John slept in the next morning. It had taken him longer to fall asleep than he liked, and his sleep had been broken by nightmares—not surprising, really, but it left him feeling wan and foggy when he dragged himself out of bed after 10:00.

He had just stumbled out of the bathroom, hair still wet from the shower, when he heard Mrs Hudson's voice downstairs at the door. "I'm sorry, but I simply can't take packages for the boys anymore. I was quite clear about that after what happened the last time."

"I've read the blog," came the muffled, familiar voice, "And I do understand. It's just that … Dr Watson … wasn't able to finish his dinner last night and I thought he'd appreciate the leftovers as roast beef sandwiches for today's lunch."

Oh, crap, thought John as he rushed for the stairs. "Mrs McTavish? What are you doing here?"

"You know this woman, John?" Mrs Hudson asked, turning around in surprise.

"Yes, yes, I do. This is…" He froze there. What was he supposed to say? He couldn't lie to Mrs Hudson outright, not about this, but was this really the time to tell her about his … what did Sherlock call it? His family business. "This is Mrs McTavish," he finally managed. "She was my father's cook, and his father's before him. Mrs McTavish, this is Mrs Hudson, the most patient landlady in the world."

The two women nodded each other, and John could almost hear them wondering whose scones were better. (It was close, but he'd vote for Mrs Hudson's. Mrs McTavish would always have the best mince pies, though.) They all stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, then John said, "It was nice of you to bring the sandwiches, but truly not necessary."

"It seemed the thing to do," Mrs McTavish said, a noticeable gap where she censored the 'my lord' from her sentence. "Now that I know where you live, it seems only right…"

Oh, God, he could see it now. She would be trundling over here at all hours with hampers of food, and how was he supposed to deal with that? Once she saw the flat upstairs, she'd be here cleaning and Stoker would be here answering the door and ... just, no. "Don't be silly," he told her, his voice as quelling as possible. "I mean, this is very nice of you, but…"

"John, dear," Mrs Hudson said, voice gently hinting, "Why don't you show her up? Or at least take the basket?"

Oh. Right. Of course. He reached for the handle, but she just held it out of the way. "No, my … er … no, thank you. I can carry it. I'm not infirm, you know."

"But…"

"Really, John, this is unlike you. Why don't you invite her up?"

And there was Sherlock, adding to the fun, thought John as he sighed and gave into the inevitable. "I'll explain later," he promised Mrs Hudson before heading up the stairs.

He couldn't decide whether he should be amused or horrified at the expression on Mrs McTavish's face as she witnessed the chaos that was 221B for the first time. She was one of the kindest souls ever, but her surface personality was all prickle and a sense of humour had never been one of her strong points. As she looked at the cow skull on the wall sporting headphones and the Cluedo game pinioned to the wall, he could almost see her wanting to reach out and drag him safely away.

It didn't help that Sherlock was standing there watching, eyes gleaming. John sometimes wondered how much of 221B's chaos was authentic mess and how much of it served as a kind of litmus test for visitors, amusing Sherlock with their reactions.

"Well, this is … different," she said. "The, er, wallpaper is quite … interesting."

Behind her, John could see Mrs Hudson bristling on the stairs. "Yes, thank you, Mrs McTavish. We like it. I am sorry I wasn't able to stay for dinner last night, but you really didn't need to bring this."

"But it's my job, my… er … doctor."

John sighed and glanced at Mrs Hudson, who was now not only looking offended, but hurt. "Her job, John?"

"Indirectly, I suppose," John said, mentally reminding himself not to slouch, feeling like he was ten years old again. "She's been the family cook for years, and seems to have suddenly decided to carry her efforts to Baker Street … which was not my idea."

Mrs Hudson tilted her head. "I can't say you boys couldn't use someone looking after you, the amount of take-away you eat. Not to mention that kitchen you won't let me clean."

"Now, Mrs Hudson, you know that's for your own benefit. You know what Sherlock gets up to in there, and we always appreciate the scones and tea you bring us. As to Mrs McTavish, this was thoughtful, but will not become a habit, isn't that so?"

