can I call you later to explain?"

He watched his grandfather taking in the details—Sherlock's bleeding face, John's obvious mortification … and, no doubt, the way Sherlock was actually torn between wanting to stay and explore John's living family history and following the case while the cut on his face was still fresh. (Though, really, John would be more than happy to hit him again.)

Finally, though, his grandfather nodded. "Be sure you do. You've got me quite curious—and if you're apologetic enough, Mrs McTavish might even bake some of her scones for you when you come around."

"God knows I've missed them," John said, darting forward to give the woman's cheek a kiss before chasing after Sherlock.

#

What with one thing and another (CIA, near-death experience, nude woman, drugged flatmate, the usual), John was too busy to call for the next several hours, but once they were finally back at Baker Street and Sherlock safely passed out in his bed, he picked up his phone. "Grandfather?

"Ah, John. I was starting to think you'd forgotten me." His voice was calm and smooth, laced with affection.

"Never," John told him. "But things got a bit out of hand—as usual. Not to sound like I'm making excuses, but for his own bizarre reasons, Sherlock needed a bleeding face and asked me to punch him. I didn't expect we'd be there long enough to bother anyone—especially you."

"He needed… Why did your friend need to be bleeding, John?" his grandfather asked.

"A good question, but not an easy one to answer other than to say that Sherlock has his own, unique way of doing things. I can't explain it. I just try to keep the mayhem down to a reasonable level."

"Mayhem? John … what on earth have you gotten yourself into? You're not in any kind of trouble, are you?"

"What? No," John protested automatically. Then, remembering that he'd almost had a bullet in his brain earlier, added, "Not really. Just the usual thing."

"And what kind of 'usual' thing requires my grandson to brawl in public? What kind of friend is he, John?"

"Didn't Father tell you?" John was surprised. He hadn't imagined that news of his current vocation wouldn't have spread on the family grapevine … but then, David hadn't even known he was out of the army so clearly it wasn't reliable anymore. "His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's a Consulting Detective. He helps out the police when they need him—and I help him."

"But you're a doctor, John," his grandfather protested.

"I am; I often give my opinion about cause of death when we're on a case. But I also spent nearly twenty years in the army, Grandfather. The excitement suits me better than a regular office job … Seriously, I'm surprised Father didn't mention this. He's known for months now. He even reads my blog."

He shut his mouth abruptly. The last thing he needed was his grandfather going to his site and reading about his adventures with Sherlock. The man worried about the whole family enough as it was, and John knew how upset he'd been when John had been shot. He didn't want him spending all his time fretting about John's safety.

"I didn't know you had a blog, John. What's the address?"

Crap, John thought as he told him. What was his 90-year old grandfather doing knowing what a blog even was? "Do you know who I saw today," he asked, desperately trying to change the topic. "David."

"Really? That's good to hear. How long has it been since the two of you saw each other?"

"Oh, since before I left the army. Actually," John said, unable to resist a smile, "The family grapevine really needs some improvements. He didn't even know I had been shot. I would have thought that would have spread pretty quickly. I mean, I haven't seen much of everyone in a while, but frankly, I'm a little hurt that didn't warrant a little interest. No wonder I got so few Get Well cards."

His voice was gently teasing, but his grandfather's was serious when he answered. "That was your father's idea, actually. He didn't want to add extra pressure on you while you were recovering, and then, well…"

"…You get to a certain point where it's a little awkward to say, 'Oh, John? He was shot months ago and is back in London, didn't you know?'"

"Exactly." There was silence for a few moments and then his grandfather asked, "Do you have plans for tomorrow?"

"Not that I know of," John said cautiously, "But that's been known to change fairly quickly around here. Crime doesn't usually schedule itself in advance, and we never know when the police will call."

There was a 'humph' sound across the line, but all his grandfather said was, "Then, assuming the criminals of London cooperate, I expect you andyour flatmate here for tea tomorrow afternoon. Mrs McTavish will make scones or those oatcakes you like so much, and your friend can explain why he felt it was necessary to start a fight behind my house."

Oh God, thought John. This was like a nightmare. He tried to protest, thinking about how much Sherlock was going to hate this, how hard it would be to drag him along, how likely it was that he would insult John's grandfather, but it was all in vain. His grandfather insisted.

Well, thought John, there was always the possibility that Moriarty would strike again tomorrow morning. Just then there was a thump from Sherlock's room and his friend was calling his name. He would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

#

"Don't be silly, John. I'm delighted to come."

Sherlock meant it, too. His biggest regret about yesterday (beside having been outwitted by The Woman), was the lost opportunity to meet John's grandfather properly. When he had picked that spot for their fisticuffs, he had never expected to see the man himself. The best Sherlock had expected was a chance to see John's family home—more or less. It might not have been where he'd spent his childhood, but he would have visited often. Disturbing the man enough to cause him to come to the window had been an unexpected bonus.

