Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked. This is the eleventh story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

Here—what if John didn't know?

"I've got a new client I'm meeting this afternoon, if you'd like to come?"

John looked over at his friend. "Really? Because you haven't asked since Mary and I got back."

"Yes, well, I was trying to be … nice. What with you being newlyweds, and all." Sherlock shrugged. "At any rate, you're back and I thought you might be bored.

"You mean you're bored," John corrected him with a smile.

"Whatever." Sherlock waved his hand. "The point is—are you interested in helping or not?"

"Oh, God, yes."

#

"Lord Undershaw," Sherlock said an hour later, as they were ushered into the man's sitting room. "Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, John Watson."

"Of course, yes," the elderly man said from his chair by the fire. "Good to meet you both. Come, sit. You'll forgive me for not getting up. My legs feel that, after 90 years of toting me around, they deserve as much time off as possible."

"I know the feeling, my lord," John said with that charming smile of his. "My left leg took something of a holiday when I returned home from Afghanistan. It was inconvenient."

"Afghanistan, eh? Mine don't even have the excuse of a war wound," the old man said. "They've just gotten lazy, damn them."

Before John could do more than smile in response, Sherlock had leaned forward, impatient. "So, how can we help you?"

"Eager, aren't you? I suppose this means you don't want the cup of tea I was going to offer? No? Well, fine. I like getting straight to business myself." He gave a brisk nod. "My problem, Mr Holmes, is that I'm being blackmailed."

Sherlock's brows lifted slightly, but all he said was, "Some youthful indiscretion?"

"That's the problem," the Earl told him. "I don't actually know."

Well, that was different, he thought, as John asked, "Then how can you be blackmailed?"

"According to … the man … it was my son who was indiscreet, but since he died a number of years ago, I can't ask him."

"Ah," said Sherlock, leaning back in his chair. He thought for a moment, then asked, "But if your son is dead, how are you being blackmailed? I can understand how there could be some bad press, or what have you, but ultimately, wouldn't the indiscretion be written off as belonging to your son's account?"

"Well, yes, but even if I was willing to sacrifice my son's reputation and let the bastard go ahead with whatever he wanted to do … there's more." Lord Brandon was about to continue when a maid walked in, carrying a tea tray. "Ah, the tea you didn't want."

There was a brief, awkward silence as they all stared at the tea and Sherlock wondered if he had committed some social gaffe. It wouldn't be the first time, after all, though Mummy had certainly endeavoured to instil basic manners when he was a child. Luckily, John was well-versed in tact, because as the pause lengthened, he said, "Now it's here, though, I'll take a cup, if you're offering. Would you like me to pour?"

"Please," said the Earl, smiling back.

As he watched John pour and prepare the tea, he wondered at how similar the two men looked, bending eagerly toward the tea. Sherlock accepted a cup from John, even though he didn't want it, and then watched John mix his own cup—milk, no sugar—just like the Earl. He wondered what the statistical odds were that two complete strangers would drink their tea the same way. Considering the absurd popularity of tea in the British culture, and allowing for the usual ways of preparing it—milk, sugar, honey, lemon—with all the possible permutations, the statistical analysis could be either quite interesting or entirely meaningless. Would genetics lead one to drink one's tea in a particular way? Upbringing? Convenience? Or is personal taste such a random factor, it would all be meaningless?

He realized the other two were watching him with remarkably identical looks of amused patience. Sherlock blinked. He was used to such a reaction from John, but … it was unusual enough to be met with patience, much less amusement. He put his own tea cup (milk, two sugars) down with a clink. "So, in addition to avoiding sullying your son's name, what else do you wish to prevent this blackmailer from doing? How old is this indiscretion?"

"Decades, actually," the elderly man said with a sigh, the amusement wiped from his face now. "Apparently my son had an affair that we never knew about. That would be … embarrassing at this stage, I suppose, but both he and the woman are gone now, so damage control would be … manageable. Especially in this day and age."

"Sexual adventures are a dime a dozen," Sherlock murmured, sipping at his tea.

"Exactly. The problem, though…" The earl paused, searching for the right words. "Do you know how an earldom is passed along, Mr Holmes?"

"Through bloodlines," Sherlock answered promptly. "The nearest male heir. Why does that … oh."

"Yes," the earl said, nodding. "Oh."

John's brow was furrowed—with concern rather than confusion. "So, this affair … there was a child?"

