John was almost amused that the solicitor had insisted on coming to him, rather than meeting at his office. (If anything was going to confirm his change in status, it was that—a lawyer coming to him.) And then he was definitely amused at the man's reaction to 221B. Sherlock's decorating style wasn't to everyone's taste, after all. "Maybe we should have met at your office, after all?" he'd asked politely.

"Oh, no, my lord. That's not at all necessary. It's my pleasure … is … is that a human skull?"

John tried not to wince and gestured the man to a chair. "Don't let it worry you. My flatmate solves murders for a living and I'm an ex-army doctor. We tend to have different sensibilities than normal people. Can I get you some tea?"

If anything, that just made the man look more uncomfortable. "Oh, no, thank you, my lord."

It was going to be a long day, thought John with a mental sigh. He was just grateful that Sherlock was out—though he wasn't sure where. Interrogating mortuaries, perhaps. "I'm making some for myself, so it's no trouble, Mr Barrington. And, please, call me John."

The man blinked, and John stifled another sigh. "I couldn't, my lord."

"Couldn't drink the tea, or couldn't call me by my name instead of the title that I still connect to my departed grandfather?" John asked, not above a little emotional coercion. "Believe me, Mr Barrington, this meeting is outside both our comfort zones. The only titles I'm used to using are Doctor and Captain. I haven't adapted to Lord yet. I know we have a lot to get through today, I'm tired, and it would help if we could … avoid that for now. If you can't bring yourself to call me John … can we compromise on Dr Watson for now?"

He saw a glimmer of understanding in the man's eyes. "If it's not too presumptuous, may I ask … why Watson?"

John was already tired of answering this question. "I just dropped the Brandon when I left for university, right after my mother died. After that, it was just easier to carry that into the army. I just didn't want special treatment."

He watched the man mentally regrouping and, with a glance at the skull by the fireplace, nodded. "If you're making some for yourself, I would love some tea, Dr Watson."

Relieved, John produced a small smile. "Good, because I don't think I could get through this without tea."

An hour or so later, Greg came to the door. "John? How are you … oh, I'm sorry. You're busy."

John looked up. "No, please come in. Greg, this is my solicitor, Geoffrey Barrington. Mr Barrington, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Are you looking for Sherlock?"

"No … well, a little. I texted him earlier, but I'm mostly here to see how you're doing. I don't suppose you got any sleep?"

"Too much to do. I'm not sure where Sherlock is at the moment, he went out a couple hours ago."

He saw Greg's lips tighten. "He left … okay. Have you eaten anything?"

John was unexpectedly touched at his concern. "Yes, don't worry. Mrs Hudson made all of us breakfast, and I'll nap later. It's okay, Greg."

Greg was about to say something else, when Sally came up the stairs. "Sir? Did you find the Freak? Because we've got to get going." She gave a short nod to John, barely glancing at the lawyer watching.

"Donovan," Greg said, a warning note in his voice.

"What? He's not even here for me to apologize to," she started to say as Harry came stumbling down the stairs, still in John's pyjamas.

"Oh, God. I didn't realize…"

"Who's this, then, John?" Sally asked with a leer.

John kept his voice calm. "That's my sister. Harry, this is Sgt Sally Donovan, who I hope is just leaving. How's your headache?"

"Better," Harry said, barely looking at Sally who was eyeing her curiously. "What's going on?"

"Greg and Donovan came to consult with Sherlock. Mr Barrington is here to start on the funeral arrangements and the mountain of paperwork I need to go through. Do you want some tea?"

"Funeral? What, did the Freak finally snap?" Sally's words rang harshly in the silent room.

John froze. In fact, the entire room froze as everyone stared at Sally in shock. She just blinked in surprise at the reaction until John spoke, very quietly, very calmly … and in the voice that had made the men under his command jump to attention. "Not that it's any of your business, Sgt Donovan, but both my father and my grandfather were killed in a car accident last night. You might perhaps show a little respect?"

"I … I didn't know," she stammered out.

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock's voice came from the doorway, as he breezed in, bags of shopping in his hands. "You're only supposed to be a trained detective—why would you notice the family solicitor sitting at the desk, or the scattered papers which clearly include a Last Will and Testament. Both John and his sister are showing signs of emotional and physical fatigue from their overnight vigil by their father's bedside before he passed on this morning. Not to mention all the signals you chose to completely ignore from your boss as he tried to stop you from putting your foot in it … not that that seems possible, as you've never bothered to restrain your tongue before, why would you want to start now?"

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said, nodding at the shopping bags, but meaning for his friend's defence as well. "Did you actually buy milk?"