Besides, in his experience, John's family was still less annoying than Mycroft ever was. Just the thought of his smug condescension this morning after almost getting John killed … even John's alcoholic sister had to be less horrible. Meeting his grandfather? Sherlock was almost looking forward to it.

He admitted he needed the distraction. Yesterday hadn't gone the way he'd planned. He'd lost both Ms Adler and her camera phone, and been drugged senseless to boot. Not exactly a rousing success, even if he did believe The Woman wouldn't use the photos as blackmail—not as long as she was left alone. Meeting the patriarch of the Watson … or, rather, the Brandon clan would be a welcome distraction.

Frankly, the looks of scepticism being sent his way from the other side of the cab were a little insulting.

"I'm serious, John. I look forward to meeting your grandfather, and I owe him an apology for yesterday. I didn't mean to get you into trouble."

John laughed. "With my grandfather, Or with the CIA? Getting me into trouble seems to be your favourite hobby, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, your reactions are always so entertaining," he said, teasing. "And you know full well that I had no idea the CIA was going to be there."

"Mmm. But did you know that was my grandfather's house?"

"Well…" What was he supposed to say? Which was less likely to get him into trouble with John? That he had deliberately stopped at that address out of curiosity? Or was it better to let him think it was coincidental? Judging by the look John was giving him, though, he'd taken too long thinking of his answer, and so he came clean. "I knew, but I didn't expect that we'd see anyone. The odds at that time of day…"

"You're unbelievable, Sherlock," John told him. "Why didn't you just ask if you wanted to meet him?"

Sherlock resisted the temptation to sink down in the seat. "You were so cagy about his very existence, John, how could I know you'd be amenable to an introduction? Besides, as I said, I did not expect to bother anyone yesterday. I just … wanted to see."

"So you combined a case for your brother with a recon mission on my grandfather," John said, voice flat.

"Well, yes," Sherlock said. "It was the first opportunity I'd had to get you to the area. The case for Mycroft was purely incidental."

John just stared at him and Sherlock braced himself for whatever outrage was to come, but to his relief, his friend just started to laugh.

#

Later, they sat sipping tea and eating Mrs McTavish's really excellent oatcakes. (John had loved them since he was a child and was grateful she'd made them—if only because it would avoid Sherlock's comparisons to Mrs Hudson's also excellent baking. She made scones often, but never oatcakes.)

So far, he was relieved to see that Sherlock was behaving. He wasn't sure why this was still such a surprise, honestly. Sherlock had behaved in front of John's father, too, and had even reined in his worst impulses in front of David yesterday. John supposed he was just not used to seeing Sherlock exercising self-restraint in social situations. (Though, really, how often did he see Sherlock in truly social situations, as opposed to case-related business? Now he thought about it, Sherlock tended to get quiet (bored?) during the rare social event—it was totally unlike his usual behaviour but was definitely polite. Unless it was with Mycroft, of course.)

Still, the icy edge to this conversation wasn't Sherlock's fault. Even Mrs McTavish's tea was doing nothing toward thawing the air between Grandfather and Sherlock.

John wasn't entirely sure why. His grandfather was usually polite and friendly to everyone and, well, he was certainly being polite, but there was nothing warm or cordial about his manner as he talked to Sherlock. "So, John tells me you're a Consulting Detective?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I invented the job."

"How does it differ from a private detective?"

John tried not to smile at the insulted look on Sherlock's face. "Private detectives abound, but they do not get consulted by Scotland Yard when its force is out of its depth."

John's grandfather looked sceptical rather than amused, though all he said was, "Indeed. You're related to the Sussex Holmes?"

"Sherrinford is my father," Sherlock said, his voice even but obviously unwilling to go further.

"His brother works somehow with David," John put in. "I'm not sure how, but they definitely know each other. Mycroft has some minor position with the government, apparently, though I'm never sure exactly what it is. It's actually through him that we saw David yesterday. The four of us had tea together, didn't we, Sherlock?"

It was all he could do not to kick him when Sherlock just nodded and said in his most superior voice, "Yes, it was lovely."

John cast an apologetic look toward his grandfather. "Sherlock and Mycroft don't exactly get along, but we don't see him that often, so…"

"Only when your flat is nearly blown up, John? Or possibly when you've been strapped into a bomb?"

"What…?" Oh no. John knew that tone of voice. Nothing good ever came from that tone.

"I was really quite fascinated when I read your blog yesterday afternoon," his grandfather continued. "Even allowing for a certain amount of literary license, the stories paralleled certain headlines I remember quite accurately. I thought you were done risking your life, now you were home, John?" His grandfather directed these words at John, but did not take his eyes off Sherlock as he spoke.

"I don't risk my life deliberately, Grandfather," John said. "I just do what I have to do."

"Have to? I thought you were a doctor, John?"

