Sherlock swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "The Earl of Undershaw was your grandfather."

John nodded. "He was, yes. My father is his eldest son, which means that since it's a hereditary title, it became his when Grandfather died. And I'm next in line—and from the looks of it, I'll be taking the title very, very soon."

He seemed unnaturally calm, Sherlock thought, and wondered if John was in shock or if it was just him … how was this possible? He was almost grateful when Lestrade said, "But they said his name was Brandon."

Another nod. "I changed to my mother's maiden name when I went off to Uni and kept it when I joined the army—I didn't want special treatment because of my family, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm next in line. I just … I didn't expect this to come up for years yet."

"Jesus, John … you're an Earl?" Greg was obviously having trouble absorbing this information. (Not like Sherlock, nope. He was doing just fine.)

"Not quite yet," John said in a sad voice.

Before Sherlock could summon the words to say something, there were footsteps in the hall, and a doctor came in, face weary. "John Brandon? I'm Dr O'Brien."

"John Watson Brandon, yes," he said, looking equally weary as he turned toward the man in crumpled scrubs. Sherlock watched John's eyes skim over the other doctor with an insider's knowledge—knowing exactly what this man was feeling and thinking as he came to pass on the bad news. It was a measure of the kind of man John was that, even the midst of his own tragedy, he did what he could to ease the other man. "You don't have to say anything," he told him. "I saw the chart."

"I … you … yes, I'm very sorry, but…"

John cut him off, saying quietly, "He's unlikely to wake up because of the intracranial bleeding, and considering the location of the worst damage, would suffer from debilitating brain damage even if he were to survive. That, in addition to the damage to his liver and spleen, is just more than a 65-year old man is likely to withstand, no matter how strong his constitution. I know. I'm a doctor and served in the army for fifteen years. You don't have to say anything else. I saw the chart."

Taking the smallest step back at John's intensity, the other doctor cleared his throat. "Er, right. We do have some forms we need you to sign…"

John had just nodded when there was a flurry of steps in the hall and a woman about John's age burst in. "Oh, God. Daddy," she said, and then burst into tears.

Sherlock watched as John reached over and pulled her into a hug. That must be Harry, then, he thought, as he backed out of the room. All that messy sentiment and tears. He hated it, and he usually tried to avoid it, but this was different, wasn't it? This was John. Not that John was the one crying, but as his friend, wasn't Sherlock supposed to … do something? Not that he was sure what. An image of him patting John's back and saying "There, there" occurred and he almost violently shook his head to dispel it. How was that going to help anything?

He felt Lestrade's hand on his arm and let himself be pulled away from the door. "We should give them a few minutes. Maybe get some tea?"

What a brilliant idea. "John likes tea," Sherlock said, immediately casting about to find the best place to get drinkable tea, because he knew from experience how dreadful the beverage so labelled in the cafeteria was, and John deserved better, especially if his father was dying.

He pulled his phone out and sent a quick text. "—Getting tea. Back soon," and then followed Lestrade down the hall.

#

John watched Sherlock back from the room and for just a moment, thought, "Lucky sod" because his flatmate was able to escape Harry's emotional clutches, and then he remembered exactly why he was here and knew there was no place else he wanted to be. Not if this situation was happening. Not if his father was dying.

He let the other doctor (O'Brien, he'd said) explain what was going on to Harry and turned back to his father. He had seen death more times than he could remember and knew the signs. As little as he liked to admit it, his father was dying.

Judging by the head wound, he wasn't going to wake up to say goodbye, either.

Unexpectedly, John felt at a loss. Familiar as bedside vigils were, this was uncharted territory.

He gave a thought to his grandfather, already gone, just shy of his 90th birthday. He wondered what his injuries had been, hoped it had been painless.

He remembered what it had felt, to lose his mother twenty years ago, just as he'd turned 18. That had been the result of a long illness, though. There was really no comparison, but at least they had had a chance to say goodbye.