"Of course. I assumed you'll be living on tea for at least a week."

"You're right about that," John said, as he turned to introduce Sherlock to his lawyer.

"You'll be his lordship's flatmate, then?" Mr Barrington said.

"Lordship?" Sally burst out.

With a concealed smirk, Sherlock reached into one of his bags, and pulled out a newspaper. "I would think a detective from Scotland Yard would be more in tune with current events, Sally. You really should try to keep up—it might prevent you from embarrassing yourself."

"I saw the paper, Fr… Sherlock, but unlike you, I don't memorize the obituaries."

Sally just never knew when to stop, thought John, and felt no guilt at all as he settled back, ready to enjoy the show. He could barely hide his smirk as Sherlock asked, "Did you somehow miss the front page, as well?"

Sally was staring at the paper, face blank with incomprehension. "I don't understand. This is about the Earl of Undershaw."

"Exactly," said Sherlock with relish.

"What, was the driver John's father, then?"

"You bitch." It was said calmly, but, despite the difference in their accents, Harry's tone of voice was eerily like John's. The tension in the room immediately ratcheted up even higher. "How dare you? Who do you think you are, coming into my brother's home while we're trying to deal with not one, but two deaths? And then you insult him and his friend? Who the hell do you think you are?"

Any semblance of calm disappeared as Harry's voice rose to a shriek. It looked like a catfight was about to break out but John was still reluctant to step in, enjoying seeing Sally Donovan flummoxed and completely off-balance. And really, it was nice watching Harry rip into someone else for a change.

Sally was staring at Harry now, and seemed almost torn. John could almost see the thoughts wheeling through her brain. Should she retaliate against a woman who had just suffered a family tragedy, thus proving her social skills were worse than Sherlock's? Or back off and let Lestrade take care of this … because by the way she was glancing at her boss, she was wondering why he hadn't stepped in yet. "Who am I?" she finally said. "I'm an officer of the law, and while I understand you're grieving, I'll thank you not to speak to me that way."

John snorted. He couldn't help himself. She had no idea how short a fuse Harry had. He caught Sherlock eyeing him as if judging how upset he was, and flashed a small grin to his friend. This was the best entertainment he'd had all day.

"My father and my grandfather just died. I'll speak to you any way I damn well please—especially if you disparage my brother one more time. Nobody gets to do that but me."

To John's surprise, the next person to speak was Mr Barrington. "Furthermore, the polite address is Lady, Sergeant. As in Lady Harriet Brandon, sister to the current Earl of Undershaw, Lord John Hamish Watson Brandon. Now, as my clients are in mourning and we have much to discuss, perhaps you could take your frankly appalling attitude outside?"

Sally's face had paled to the colour of milky coffee and she looked as if the floor had tilted, suddenly unable to keep her balance. "Earl?" she whispered, staring at John, who just lifted an eyebrow and gave a slow nod. He could see her mentally running through all their interactions, looking for insults or problems—things a titled, powerful man could use against her if he were so inclined.

Greg actually shook himself and took a weary step forward. "Outside, Donovan. We'll discuss this later." He looked over at the others. "I'm sorry. I should have stopped her…"

"Oh, I don't know," John said, "That was worth watching—I'd back my sister against Sally any day. Thanks, sis."

"Does she do that often?" Harry sounded disgusted—and ready to go chasing down the stairs if necessary.

Sherlock actually did smile now. "I don't think she will again anytime soon. Nicely done, Harry. You're looking much more rested than when last I saw you. Now, Lestrade, does the file in your hand really need my help, or was it just your excuse for coming and checking up on John?"

Greg ran a hand through his hair. "A little of both. I assumed you'd be busy helping John, but if you could spare a minute to look, it would help. And, seriously, John," he said as he handed the file to Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect Donovan would … well …"

"Be so much like herself?" John said, sounding weary now, too. "I don't really expect anything else from her these days. And it's not like me being an earl was something expected."

"Not if you were going to keep it a secret, no," Greg said. "But really, even without the earl-thing, she should have had the human decency to let up once she learned about your dad. If you want to lodge a formal complaint…."

"Yes," Harry said eagerly.

"No." John shook his head. "I have enough legal headaches right now. I'll give her a chance to learn from this, but if she doesn't … we can take steps then. For now … is this conversation enough for an informal complaint, Greg? Then, good. Do you want tea while Sherlock is studying?"

"I won't be that long," Sherlock said. "It was the sister—you can tell by the way the cuts are tiny jabs. Even furious, she was worried about her manicure and had trouble gripping the knife, but there's a chip of nail polish right there, see?"