"Yes, my l… er … doctor."

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was barely containing his amusement. "You're not helping at all."

"I'm not trying to, John," Sherlock said, "I think it's quite wonderful that you've got two lovely ladies fighting over who gets to cook for you."

"Us, Sherlock," John corrected, spotting the hint of worry. "And you know you're Mrs Hudson's favourite." He met his friend's eyes, trying to convey the point from last night—he didn't plan on going anywhere.

"Now, John…"

He held up a hand. "You needn't protest, Mrs Hudson. It's okay. You're his favourite, too. I have Mrs McTavish."

Just then, the bell rang and before he could head for the stairs, Mrs Hudson had already left the doorway to answer it. She really was too good to them, he thought, and then froze as he heard a familiar voice. "Mrs McTavish," he said, voice calm, "How did you get here today?"

"Stoker drove me, of course," she said as Sherlock practically collapsed into his chair with delight at the scene. "You don't think I could have handled that hamper on the Tube, do you?"

"No, of course not," John said weakly as Mrs Hudson ushered his butler up the stairs. "Hello, Stoker."

"Good morning, Dr Watson," Stoker said calmly. "I apologize for the delay, but it took some time to find a parking spot."

"I always worry when you two double-team me. Should I be concerned? Or is this just a reaction to last night? Because I didn't mean to worry you."

"Oh, no, sir. I was just trying to make sure McTavish stayed out of trouble. She was insistent on coming over."

Mrs McTavish leaned over to hit him on the arm. "You were just as anxious as I was, the way he was abducted from our very doorstep last night—and you not doing a thing to stop it."

"Abducted?" Mrs Hudson queried faintly.

John gave her a sharp look. "As you can see, we're fine, Mrs Hudson." He looked around Stoker and, seeing her suddenly pale face, wrapped an arm around her and led her over to his chair. "It was just, well, the final round of that bomber's game. It's over now. We're fine."

"What? Both of you?"

He hated the quaver in her voice. "We were both there, yes, and we didn't get back in until late. I didn't want to worry you at that time of night and hadn't had a chance to tell you." He sent a glare to his erstwhile employees.

"I am sorry, doctor," Stoker said, voice formal, "I did not mean to upset this kind woman. As you say, though, McTavish and I were worried. Even though you called last night … I confess we both wanted to see you were all right."

"Of course you did," John said with a sigh. "And you stop laughing over there. I could get your over-protective brother over here, too, you know."

"Oh, John, that's a terrible idea," Sherlock said, unable to keep the grin from his face. "He would find this even more amusing than I. He wouldn't help at all."

"No, probably not," said John, tightening his lips. "All right, fine. Let's have some introductions. Mrs McTavish, Stoker, you've met the wonderful Mrs Hudson, the city's most kind and patient landlady. The prat in the chair is my flatmate and friend, Sherlock Holmes. Mrs Hudson, Sherlock, this is Mrs McTavish and Stoker—my cook and my butler."

"Butler?" Mrs Hudson echoed.

John turned to her with a nod. It was best to get this over with, right? "I haven't been entirely honest with you, Mrs Hudson. While I am a retired army surgeon, I have another title as well—one that's been in the family for generations." He placed a hand over his heart and gave a small bow. "John Hamish Watson Brandon, Earl of Undershaw, at your service."

If anything, she looked even fainter now. "Earl?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he told her, eyeing the colour of her skin with concern. "Sherlock, get her a glass of water would you?"

Stoker was already on his way, though, and John spared a glance to watch his reaction to their unorthodox kitchen before turning back to his landlady. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but there was no reason until now. Here, sip this." As she sipped the water, he gave a brief explanation about his return to London but not being ready to take up his responsibilities. "Then I met Sherlock and started helping him, so, well … it just hasn't come up before. I just picked an unfortunate night to visit my house is all."

She looked up at him, knuckles white from gripping the glass. "You have a house?"

