John had barely begun his Skype session when the door opened.

He sighed to himself as the tall, familiar form of his flatmate appeared in the doorway. It had only been a matter of time, after all. "Hold on a minute, Geoffrey," he said as Sherlock quickly crossed the room to look at the computer screen.

He gave Sherlock a moment to see that he wasn't talking to Mycroft, and then told his lawyer he would call him back and hit the end button. And waited.

After a long moment, Sherlock said, "John, I…"

That appeared to be all he could manage though, so after waiting, John said, "Let me guess. You were expecting a secret meeting with your brother?"

"The thought had occurred," Sherlock said, voice tentative as his eyes scanned the room.

"Of course it did," John said. "Even though I told you I'd turned down his offer?"

"And then proceeded to lie to me about where you were going each day," Sherlock confirmed with a nod. "I mean, really, John. Did you honestly think I would believe you were spending your days practicing medicine when you showed absolutely no signs of it?"

John leaned back in his chair. "I didn't think you cared, honestly. It's not like you've been paying attention."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled as he scoffed. "Of course I've been paying attention. I observe, remember?" He glanced down at the laptop, still open to Skype. "I do hope you're not doing anything illegal. I wouldn't turn you in, of course, but Mycroft would never let me live it down."

"Illegal? Why would you… Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you knew me better than that?" John was surprised at how hurt he felt by that.

"You're renting desk space in a shared office—a desk which has nothing on it other than printer, pens, a stapler, notepad… Basic office supplies. There is nothing personal in the space at all, and the computer is a more expensive one than the one you have at home. You're obviously making some money, then, since your army pension only goes so far." Sherlock took a step into the room. "If you're not, in fact, meeting with my brother, and you can afford all this … one must wonder how?"

John rubbed at his forehead. "I'm not saying it's not a valid question, Sherlock. I'm saying I can't believe you would immediately jump to the thought of me breaking the law. I'd be insulted if I didn't think you might possibly have meant it as a compliment. Oh, sit down already."

He waved Sherlock to the one, spare chair, which the man took, sitting almost tentatively, coat drawn about his knees. "It would have been daring of you, conducting an illegal operation right under my nose."

"Sure. I suppose," John said. "But what happened to that moral compass you said I had? I just stomped on that, did I?"

"Necessity can force even the best of men into bad situations, John, and this isn't exactly an … encouraging … environment."

John gave a little huff of a laugh. "Well, no, but I needed somewhere anonymous I could get things done that was out of the flat. I wasn't exactly worried about the décor."

"Clearly," Sherlock said with a sniff, even as his eyes bored into John's. "Why the anonymity?"

"You tell me," John said. "You know I'm not talking to your brother, and I can assure you I'm very definitely not committing any crimes. What's left?"

He watched as Sherlock again scanned the room. "You could be doing online medical consultations, but you have no reference books, nothing to consult, and you are far too conscientious to conduct diagnoses without physical examinations. You mentioned needing this space for anonymity, though, not privacy, so it wasn't solely a means of getting away from me that drove you to this."

"Which isn't to say it wasn't an issue," John inserted. "It's hard to concentrate when someone's firing my gun at the wall downstairs."

He watched with amusement as Sherlock waved that off. "Please. You were in the army. No, you needed space to concentrate where you were unknown. Since you went to the trouble of renting office space instead of just using the library or a cafe, it leads me to believe this is to do with your mythical Family Issues which you have been avoiding since you returned home."

John couldn't help the smile. "Spot on. I don't want to bump into my family. What else?"

He was amused at the look on Sherlock's face as he readied himself to dig deeper. "The money. You're having no trouble affording the space. It's not exactly luxurious, yet your army pension barely covers the rent at 221B. So you have some other source of income."

