"Ah, Lieutenant Watson," a well-dressed man greeted John as he entered the base commander's office. He looked completely, utterly out of place in the dust and grit of Afghanistan, even on the larger base where they were. John couldn't help but try to imagine this obvious bureaucrat on the Forward Operating Base, wearing a three piece suit and leaning on an umbrella.

And who the fuck needs an umbrella in the Afghani dry season?

"Sit." The man gestured to the chair in front of him with the umbrella. "Your leg must be hurting you."

"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather stand," John replied, jaw clenched. He forced his hands to stay open and relaxed, though he wanted to badly to ball them up into fists. His injury was healed and forgotten, why did everyone keep treating him like an invalid?

"Very well." The man twirled his umbrella casually before leaning on it again. "I've heard a great many things about you, John Watson. The Victoria Cross, impressive. Congratulations."

John flushed faintly and inclined his head in embarrassment. "Thank you, sir."

"Yes, very impressive indeed," the man repeated. "But not quite the whole story, is it?"

"Sir?"

The man gave him a scolding look as he hooked the handle of his umbrella over his arm, withdrawing a little black notebook from his inside jacket pocket. "'Poses a significant risk to himself,' it says here," he read.

John went rigid in surprise. "That's my psychiatric evaluation," he pointed out redundantly.

"So it is," the man replied without a trace of surprise. "It is the very reason you have discharge papers in your back pocket at this moment." John quashed the urge to reach back and handle the papers, as he had done so often since receiving them. "Ah yes, your…singular reluctance to return to jolly old England." The man gave him a cool half-smile. "You have argued your way up the chain of command, Lieutenant Watson. Such tenacity, from a man with your impressive honours, brought you to my…personal attention."

"With all due respect, sir," John interrupted, "who are you?"

There was a brief spark in the man's cold, calculating blue eyes that told John he'd asked the right question. "Officially I occupy a minor position in the British government. Unofficially…suffice it to say I have the ability to make those papers in your back pocket disappear, along with the orders and evaluation that inspired them."

John regarded him for a long moment. This man, with his public school voice and sharp suit and an umbrella in the middle of fucking Afghanistan, this man was handing him the very thing he'd been fighting for. He was giving him a way to stay in uniform, a way to stay in the war. "And what so you want from me, sir?"

The man really smiled at him that time, seeming almost…proud. "Very good, Lieutenant Watson. Perhaps there is hope for you after all." John scowled, but the man ignored him. "Marriage."

"What, to you, sir?" John sputtered, eyes wide.

"No," the man shook his head. "To my younger brother. Our mother has recently passed, and my brother needs the inheritance money to support himself, but there are stipulations on it."

"He has to be married," John murmured, catching on at last.

"Precisely," the man nodded. "It would be a marriage on paper only, to last in the eyes of the law for at least two years, after which you may choose to divorce. Should you return to England before then, the two of you need not even live together."

"Is that why you chose me?" John asked, trying to wrap his head around the whole concept. "Because I'm not likely to go back at all? Danger to myself and all that?"

"In part," the man agreed. "For the rest…I find myself unable to predict you, John Watson. It is an exceedingly rare occurrence, I assure you. My brother needs to keep his mind occupied at all times with puzzles, and you are the most complex I have found yet."

John stared at the ground, straightening out the man's twisted, complicated phrases. "Let me see if I have this right, sir," he said slowly, and the man gave him a 'go on' gesture. "If I marry your brother, you make my discharge and that psych eval go away."

"As though they never existed," the man confirmed.

"Then your brother can get his part of the inheritance, which he needs to live on. We just have to stay married for two years."

"He will receive the money immediately," the man explained, "but it could be revoked if he goes through a divorce before the two-year period is up."

John tapped his fingers against his leg, thinking. "I want a promise that I'll spend as much time as you can give me on active duty," he decided. "Promise me that and I'll sign."

"You don't even know his name," the man said, surprised.

"I don't care," John returned. "How likely am I to spend time with him if I'm on tour out here?" he snorted. "So, the promise?"

"Of course," the man replied smoothly. "I must agree with the psychologist, you do pose quite a danger to yourself."

"I have no intention of dying out here," John snapped. He thrust out a hand. "The papers?"

The man drew out official-looking papers from an inside pocket, opposite the side where he'd kept his mysterious black notebook. He looked at them, hesitating. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. He is a twenty-one-year-old recovering cocaine addict," John's eyebrows hit his hairline at that, "though I promise you he will not be returning to his old ways. You may choose to keep your own name, or hyphenate-"

"I'll take his," John blurted out, cutting the man off mid-sentence.