He wondered at that need in himself. He knew better than most how rare a touching deathbed farewell could be—but then, most of the deaths he had presided over had been violent and bloody. Except for his medical training (and his mother), very few deaths he had seen had been anything like serene or peaceful—the kind of passing he would have picked for both his father and his grandfather.

Instead, they had been torn away like countless soldiers and crime victims he had seen, and John could only rail at the unfairness of it.

He felt Harry behind him and reached out a hand. They might not get along, but she was his sister, and this was their father. Oddly, at this moment, there was nobody else he wanted with him. Not even Sherlock.

If he couldn't have his father, that is.

#

Instead of heading toward the cafeteria, Sherlock swung out of the hospital and strode down the street, looking for somewhere to get a decent cup of tea.

He barely registered that Lestrade was behind him, he was still so stunned at John's news. His grandfather had been an Earl? The title had passed to his father and was about to pass to John?

How was this possible?

John Watson, a peer of the realm?

The idea was ludicrous. Sherlock was well aware of all of John's sterling, even noble, attributes, but the idea of him as an actual nobleman? He tried to picture it, but the thought of John in his cosy jumpers and with his easy manner … it just did not compute. And the accent? How was it possible that his voice was untouched by the upper-class tones he himself had absorbed at school? For that matter, how had John avoided going to the same schools that he and Mycroft had been sent to?

How the hell had … what, Viscount (?) John Watson Brandon (Brandon?) … managed to avoid being trapped in the upper stratosphere of stultifying society?

Ah, a Starbucks. That would do. He turned inside and only when he let the door go to a muffled "Oi!" did he remember that Lestrade had followed him.

He rounded on the man. "Did you know?"

"About John's grandfather? God, no."

Sherlock could see the bewilderment on the man's face and nodded (wondering if his face looked much the same). "Nor did I."

He placed his order at the counter, and pulled out his phone, sending a lightning text to his brother. "—Did you know about his grandfather?"

The response was swift. Sherlock answered his phone on the first ring to hear Mycroft ask, "John's grandfather?"

"Yes. The fact that he was an Earl and that John is going to be one himself any minute now because his father is dying. Did you know?"

There was a gratifying silence from the other end of the line. "An Earl?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, feeling just slightly better because this was something he'd known before Mycroft. "And he and John's father were in an accident. The father is at St Marys now."

"I had heard about the traffic accident," Mycroft's voice was matter-of-fact, as if this were unimportant information. "But hadn't realized the family connection. His father's prognosis is that bad?"

Sherlock threw down some money as he turned away, still on the phone, letting Lestrade deal with the cups. "Bad enough for John to finally tell me the news of his incipient inheritance. You're saying you didn't know?"

A sigh drifted down the phone. "No, but I can assure you, I will find out how my people missed that. How is John?"

The question was almost perfunctory and it was all Sherlock could do not to snarl at the man. "How do you think he is?" he bit out before disconnecting.

He turned to Lestrade who had procured a cardboard tray for the drinks and was carrying to them to the condiment station. "How does John take his tea? No, never mind. Situations like these, hot and sweet is the rule."

He'd begged double cups from the girl behind the counter, too, Sherlock noticed. With any luck, the tea would still be hot when they got back to the hospital. They were on their way quickly and walked in silence for a few minutes, then Lestrade said, "Big Brother didn't know, either?"

"Apparently John is better at keeping secrets than I suspected," Sherlock replied.

"I'd say so," Lestrade said with a sigh. "Was he close to them?"

"He spoke to his father on the phone one or two times a month, but didn't see either of them often." Sherlock tried to concentrate on the steps he was taking, bringing him closer to John, but none of this felt real, all of a sudden. He almost felt like he had lost someone himself, but that was just ridiculous. "They were supposed to have dinner this weekend."

