John thought he would feel different. He had known this moment was coming his entire life, but now that it was here, all he felt was numb.

Harry was sobbing on the other side of the bed, but all John could do was stare at his father and marvel once again at how one can be alive in one second, dead in the next … and how such a simple thing can change everything. Breathing was not the least bit boring. It was necessary and it was totally, completely wrong that his father was no longer doing so.

He sat quietly, holding his father's hand, forcing the hospital staff to work around him as they took notes, made pronouncements, and generally did everything they could to make it irrevocably official that his father was no longer alive.

For his part, he just tried not to think of anything at all.

Not that he was succeeding. During this entire vigil, his mind had been racing, going over the things he knew he would have to do. Calls he needed to make. People he needed to see. Arrangements to make. The thought that one bad driver on a slick road had more or less instantaneously made John head of his entire, extended family was still too much to wrap his mind around.

After a time, he looked across at Harry, who looked as numb as he felt but at a complete loss. He spared a thought to be almost grateful that he and Death were such long-standing foes. At least some of this experience almost familiar.

Finally, he took a breath and rose to his feet. Or tried to, as his knees went out from under him, stiff from the hours of sitting as well as wobbly from the world-shift that had taken place. He grabbed at the back of the chair as Sherlock was suddenly there, supporting his elbow. "Thanks," he said. "There are … I need … I have some calls I need to make."

"You can eat first," Sherlock told him. His eyes flicked in Harry's direction. "Both of you. It's going to be a full day and you need to eat."

John felt a distant flutter of amusement, somewhere under the layers of muffling numbness. "This is a switch, you telling me to eat."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched, though his eyes were solemn, deep with concern. "No-one will ever believe it."

"I'm not even sure if I do," John said, running a hand over his face. "You're right, though. Anything I need to do can wait until I eat. Though I should call David … the minute his wife Anna knows, it will spread to everyone in the family."

"It would be rude to call before 6:00," Sherlock told him firmly, giving him a slight nudge toward the door and then looking back to Harry. "Come on."

John glanced back to see her sniffle and then square her shoulders and, to his relief, step forward to join them. They didn't get on, but just now, it didn't feel right to be apart.

He stopped at the desk to make sure the hospital had his number. He had already signed the papers they needed him to sign and had formally identified his grandfather while Sherlock was out getting tea. There was nothing left for him here. He said he would have someone claim the bodi… them … and then he was shrugging on his coat and, heaving a deep breath, John Watson marched out into the early dawn, Sherlock and Harry at his heels.

#

Sherlock watched his friend pull his coat on and straighten his shoulders. It was more than his usual military posture, he thought. John's entire bearing was different.

It wasn't just fatigue, he thought. If anything, that would have made him look more … bowed. Anyway, he had seen John forcing himself upright despite his exhaustion and it had looked nothing like this. No, he thought as he watched John walk out to the pavement, that was determination. John was facing the new day, the new challenges like the soldier he was—shouldering his new responsibilities like a new coat.

He felt a brief surge of wonder as his friend amazed him yet again. From what he knew about John Watson, he didn't shirk his responsibilities—even the ones he didn't particularly want.

Of course, he didn't know John Brandon at all.

Sherlock had no idea why John had changed his name all those years ago. Had it been a legal change? Where had Watson come from? If he was now the earl, would he have to change it back? What exactly did Earls do in this day and age? It was something he had seldom given any thought to … and why would he, really? But now? He found he was vitally interested in exactly what was required of, say, the Earl of Undershaw. And how time-consuming it might be.

Whether his duties would require him to live somewhere … specific.

He trailed along behind his friend as John strode off into his future and suddenly wondered if there would still be room for him.

Because Sherlock was a genius, of course. He might not be the most adept at social interactions or family responsibilities, but he considered himself something of an expert in John Watson. If he felt needed, he would do whatever it took to help, no matter the personal cost. Sherlock was well aware that he took advantage of this—dragging his friend hither and yon for cases, or just because it was fun. (The look on John's face alone made the more frivolous requests so worthwhile—like removing his mobile from the jacket he was wearing.)

He knew—though he still didn't understand exactly why—that John Watson enjoyed their life of cases and puzzles as much as he did.

He just didn't know how John Brandon, Earl of Undershaw was going to feel about it.

On the pavement, he stopped behind John who was looking around as if lost. "Where's Greg?"

