John was surprised that an Earl would be willing to perch on a plastic chair at the coffee shop around the corner from his clinic, but Jonathan was either unusually casual for a Lord, or was working at being agreeable.

"I know I didn't give you much notice," he said, "but I couldn't help myself. I know you need time to absorb all of this, and even though I didn't have much, I did at least have some notice, but still ..."

"You're curious," John said. "I understand that ... I live with Sherlock Holmes, who has practically unlimited curiosity when he's interested in something, and no recognition of boundaries or schedules. I'm just grateful you waited until lunch."

"I was taught manners rather vigorously," Jonathan told him. "Although I am, in fact, very curious."

John watched the other man's face still, and rethinking his statement, added, "I am, too."

"You are?"

"I've only wondered about you my entire life," John said with a shrug, trying to make light of it. He didn't miss the way Jonathan's shoulders lost their erect posture at his statement. It wasn't his father's fault that John's mother had kept his existence a secret—from both of them. "I mean, I do know it's not your fault. It's just that there are so many ..."

"Missed opportunities."

"Yeah," said John. "It's not like I haven't imagined what my father would be ... and to find out you're an Earl? Almost as good as the prince I imagined when I was eight."

"In this day and age, a prince would have been unlikely," his father said. "They're much more carefully watched than the rest of us."

"So I've seen. Not much room for sowing wild oats ... last week's case notwithstanding."

"I want you to know that I didn't consider your mother like that. That is, I know it looks like I just left, but ..." The Earl's voice trailed off, and John winced in sympathy.

"I think we can just ... move on from there, shall we? You didn't know. She didn't know. Nobody meant to hurt anybody, and I knew less than anybody. The point is that we're here now."

"Very pragmatic, Dr Watson."

"Please, I asked you to call me John, remember?" John was almost desperate to try to find some familiar ground in this quagmire of a conversation.

"When you start calling me Jonathan."

"Right. That's not awkward at all. Jonathan." John swallowed a nervous laugh. "So ... David said you read my blog?"

A nod. "It's fascinating. You've lived an amazing life, I hope you realize that."

John nodded right back. "I do, most days. Some days are more frustrating than others, and I wouldn't want to revisit the weeks after being shot again, but ... yeah. I like to think I've done some good. I've kept out of trouble, at least. If you'd known me as a teenager, you'd appreciate that accomplishment for what it is."

"I can imagine. It might have been better for you, growing up away from family responsibilities—you had a chance to branch out and prosper in ways that would otherwise have been curtailed."

"Living under a microscope would have been hard when I was a kid," John said. "I had a bit of a temper, and could barely sit still when Mum dragged me to church. My manners were never as good as she wanted them to be."

"They seem fine now, though."

"Army discipline did wonders for my self-control, even if they didn't exactly add polish."

"And now you work with Sherlock Holmes."

John grinned. "Also not helping with the manners, but it's certainly broadening my social circle." John shrugged. "Anyway, I'm a doctor. I don't work with Sherlock, I just help out when I can."

"I told you, I read the blog. You very definitely do more than help out."

"I like to be useful."

"Now that is a family trait," Jonathan told him with a grin of his own.

At John's raised eyebrows, Jonathan began telling stories of himself as a young man, of his father, and the expectations he'd grown up with. He told about his one chance at throwing off the inherited restrictions, and how he met John's mother. "We would have been happy, for a while," he said with a reminiscent smile. "We were happy. But in the end, it wouldn't have worked. Your mother was far too independent and would have chafed under the restrictions of an Earl's wife."

"She would," agreed John. "But she was never seriously involved with anyone else, not that I ever saw. She dated from time to time, and had friends to go out with, but there was never anyone else. I think she loved you. It's one of the reasons she wouldn't talk about you."

They were silent for a few moments, and then Jonathan asked, "What are you doing for Christmas?"

#

"I don't know about this," John said, pulling at his tunic.

"You should wear your uniform more often," his father told him, a gleam in his eye. "I'm just sorry your grandfather isn't here. He would have been proud."

"I don't know—grandson of an Earl. He would have been disappointed I didn't get higher than Captain."

"Nonsense," Jonathan said. "And I'm sure you would have if you had you not been ... shot."

John looked up as his father's voice caught. "It's okay, you know. I'm right here."

A shaky laugh. "I know—but it so easily could have gone the other way, and I never would have known ..."

"That goes both ways, you know. If this hadn't come out, someday I would have seen your obituary in the emTimes/em, and never realized ..." John's voice trailed off, too, so he forced a laugh. "This is not a holiday kind of conversation."