"One I didn't know about. I'm not even sure if Jonathan knew—but the blackmailer does, or claims he does." He looked at them, distress plain on his face now. "You must understand, I always expected Jonathan to succeed me. I had hoped for grandchildren, but … he and his wife only ever had their daughter, Harriet. There were … complications … so that Margaret was unable to bear any more children. And so I had resigned myself that the title would pass from Jonathan to one of his cousins at some future date."

Sherlock was nodding. "But the news that he had a son—if it's true—changes that."

"Indeed. Even born out of wedlock, this child would hold precedence over my nephew David. Oh, I suppose there could be some legal battle over the legality in the absence of marriage lines—it certainly made a difference in past centuries—but the intent of the law is clear. The title passes to the next male heir, period."

"And you don't want it to."

"No, that's not the issue." Sherlock could not even identify the number of emotions that crossed the man's face. "I had never heard of this child … Ha! Child. He's a man now, around forty, if the information is correct. There are the legal ramifications, yes, which I would like to resolve while I can … I'm ninety years old, Mr Holmes, so there's no saying how much time I have. But more than that … this means I have a grandson."

His voice broke, then, and Sherlock sat patiently, exploring the possibilities as John leaned forward. "You want to meet him."

"I do, or yes, I think that I do," the old man said. "But I don't even know his name. I don't even know if the blackmailer is telling me the truth. I don't know what information he has, but … if his story is true, I must act. Now that I know this grandson may or may not exist, I need to know for sure. The one advantage I have is that he assumed I knew about the boy … the man … and had deliberately kept him ignorant of the succession from shame, trying to protect my son's and my family name. But in truth…"

"In truth, his very existence is news to you. So, instead of striking fear, your blackmailer actually gave you hope."

"Exactly, Mr Holmes." The earl drew a shaky breath. "It seems an impossible task, I know, but I need to know if any of it is true. If my son had an affair forty years ago, if there was a child. If the boy is still alive today. If his DNA proves his identity … and then, all the rest … who is he, what does he do? Where does he live? Is he a man capable of taking over my title when I'm gone? So many questions…"

He trailed off, looking exhausted. Sherlock glanced at John, noting the look of concern on his face as he observed the Earl's colour and the signs of strain. The doctor gave Sherlock a quick look and then nodded. Sherlock had to agree. He might not usually have much interest in helping the peerage—their problems were usually so boring—but there was something about this man's distress that made him want to help.

"I'll need any information you have," he said. "Dates, locations, names if you have them. A photo of your son, as well."

The relief on the man's face was overwhelming. "Thank you, Mr Holmes." He put down his tea cup and pulled himself to his feet, accepting the hand John hurried to give him. "And thank you, Dr Watson. I have all the information at my desk.

He carefully crossed to his desk while John watched, alert and ready to leap to his aid if his legs failed. It never failed to amaze Sherlock, how much John could care about people, even ones he'd only just met. Sherlock would admit that the Earl seemed much more pleasant than most members of the aristocracy he'd met, but still … it wasn't like he didn't have a staff to help him. Did he really need John's help? John was his assistant, after all. He didn't need to have his services poached by a wealthy old man, no matter how pleasant.

Sherlock was struck again by the similarities in the two men as John walked alongside the earl. Their height was almost identical, allowing for some shrinkage from age for the old man. Their noses had the same tilt at the ends, too, which was interesting.

At the desk, the Earl unlocked one of the drawers and pulled out a file, handing it to John. "This is everything I think is relevant. Dates and names, such as they are, but also a handful of photos my son kept from his university days. They were hidden with some of his personal things, which makes me think they could be relevant."

John nodded and started to turn toward the fireplace, but Sherlock was already on his feet, reaching for the file and caused John to startle. The folder fell to the floor and both of them knelt to pick up the papers, even as John apologized. "I keep telling you to make some noise when you do that, Sherlock. What have I told you about sneaking up on a combat veteran?"

"That it's a bit not good, John. Yes, I know. Forgive me for thinking your peripheral vision was functioning. It's not exactly a dark or crowded room."

"That's not the point, Sherlock," John said, protesting as he pulled himself back to his feet, a pile of photos clutched in his hand.

The earl was watching the two of them, amused beneath the stress. "Do you two do this, often?"

"Squabble?" John asked, "Would it be unprofessional of me to admit we do this all the time? More with Sherlock than with my wife."

"Oh, please. You're newlyweds. The squabbling comes later," Sherlock said.

"Yeah? And how do you know that, Sherlock? Oh, wait, one more." He leaned back down to pick up a stray photo, just under the edge of the desk and then startled, hitting his head.

