Trying to hide a grin, John paid the cabdriver and turned to follow Sherlock past the police tape.

Sherlock had been letting him pay for taxis a lot more often since they'd returned to London, not that John minded, exactly. It wasn't like he didn't have the money to cover a few cab fares these days. Or the rent on 221C, which surprisingly had worked out remarkably well. Sherlock had his own lab space and John had a food-only refrigerator in a flat that had lost the worst of the chemical smells. They had added some extra insulation around the doors of 221C to keep the smells and fumes away from Mrs Hudson, and so far, the new plan was working well.

Of course, this meant there were hours when John and Sherlock were in different flats, but that had worked out better than John expected. Sherlock was usually either in 221C at night when John was asleep upstairs or during hours when John was attending to what he referred to as his "earl business."

If he could just get Sherlock to stop texting him to request things like the pencil on the other side of the flat while he was two flights upstairs, everything would be perfect.

They had stayed at the estate for a week after the funeral while John caught up on more of the business end of his new affairs, but by the seventh day of sunshine and fresh air, both of them were clamouring to get back to London's familiar smog.

John had, in fact, inherited five houses—the ancestral estate, a hunting "cottage" in Scotland, a house on the Riviera, and two London townhouses. It was the last that caused him the most trouble. Clearly, the house and estate that had been in the family for generations and gave them the name Undershaw was going nowhere. The other two weren't important to him at all—he could sell them or rent them as he chose with nary a qualm.

The London houses that had belonged to his father and grandfather, though—that was another story.

He certainly didn't need both of them. First of all, he wanted to stay on Baker Street with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. (He hadn't been joking about 221B being the first real home he'd had since he turned 18.) He was, though, an Earl now, and there were obligations that went with the title. He might not need to "entertain" often (or ever, if he could help it), but having a living space that befitted his new station was probably a good idea. Not because he cared himself, but because other people did. They might be the idiots that Sherlock called them, but … if he needed to exert any charm or power with his title, he needed a reputable place to stand. He was too much a soldier to pass up a solid advantage and give up ground he would need later.

In the end, after discussing it with Harry and his cousins (just in case they wanted the property), he put his father's house up for sale. He would keep the rather stately home his grandfather had loved (and that had been in the family for almost as long as the Undershaw estate), but let the others go.

Thankfully, the rent he was paying for 221C and half of 221B wasn't beyond his new means.

Paying the staff, though, that was something else. The houses needed to be kept up, ready for when he might need them, but with him not actually living there … how could he justify paying someone to dust his grandfather's old house when Mrs Hudson received nothing but rent for all her trouble? Sure, he could open up the house for visits from family members who might want to come to the city for a visit, but still, he was going to need less staff than his grandfather had needed. Either that, or rent it out.

John had never been responsible for anyone's livelihood before, and he hated the idea of firing someone just because he was choosing to live somewhere else.

He had toyed with the idea of moving in and dragging Mrs Hudson and Sherlock with him, but that would never work. Both of them were too independent, and really, they loved 221 Baker Street as much as he did.

As he slid his wallet back into his pocket, though, he spared a thought for the driver his grandfather had employed. The accident that had killed them had not been his fault, but the poor man had been guilt-ridden. John wondered if the man's salary was less than what he and Sherlock spent on cabs in the course of a month? Not that Sherlock would want to be seen being driven around in a sleek car like Mycroft used, but having a car and driver at hand certainly would be convenient. Maybe they could buy an actual taxi for their personal use? It would blend perfectly in with the surroundings and wouldn't draw the wrong kind of attention…

He grinned to himself as he turned away from the kerb. That idea actually had some merit, and he might even be able to convince Sherlock … the trick would be making sure the driver was handy when Sherlock flew out of 221B at a moment's notice, though he supposed they could always take a regular cab to the crime scene and then have his driver meet them. They could make a new rule—if Sherlock opted for an actual taxi, he could pay. If they used John's private taxi, John would cover the expenses. The thought of a car waiting for them at crime scenes on cold, wet, rainy days like this one was immensely appealing.

Yes, this idea was sounding better and better, he thought. After all, what fun was it being an earl if he didn't get some perqs?

Grinning up at Sherlock as he ducked under the tape, he shrugged off the questioning look. "I'll tell you later. But for now, this is our first case in weeks. I don't want to get distracted."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, please. It sounds like a six at best. Hardly worth the effort."

