After John left, Sherlock turned back to the wall of albums. He didn't know why he was so surprised to learn that John had been married and widowed so young, but somehow knowing John had suffered that loss so soon after losing his mother explained a lot. He could still remember the look on John's face when he saw the victim in their very first case together. At the time, he had just assumed the well-dressed, blonde corpse was simply too different from the soldiers John had worked on in the army, but now he realized there had been other, more personal, reasons for that body to affect John. He found himself feeling oddly grateful the Pink Lady had been poisoned and not killed in some kind of accident John might have found even harder to look at.

He pulled out the album at the far left of the shelf and found more wedding photos—this time of John's parents. The resemblance between John and his father was strong, but there was something about the way his mother's eyes crinkled when she smiled that was all John. He paged quickly through the images, watching as John's mother grew large until, radiant, she held a baby John in her arms.

Photos of John toddling in the grass, hair practically glowing in the sun. John perched on the back of a pony, held carefully by what must be his grandfather. John holding a baby sister in his lap … Sherlock was almost entranced as he watched his best friend growing before his eyes. The cheeky, friendly look of John as a young boy. His obvious charm as a teen.

The loving collection of photos ended with John's 18th birthday. After that, there were just a handful of photos of major life events—graduation, obligatory birthday and Christmas photos stuffed in between empty pages. The loss of his mother was made painfully obvious.

Sherlock wondered for a moment who was responsible for the album John had been looking at, and then realized. Mary. He slid it back off the shelf and went through again, trying to pick up clues as to her personality. Careful with her appearance, as John said, but you could see the adoration in her eyes. And in John's. He paused on a photo of John, side-lit from a window as he bent over his books, glancing at the camera with that so-familiar look of "I'm busy, is it important?" The affection was so obvious.

Sherlock tried to compare this collection of photos to those of his family and gave up. There simply was no comparison. His family had never been as affectionate as the Brandons appeared to be.

He eyed the next album along, wondering who had taken up the task after Mary's passing.

The first photo was of John in his uniform, looking resolute, thinner than he had been, favouring one leg, and with new lines in his forehead. Even before the war, John had seen more death than he should.

Sherlock stared for a moment, wondering at the games fate could play. So many factors went into shaping lives—it was one of the reasons that, boring though most people were, some were fascinating. Would John still have gone into medicine if his mother hadn't died? Had he not lost Mary, would he have considered joining the army?

It almost made sense, now, that John had kept to himself when he returned from Afghanistan—that he had tried to keep to himself, protect himself. It was so easy to miss that he was as scarred emotionally as he was physically.

And yet he didn't let it stop him, Sherlock marvelled. He might draw back to lick his wounds, might turn to a new direction rather than continue in a familiar but now-lonely track, but John Watson (Brandon) endured. He kept reinventing himself.

It was impressive, thought Sherlock, thinking about his own detours—the wasted years at school, the drugs, the continuous battle with Mycroft. John had managed to redefine himself several times—son, medical student, husband, widower, army doctor, detective, earl—and yet he had remained true to himself each time.

More, he had remained true to the people who cared about him—he might have withdrawn for time to heal, but he had never completely turned his back, or locked them out.

Sherlock turned back to stare at young Lieutenant Watson, and felt a tiny tendril of hope. John would get through this, too—this new sea change—and once he'd found his footing again, Sherlock would have his friend back.

#

John woke the next morning feeling only slightly more rested than when he went to sleep. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling of his childhood room and considered.

The funeral was (thankfully) done now. He thought about how he'd already signed much of the paperwork he needed to address, and made most of the most urgent decisions. Luckily for him, even at 89, his grandfather had been meticulous in the execution of his duties. Everything had been up-to-date, all the balances and invoices and receipts were all current—and healthy, thank God. Too many old families were struggling for money these days and, while John knew all about financial struggle on a personal basis, he wouldn't have known where to begin if Mr Barrington had started with, "Well, the bad news is…"

No, his grandfather's responsible handling of the family estate and businesses meant that, for the time being, John could pretty much just say, "Carry on," and not worry.

The relief was enormous.

He'd had some training, years ago. He did know some of what he needed to know to step into this role, but his skills were in medicine and defence (and chasing criminals, these days)—not business management. But he was lucky there, too—the people his grandfather had hired were largely competent and loyal. He didn't have to rush into any changes or rash decisions. And if he had any doubts about any of them? All he'd need do would be to introduce them to Sherlock and he would know right away if they could be trusted.