Somehow, his feet had stopped moving, and he felt Lestrade's hand guiding him out of the centre of the pavement. "It's okay that this is a shock, you know. I know I'm shocked! I can't reconcile the John Watson I know with being a member of an Earl's family, forget about one himself. It's normal for that to be hard to absorb."

"How did he hide it from me?" Sherlock asked, feeling bereft. "And, why?"

"Probably afraid people would treat him different," Lestrade said.

"Yes, obviously," snapped Sherlock. "But why wouldn't he tell me?"

The older man just looked at him a moment, eyes unusually warm, "I'm not saying it's not a good question, Sherlock, but it's one to save for another time, yeah? Let John get through this first."

Sherlock pulled himself upright. "Of course. I'm not a total idiot, Lestrade. Come on, the tea's getting cold."

#

Some kind soul had found him a chair, and John was seated by his father, Harry opposite, when Sherlock and Lestrade came back and handed around drinks.

"Ta," John said absently, glancing away from his father's too-still face. "I'm sorry … you both must have other things to do…"

Greg just shook his head. "Don't be silly, John."

John tried to smile, but it barely made it to his lips. "It's not like I'm going anywhere. This is my sister Harry, by the way. Harry, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and my best friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

They all exchanged awkward nods, nobody commenting on Harry's red eyes—or the fact that they'd likely been bloodshot before she'd arrived. The alcohol on her breath had been obvious when she entered the room. John briefly met Sherlock's eyes as his friend lingered uncomfortably at the back of the room and then turned back to watch his father.

"How is he?" Greg asked.

"It's just a matter of time," said John.

"Is there anybody you need to call? Anything I could get you?"

John wasn't ready to even think about the responsibilities that were waiting for him when he left this room. An Earldom was largely meaningless these days. Other than the title—not that he had ever been interested in using a title—it wasn't like there were a lot of duties he would have to perform, but there would be a lot of business. A hereditary earldom (his, anyway) came with lands and money and while he wouldn't be responsible for anybody's lives in quite the way he would have been generations ago, he had just basically inherited a large family business that would need to be maintained.

The problem, of course, was that the idea of sitting and going over books and bank statements had never been the kind of thing he enjoyed. He had been taught some basics, but medicine had always been his calling … and he had thought he'd have years before any of this became his responsibility. His burden.

Which, yes, when he thought of it, was foolish. His grandfather had been 89, his father in his mid-60s, and John was within spitting distance of 40. He knew far too well how short and mortal lives were, how suddenly things could change. He should have been prepared.

He had thought he would be, though. He had known the army was something he couldn't do forever, and had figured he would practice medicine after that, until such a time as his family obligations came due. And even then, it would have been simple enough to slot a medical practice around his responsibilities. There would be necessary meetings with business managers, or what-have-you, but that would have been simple enough to schedule. It wasn't like he was going to try for a seat in Parliament, or anything.

What he had never expected, though, was the whirlwind excitement of Sherlock Holmes blowing through his life. (Or, well, the bullet that had ended his career, either. Two life-changing surprises, but at least one of them had been welcome.) Instead of adapting to a normal, post-army life and starting to pick up some of his family obligations, he had been pulled into orbit around this amazing, brilliant, altogether unique man. Forget about trying to schedule anything like a regular meal, much less time with lawyers or men of business. His life had become utterly chaotic, without any structure—just massive amounts of adrenalin, frustration, and sheer joy at finding a life that compared to what he had had in the army.

John had tried to promise himself that he would only indulge in this lifestyle for a few years. That at a certain point he would pull back, at least a little, to start preparing himself for the duties he would need to take over someday. Because, again, after the next few weeks as he dealt with the inheritance nightmare (which he fully expected to be something resembling hell, if a lot quieter and less bloody than his last experience), it wasn't like he would need to spend that much time playing Earl, would he?

Except, suddenly, with his father disappearing in front of his eyes, it didn't seem like something he could play at anymore.