John nodded, feeling the lines on his face furrowing deeper into his skin. Here it was. The moment of truth. He couldn't keep the truth from Sherlock any longer. The fact that he actually had quite a bit of money in the bank he could tap at any time. That not only could he afford this dim corner of a shared office, he could be using the study in his own London townhouse instead. Because he owned one. An entire house, free and clear, ready and waiting for him whenever he wanted to move in. Not to mention Undershaw itself, the ancestral seat where the Earls had lived for centuries.

All ready for him the very minute John decided to let his family know he was home.

Which—if Sherlock took this badly—might be today.

It was only when he realized how carefully Sherlock was watching him that he realized how tense his shoulders had gotten as he braced himself.

He was entirely unprepared for the gentle way Sherlock asked him, "What is it about your family that worries you, John? I understand not wanting to see them, but … this level of avoidance... Do you dislike them that much? What have they done to you?"

John was already shaking his head. "No, it's not like that. We get along fine, but … you know how there are moments in your life when, if you take just one step or do one specific thing, you're not going to be able to go back? Those crossroads kinds of moments that change everything?"

He expected a brusque "of course, John," but Sherlock surprised him again and simply nodded, concern on his face now.

"My letting my family know I'm in London is going to be one of those moments," John told him. "After that, I won't be able to go back."

"You're afraid of being sucked into a life you don't want?" Sherlock asked. "That's certainly something I can sympathize with. You can probably imagine that this isn't the life my parents had planned for me."

"Not hardly," John said, unable to suppress the smile.

"I imagine it's some kind of family business they want you involved in? Don't they realize you're a trained doctor? Expecting you to give that up is practically medieval … and believe me, the Holmes family goes back far enough that I can speak with assurance on that fact. I can give you some tips to avoid that—and you shouldn't even need to resort to cocaine like I did…"

John was holding up a hand, trying to get Sherlock to wait, but that last comment made him burst out with laughter. "God, I hope not. But, no, Sherlock. It's … well, it is kind of a family business, but it's not what you think. I'm not talking about a family shop or something. It's just that … things changed when my father died."

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of his letterhead. (He still couldn't believe he even owned letterhead, because didn't everyone do things by email these days?) Nevertheless, there were times he needed it and so he had it. He looked at the ivory sheet, solid, textured, its embossed heading rough under his fingers.

Jonathan H. W. Brandon

Earl of Undershaw

"The minute they all know I'm home," he said, sliding the paper across the desk, "This all becomes very inescapably real."

He watched Sherlock pull the stationery toward him and then momentarily freeze as he saw the heading. He looked over to John with as stark a look of shock on his face as John had ever seen, even more surprised than when he'd shot the cabbie. "Earl of Undershaw?"

He nodded. "My father died nine months ago, when I still had six months of service left. I could have gotten out early, all things considered, but I wanted to finish out my tour. I was home for the funeral, but then used Skype to keep in touch with the lawyer and business manager. I figured I'd be home soon enough and—I didn't want to leave my tour undone." He shrugged, unsure how to continue.

"And then you were shot."

"Yes." John could feel the tension in his shoulders again. "And so I was home early after all, but … broken."

"You were not broken," Sherlock said with a snap.

"I was," John said sadly. "You fixed my limp, your brother helped with the tremor … but yeah, I was broken. Nowhere near ready to take up my duties the way I'd planned. So I kept using Skype and email, treating it like a part-time job, but … I can only put off the inevitable for so long."

"And you didn't want to tell me."

John almost winced at the hurt in the man's voice. "I didn't want to tell you because I've been avoiding even thinking about it, for months." John told him. "My own family doesn't even know I'm in the country, Sherlock. It's not like I've been keeping it a secret from you so much as not wanting to admit it to myself. And anyway, I've been dropping hints, you know. I thought if you deduced it, you'd know, but I wouldn't have had to actually tell you. You're the one who keeps saying he's so observant."

"I don't see how I could have deduced you were an earl, John," Sherlock said. "A wealthy family that you were avoiding might be possible, but a title?"