He might even be able to take the day to just … absorb some of this. The funeral was behind him, the biggest decisions taken care of, and … barring Sherlock getting a new case or making anything explode … the idea of just staying here for a few days before heading back to London had enormous appeal.

He thought again about the horses in the stable, and how long it had been since he'd ridden. He thought about how Sherlock said he used to ride, and wondered … His eyes turned toward the window. It looked like a beautiful day.

Part of him couldn't help but laugh at the idea of him and Sherlock riding together—it seemed like such a ridiculously upper-class thing to do, especially for two blokes who spent their days prowling the streets of London for criminals. Maybe a walk would be more apt, he thought as he dressed. He could ease into this country thing in stages—it wasn't like there wasn't a staff responsible for exercising the horses, after all.

His optimistic mood held strong until he approached the breakfast room and heard the voices. Harry and Sherlock, having one of those intense, almost whispered conversations that were the polite versions of all-out, full-volume screaming matches.

"Just leave it alone, Sherlock," Harry was saying. "I just buried my father."

"John just buried his, too, but he managed to avoid getting drunk last night."

John froze. Harry had been doing so well. How had he not realized that last night would be a danger night for her? He'd gotten so caught up in his own memories, he'd neglected to check on her. Not that it would have mattered. None of his interventions had ever worked; if she didn't choose to stop, she wouldn't. He knew that, but this wasn't just Harry having a bad day. Their father had just died. He should have realized she would want to drink last night of all nights.

On the other hand, maybe one of these days he would remember Harry's drinking wasn't something he could fix.

"Yes, well, his Ex didn't come to the funeral, did she?" Harry's voice was harsh.

"I couldn't really say. Not in corporeal form, certainly," Sherlock said, "Though I don't know how you feel about the notion of an afterlife. Maybe you prefer to believe she was there for him in his hour of need."

John could almost feel the temperature drop from his place in the hallway. "He told you?" Harry asked, tentative.

"He said car crashes were bad luck for your family."

"I try not to think of it," she said. "If I did, I'd never get in another car. That's four generations car crashes have wiped out, though I suppose Mary wasn't blood. She was family, though."

"Four?" John recognized the bloodhound-on-scent tone to Sherlock's voice and, hoping to divert him, stepped forward, cursing himself for delaying to eavesdrop. But it was too late. Sherlock had already made the connection. "Of course. She had an appointment, and you stopped for a celebratory drink. How did I not see that?"

"I wasn't drunk," Harry was saying as John stepped into the room, met by two pairs of eyes—one surprised and one measuring. "I wasn't," she repeated.

"I know you weren't," John told her, taking in her red-rimmed eyes and pasty skin under its makeup. "It was an accident, Harry. I've always known that."

John was totally unprepared for her to launch herself into his arms. How much had she had to drink last night, he wondered as she sobbed "I'm sorry" into his shoulder and he stared at Sherlock in shock.

To his relief, he didn't see that hated, condescending sympathy in his friend's eyes. John had had enough experience with grief (personally and professionally) to know the difference between real, honest concern and the kind you show because it's polite, or you're after something. Knowing Sherlock, knowing how he shammed emotion on cases, for a brief moment, he was afraid he'd see that fake, false sympathy he hated so much.

To his relief, though, his friend's face was neutral as he met John's eyes over Harry's head. He didn't burst into profuse expressions of sympathy, but he looked almost tentative as he said, "Mary was pregnant."

John nodded. "It was still new, but … yeah."

He watched Sherlock glance down at his leg, and nodded again, astounded as always at his flatmate's ability to put random bits of information together. "I would have been the one driving, but I'd just broken my leg riding. I walked on it too soon to get through the funeral. It took months to get rid of the limp."

"You said there had been a real injury—just not in the war," Sherlock said, obviously mentally filing that away. "Your brain obviously connected the trauma to your injury in Afghanistan. But … you're not limping now?"

Harry had twisted around in his arms to glare at Sherlock. "Have you never heard of tact?"

"It's okay, Harry," John told her, as he watched his friend. "I don't know. You said yourself it was psychosomatic—I don't know if it was the bullet, or losing my career, or what, but somehow getting shot brought back the old injury. Maybe, traumatic as this is, I'm not limping now because, this time, I'm not as alone."

John watched Sherlock nod, and was sure he was processing the information and extruding his own series of deductions on why a war wound would pull up a psychosomatic limp from when he'd lost his wife and unborn child, but losing his two father figures wouldn't. His deductions would probably be fascinating, even if John really didn't want to hear them just now.