Blinking, he looked up to find Harry's eyes boring into him. "I guess your playtime's over, huh, big brother?"

Damn it. She was as bad as Sherlock, he thought. Was he really that transparent?

Instead of answering, he glanced around to find the room empty except for the two of them and their silent, unmoving father.

"I haven't exactly been playing, Harry. I got shot, remember?"

"Because you were playing soldier instead of meeting your responsibilities here."

He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. "What are you talking about? I was saving lives, and I was doing it with the blessings of both father and Himself. At least I was doing something useful with my time."

She snorted. "Oh, you wrapped it up in very noble sounding excuses—saving lives, serving Queen and Country, blah blah blah. But that doesn't change the fact that you weren't here."

John felt his ire rising. "At least I wasn't getting drunk rather than facing that my playgirl life was meaningless."

"Really? You're going to throw that at me?" Harry was on her feet now. "Saint John, come again? Passing judgement from his throne? It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

John stared up at his sister and instead of getting angrier, felt his own rage drain away. "Harry, I'm not going to do this with you. Not right now. Not in front of Father."

"Taking advantage of your last chance to hide behind him? I should have known." Her voice was bitter, and getting louder. John didn't know how to calm her down, how to get her to just … stop. Because honestly, this was the last thing he needed right now.

It didn't matter how much he told himself that she was hurting too, though. All he could think of was that their father was dying and she was acting like the same, spoiled brat she had always been.

But then, that was Harry all over. If she couldn't be the centre of attention (heaven forbid their father should be for his deathbed), she would pitch a fit until she was … and if she could bring her brother down with her? Even better.

John had occasionally wondered if their relationship would have been better if she had not been so jealous. It wasn't his fault that he was next in line for the title. It's not like he had ever desired the spotlight. (Heaven knows that would have made his friendship with Sherlock impossible.) But he wondered if they would have gotten on better if Harry could have inherited instead of him.

In truly scary moments of sibling rivalry, he had wondered how terrible things would have been if she had been the eldest but still unable to inherit because she was female—talk about envy. The bitterness she felt toward him now for being eldest and heir would have been but a shadow.

"Harry," was all he said, "Not now."

He could tell it wouldn't make a difference, though, because Harry was just taking a breath to continue her scold when Sherlock spoke from the doorway. "No, I don't think so. Even I know enough to show some respect for the dying. Is this really the time to address your personal insecurities and lifelong envy of your brother? And was it really worth it? The years of bitterness and regret at not being able to inherit the title he wasn't interested in? All to have it come down to this—a dim hospital room where your father's life is ebbing away while you squabble? Is this really the way you want to remember his final moments?"

With his peripheral vision, John could see Harry standing speechless with her mouth open while his own head felt top-heavy with weariness. "Are you going to let him talk to me that way? Your own sister?"

"If he's going to make that much sense, then yes," John told her as he rubbed a hand over his face. "Because he's right, Harry. I'm not going to fight with you at our father's deathbed."

"It seems like the perfect time to me—before you've been crowned with your coronet so that you can lord it over me officially for the rest of our lives."

He just sighed. "They don't do that anymore, Harry, and believe me, I've no intention of lording it over anyone. Right this minute, I just want to concentrate on our father, okay? With maybe a spare thought for our dead grandfather from time to time?"

He felt rather than heard Sherlock step into the room, coming to a halt at John's back. "I think that's best, John."

Harry sneered. "Like that, is it? No wonder my perfect brother never married—and spent so much time in the army."

That did it. John quietly rose to his feet, walked around the bed to take her elbow and forcibly usher her out of the room. Once in the hallway, he rounded on her. "I don't know what you're implying, but Sherlock and I are just flatmates and friends. That's all. And do I really need to remind you about Mary?"

That silenced her. She'd forgotten about his wife, dead these fifteen years now. Not discussing Mary was one of the only requests of his she had ever honoured.