"Oh, please," John parroted back. "You've been as bored as I am—even more. You're as eager as I am to get back to work."

"Well, it's not every detective who has an earl as an assistant, John."

"I thought we were keeping that separate, Sherlock. I might have to put up with the title out there, but here, I'm just the same bloke that follows you around."

"Let's just hope the Met remembers."

That was a good point, thought John. After the confrontation with Sally—not to mention the news coverage—he was quite sure everyone knew about his name, his station, his title. He just hoped that, now that several weeks had passed, that they could ease back to the way it had been.

A hope, he admitted several minutes later, which had been a bit optimistic. But then, people's reactions had been surprising him since the beginning. (He chose not to think about the reactions from the domestic staff at Undershaw when they'd discovered his blog. As Sherlock had predicted, they'd all gone into collective apoplexy, with the exception of a few of the younger members who suddenly developed a case of hero-worship.)

For once, instead of breezing ahead, Sherlock kept pace with John—the better to intercept and enjoy rude comments, John thought.

Although the looks he was getting weren't so much rude as curious. Confused, even, as if they couldn't understand what he was doing there.

"You seem quite popular, John," Sherlock said to him as they wove past the gawking officers.

"And I thought the looks I got were bad when I started following you around," John said with a grimace. "What did they think I was going to be doing with my time? Playing croquet?"

"No flamingos," said Sherlock, startling John. His friend had almost no knowledge of popular culture at all, but he could reference Alice in Wonderland?

"True, but I'm watching for giant mushrooms—it would explain a lot, frankly."

"Agree," said Sherlock, hiding a smile as they approached the crime scene. Sally and Anderson were talking to each other in the corner as Lestrade examined the victim, sprawled across the carpet.

He looked up as they approached. "Sherlock," he said in greeting. "John. How're you doing?"

"I'm fine, Greg," John said with a nod. "I haven't seen you since the funeral—thanks for coming, by the way."

Greg shrugged. "Least I could do, though getting past Mycroft's security was challenging."

Sherlock sniffed. "Please. Child's play," he said, eyes darting over the victim.

"Not everyone has your skills, Sherlock," John told him, falling easily into their familiar routine with a sigh. It was wrong, he told himself, to be so happy about being at a murder scene.

He could hear whispering behind him, though, so with a glance at Sherlock, already at work, he walked over to Sally and Anderson. "You have something to say?"

"Um, no, my lord," Sally stammered. "We're just surprised to see you."

"Really? And why is that?"

"Well, because of your, er, recent loss, and, um…"

John just lifted an eyebrow and waited as she struggled to find the words. He would really need to tell Harry, he thought. She would be so pleased to hear her tongue-lashing had had such a lasting effect.

Unable to bear Sally's stumbling comments any longer, Anderson said, "Because you're an earl now, she means to say. We didn't think you'd be interested in this anymore, certainly not…" His eyes slid toward Sherlock.

"You thought my grandfather's death would make me less interested in solving crimes and saving lives?"

"No, of course not. I mean…" Sally paused as she tried to find the words. "We just thought you'd be … busy … with other things?"

"Indeed? You'd be amazed at how little day-to-day work is involved in being an earl. I have to fill my time somehow."

"But…" She stopped, at a loss.

"What is it, Sally?" John asked bluntly.

"It's just that … we're busy. It's not like we have time to go around worrying about you. It's bad enough with the Fre… Sherlock."

"Have I ever given you the impression that I need you to watch out for me, Donovan?" John asked.

"No, but, that was then…"

"I'm still the same person I was before. Do you think me any less capable just because I have a title now?"

"Of…of course not…"

"We're just concerned," Anderson said. "It was bad enough that the Freak dragged you around and put you in danger before…"

"But now?" John's voice was calm, but with that tenor that made soldiers quail.

"Now you're an earl, John. Much too good to be seen with the likes of them," Sherlock said, coming up behind him.

"The likes of…" Sally's eyes were wide with disbelief. "We're officers of the law, Freak."

"Indeed," said Sherlock. "Not exactly high up on the social scale."

"Oh, and you are?" Her voice was scathing.