John looked down at Harry and gave a sniff. "You've been drinking?"

The shame poured into her face, pulling the features down, making it hard for her to pull her head up into a nod. "I couldn't help it."

Of course she couldn't, he thought. He knew all about her array of excuses, but had to admit that if you were going to get drunk, a parent's funeral was as good a time as any. But still, the words slipped out. "Did you even try?"

Now she pushed herself away. "Because you're so perfect? I said I was sorry! I don't need you judging me—either of you!"

"I'm not judging, Harry…"

"Of course you are! You always do. You always have."

John was really just too tired to deal with her recriminations, but he had had just as bad a week as she had (worse, he thought). Not only that, his optimistic mood had been killed, murdered by Harry's toxic attitude. "You can make all the excuses you want, Harry, but your drinking problem is not my fault," he told her, struggling to hold onto his patience. He hadn't even had his tea yet.

"That's a lie, and you know it. You've never forgiven me for that accident. I live with that every day."

"And you think I don't?" John asked, incensed. "I lost my wife and my son, but it was an accident, and it was fifteen years ago. I haven't let it control my whole life."

"I'm supposed to believe that, John Brandon?" Harry asked, practically spitting out the name to make John wince. "You can't even bear to hear your own name. You're just as haunted as I am."

"Believe me, I'm haunted by a lot worse than that—and if you're trying to use that as an excuse, it's not working, Harriet." John spat back. "Because if you haven't noticed, I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not drowning my woes at the bottom of a vodka bottle and letting an accident that wasn't even my fault ruin my life almost two decades later!"

"Because you never let me forget it!"

John was dumbfounded. "How can you even say that? We haven't talked about Mary in over a decade."

"I know. It just sits there, like the elephant in the room, every time I see you. Every time … I see the family you should have had. I couldn't make it work with Clara because I kept thinking about how you were alone, how you went to a bloody war zone because you couldn't stand to be in the same room with me. And then you almost died and you didn't tell any of us, you didn't care enough to tell us you had been SHOT! You can barely even look at me, and every time you do, it feels like you're accusing me all over again, blaming me for Mary."

There was movement by the door and he saw one of the maids standing stunned, a tray of pastries in her hands. Lovely, now everybody would know … he'd forgotten the drawbacks of living with household staff. How very Upstairs Downstairs of them to provide such juicy gossip, he thought, as she bobbed a tiny curtsey and hurried out of the room, taking her tray with her, to John's regret. If he had to have this conversation, couldn't it be on a full stomach, at least?

But then, he thought as he turned back to Harry, maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea. How could she still feel like this? Like he still blamed her? His stomach clenched at the thought. Because, yes, he admitted it. At the beginning there had been times he had blamed her … of course he had. She had been driving, and it didn't matter that it had been an accident, that the other driver had been at fault … she had been the one in responsible for their car. It didn't matter that he knew full well that Harry's actions had been blameless—emotions, as Sherlock was so fond of noting, were not logical.

It had been one of the reasons he'd left—he had needed to get away from the entire situation to regain perspective, to try to heal. He hadn't wanted to blame Harry, so he'd left. His head had known it wasn't his sister's fault, and he hadn't wanted to burden her … she'd barely been 21. She wasn't supposed to still be carrying this guilt, not all these years later.

"I'm not blaming you, Harry," he said, striving for a calm, collected tone. "I never did, not really…."

"Ha! Of course you did. Anyone in your position would have—I certainly would have if it had been the other way around. If you'd been driving a car that Clara was killed in? I would hate you for it. Brother or not, I would. So don't think you can stand there and tell me you don't hate me for it."

"I don't," John told her, but she made a disbelieving noise. "God, everything just has to be about you, doesn't it? I'm not saying that there weren't times in the week after the accident I didn't question it, Harry, but that's almost 15 years ago. Since then I've seen more people than you can imagine die and have almost died myself more times than I really like to think about—as recently as last month when a madman strapped me into a bomb."

He deliberately did not look at Sherlock as he said it. That moment at the pool had been the only time he'd seen a crack in Sherlock's façade, and he couldn't deal with his guilt as well as Harry's right now.

"Believe me when I tell you, Harry. It's. Time. To. Get. Over. It. The world doesn't revolve around you, Harry, or around the fact that a stupid kid got drunk and slammed into the car you were driving when you were 21. I know it was horrible, I know you feel terrible, but for Christ's sake …get over it! Stop using me and Mary as your excuse to get drunk!"