"Really, John," Sherlock said, chiding, "The man is going to think we have no sense of professionalism at all."

John sat back on his heels, rubbing his head absently as he stared at the picture in his hand.

He didn't look dazed because of the blow to his head, thought Sherlock. It was something else. "What is it?"

"This photo," John said. "It's my mother."

#

John barely noticed the sting at the back of his head as he stared at the photo in his hand. The woman in the photo was younger than he'd ever seen her, but there was no question it was his mother. She was sitting by a pool in a bikini, shading her eyes with her hand as she grinned at the camera. She looked happy and carefree … utterly unlike the occasionally desperate woman who had raised him.

His sudden silence seemed to concern Sherlock, because his tone of voice had shifted completely when he asked him what he'd found. John couldn't keep the awe out of his voice as he replied that the photo was of his mother. His mother.

"May I see that?" Lord Brandon asked, holding out a hand.

John pulled himself up so that he was kneeling in front of the desk, looking across the top like a child as he handed over the photo. He thought about struggling to his feet, but instead sat back on his heels, drained by the sudden discovery.

"Yes," the earl was saying. "I remember this. It's the only photo of this young woman from Jonathan's university years. I only included it in the pile because it was among the pictures he kept. I honestly didn't think … How old are you, Dr Watson?"

"Forty-one," John said absently as he rubbed the back of his head. "And I really don't see how I could be the man you're looking for, my lord."

"No? Why not?"

"Because my parents were married." He paused, then added, "To be fair, though, I never knew my dad. Mum never really talked about him, but they were definitely married. I've seen the license."

"How about a picture?" the earl asked, intent. "Have you seen photos of your father?"

"Just the wedding photo. They got married in some little wedding chapel in Las Vegas, in the States, and apparently they went for the deluxe package, which included a photo. It didn't last long, though, the marriage. He ran out on her almost before the ink was dry and she never heard from him again. She told me she considered having the marriage nullified, but when she realized she was pregnant…"

He glanced over at Sherlock who was staring at him. "I thought your father owned a shop in Yorkshire?"

"That was my step-dad, technically. Or, I suppose, not quite, since he and Mum weren't actually married. They were together from the time I was three, though, which was shortly after Mum came back to England. She'd done university in California, which is where she met my father, but eventually she decided to come back home. Something about my Grandfather being sick, though I don't remember him at all."

He looked back at the Earl and was almost worried to see how pale the elderly man had become. "Are you all right, sir?"

The man just nodded, then pointed at the pile of photos still in John's hand. "Do you recognize anybody else?"

Feeling an odd stirring of curiosity and foreboding, John flipped through the images. They were mostly group shots of friends, laughing and having fun. None of them looked familiar … until he turned the last one over and saw a shot of three young men, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking more serious, more formal than in the other pictures.

The face in the middle was the same as the one in his mother's wedding portrait.

He couldn't help but stare a moment, but then he pulled his eyes away to look at the man across the desk. "This one," he said, holding up the photo. "The one in the middle."

The old man let out a breath and slouched back into his seat. "That's my son. That's Jonathan."

"Jonathan," murmured John.

"She named you for him," came Sherlock's baritone. "Curious, since she apparently had no contact with him."

"But … that's not possible," John said. Because it wasn't. How could it be? He'd lived his whole life without knowing the man who'd contributed the sperm that led to his birth. Other than a mild curiosity when he was a boy, he'd never felt much of anything toward him. He had had a father-figure, after all. He'd never felt abandoned or unloved, or like he was missing an essential branch from his family tree. If anything, he'd felt angry on his mother's behalf for being abandoned by her young husband (which hadn't exactly made John want to go searching for the man himself). But he'd never … how was this possible?

"My son had gone on a business trip when he was 24," the earl was saying. "To California, which was the only reason I was able to convince him to go, since he wanted nothing to do with the family … business, I suppose you could call it. He was only supposed to be gone for a week, but he kept putting off coming home, saying he wanted to stay … but he never said why."

The elderly eyes were watering now, and John almost wished he could blame age for the moisture in his own. It was the sting, obviously, from hitting his head that was making his eyes wet. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had apparently just solved the major mystery of his life … one he hadn't ever expected to solve at all. One, apparently, he hadn't even known existed.

That, and the realization that apparently he actually did still have a grandfather.

"What was the name on the marriage license, John?" he heard Sherlock ask.

"Brandon. John Brandon."

And the old man's eyes filled with tears even as his face lit brightly enough to match the sun.

#