"Right," said Greg. "I'm off, then. I have a Sergeant to have words with. Glad to see you're doing okay, John, Harry. Nice to meet you, Mr Barrington." He gave a nod to Sherlock and then was gone.

"Do you know," Harry said, "I actually feel better now? That was almost therapeutic."

John laughed. "My only regret is you restrained yourself from slapping her. She's had one coming for as long as I've known her."

"Ooh, you could call her back," Harry suggested with a laugh, while Sherlock actually smiled and Mr Barrington looked faintly scandalized—but with a twinkle in his eye that showed he wasn't as shocked as he pretended. Really, John thought that went a long way toward making him feel better about the man. They were going to be spending a lot of time together, and a sense of humour would go a long way toward making things easier.

#

Sherlock was on his very best behaviour for the rest of the day. He stayed out of the way while John met with his lawyer. He resisted picking up his violin. He refrained from starting any particularly noxious experiments in the kitchen. He didn't make an issue over Harry installing herself on the couch. In fact, he worked very hard at putting John's needs ahead of his own.

This was more challenging than he'd expected. Not just because he was used to being selfish—he had never really understood why he shouldn't get his own way so long as he wasn't hurting anyone else. He hadn't reached his mid-thirties, though, without occasionally having to yield to the greater good, or society's expectations. While he might not usually care, particularly, about other people's 'feelings,' and may well have a cavalier attitude toward their importance, he never (well, rarely) deliberately caused pain. (If only because he had better things to do than deal with the fall-out.)

So, he virtuously tried not to make John's already challenging day more difficult.

It was just unfortunate that his own day went downhill when Mycroft showed up around 3:00 in the afternoon.

John's lawyer had left about half an hour before—and Sherlock was quite sure that Mycroft knew the minute he'd stepped onto the pavement. His brother had probably had his car idling and ready for him to rush over at the first opportunity. He would likely have expressed his condolences anyway (because Mycroft was nothing if not a slave to social conventions), but with these deaths elevating John to the peerage? Mycroft had probably been slavering at the chance to see John all day. Like he had told John—Mycroft had a ridiculous amount of respect for the institutions of the British monarchy and its peerage system even if they were largely meaningless these days.

Mycroft actually knocked at the door before entering the flat. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Sherlock sniffed. As if Mycroft had ever cared about interrupting. Harry's head came up just as John stepped out of the kitchen. "Mycroft," was all he said, then, "Have you met my sister? Harry, this is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, my sister Harry."

"Lady Harriet," Mycroft said with a nod. "My condolences on your loss. And yours … Lord Brandon."

Sherlock smirked as he watched John wince. His brother was usually so much better at reading cues than that. "Please, Mycroft. I'm not ready for that title yet. What happened to calling me John?"

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "It seemed disrespectful without your permission, John. I didn't want to presume."

John gave a snort. "One thing I've learned about you, Mycroft—you're all about presumption. I'm the same man I was yesterday. If you start treating me differently, I won't know what to believe. Sit down, won't you?"

Sherlock enjoyed the expression on his brother's face—it was so rare anyone pointed out his inconsistencies to him. Leave it to John, he thought with a surge of affection.

John meanwhile hesitated at the doorway and then shook his head, obviously deciding against the tea he'd thought to make. (John being in the kitchen meant tea at least 77% of the time, Sherlock had observed.) Instead, he walked over to the couch and sat down next to his sister.

Harry had been remarkably silent all afternoon, content to curl up on the couch (still in John's pyjamas) and just let the conversation flow around her, sniffling occasionally. She hadn't even touched her phone, he'd noticed, or seemed eager to leave for her own flat anytime soon. Now, as her brother came to sit next to her, she leaned toward him, resting against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and saw that he looked as surprised at this as he was. It wasn't that they had never seen siblings showing affection before, but knowing how little John and Harry actually liked each other … it was unexpected. Even allowing for the family tragedy—Sherlock could quite clearly remember when their father had died. About the only 'affection' he and Mycroft had shown had been a temporary armistice on hostilities until after the funeral.

But then, he already knew John had had a much better relationship with his father than they ever had with theirs.

Sherlock was surprised, though, that John was ignoring Mycroft. (Though, admittedly, he was entirely enjoying the sour grapes expression on his brother's face). After a few minutes of whispering to Harry, though, John looked up. "How are you, Mycroft?"

"I believe that's meant to be my question, John. Is there anything I can do?"