"I am," John said, trying hard not to feel (or sound) like a twelve-year old getting scolded. "I do some part-time locum work to keep my hand in, but…"

He might have not spoken at all as his grandfather—every inch the Earl—addressed Sherlock. "And you, Mr Holmes? How does your brother feel about your death-defying stunts in the name of justice?"

Sherlock calmly took a sip of his tea. "He worries, of course, but ultimately he knows he can't stop me, not when I'm being productive and helping the good people of London. And then, he worries much less now that John works with me. His medical and tactical advice is incredibly helpful, as is his constant support."

John cast a sideways glance at his friend. He was laying it on a little thick, wasn't he? Though that was better than a casual dismissal of John's contributions, which is what he'd normally expect to hear.

"You've turned my grandson into a sidekick, Mr Holmes."

John winced, but Sherlock gave a minute shake to his head. "A partner, sir, and a friend."

"The lesser partner, it seems to me, always being sent on errands you seem to feel beneath you, brought along merely to boost your ego."

John opened his mouth to protest. He was sitting right here! And he chose to do those things. Given a choice, he would always rather be useful than not, and if it helped Sherlock, he was happy to help. A look from his friend silenced him, though.

"In deductive ability, it's true, my skills are greater than John's, but he's only been doing this a few months. His medical expertise is greater than mine, though. There are times when he generously offers to run errands for me so I can concentrate on the puzzle at hand, but that in no way makes him a lesser partner—or lesser anything. Indeed, he's been invaluable and has saved my life a number of times. I don't know what I would do without him."

The Earl's voice was icy as he responded, "Perhaps you don't, but it does not necessarily follow that this makes John better off."

"That's enough," said John, inserting himself into this conversation, unable to sit on the side-lines any longer. "It's my choice, Grandfather, and I am able to make my own decisions. It's not like I'm doing anything I'm ashamed of—nor should you be."

His grandfather looked at John and said, "I could never be ashamed of you, John. Nor am I questioning your good intentions. I am merely ascertaining whether your contributions are properly appreciated."

"Well, they are," John told him bluntly. "Now stop interrogating Sherlock, and we'll tell you why we were fighting in the mews yesterday … though this is all highly confidential, mind you. David and Mycroft know, but otherwise … I know I don't have to tell you about the need for discretion."

He reached for another oatcake and took a sip of his tea, casting a wary glance at Sherlock to gauge his humour and mood, and then said, "It started when I arrived at Buckingham Palace to find Sherlock…"

#

Later, back at Baker Street, Sherlock asked, "How worried were you this afternoon? That your grandfather would disapprove of what you were doing? Working with me?"

John was pouring water into the teapot. Tea with his grandfather always reminded him how much better loose-leaf tea was, and made him long for it … at least for a couple days, until the tea bag's convenience won him back to the dark side. He put the lid on and turned toward the living room. "Not worried, exactly, but…"

"You crave his approval."

John tipped his head, thinking. "I wouldn't go so far as to say 'crave,' but … something like that. He's head of the family, after all, and while this isn't exactly feudal times where he can order me not to see you again, or anything, it would have been … difficult if he hadn't approved."

He watched Sherlock's eyebrow twitch, and responded to the unspoken comment. "I know, family obligations are dull, but not all of us can shrug them off as easily as you have."

"And yet you shrugged off the entire family name."

John gave a short smile. "Yes, true, but luckily my grandfather understood my reasons at the time and supported my decision. I'm not saying he totally approved, but he still let me."

"Would you have gone through with it—the name change—if he had not?"

"I don't know," John said with a shrug. "I was just as stubborn then, but I was only eighteen—still used to obeying commands."

Sherlock smirked. "And then you went into the army."

A laugh this time as John turned back to the teapot. "Yeah, well … I'm more stubborn now, and know how to fight for what I want."

There was a pause and then Sherlock asked, a note of hesitation in his voice. "And you have no regrets?"

"Working with you?" John asked, reading between the lines. "No, how could I? I hesitate to mention it, Sherlock, since your ego is big enough as it is, but you're the best thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you."

Sherlock accepted the cup of tea with a nod and said, "No, you'd be comfortably ensconced somewhere with a practice on Harley Street as your father's heir."

"No, you idiot. I turned my back on that years ago. I'm talking about being here, doing this … it's rewarding in a way I hadn't thought I'd find again after I lost the army. I wouldn't turn my back on you and your Work for anything."

"Not even your grandfather?" Sherlock asked, blowing across the surface of his tea.

"Not even for him," said John, sitting in his chair and taking a sip from his own cup. "Damn, I need to do this more often."

"Make tea? But John, you do that all the time."

But John just smiled at him and shook his head. Idiot. He was sitting in his chair after a full day, chatting with his best friend without bullets or assassins and no dominatrix in sight—and with a cup of really excellent tea.

He wouldn't change a thing.

#