He smiled at her. "Of course I do, where else would Stoker and Mrs McTavish live while I was gallivanting around the world in the army? Though really, it was my grandfather's house, and then my father's until he died. It hasn't been mine for that long." He took the glass from her and leaned forward as her fingers gripped his, saying quietly, "I've never lived there, you know. Just visited. It's never felt as much like home as 221B does."

John glanced over to see the look of satisfaction on Sherlock's face, the faintly disgruntled shock on Mrs McTavish's. There was a reason he'd wanted to keep his lives separate, he thought, lots of them, even if they had never been particularly good ones. The last thing he had expected, though, was that the people in both parts of his life would be possessive of him. Of him!

"But … all this time? You've had your own house?"

"I'm afraid so. It's much too grand for me after years in the army, though. I didn't hold the title when I joined, you know. It was still my grandfather's house, then. I only saw it for visits. Then my father took over, but it still was only a house I visited—I didn't really have a home. And then he died unexpectedly and it came to me so suddenly, just before I got shot and, well … it was too much, too soon. I wasn't ready. So I let Sherlock talk me into a flatshare and found a home here with the two of you. It was only last night that I found out that my cook and my butler have been reading my blog and knew I was in London all this time."

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter. "Then you only have yourself to blame for this mess, John."

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm aware," John said. "If I'd known, I might have taken advantage of Mrs McTavish's cooking sooner—but then Moriarty would have seen and put the pieces together, wouldn't he?"

"Luckily for you, we're discreet, my lord," said Mrs McTavish. "If Benton knew, he'd be outside with the car at all hours. The man never has understood the need for discretion."

"Driver?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, God," murmured John, nodding as he thought about how obvious his grandfather's driver could be. If he knew John was in London, he would be stalking John more resolutely than Mycroft ever had.

"Could be convenient."

"No, Sherlock. We're not going to have my grandfather's car sitting on Baker Street waiting to give us a ride. Talk about drawing attention."

"True," said Sherlock, "Unless he were driving a cab dedicated to our use."

"You mean my use," corrected John, "And still no. Absolutely not. If you're not happy taking normal cabs, you can use the Tube like everybody else—or ask your brother."

He grinned as Sherlock grimaced, and then turned back to their visitors. "Really, though, you two can't make a habit of coming here—not even with food, Mrs McTavish."

"Who else am I going to cook for, my lord? Stoker, here? My skills are going to waste, and it's not like you're off in some heathen country any longer. You're right here in London where you belong—or almost. It seems wrong for me to continue drawing my salary if I can't at least provide care packages."

John sighed. He knew from long experience that trying to win an argument with Mrs McTavish was almost impossible, and he had no illusions that having ascended to the title and being her titular boss would make any difference this time. "Maybe we can work something out."

#

Now that his two households knew about each other, John found himself shuttling back and forth more often—and bringing food home with him more often than not. Sherlock had also set Mrs McTavish up with his Homeless Network so that, at regular intervals, they would transport meals disguised as take-away to 221B—and receive generous portions for themselves as part of the payment. (If Mrs McTavish complained about being a glorified soup kitchen, John just reminded her that she had been the one complaining about not having enough work to do.)

John tried not to worry about Moriarty—easy enough, because he had other things to worry about. Now that his cousin David and his household staff knew he was in London, he was going to have to come clean and let people know he was here. It was time.

He was staying at Baker Street, though. Most of the time, at least. Since he was picking up his duties, he was going to have to spend a certain amount of time at his house (not to mention at Undershaw itself), but he was determined to stay at 221B. For now, he would treat his townhouse as an office with convenient sleeping quarters if things ran late.

After the Pool, Sherlock had been on his best behaviour, which had frankly spooked John a bit. (Sherlock had actually bought milk. Twice.) But as soon as he realized that John wanted to be there, things had relaxed back to where they were. Sherlock was occasionally a little more thoughtful than he might have been, but otherwise, things were much the same. That might change a bit once John "came out" as Earl, but the foundation which had been undermined by Moriarty was solid once more.

There was just one more thing John needed to do…

#