"Now, are you going to be respectful, or not? Because as a doctor and a son, I will tell you that this is not the place for your nonsense, and if you're going to make this any harder than it needs to be for Father or for me, I'll have you removed. I mean it, Harry."

Her eyes were bitter and for a moment he thought she would refuse, but then she nodded, shoulders falling just a bit. He gave a firm nod and then turned and went back into the room. A moment later, she followed.

#

After John marched Harry out of the room, Sherlock approached the bed. The dying man really did look uncannily like John. This could be John's deathbed if he lived another thirty years and managed to die quietly in a bed, and odd though it was to think of John's dying being anything other than horrific, somehow the sense of continuity was a comfort.

"I just wanted to tell you that … you have a remarkable son, Mr Brandon," he finally said to the still form on the pillows. "He is the best man I know, and the bravest. He doesn't talk about you often, but he always smiles when he ends a phone call with you—which is more than I could say about any of the conversations I ever had with my own father. I just … I want you to know that he is my best friend, and I'll do whatever I can to help take care of him—even if it turns out not to be much. He mostly takes care of me, you see. It's his nature, I think—he takes his responsibilities seriously and doesn't let anything get in the way of what he knows is right, or what should be done. It's really quite annoying sometimes, and yet … it's one of the things I admire most about him. I said it the first day I met him—a strong moral compass. He'll do what he needs to do, you don't need to worry."

There was a sound from the door and Sherlock leapt back, as if ashamed to be caught talking to an unconscious man, but he just shrugged at the curious look John gave him. (Me? Doing something suspicious? I've no idea what you're talking about.)

He hid a smirk at Harry's chastened attitude when she slunk in behind him. He had resisted the temptation to listen, but was sure John's dressing-down had been as effective as always.

He still wasn't sure what was required of him, and Lestrade wasn't there to ask. Was he meant to stay? He didn't know John's father at all, but he did know John. Maybe he should stay in the waiting area, but leave the room itself for John and his sister? Or maybe John wouldn't want him here at all.

But no, John was giving him that look that meant thank you as he came to stand next to him instead of returning to his chair.

"How is he?" Sherlock asked. "Other than the obvious, I mean."

John's eyes skimmed over the readings on the machines. "Not good. I'll be surprised if he makes it to morning."

There was a hitch to his voice on the word and Sherlock just looked at him blankly, wanting to say or do something to help, but not knowing what. He had been to countless crime scenes, seen scores of grieving family members, but this was different. This time it was John.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," John said with the merest hint of a smile, but one that did not reach his eyes. "Or at least, I can't imagine how."

"You could always double check with Mycroft to be sure," Sherlock said.

"And wouldn't he love that," John said, a touch of warmth in his eyes now. "I can just imagine how that conversation would go. He'd probably have me arrested for false accusations."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not now you're a peer of the realm. He has far too much respect for titles, if not the men who hold them."

"That doesn't really help," John said, his voice cracking again. "Though honestly, my father and my grandfather are two of the finest men I've known. Mycroft would probably have respected them … now he's stuck with me, of course."

"Oh, believe me, John. He respects you. He has ever since that first night he kidnapped you. Anyone who can stand up to him like that without losing their temper automatically gains a certain amount of respect."

"Without losing their temper? That leaves you out, then?"

"Well, of course. You didn't think my brother respects me, do you?"

John gave a half-shrug. "Well, he should. And thank you for talking to Harry."

"Oh, any time, John. That was a pleasure. Lestrade had to leave, by the way, but he said to let him know if there was anything he could do," Sherlock said. John gave a sad little nod and moved back toward the bed.

He hadn't given Sherlock any instructions, but somehow now, Sherlock didn't feel as uncomfortable being in the room with the Watson/Brandon family. In some strange way, he almost felt included.

#

It was at 3.47 a.m. that Jonathan Brandon breathed his last.

John Watson Brandon was now the Earl of Undershaw.

#