"He left a couple hours ago," Sherlock told him, trying not to sound pleased that he had outlasted the man in something that came down to Sentiment in supporting a friend. "Something about work, but he said to keep him informed and that he would come by later to see how you were doing."

"Right," John said, fumbling at his coat for his phone.

Sherlock put his hand on John's arm. "After breakfast. The question is, do we find someplace around here? Or go back to Baker Street?"

John blinked at him, obviously not thinking as quickly as usual, then looked at Harry. "Which would you rather?"

"Me?" She sounded surprised.

John reached out to put his arm around her. "Of course, you. You're my sister. You're coming, too."

Sherlock watched as Harry seemed to sag gratefully into his embrace, and then he met John's eyes. "Baker Street?"

John nodded wearily and before long, they were in a cab and Sherlock pulled out his phone. "I thought we weren't calling anyone yet?" John said wryly.

"A heads up for Mrs Hudson, don't you think?"

"Sherlock, you're not going to ask the poor woman to cook for us…?"

Sherlock waved his hand at him as the call was answered. "Mrs Hudson? I'm sorry to wake you so early, but thought you should know John's father just died. Yes, a car accident, very tragic. We're actually on our way back from the hospital now … oh, you don't have to … well, if you insist, it's very kind of you. John's sister is with us, too."

He met John's eyes. "There, see? All taken care of and I didn't need to ask at all."

He was gratified to see a spark of humour in John's tired face. "You're incorrigible. But if you can make a call, so can … hey!"

Sherlock waved John's phone in his face. "Not until you've eaten."

This time, though, John's jaw was tight. "Sherlock. Give me my phone back. I just need to send Greg a text."

Ah, so he'd crossed a line of some kind, thought Sherlock, immediately surrendering the phone. It was hard to know where that was. He suspected the line moved when he wasn't looking.

He watched as John punched in a text message to Lestrade and considered that was probably considered necessary since the man had been at the hospital with them earlier. He would want to know as soon as possible, and John wouldn't want him to worry any longer than he had to. Stupid. Sherlock should have thought of that—John's consideration for others was one of his primary character traits. It made sense, then, that Sherlock's argument not to make phone calls had been successful not because John needed to eat first, but because he had stressed the rudeness of calling too early.

Text sent, John gave a sigh and pocketed his phone. Sherlock caught Harry watching, a look of surprise on her face. "You still have my old phone."

"What? Yes, of course I do," John said. "It's a perfectly good phone, and since I miraculously haven't broken it or been blown up with it in my pocket … why wouldn't I?"

"I'm just … surprised. I wouldn't think you'd want the reminder."

"Reminder of … your divorce?"

"Of me," she said, voice small.

"Oh, Harry," John said, reaching across the seat to take her hand. "I never mind being reminded of you."

"When I'm not being a bitch, at least," she said, sniffling.

"That does help," he said, squeezing her hand while Sherlock tried not to look dumbfounded. Was this still the Our-Father-Just-Died truce in effect? Or was it possible that John was actually fond of his sister? He had always just assumed that John and Harry got along as well as he and Mycroft (which was to say not at all), and that caring wasn't an issue. Perhaps caring and liking were two separate issues?

They pulled up in front of 221 then, and were met by Mrs Hudson at the door. "Oh, John, I am so sorry," she said, pulling him in for a hug. John leaned in to it for a moment before pulling away. "Mrs Hudson, this is my sister Harry. Harry, this is the best and kindest landlady in London, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, pooh," she scoffed while embracing Harry, too, who looked like she didn't know what to do with such a motherly welcome. "You must both be exhausted. Come inside. I've got breakfast started."

#

John sipped at his tea, trying to figure out what he needed to do next. He and Harry had talked throughout breakfast, discussing funeral arrangements, things that they thought their father (and grandfather) would have wanted, hymns they liked, and so on. Calling the mortician was right at the top of John's list, right after calling his cousin David.

For such an old family, there were remarkably few relatives to worry about. His grandfather had been the last of his generation, John's father and his uncle were both dead, and there were only the two first cousins—David and his sister. There were some more distant cousins, but none that he was close enough to that he needed to contact them directly.

Otherwise, there were funeral arrangements to make, and he would need to contact the lawyer. And Jenkins, of course, the man in charge of all the business affairs. He wondered if his grandfather's staff at the house knew?