"I thought you might look into my family once you got curious, and the data is all there. But then you didn't get curious." John rubbed his hands over his head. "I know, I'm pathetic, which is exactly the reason I haven't said anything. How could I? I'm not exactly anybody's idea of an earl, am I? I've spent too much time in a war zone and can't even tell my own flatmate…"

"You are not pathetic," Sherlock told him. "Or, not much. Your family has to understand that you're dealing with the after-effects of a war. Even if it's not actually PTSD, there are still…" He broke off as John began to laugh. "What?"

John could only shake his head. "They don't even know I was in the army, Sherlock. So far as they're concerned, any tan I've got has been gained on unfashionable beaches on the Riviera. They know I don't go to the popular spots, but my family pretty much all believe that I spend all my time outside the country being a playboy, or something. I don't honestly know what they think I'm doing but they're not as observant as you are. They've never noticed that my tan stops at my wrists."

He was gratified to see Sherlock looking actually flummoxed. "Your family doesn't know you've been in the army? How is that … Why would you do that?"

"You mean keeping them from freaking out at the possibility I could be killed at any moment?" John asked, feeling the sarcasm biting at his tongue. "Stopping them from pestering my father—and grandfather before him—when he already had enough to deal with? Avoiding all the questions and misapprehensions? The fact that I know they would have tried to prevent me from being of service, from doing what I wanted to do? I thought you of all people would understand that, Sherlock. You haven't let your family box you into its narrow expectations, either."

"That's … that's not the same," Sherlock said, stumbling slightly over the words. John knew it wasn't, of course. Sherlock had avoided his family's expectations by doing cocaine and accomplishing as little as a brilliant man could possibly do. He had made himself unfit for responsibilities.

John, on the other hand, had done the opposite. He had been so determined to be useful, he hadn't let the narrow, societal obligations hold him back. He had lied, yes, but it had been so he could join the army and save lives where he felt he was most urgently needed. He might have side-stepped some minor responsibilities here at home, but he had had the greater good in mind.

Except, regardless of the method, the fall-out would be much the same. Both he and Sherlock had deliberately sidestepped the expectations of polite society, and that was something narrow-minded people simply could not forgive. It wouldn't matter that his father had approved, or that he had been serving his country—the more superficial aunts and cousins would hold it against him. Even the others, like his cousin David who worked at the palace, would find it hard to understand why the next in line for an earldom felt the need to join the army as a surgeon.

And he still didn't know how to explain any of this to Sherlock. The man seemed to care so little for other people's opinions. Had he been in John's shoes, he would have headed off to war with bugles blaring, just to make sure everyone saw how very little he cared about their expectations of him.

Except, Sherlock did understand the value of doing good quietly. Yes, he solved crimes for the Yard for no credit and no payment. He looked after his Homeless Network, too, and even if he claimed it was only because of their usefulness, John had seen how he kept an eye on them, even if it was rather with an air of noblesse oblige. He might scoff at duty and obligations all he liked, but at root, he understood that there were some obligations one could not avoid.

And so John just sighed. "Maybe not, but it was working …right up until I got shot. Suddenly what would have been a series of conversations about my having been in the army but look, nothing happened and I'm home now, turned into my having to explain my recklessness at nearly being killed and leaving everything a mess. It's not like I have a direct heir, or anything. It would have been a mess and I would have let it happen."

"But you would have been dead, John. Why would you care?"

"Because I do, Sherlock. I almost died and left everything a mess, and for what? How am I supposed to explain any of this?"

"Why do you need to?" Sherlock asked. "You're no longer using your cane, your tan is beginning to fade … if you choose to keep your military service secret, there's no reason you can't."

John couldn't even find a response to that. Did the man not understand that he was broken? It wasn't like he could just move into his house as if the last fifteen years hadn't happened. What happened when he woke up with nightmares—still happening more often than he liked to think about. What happened the first time a maid walked up behind him too quietly?

"It's not that easy, Sherlock. It's one thing to keep my service quiet when I was just making short visits home, but … it's different now." So very different, he thought. "Oh, and there's one more thing. Your brother knows."

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