The words rang around the room, getting caught in the corners as they ricocheted and echoed in his ears. He tried not to wince. He couldn't remember the last time he'd truly yelled at someone, but Harry had always been able to get around his defences. Siblings did that, he supposed, trying to catch his breath as she stared at him for one long moment before bolting from the room.

John slumped into a chair, still resolutely not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Well, that went well."

"I think we need to work on your definition of 'well,' John." Sherlock's voice was soft.

"There you go, Sherlock, criticising my vocabulary again," John said, trying for a joke.

"You make it so easy." Sherlock's voice was light, but his face was serious, measuring, and John didn't want to know how many things the man had just deduced about him.

All he really wanted right now was some tea. (Well, that or something rather harder, but considering he hadn't had breakfast and had just gotten into a fight with Harry about drinking, he'd stick with tea.)

"I wonder how long it will take for the maid to summon up the courage to bring that tray back," he finally said.

"The look on her face was quite illuminating," Sherlock said. "I don't think she realized that upper class people yelled at each other like that. I'm guessing your grandfather didn't?"

John forced a smile. "God, no. He was far too well-mannered, but Mum never liked us putting on airs. It's one of the reasons she insisted on the local school for us. She wanted us to be able to talk to normal people as easily as grandfather's compatriots."

"Which explains the accent," Sherlock said with the air of someone solving a mystery.

"Which explains the accent, and the yelling," confirmed John. "It came in handy in the army, too." He stood back up and walked to the sideboard. At least there was tea, he thought, as he poured himself a cup. "Our mother was a democratic thinker."

"The opposite of mine, then," Sherlock said. "I believe she thought longingly of the days when anyone beneath our station would have kept their eyes on the ground as she passed—if they didn't actually grovel."

"That explains a lot about Mycroft, then," John said with something resembling a real laugh now.

"Oh, yes," said Sherlock, "Though luckily for our democratic political system, he learned diplomacy from our father—I shudder to think of the repercussions had he followed out mother's views when he went into the government."

"Heigh ho, welcome back, feudal system?"

"Exactly. Mummy would have been so disappointed with the way he turned out."

"Because your tendency to relate to the criminal element wouldn't have worried her at all."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, she was absolutely appalled. It was wonderful."

Now John did laugh. "And I thought Harry had been rebellious. You must have been a nightmare as a teenager."

"John, I'm disappointed. Are you saying I no longer qualify as a nightmare? I'll need to work harder."

"Oh, God," said John. "As if playing the violin at all hours and stashing body parts in the fridge isn't bad enough—it could be worse?" He didn't know whether to be amused or horrified.

The smile on Sherlock's face didn't help, as he looked past him and said, "John, you're going to scare your breakfast away again."

Turning, John saw the maid from earlier back with her tray, but looking as if she was ready to bolt again. "I'm so sorry," John told her, waving her in and resisting the urge to snatch the tray from her hands. "We're just joking, honestly. He just does experiments and isn't always as careful about bio-contamination as he should be, but it's for science and helping the police so it's nothing you need to worry about."

Christ, he was babbling.

"Of course, my lord," she said, eyes wide.

John tried not to roll his eyes at the title. He was fairly confident that he would not be able to convince the staff to call him John, and he supposed he would have to get used to it. "Honestly, I'm sorry you walked into a family fight before. What's your name?"

"Rose, sir," she said, putting the tray down on the sideboard. She gave him a sideways glance and then took one of the waiting plates and put a Danish on it. Walking it over to the table she placed it in front of him. "The cook wasn't sure what you'd be wanting for breakfast, sir, and said I was to ask what you would like. She sends her apologies for not having it ready."

"Oh, please, this is fine," John told her. "I usually just make myself toast as I run out the door." He saw her blink, as if absorbing the shocking knowledge that the new earl was accustomed to making his own breakfast. "Still, it's going to be a full day, so … perhaps some eggs and bacon?"

"Yes, sir, right away," Rose said with another little curtsey. "And you, sir?"

"He'll have the same," John said firmly before Sherlock could answer, and then held his tongue while the girl backed nervously out of the room. "I think we scared the poor girl, Sherlock."

"She's nervous around male authority figures," Sherlock said, "Ever since her father … well, never mind. What are you doing today, once you've finished the huge breakfast that no doubt is coming?"

"After we finish breakfast, you mean?" John asked. "I need to get out of the house for a while—would you be up for a hike? Or a ride?"