John had no doubt in his mind that the next week or two (or four) were going to be overwhelming. He just hoped that once things calmed down, once he'd done all the immediate, urgent, necessary things, he'd be able to go back to something resembling his current life. He almost looked forward to the first murder that would happen once he got to the far side of all this.

Right now, though … "Okay, it's 6:30. I'm going to go grab a shower and then start making phone calls. Mrs Hudson, thank you so much for breakfast. Harry—you're more than welcome to stay, you know, if you don't want to be alone in your flat?" (The 'alone to get drunk in your flat' he left unspoken.)

"Really, Johnny? I think I'd like that for a while, though I should really get some clean clothes…"

John looked at her, noting the signs of strain in her forehead and around her mouth. She had a splitting headache, he could tell just looking at her. "I'll lend you some pyjamas and you can kip here for a while, get some sleep. It's still too early to worry about what you're wearing, anyway."

He took her hand and led her up to his bedroom and started rummaging in the drawers, pulling out a change for himself and then handing her a pair of neatly folded pyjamas. "Here. And these." He handed her some paracetamol and poured some water from the carafe by the bed. "Drink the whole glass. Hopefully your headache will be better when you wake up."

He was completely surprised when she flung her arms around him in the most spontaneous hug he'd had from her since she told him about her divorce. Before that, it had probably been Mary's funeral, though he tried not to think about that.

"I wish we got along better, Johnny," she mumbled into his shirt. "You're really just too annoyingly good."

John snorted, thinking of all the things he'd done that couldn't remotely be considered "good." "Not hardly, but I do at least try. Get some sleep."

"How about you? You've been up all night, too."

"I'm used to it," he told her, giving her a nudge toward the bed. "I'll grab a nap later when I've gotten things done."

Taking his pile of clothes, he headed back downstairs, thinking longingly of a shower.

"John?"

He detoured into the sitting room to find Sherlock watching the news. "Oh no," he said.

"Yes. Apparently losing an earl and his heir in one car crash makes for a juicy headline on a slow news day."

"Christ, I've got to call David right now," John said, dropping his clothes on his chair as he rummaged in his coat pockets for his phone then headed for the hallway.

"David? It's your cousin John. I'm sorry to call so early, but … I've got some bad news…"

#

John really was a wonder, thought Sherlock. He was exhausted from his night-long vigil, drained by the emotional turmoil of loss—as well as dealing with his sister—and still, his first thought was of his cousin. How was that even possible?

Mrs Hudson had wandered out of the kitchen while John was on the phone. "Isn't that just terrible," she said. "And on the same night as John's father, too. It must have been a bad night for accidents."

"That was his father," Sherlock told her, turning his head to catch her reaction.

"Sherlock! That's not funny, young man. You should know better than to joke about things like that—that's real loss, there. You might at least think of John's feelings."

"No, he's telling the truth, Mrs Hudson," John called over, hand over the mouthpiece on his phone. "That's my father and grandfather."

"Technically, his father died in hospital this morning from injuries sustained in the crash," Sherlock said with painstaking accuracy, "But yes."

"But the name on the telly was Brandon," she said, looking flabbergasted.

John re-entered the room, having ended his call abruptly. "My full name is John Hamish Watson Brandon, Mrs Hudson."

"But … but … that means …" The flummoxed look on her face was almost entertaining. "An Earl?"

Sherlock almost smiled to see affection and amusement grace John's face for the first time since they'd finished dinner at Angelo's last night. "I can get my birth certificate out if you don't believe me."

Now Mrs Hudson looked embarrassed. "Of course I believe you, John. It's just hard to get my old head around this."

Sherlock sniffed. "Sure, she believes you."

"Everybody knows I'm the trustworthy one, Sherlock. You're the sociopath, remember? Nobody believes a sociopath over someone with a face like mine."

Now Sherlock did smile, relieved to hear John bantering, momentarily distracted from his grief. Already, though, his head was turning back to the television. "I think I'd better make some of those other phone calls before my shower."

"Nonsense," said Mrs Hudson. "It will take you ten minutes and you'll feel the better for it. Any calls you need to make can wait at least ten minutes."

Sherlock watched the lines in John's forehead relax just a touch before he came over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "You're right. I'm going."

He scooped his clothes up off the chair and disappeared down the hall while Sherlock and Mrs Hudson both turned back toward the newscast. "Did you know, Sherlock?"

