"Oh, and there's one more thing," John said, as if the rest of the day's revelations weren't enough. "Your brother knows."

For a moment, Sherlock felt hurt. He could barely understand John's reasons for keeping this a secret. (Because, really, what difference could his army past possibly make to his family? He was home now, so what business was it of theirs?) But, John had told Mycroft?

He must have let some of that show on his face, because John immediately said, "I didn't tell him. He already knew when he kidnapped me that first time—the night I shot the cabbie. Remember I told you he was trying to convince me to stay? It was because of this. He told me … oh, I remember this … he found it so hard to believe that my problem was that I wanted to move in with you. As if that were inconceivable."

Sherlock did remember that. John had explained over Chinese food about wanting to stay but having family issues. Family issues! He hadn't said he was actually an Earl. Not that Sherlock cared. There were already too many idiots swanning about because they had titles—he'd gone to school with too many of them, and they'd been insufferable even then.

But, John having a title … even in the 21st century, that was going to mean certain obligations. Even Sherlock knew that. They might be stupid, irritating, meaningless, and a waste of time, but that didn't mean they could be entirely avoided. They were the kinds of things Mycroft excelled at, after all.

But … John?

It was true he was good at tedious paperwork—no doubt his training not only as a doctor but in the army had helped him there. The idea of him doing nothing but, though? It seemed wrong. John was capable of being so much more than just a paper-pusher.

The fact that he was a titled paper-pusher made no difference. He was much too responsible to pass it on. John was the type of man to hire a secretary and then do all her work for her. He seemed constitutionally unable to pass off the tedious jobs … which is how he ended up with so many of Sherlock's.

Blinking, he remembered that John was waiting for a response. He struggled to remember back to where the conversation had been when his brain had shifted into a higher gear. "So how did my brother convince you to stay, then?"

A wistful smile pulled at John's lips. "It wasn't hard. He pointed out that just because I wanted it, didn't mean it was wrong." He looked over at Sherlock. "You know, my father has … or rather, I … have a house here in the city. I mean, I wasn't ready to when I got back for … a number of reasons. But it's there, waiting. I didn't really need a flatmate."

Neither had Sherlock, he mused, not really. Not once he'd convinced Mycroft he wasn't going to squander his trust fund on cocaine. "So why were you looking? Even if you hadn't wanted the no doubt more than adequate house already in your name, I'm sure you had a corresponding bank account?"

John tilted his head, not wanting to agree. "Yeah, but other than the logistics of explaining to my accountant why I wanted to pay for a flat in London when I own a house … it didn't seem right to use my inherited money if I wasn't going to, well, take up my inheritance. I've been making sure the necessary things get done, mind you, but … I haven't exactly committed myself. And then…"

"Yes?"

"I wanted the company. I couldn't bear being by myself. Before I met you, I thought a flatmate would just be a helpful distraction to talk to over breakfast or whatever. A step toward something resembling normalcy." He paused as Sherlock made an impatient noise. Whoever wanted to be normal? John chuckled. "Exactly. Because it turns out that normal was the last thing I needed. Which means I was right—in some ways moving in with you was the best thing that could have happened to me, but it also means it's becoming impossible to tear myself away."

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, agreeing, then went back to the salient point. "But Mycroft knew?"

"Yes. I have no idea how he dug it out, especially so quickly."

"Very few things can stand in the way of Mycroft in full research mode," Sherlock said, grudging.

"Sure," John agreed, "Especially since, in this case, he was going up against your father. Apparently he was the one who helped my father get the paperwork through that let me enrol in uni under Mum's name instead of Brandon. Weird, isn't it? To think our fathers knew each other?"

Weird wasn't the word, thought Sherlock, remembering the cold man that his father had been. There was an intriguing symmetry at the thought, but it still rankled that Mycroft had known about John first. "I suppose he gloated about it."

"My father? Oh, no, you're back to Mycroft again. No, he didn't. He did suggest I tell you rather than waiting for you to find out, but … like I said. That would have made this real." John looked down, staring at the sheet of stationery on the desk, and drew a sigh. "I suppose now it is."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to read the mournful tone in his flatmate's voice. He looked around the dingy office again. "On the plus side, that means you can get out of here. This office is dreadful, John. You'd be much better off at 221B, now that you don't have to fake going to work every day."

John smiled a bit as he looked around the room, but it was forced, nothing like the real smiles that warmed his eyes. "I suppose. Or I could accept the inevitable and start using the office in my actual house. I could commute, for starters, assuming you still want me."

Sherlock just shook his head. Really, for an intelligent man, John was an idiot.

#

John was trying to figure out how to go home again when Moriarty exploded into their lives.

In the weeks since Sherlock had found out John's secret, things had gotten easier—in some ways at least. John was able to address his family business from the comfort of 221B, and Sherlock had promised not to pry into what he was calling "earl business." ("Really, John, it's so dull. Why would you think I would be remotely interested?")

In the meantime, John had come clean with his lawyer. The man had always known that John was in the army—it had been necessary even while his father was live. (Somebody needed to know how to reach John in case of an emergency, after all.) He hadn't known John was back in London, though.

Even better, from John's point of view, the man had not known that John had been shot. That was news John wanted to keep to himself. Forever, if possible. The reaction from his Aunt Sara alone was enough that he hoped they never found out he'd almost died. He hadn't decided if he wanted to tell the family about his military career at all. It was one thing for his lawyer to know he'd been in the army, but there was no reason to tell everyone else, was there?

Still, some things get taken out of your hands.

"John? John Brandon?"

John paused on the pavement, fighting a sense of déjà vu, but instead of Mike Stamford, the man hailing him was his cousin David. "My God, John, is that you? I haven't seen you in ages! When did you get back in country?"