The man raised an eyebrow. "You will lose the name Watson for the duration of your marriage," he warned.

"I know that," John scowled. "I'd like to distance myself from my family, if it's all the same to you."

"It is your choice," the man murmured. He hesitated for just a second longer, then passed the papers over. "If you would just sign the marriage license, then."

John took the license and accepted the pen the man passed over a second later. He checked the spelling of 'Holmes' and signed on the indicated line, attempting his new last name as smoothly as he could. The name of the witness, who could only be the man in front of him, was Mycroft Holmes. Apparently his new (late) in-laws had a thing for archaic-sounding names.

Mycroft accepted the license back with a smile that might have had a touch of real warmth in it. "Welcome to the family, Lieutenant Holmes," he said, shaking John's hand. The name sounded strange and unfamiliar, but it also sounded like a new start.

"Please, Mycroft," John grinned, "call me John. We're family, after all."

-0-

"Sherlock, you cannot honestly expect to support yourself without this money," Mycroft said, his frustration finally break through. They had been having the same argument for nearly two hours.

"I'd rather sell myself," Sherlock snapped, scratching his neck with shaky hands. He hated withdrawal, even more than he hated the endless dull expanse of brain-eating boredom that had been his life before cocaine.

"You will not!" Mycroft roared, slamming his fists down on the table between them. Sherlock flinched, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling protectively. Mycroft sighed. "You are here, by your own choice, because of what Mummy asked."

"As she was dying," Sherlock muttered rebelliously.

"Why is this any different?" Mycroft asked tiredly. "She updated the will when she fell ill, just two months before she died. It's two years, you can keep your name and may not ever see him, so Sherlock Holmes, sign the damn papers!"

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, trying desperately to ignore the tic under his right eye and the burning itch spreading across his chest. He heaved an enormous sigh, more suited to pubescent angst, and slid the marriage license across the table to him. "Tell me about this…" he glanced down, eyebrows rising in surprise at the name. "He took my name?"

"He expressed a desire to distance himself from his family," Mycroft explained, smugly calm now that he was getting his way. "Legally still John Watson, until you sign that, twenty-five years old. Educated at St Bartholomew's and scoring within the tenth percentile on his exams, an RAMC Lieutenant, no doubt soon to be promoted, and the next recipient of the Victoria Cross."

"You're marrying me off to a war hero," Sherlock fairly growled.

Mycroft smirked. "Mummy would approve."

Sherlock sneered at him, scratching at his chest in a short, frantic burst. "What could you possibly offer this man to make him marry a barely-legal coke addict?"

"I merely showed John a way he could benefit himself."

"What did you give him?" Sherlock repeated angrily.

"I gave him what he wanted," Mycroft replied casually. "He stays in the Army, without a rather damning psychiatric evaluation, and spends as much time in Afghanistan as I can possibly arrange for him."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, absorbing the information. Very aware of Mycroft's gaze on him, Sherlock lowered pen to paper and signed, his hand shaking in a way that had nothing to do with the two days since his last high.

He slid the license back across the table, and Mycroft snatched his left hand, stuffing a ring on his finger. "Congratulations, Sherlock." He tossed a sealed envelope down in front of him and put the license away in a folder. "Mummy would be proud."

Sherlock picked up the envelope as the door swung shut behind his brother. The staff member who had been watching them escorted him back to his solitary room. He flopped down on his single bed, running his fingers across the edge of the cheap paper.

To Sherlock Holmes

It was a cramped scrawl, slightly smeared; the writer was left-handed. The letters were pressed deep into the paper, but still faded in places; he'd used a cheap pen. The envelope was faintly gritty, the dust ground in where the writer's hand must have rested; it was writing in a place where dirt and grit were unavoidable.

Sherlock opened it slowly.

-0- -0-

Sherlock,

I don't know if you want to hear from me at all, and that's fine. If you don't want to have any contact with me during this marriage strange arrangement, just don't bother to reply. I don't mind if we never speak, but it felt wrong to not send at least one letter.

I suppose Mycroft will have told you about me, so I won't be repetitive. I haven't asked for a picture or description of you and I won't, because I don't care about looks. I've asked that Mycroft not show you any pictures of me, but I'm sure you could convince him to if you really wanted.

I hope you don't mind that I've taken your name. I have a bad history with my family, my father especially, and this arrangement gave me the chance to finally cut my last association with him. Even after our divorce the end of our arrangement, I want to keep it. Besides, John Holmes has a nice ring to it.

I don't really have anything else to say. If you reply, I'll keep writing. If not, this will be the last you hear from me.

Lt John Holmes