"Not before last night, no. I didn't even deduce it," he said, unexpectedly bitter at the thought.

They stood in silence a moment and then she asked, "Does this mean he's going to move out?"

"I don't know."

She nodded, but neither of them said anything else, just watched the news, until John came back in the room. "You two look even sadder than I am."

Mrs Hudson just turned and gave him a hug while he looked past her head at Sherlock, eyes wide. "What happened?"

"Mrs Hudson is afraid you're going to move out and has decided to be proactive and start missing you now," Sherlock said, trying not to show that he was worrying about the same thing.

"What? No, I'm not going to move out," John said. "Why would I … that's the last thing I want."

She sniffled and pulled herself away, eyes moist. "But … an earl, John? Surely, that means you'll inherit at least one house of your own? One much nicer than this, I would think."

John's head tilted, as if he were counting. "Four houses, I think, two of them quite grand, but not nicer. Believe me, Mrs Hudson, this is home. The only thing I'd change would be the body parts in the fridge."

She smiled warmly at him and almost giggled. "Maybe you can use the possibility of those other homes to convince him to keep them elsewhere."

"Or start paying you for 221C and let him turn that into his lab."

Sherlock couldn't help the fond look on his face as he said, "You two do remember that I'm standing right here, don't you?"

"Did you hear something, Mrs Hudson?" John asked, voice teasing.

"Not a thing, except that those dishes are calling me," she said as, with a final pat to his arm, she returned to the kitchen.

Sherlock studied his friend, noting the pale skin, the bags under his eyes. Clear signs of the night's toll. His eyes, though, had a spark that they hadn't had earlier. "Is there anything I can do?" he finally asked, and then tried not to feel insulted when John looked surprised. "What? I may not usually bother, but that doesn't mean I am incapable of being helpful."

John smiled at him—not a large smile, but still one that touched the eyes. "Of course you can. I must just still be in shock. I just … I don't know. I need to call the lawyer, who will probably have about nine thousand things I need to read and sign. I need to arrange the funerals—need to find out who did my mother's, I suppose. I can't honestly remember if there's some kind of family tradition for this." For a moment, he looked overwhelmed, but he just drew a deep breath and then continued. "Then there's the business stuff—details about properties and lands and … I don't even know. I think I'm going to be drowning in paperwork, Sherlock."

"I thought you liked paperwork?"

A tiny huff of a laugh. "No, I just don't hate it as much as you do. That is decidedly not the same thing as liking it. I mean, don't get me wrong—I was a doctor in the army. I know all about meaningless paperwork, but that wasn't exactly why I went into medicine."

"No, I suppose not." Sherlock looked longingly at his violin, but then remembered Harry sleeping upstairs and forced himself to look away. "So, what can I do?"

"Any chance you can find out about the ancestral undertakers while I call the ancestral lawyer?"

Sherlock tried for a smile, but felt it shrivel before it reached his lips. "Were you going to tell me?" he blurted out, and then hated himself for bringing it up now.

The lost look was back in John's eyes, but he nodded. "When you met my father, if not before," he said. "I thought … I expected more time, Sherlock. I was never going to inherit this early, with so little warning. It wasn't supposed to happen this way."

Sherlock tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be condescending ("That's life, John") or heartless ("It's not like you didn't know they would die") or selfish ("But why didn't you trust me?"). Nothing occurred to him, though, and knowing how poor he was at sympathetic statements, he just held his tongue, figuring that was the kindest thing he could do.

"I didn't mean it to be a secret, you know," John finally said quietly. "I mean, I know I didn't tell you, obviously, but it wasn't a deliberate thing. I honestly go days, weeks at a time without thinking about it—have done ever since Uni. I've tried so hard to make a life of my own, without using the family name or connections, I sometimes truly forget that I'm not just John Watson. I didn't mean to, to exclude you, or…"

"You're not."

"Sorry … what?"

"Just John Watson," Sherlock said. "I've only known you a few months, but you're the best man I know. Learning that you are noble by blood as well as spirit isn't really that much of a surprise, John. You did take on Moriarty for me, after all."

He told himself that he was not insulted by the flabbergasted look on John's face as he reached for his phone and pulled up the browser. "Go make your phone calls. I'll look into funeral arrangements. It shouldn't surprise you to learn that I have some connections in that field."

He gave his flatmate another smile and then turned to his task.

#