"It's true, as the younger son, I didn't inherit the sizable estate my brother did, nor do we have a title, but I think my antecedents are such that John need not be ashamed … if he were the type of man to worry more about money and titles than about actual substance. In point of fact, I was in school with his cousin—not that you would know. I so seldom bother wearing any necktie, much less the one from my old school. Assuming you would know one tie from the next."

Sally's voice was rising now as she said, "Oh, it's so easy for you, isn't it? It's easy when you've got money to shrug it off, but some of us need to work for a living."

"And what do you think we do, Sally?"

"You? You don't work," she spat out. "You're just dilettantes getting in the way of those of us who do this as a job!"

"So, what are you saying?" John asked, eyes hard. "Are you saying you have no use for our services? Despite the fact that your boss invited us here, asked for our help? Or are you complaining yet again at the fact that two unpaid dilettantes, as you put it, are better at your job than you are?" She started to open her mouth, but he forged ahead, "Because I find that fascinating. It doesn't say much for your training, does it? Or your professionalism? But then, I've never seen any sign that you understand the concept of professional behaviour."

"What? How dare you…"

"You can't have it both ways," he told her. "Either I'm important, or I'm not. Either I know what I'm doing, or I don't. Regardless of my current title, my first one was Doctor, and my second was Captain—as in, Captain in the army. I assure you, Sgt Donovan, that I am as capable as ever, and as willing to help Sherlock help you solve crimes as I ever was." He moved forward, keeping his body language neutral and non-threatening, but still smiled to see her step backward. "The difference is that now I have some connections I didn't have before. If I was of a mind to abuse my new-found influence, I might just start by suggesting the police force started behaving professionally. And then where would you be?"

"Are you threatening her?" Anderson asked, dumbfounded.

"Not at all," said John. "I'm just reminding both of you how fortunate you are to have the unpaid expertise of Sherlock and myself … which is generous of both of us. You'd be astounded at what our hourly rate is. It's the private clients we squeeze in around your cases that pay our rent, you know. Now, I believe there's a dead body not ten steps away that deserves our attention?"

He pivoted on his heel and not-quite-marched back to the body, pulling on his gloves as he went. He didn't look back, but he did glance up to judge Greg's face. He was relieved to see the man trying to hide a grin. It was wrong that he had enjoyed that so much, John he bent toward the corpse, seeking any clues as to how the poor woman had died.

But still … it was important to enjoy one's work, wasn't it?

#

Sherlock practically bounded up the stairs, and then stopped short just before the landing.

The door was open.

Cautiously, he ascended the last few steps, hand on his phone. John was out, wasn't he? Something about his earl business, and Mrs Hudson had gone to the shops. There was nobody who should be here—there wasn't even a car from Mycroft out front.

And so he edged around the doorway, senses alert as he took a step inside…

…and nearly collided with a young woman coming down the hallway.

She gave a shriek and dropped the bucket she'd been holding, spilling an assortment of cleaning supplies across the carpet.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Jane," she said on a stammer, hand on her heart and eyes wide. "I'm just here to clean, Mr Holmes, honest."

His eyebrows lifted. "Clean?"

She just stared at him. "You sound like you've never heard the word before. Yes, I'm here to clean 221A and 221B, but I was told to avoid 221C under any circumstances."

"And by whom were you given these instructions?"

"Lord Undershaw, of course," the girl said, looking even more perplexed.

Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"—Flat invaded by girl with smelly cleaning products. Explain. SH"

"—Is she there already? Be nice."

"—That's not an explanation. SH"

"—I need to explain cleaning to you? Oh right, it's you. Of course I do."

"—Very humorous. Why do we need a cleaning girl? SH"

"—I thought it would be nice to have the maid I'm paying anyway clean the house where I actually live."

"—And 221A also. Mrs Hudson does enough for us."

"—Don't scare the poor girl away. Or shanghai her down to 221C."

"—Why not 221C? SH"

"—Because, I repeat, we don't want to scare the poor girl away. Just let her do her job, Sherlock.

Thoughtfully, Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and nodded at the girl. "Fine. Go ahead." He supposed John had a point. It would be good to save Mrs Hudson the extra effort.

#

John slumped in his chair, fighting to keep his eyelids open, trying to resist the temptation to just put his head down on the table and go to sleep.