"Not at this precise moment," John said, "Though it's possible we might have some security problems once this news gets out. Nobody's going to expect an earl to be living on Baker Street, running around helping his flatmate solve crimes. I suspect there's a media frenzy coming. I hesitate to ask, but…"

"I'll see what I can do," Mycroft said. Noting the crinkle at the corner of his eye, Sherlock knew he'd already put steps in motion for just that. "Have you considered removing to another, more secure location until after the funeral?"

John rested his head on top of his (unusually silent) sister's, and said, "The burial will be at the family estate, so obviously we'll be going there eventually. There will be … things … I need to do while I'm there that might take longer … but I don't want Sherlock or Mrs Hudson bothered."

Sherlock stiffened. Didn't John want him with him? "Mrs Hudson will appreciate that, of course, but I'll be with you, John, of course."

John just blinked, and Sherlock tried not to feel hurt at the surprise. "Really? I didn't think you'd want to be away from The Work that long."

A point of warmth inside his chest pulsed, lessening the cold that had just gripped him. "Normally, no, but even I know you don't abandon friends in their time of need, John. Funerals are tedious, but I wouldn't make you face this on your own—you and Harry, that is."

"I … that would be … thank you, Sherlock," John said, looking uncomfortable as only an Englishman can when feelings are being discussed. "Mrs Hudson would probably want to come for the funeral, too. It's just that, after…"

"You'll have even more tedious business to attend to," Sherlock said. "I understand perfectly. Unless you don't want me?"

"Quite the contrary," John said, "If you can bear the boredom, I'd be glad to have you. You're welcome, too, Mycroft."

It was obviously just a polite invitation, Sherlock thought, and was relieved when Mycroft said, "Thank you, John. I would very much like to attend the funeral, though that will be all the time I can spend away from the city, I fear."

#

To Sherlock's relief, Mycroft didn't stay for much longer. He'd come to pay his respects and apparently felt that was sufficient. Not long after, John—almost grey with fatigue—excused himself to catch some sleep upstairs, leaving Sherlock with Harry.

Alone, he sat and studied her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the tiredness in her shoulders. He wondered if he was expected to strike up a conversation with her, or if it was okay that he continue sitting in silence.

It actually took him a few minutes to realize she was studying him as carefully as he was studying her. "You have questions," he said.

Harry nodded. "I'm just trying to make out exactly what the deal is with the two of you."

"And what conclusions have you reached?"

"You're very protective of him," she said, and he nodded. Obvious. "That's unusual, you know. John is usually the one being protective. He's made an entire career—two!—out of taking care of people. Reading his blog, it sounds like that hasn't changed, either. He seems to spend a lot of his time looking after you, complaining all the while in that way he has that says he doesn't really mean it. He likes feeling needed, my brother. It's one of his most annoying traits."

"You called him Saint John last night," Sherlock said.

She nodded. "He drives me mad, always trying to be so perfect, trying to fix everything. He's been like that since we were children and it always brings out the worst in me. Well, you've an older brother, too, so you know."

That was unexpected. Sherlock tried to think of his relationship with Mycroft as seen through this filter. Harry said John was annoying because he tried to fix things, but he'd always supposed that was just John. Was it a normal big-brother thing? Did that explain Mycroft's annoying predilection for interfering in his life? That would mean that Mycroft and John were … alike? He repressed a shudder. No. That wasn't true. Unlike Mycroft, John largely left Harry to her own devices.

Still, he supposed that the initial inclination, the spark of instinct of ensuring your own family survived, might be the same. "Your brother is the best man I know," he finally said softly.

"Me, too—but it doesn't mean we get along. Quite the contrary, in fact. God, I could use a drink." She ran her hand through her hair and Sherlock braced himself. He couldn't allow John's alcoholic sister to drink in the flat, could he? But thankfully, she wasn't asking. "My point, though, is that, despite all the fighting and as much as he drives me mad, he's still my brother. I wasn't kidding before when I said nobody gets to abuse him but me."

Sherlock met her gaze steadily, refusing to back down. "I feel exactly the same way. Nobody but me. He's been hurt too badly."

They glared at each other in silence for a few minutes, neither wanting to cede the privilege of protecting John (which in itself would have seemed ridiculous because he would hate being looked after, but, well it was John). Then Sherlock asked, "Why does he have your phone? I thought it was because he couldn't afford one, but…" And, really, he wondered, why had John needed a flatshare in the first place?

Harry glanced toward the stairs, then said, keeping her voice low. "He didn't tell anyone when he came back, after he'd been shot. Instead of coming home to be taken care of, or even letting any of us know he was back at all, he came to London all by himself and tried to make ends meet on his pension while he suffered through the physical therapy … can you imagine?"