Eyebrow raised, Sherlock nodded and John couldn't help but smile as a bit of his earlier optimism returned. Maybe it would be a good day, after all.

Right until Sherlock said, "Besides, John, it's only a matter of time before your staff discovers your blog and finds out what you really do with your time."

#

Sherlock reined in his horse and took a moment to admire the view. He had to admit John's ancestors had done a fine job caring for their land. He turned his head to say so to John, but paused at the look on his face. John was looking out at the valley with wide-eyes as he rubbed at his thigh. Hmm. Not good.

Now that Sherlock knew more about the provenance of John's psychosomatic limp, its reappearance now was not surprising. If he had hurt his leg while riding and then suffered through the funeral for his young wife and son a week later … it made sense that now, riding a horse on the same land the day after the funeral for his father and grandfather, he would feel a resurgence of that old pain.

He wondered if John's subconscious had encouraged him to take this ride for that very reason—a chance to address some old ghosts.

He shifted in his own saddle and ruefully considered that he was likely to be stiff himself later on. It had been years since he'd been on a horse. He said as much to John, then asked, "Have you ridden … since?"

"Since Mary's funeral, you mean?" John asked without taking his eyes from the prospect. "Not really. I rode a camel in Afghanistan once or twice, but that's completely different—and not something I'm eager to do again. But mostly, no."

"Did you … want to talk about it?" Sherlock asked cautiously, not really sure he wanted to know the answer, but trying to be supportive (or whatever friends were supposed to do).

John shook his head. "It was a long time ago. It almost feels like it happened to a completely different person. It's just that … being back here brings it back."

"Especially since you're here for a funeral."

"Yeah, that doesn't help. I'm surprised you didn't see them, at the cemetery yesterday. I should have introduced you."

Sherlock thought back. There had been a moment when John had turned away to pause at another grave, but he had been being nice and hadn't looked at the name. He had assumed it was John's mother. "Unless you've got paranormal abilities you haven't mentioned, I'll remind you that you can't speak to the dead, John."

"Nonsense," said John firmly. "You can talk to the dead all you like. It's when they start answering you need to worry."

"True." Sherlock couldn't hide his smile. It was good to see John's usual good humour starting to reassert itself. "I would have liked to have met them," he said after a moment.

John was absently massaging his thigh as the horse shifted under him. "It's weird to think my son would have been a teenager by now. Can you imagine? Listening to God knows what kind of horrific music, getting piercings or tattoos, maybe—which his mother would have hated. Mary always said, 'Imagine how it will look when you're 90,' and would just shudder when anyone mentioned tattoos—not that they were as popular back then."

"Or he would have been quietly respectful and polite and doing his best to make you proud of him," Sherlock said. "Though the music would probably still be dreadful."

"Says the man who doesn't listen to anything written since 1895," John said with a grin. "It's true, though. Most Brandons are pretty responsible."

"Would your son have been a Brandon or a Watson?" asked Sherlock, curious.

"A Brandon," John said. "I used Watson through school, but switched back to Brandon when I married Mary. At that point, if things hadn't … happened … I would likely have done the things I was meant to do. Get a medical practice, raise a family, be a help to my Dad… I probably wouldn't have switched back to Watson if I hadn't joined the army in an attempt to reboot my life, for all the good that did me."

"Quite a lot, I would think, since it shaped the man who has become my friend. Think of all the lives you saved that would have been lost," Sherlock said, trying to find the words John needed to hear. "Including mine."

"The army had other doctors," John said with a shrug as he glanced over. "But I would have missed you."

Sherlock was unexpectedly touched. "But as Viscount Brandon, or whatever title you would have had, you would never have been abducted and wrapped in a bomb."

"Maybe not, but I wouldn't have gotten to watch you in action, either," John said. "If anything, the only Holmes brother I would likely have known would have been Mycroft."

"Perish the thought," Sherlock said with a shudder. "Though it's unlikely he would have kidnapped you, then."

"Probably not, but do you know, I don't really mind that first one anymore? Both of you did me a lot of good that night—getting rid of my tremor and my limp and giving me a shot of adrenalin and a purpose again. I wish he would stop sending black cars around to kidnap me because at this point it's just gotten rude, but a little mystery did me good that first night—even if I was completely confused. Calling himself your archenemy."

"Luckily, you're often at your best when you're confused," Sherlock told him, giving the horse a nudge with his heels and starting down the hill as John sputtered behind him.

#