That would be unprofessional, though, and after he'd lectured Sally and Anderson on it, he wasn't going to let his own behaviour slide—not even after 27.5 hours chasing endless dead-end leads on a ring of vicious kidnappers. He would sit here and try to stay awake like the doctor and soldier he was.

Except, the problem was that both doctors and soldiers knew all about the importance of grabbing some rest when they could, so his instincts were telling him that, no, really, it was his duty to catch some sleep—even just fifteen minutes. It wasn't like he was contributing anything at the moment. He was just here lending moral support while Sherlock and the others struggled to make sense of the clues. Any help he was able to offer had drained away with his energy several hours ago.

And so he sat here, trying to tell himself that the conference table did not look like a comfy place to nap.

He was as surprised as anyone when there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" asked Lestrade, looking even more gray than usual, but perking up a bit as he saw the attractive blonde at the door.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for … oh! Lord Undershaw, there you are." She looked relieved as John pivoted his chair to face her.

"Margaret? What are you doing here?" he asked, mentally slapping himself in an effort to wake enough brain cells to form a coherent thought.

"It's Tuesday, my lord." He just blinked at her. Obviously whatever she was discreetly referring to was important, but all he could think about were the four girls whose bodies had been found at six hour intervals since yesterday … and the fifth who was still missing as the clock marched forward into the fifth hour. "Three o'clock on Tuesday—the twenty-first."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Sally asked now.

"Margaret Reedy," she said in her proper tones. "Lord Undershaw's assistant. You were due at the house an hour ago, my lord, and your appointment is in half an hour."

His amusement at her perfect snub of Sally Donovan finally gave his brain enough of a nudge and, horrified, he stood up. "Oh, Christ. That's today? And it's 3:00?"

"Yes, sir." She smiled gently. "I've brought you a change of clothes, and Parker is ready downstairs with the car."

"Oh, Christ," John said again. "I'm so sorry, everyone. I've got to go. Sherlock, you can manage…?"

"Of course, John. I never expected this case to go on as long … wait. What did you say your name was?"

"Margaret Reedy, sir," John's assistant said, nose crinkling slightly as Sherlock's face froze in epiphany.

"That's it! The reeds. Our last victim played the clarinet, and had stopped to buy a new reed a week ago. And didn't the latest girl's mother say she had missed band practice? Find out if they patronize the same music shops, and then check on the others…"

John stood engulfed in the familiar glow of awe as Sherlock gave orders, sending Lestrade and his people scurrying to do his bidding. Then, at a discreet cough, shook himself. Flashing a grin at his flatmate, he snatched the garment bag from Margaret's arms and dashed down the hallway to change.

It wouldn't do to be late, after all. A tribute to his grandfather at the House of Lords wasn't something he could miss—kidnapper or no.

#

"Just who do you think you are?" he heard the thug ask, as he waved his gun at John.

"The Earl of Undershaw," John told him, sitting calmly in his ropes. Sherlock was sure that he had seen him, and nodded to himself. John was playing for time.

"Right, and I'm the Queen of Sheba."

"No, really," John assured him, eyes tracking Sherlock's progress around the room. "My name is John Brandon, Lord Undershaw. Don't you read the newspapers?"

Frankly, it seemed doubtful, thought Sherlock. The man didn't look like he could read, a point on which John obviously agreed because he was saying, in his plummiest tones, "I assure you it's true. I've held the title for several months now, ever since my father and grandfather were killed in a car accident. It was all over the news."

"You don't look much like an earl to me."

"Well, no," said John, "That's because I'm in disguise."

It was all Sherlock could do not to roll his eyes, concentrating on the old floorboards he was skirting. They had taken down some stupid criminals in their time, but this one took the cake—and Mycroft wasn't even here to enjoy it.

"A disguise?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd be prowling around the docks in a designer suit, do you? You can check my wallet if you like, but really, I'm telling the truth. The line of Earls in my family goes back…"

The board under Sherlock's shoe creaked and, cursing, he abandoned caution and flung himself forward, tackling the thug to the ground. The gunshot was loud in his ear as they fell together, and he could hear John yelling as he slammed the man's head against the floor, knocking him out.

Panting, he looked up at John with a grin, only to feel the expression slide off his face in horror as he saw the blood.

#

(Note: I know, I know—just when everything was finally getting happy again…)