"My Lord!" Stoker said, shock clear on his face for one, brief second before he pulled his face back to neutral and stepped back from the door. "I didn't know you were home, sir."

John shrugged a bit as he stepped inside and set down his briefcase. "It's not really official," he said.

The man was looking past him. "No luggage, sir?"

"Not right now. I'm only here for a few hours," John told him, pulling off his jacket and brushing at his suit. "It's a long story, Stoker."

He watched the man swallow down his curiosity and gave him a smile before picking up his briefcase and heading toward his father's office. Or, well, his office now. "I've been talking to Geoffrey, and he knows I'm back in London. I just haven't been ready to move back yet—you know as well as I do that the minute the family learns I'm here, they're going to descend en masse. I'm really not ready to face that yet."

"But you are back in London, sir? For good?"

"If you mean out of the army, yes," John told him. "I'm done. I'm just trying to find my feet. I'm still adjusting to being a civilian again—moving into Father's house, too, makes it all rather overwhelming. For right now, the plan is to come for a bit each day, but not actually live here. It sounds crazy, I know, but…"

He gave a sidewise glance, afraid he would see derision on his butler's face (trying not to think about having a butler). He had known Stoker his whole life and had always gotten along with the man, but … he had never felt this broken before. The man's entire livelihood depended on John—his and Mrs McTavish and the maid and the driver (God, he had a driver)—and none of them would be reassured at knowing how close to the mental edge John was living.

To his relief, though, there was nothing but concern in the man's expression. "Not crazy at all, if I may say so. It's been a long time since you lived here, and never without your father. It's a large adjustment."

"And that's an understatement," John said. "Why don't you go get some tea for all of us from Mrs McTavish and bring me up to date on anything that's been pending. It will be a relief not to have to do this over the computer for a change."

He drew in a sharp breath after the man left for the kitchen. He expected he had about three and a half minutes before his cook came rushing in to see him. (Ten minutes if she waited to bring the tea with her.) He hadn't grown up in this house, but he had visited his grandfather often when he was a child and these two sometimes still treated him like a fond aunt and uncle. He thought for a moment about what his convalescence would have been like if he'd come here instead of letting the army cover it. It had probably been foolish of him not to take advantage of the best doctors money could buy, but he hadn't been able to shake the feeling of guilt and shame at being wounded. He knew it wasn't his fault, he knew this was one of the reasons he was supposed to be seeing a therapist, but still … having nearly been killed left him with an obscure sense of inadequacy, no matter how unjustified.

Which had been exactly why he had not wanted to face this room, this house, until he had been back on his feet—in all senses. The idea of being fawned over as a returning war hero, or whatever, had been unbearable. He wouldn't be here now if it weren't for Sherlock.

He sighed, thinking about how very true that statement was. Sherlock saved his life—figuratively by curing his limp, but also literally in the Blind Banker case—but he was also making John feel less than useful, and that John truly couldn't bear.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the tartan whirlwind that was his cook, hurrying into the room and pulling him into a hug. "Oh, John, it's so good to see you. You've stayed away too long!"

"Yes, Mrs McTavish, I know."

"Look at you. You're too thin, and you're not getting enough sleep. You look exhausted. What have you been doing to yourself, my Lord?"

John was touched by the concern in her voice. He had never realized quite how much Mrs Hudson reminded him of her—not in appearance, but in that broad, loving, maternal affection. He had a vision of the two of them tutting over him in harmony, comparing scone recipes and making pot after pot of tea. And so he smiled as he returned the hug and then pushed her gently away. "I've just been busy."

"Busy? You're worn to the bone. I'm inclined to go give the army a piece of my mind, sending you back in such shape."

John froze. How did she know he had been in the army? He couldn't believe that Johnson had said anything, but before he could even ask, she answered the unspoken question. "I have eyes in my head, my Lord, and a brain to go with it, but I also know how to keep a secret. You didn't want people to know, so I kept my peace. But now? Look at you…"

He should have known. John held up a hand to stave off the recriminations. "It's not the army's fault. I've been … I'm actually …" Good grief, he was bad at this. If he couldn't come up with an explanation for the two people he had known since childhood and who were absolutely reliable, what was he going to say to everyone else? "I've been working with Scotland Yard, trying to catch the bomber that's been in the news," he finally said. "It's not something I can really talk about, or, er…"

He trailed off, remembering his blog. What was he saying? He talked about cases all the time. Not until they were done, usually, and he tried to keep evidence that could affect a court case out of his posts, but still. He blogged about his cases, and it was there on the internet for anyone to read. If he wanted to reconcile the two halves of his life, he needed to come clean—just like he had with Sherlock before this whole mess literally exploded in their faces.

And so he said, "I've been back for a while, actually, but I wasn't quite ready to come home yet. I've been sharing a flat with a really brilliant detective who works with the Yard, and…"

"You blog about it," Mrs McTavish said. "Yes, dear, we know."

"You know?" he asked, stunned. "Both of you?"

"Of course we do," his butler said. "You've been discreet, my lord, about keeping the Brandon name out of it, but it's not like we haven't known you were using your mother's name since you left home. Naturally we found your blog. We do know how to use Google."

John was floored. "So you've known I was in London this whole time?"