John gave a polite nod and shrugged a bit, sidestepping the question. "It's good to see you, too, David. What brings you here?"

"A meeting," David said with a friendly grin. "What else does one do all day? You?"

"Same. I've got an 11:00 with Mycroft Holmes."

"You know Mycroft?" His cousin sounded surprised.

"His brother's my fla … friend," John told him, cursing himself for the verbal stumble. This was why he hated lying—though he was better when he wasn't blindsided like this.

David glanced around. "He's not with you, though?"

"No, he sent me over to pick up some things since I had some time and he's busy working on a case. He's a consulting detective, you know. He helps out the Yard when they need him."

"Interesting. You must be good friends if you're running errands for him. But, really, how long have you been back?"

"Er … probably longer than I should have been without getting in touch," John said, giving his cousin a rueful smile. "I've been trying to keep under the radar. I'm not even staying at the house. I figured it would attract too much attention."

David gave a casual shrug. "And yet you're running errands for Mycroft Holmes?"

"Not an errand," John said as politely as he could manage. "A favour for his brother. Same effect but totally different cause. Purely coincidental—like our bumping into each other." He glanced down at the bag in his hand. "I should be going. I'll get in touch when I'm officially here, shall I? Love to the family."

He retreated then, as calmly as possible, all while cursing his luck and Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes for putting him in this situation. He would never have run into his cousin if Sherlock had been bothered to get off the couch and come do something for his brother, for his country. Wasn't the whole point of renting that miserable office in the first place to stay away from Mayfair to avoid meetings like this?

He believed he could trust David's discretion, though … up to a point. The man would give him some time, but only so much. John's option of staying off the family radar just came down to a window of a few weeks.

Maybe he really should consider using his father's… or rather, his home office. If he were out of sight, maybe Sherlock wouldn't think to send him on fool's errands like these. Not that John wasn't glad to help—and collecting these files was at least something he could do, unlike the five-pip puzzles Sherlock was enamoured with just now.

Not that John didn't understand. He'd seen Sherlock being bored and had no trouble believing that the puzzles were incredibly tempting cream tea with jam for him.

No, what was worrying John was the way Sherlock was so clearly enjoying himself. John could almost see what bothered Donovan so much—he was so engrossed with the mystery, he wasn't thinking about the people involved.

Oh, John had understood when Sherlock made his biting comment about there being people in the hospital who were in pain and John wasn't agonizing over them, but that was different. As a surgeon, John knew there were times you needed to cause pain to solve a problem, that you couldn't think about how sore a patient was going to be post-op because that would just keep you from doing your job. A police officer needed to do the same thing, for that matter—focus on the job at hand and keep the emotional toll at a distance.

John knew the necessity of keeping one's distance.

But there was a difference between maintaining a professional distance and the sense of glee that Sherlock was exuding. The man wasn't just intrigued, he was practically dancing for joy, and even if that kept him from shooting the walls, it still seemed marginally indecent, even to John. No matter how delighted he was to be engaged by an intriguing puzzle, how could he not spare a thought to the lives at risk?

Not to mention spitefully ignoring a breach in state security solely because it was his brother who asked for his help.

As much as John wanted to help, he felt … not. Not helpful. Not useful. Not needed. Not appreciated.

Not right now, anyway.

It was just a sign of how much he had improved since moving in with Sherlock that he could actually think that maybe the time was coming for him to consider moving on. It wasn't so much that Sherlock was difficult to live with—John could deal with that—but he did need to feel useful, and right now … any discreet messenger service could do this.

If he wasn't being useful where he was, what was the point? It wasn't like he had nowhere else to go, no other duties to attend. As much as he had enjoyed these last three months, if he was going to be useless, well, he could do that while dealing with the endless paperwork that came with an Earl's coronet these days.

There was no question that he enjoyed Sherlock's company. The man was fascinating and certainly his work was more interesting than anything John had on at present. John enjoyed helping him, nor did he mind doing some of the grunt work so Sherlock could concentrate. But now?

He told himself he was being childish, that he was just feeling disgruntled because he'd bumped into David—the cousin who always seemed to have his life together, who acted the way John felt an earl should act. No nonsense with guns, medicine, or chasing criminals—just elegance and graciousness and an intelligence that was sharp but not cutting. John shouldn't let that one meeting colour his entire life at 221B. After all, no matter what Sherlock actually said, he had to care at least a little for John's contributions … didn't he?

#

Except things didn't get better over the next couple of days. John did what he could to investigate the missing Bruce-Partington plans but knew he was out of his depth. Sherlock was acting more enamoured of the person behind the pips and the bomb jackets than any person should be, and his protestation that there was no such thing as a hero kept ringing through John's ears. Maybe he wasn't, but didn't Sherlock realize that he could be?

But then it was over, finally. The missile plans were returned to Mycroft and things could get back to normal.

It was just that John wasn't sure what that normal was, anymore. Sherlock had been so concentrated on the bomber case, John felt like he'd been running at full tilt for a week. Everything since that first explosion on Baker Street was a blur.

He felt he was floundering. He was sure that Sherlock was a good person (no matter how well he might hide it). He thought the man was mistaken, too, about himself—Sherlock was no more a sociopath than John was, but he seemed to have a skewed idea of the kind of person he was. John thought that Sherlock liked to believe he didn't care, but that he did—it was just that the only way to keep those messy feelings at bay was to pretend they didn't exist.

But, really, what was John contributing to this partnership? He was some use doing legwork and was good in a fight but it wasn't like he didn't have other obligations.

Which is why, the afternoon after reclaiming the missile plans, he wasn't entirely surprised to find himself on his own doorstep.

"Hello, Stoker," he said as his butler opened the door. "I'm back."

#