Sherlock could, because that's exactly what he had seen when they met. He actually felt a little better that his eyes hadn't deceived him—and neither had John. What he'd seen in John—a struggling, wounded army veteran—had actually been true. "So, what happened?"

"You have to realize, none of us knew. We were still getting emails, and even Skype chats, for God's sake, so we didn't suspect. And somehow the army never contacted anyone about his being hurt. Don't ask me how. We had no idea any of this was happening. That he had been shot, that he was back in London. No idea. It still makes me furious to think about it."

Sherlock nodded. Concealing valuable data was one of the biggest sins in his eyes, and he could feel her frustration that John would be so intransigently stubborn about coming back on his own terms. It sounded like the John he knew, though—refusing help from anyone, refusing to show weakness. Insisting he could deal with his problems on his own—a trait he shared with Sherlock, in fact. "What happened?"

"I was in London to meet a friend for lunch, and … I couldn't believe my eyes. For a minute, I honestly thought I was seeing a ghost—like one of those stories you hear about, when a loved one dies and their spirits stop by to say goodbye? But there was no way the ghost of my brother could look so…"

She paused, eyes bright, and Sherlock tried to picture the John she'd seen, remembering how broken he'd been when they met. He remembered the lost look in his eye.

"He made me promise not to tell anyone he was back," Harry said after a moment. "He told me he was working some things out, and didn't want to burden Father with any of it. I pressed my phone on him right then and there because he didn't have one, and told him I'd better hear from him at least every other day or I was going to tell Grandfather, which, believe me. He was the sweetest man ever, but you did not want to get him angry." A brief smile lit her face as she remembered.

Sherlock considered what she'd said. "That sounds like John, that he would want to deal with that on his own before telling anyone."

"Yes, except it was utterly stupid," she said. "If anything, our family is annoyingly helpful. He should never have needed to do that alone."

"Except that some things you need to do for yourself," he said, surprising himself. "Perhaps John just needed to resolve it for himself before letting the rest of you in."

"Maybe," Harry snorted. "Anyway, luckily for John, he met you, because having you to chase after did wonders for him. I'd found his pathetic little blog by then, and when he started writing about cases with you … well, I was afraid he'd actually gone around the bend and was delusional, except that there were the newspaper headlines backing him up. Your website, too—which is dreadfully boring, by the way— but clearly not a figment of my brother's imagination. It wasn't too long after that that he came clean to the family that he was home and out of the army."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he considered that. "I imagine that was interesting."

"They were furious with him for keeping it from them, but by then, well … he was himself again. His limp was gone again, and his eyes had some life in them, which they distinctly had not when I met him. Grandfather knew your family, too, which they found reassuring for some reason—though if they'd ever actually seen this flat … I can't believe you two live here."

"Don't," Sherlock warned her. "221B is home. Don't abuse it."

"I'm not," she said. "It's just not where I would have pictured my brother to end up—though that's hard to do, anyway. He's an outlier, my brother, an aberration. An earl who's allergic to titles and prefers an army tent to the ancestral mansion?"

"Especially when you'd like the title for yourself."

She laughed. "Oh, that's rich. God, no. Can you imagine me as Countess? Even if it was possible? I'd be a nightmare. No sense of duty. My brother who's been avoiding the responsibility his whole life is going to be better at it than I ever could be. Don't think I don't know it."

"But that doesn't mean you like it," Sherlock observed.

"Do you like your brother telling you how to live your life? And I'd imagine you received more than a few lectures from your parents, too? It's something we have in common, Sherlock Holmes. We're younger siblings from good families whose big brothers are well-nigh frustratingly perfect, so why even bother?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Speak for yourself."

"Oh, because you're so unconcerned? I recognize a fellow screw-up when I see one, Sherlock, even if you have gotten your life together—with John's help, probably. He's a terribly good influence, don't you know?"

Sherlock considered. "You're wrong. Not about John being a good influence—because he is. And I suppose you could say I went through a rebellious phase, though it was more because I was bored than rebelling. But no, I got my life together on my own." He leaned forward, eyes piercing the sad, grieving, bitter-edged woman in front of him. "I just finally realized that there comes a point where you can't blame your parents and your siblings for your problems anymore, not if you're ever going to stand on your own. And so I did."

He stood up, and paused, looking down at her as neutrally as he could manage. "No, the thing you and I have in common is John, and I don't think either of us wants to see him hurt—by anyone."

And, handing her the television remote, he went to his room.

#