"And holding our breath," Mrs McTavish said. "Some of your posts were terrifying. It was all I could do not to march to Baker Street to fetch you."

John had a mental image of his cook twisting Sherlock's ear as she brandished a rolling pin. He had known these two were smart, that they cared for him, but this level of loyalty … well, his father had cared for them deeply. Of course they were loyal. And, class and rank didn't matter much when it concerned adults caring for men or women they'd watched grow up. Caring at all, really. Look at Mrs Hudson, who seemed to love Sherlock like a particularly exasperating son. How had he not realized that all those hours spent sharing biscuits and milk when he was a child would turn into such a fierce sense of loyalty now?

Meanwhile, he just shook his head. "Right. Well, then you know what I've been up to. Tell me about you. How's that nephew of yours?"

#

Several hours later, John was feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. The three of them had visited together for a time, until at some unspoken signal, they had all withdrawn back into their usual roles. Mrs McTavish had returned to the kitchen and John and Stoker had dug into files and papers and accomplished a lot of boring, administrative kinds of things.

As good as the company was, it just reminded John of why he was still living with Sherlock Holmes.

Although, of course, he didn't always have this much of a backlog of paperwork. And the tea was excellent.

Mrs Hudson's was too, of course.

When they were done, John gave a weary stretch. It hadn't been fun, exactly, but they'd accomplished a lot and with the week he was having, that was like a balm to his soul. Now it was getting late. It suddenly seemed awfully far to Baker Street.

"You could spend the night, my lord," Stoker said. "The bedroom upstairs is always ready, and I'm quite sure McTavish has put fresh sheets on by now."

John chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised. I didn't plan on being out all night, but…" He had to admit, not having to go back out in the cold to fight his way across the city sounded immensely appealing. How many days had it been since he'd had a full night's sleep?

He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

—Thinking of spending the night. Do you need me for anything?

—Nothing on at the moment. Just watching crap telly—for which I blame you. I'll see you in the morning. SH.

—I'll try to remember to bring some milk. There's risotto in the fridge. You should eat something.

—Yes, mother. SH.

John pocketed his phone with a smile. "Right, it looks like I'll be spending the night after all."

"I'm glad to hear it, my Lord. It smells like Mrs McTavish has been cooking since you arrived."

John scented the air and gave another smile. "It does at that. I've missed her cooking."

It seemed like it was John's fate not to be able to relax over a meal, though, because he was barely halfway through the truly excellent roast dinner when the doorbell rang. That's odd, he thought, pausing with his fork mid-air. The house was effectively empty. Who would be ringing the bell? Maybe Sherlock had gotten bored?

He could hear the rumble of Stoker's voice as he spoke to whoever was at the door, but John didn't recognize the speaker. Not Sherlock, then. But Stoker hadn't shut the door as he would have to a salesman.

Laying his cutlery down as quietly as possible, John got up and moved toward the door, peering into the hall.

"…Just tell Dr Watson that Mr Holmes needs to speak with him. Tell him it's about the fifth pip."

John froze. How could he have forgotten? Just because they had solved Mycroft's problem didn't mean the madman with the bomb vests had been taken care of. And Sherlock had seemed so relaxed earlier, perfectly content that their task was done.

Unless it had been a blind and he'd just been hoping John would let his guard down enough to simply go away.

Well, that had worked, he supposed. He had left Sherlock alone and now … what? He wanted John's help? Then why hadn't he said so earlier? Or sent him a text? Unless … what if the bomber had taken things to a new level and actually captured Sherlock? The man at the door hadn't said which Holmes it was, after all, and … what if this were Mycroft, sending for John because Sherlock needed help?

That made appallingly logical sense. After all, who else would have known to look for John here?

All this had sped through his head, and he was walking into the foyer before he'd given it a thought. "What happened?"

He saw relief in the man's eyes as he said, "I don't know the details, Dr Watson, just that he said it was do with the fifth pip."

"Right. Just give me a minute. Stoker, I need my jacket," John said as he hurried back to the office, all thoughts of Mrs McTavish's dinner ignored. The laptop could stay here for now, he thought, he just needed his phone.

—Where am I going? What did he do now?

He sent the message and stuffed the phone in his pocket, wishing he'd thought to bring his gun. "Let's go," he said as he hurried back into the hall. "Sorry about rushing off, Stoker. Make my apologies to her, won't you?"

He barely listened to the murmured acknowledgement before he was out the door and moving toward the sleek car waiting at the kerb. "What happened?" he asked again as he climbed in, only realizing there was already someone in the backseat as the first man slid in behind him.

His phone chimed and he reached for it automatically as he waited for an answer.

"I'll take that, Dr Watson."

"What?"

"Your phone. Now."

It was only then, as the locks in the door engaged and they merged smoothly into traffic, that John realized that there were two guns pointing his way.

"You don't work for Mycroft, do you?" he asked numbly as he glanced down at his phone. He caught a glimpse of the incoming text just before it was taken from him.

—I did not send a car, John. MH

#

(Note: For the sake of this story—or, well, the entire series—John does still have his blog, but he does not have a photo of himself on it. Anyone could be reading it with no reason to connect Dr John Watson with John Brandon, Earl of Undershaw.)