Jonathan gave his head a shake. "You're right. I'm just glad you're here this year."

John resisted the temptation to tug at his tight collar. "I hope David feels the same way. I feel like I'm stealing his spotlight. You both always expected him to be your heir, and now you're stuck with me."

"Nonsense. If he felt that way, he wouldn't have said anything when he recognized you—though David is far too honourable. He would never have taken a title that wasn't his."

"Sure, you say that now," John said, voice teasing, "but just wait until he realizes how very unqualified I am."

"Stop saying that. Much like Sherlock's brother, your cousin is happier working behind the scenes. He would have taken on the duties as head of house if he'd needed to, but he'll be happier without that responsibility."

Now John laughed. "And you think that I'm the right front man for the family? I just trot along behind London's most obnoxious Consulting Detective. Nobody is going to take me seriously."

"You were an army surgeon, John. Don't expect me to believe you can't give orders and take charge when you need to."

"Well, yes, but ..."

"And of course, if people only see your modest public face, they'll miss the steel underneath. Surely you know the benefit of being underestimated?"

"He thrives on it."

They both turned to find Sherlock in the doorway, elegant as ever in his bespoke suit.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock," John said, giving one last tug to his uniform before turning away from the mirror.

"Oh, please, John. You're a modest man, yes, but let's not overdo it. False modesty does not become you. I can think of any number of times when being overlooked turned out to your advantage."

John shrugged. "Maybe, but being seen also got me shot and strapped into a Semtex vest, so forgive me if I'm not eager to step into the limelight."

Sherlock waved his hand. "You'll be fine. So far as the general public is concerned, you'll just be the public face. You can leave all the work to your cousin. If he's anything like Mycroft, he'll thrive on it."

John turned at Jonathan's chuckle. "See? Your friend knows what he's talking about. It's good to see you again, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please, my lord."

"Oh, heavens, Jonathan, please. You're best friend and flatmate to my son. No need to be formal—besides, I hear from your brother that it's not your strong suit."

John snorted. "That's an understatement."

"Yes, thank you for your input, John," Sherlock said with a snap.

Now Jonathan was laughing. "You two are going to be refreshing, I can tell. Now, it's almost time. I've kept you a secret, John, so you have to wait a bit until I introduce you."

"And watch my back for daggers when you make the announcement?" John asked wryly.

"I'm sure Sherlock can do that for you," Jonathan said. "But meanwhile, you'll be pleased to know that I have something for you."

"For me?"

"That's right." Jonathan walked to his desk and pulled out a present.

"Jonathan, you didn't have to..."

"Didn't have to get my newfound son a present for Christmas? Really, John." He shook his head with feigned disappointment. "Open it."

Carefully tearing at the paper, John found a picture frame. His hand tremoring like it hadn't in months, he turned it over to see the photo.

Smiling up from the frame was his mother, looking younger and happier than he had ever seen her. To her side, arm draped over her shoulder, was a similarly young Jonathan. It was obviously a casual photo, but the fact of its existence ...

"Where did you get this?"

"I went digging through a box of odds and ends from my carefree youth, of course," Jonathan said. "I know I told you that your mother and I were never as serious as you would expect considering, well, the fact of your existence, but I still cared for her a great deal. While I'd forgotten about this picture, there's a reason I kept it."

Sherlock was studying the photo. "There's no question that you are related to both of these people, John. That, plus your birth certificate .. not to mention the necessary DNA test ... does prove your claim to the title."

"Claim? Ha! I'm not trying to claim anything," John said with a laugh. "I'm being shanghaied."

"If that makes you feel better," Jonathan laughed. "Now, I'm going out to make my speech. Keep your ears open for your entrance—I'm looking forward to it. The expressions on some of my least favourite relatives are going to be highly entertaining."

He gave one last look at John. "And don't worry, son. I barely know you, and I'm already very proud of you. Introducing you is my very great pleasure."

#

Jonathan stood on the stairs, glass in hand, looking down at the assembled guests. This Christmas party was a long-standing tradition that predated his own father, but there had been no question that his father had adored it. This was the first year Jonathan was playing host and all he could think was how much he missed his father.

He just wished the old man could have been here for this.

Lifting his glass, he cleared his throat. "May I have your attention?"

The murmuring and rustling subsided as all the faces turned toward him.

"This is the first Christmas without my dear father, David Brandon. He had a long life, making it to 90 before he left us, but he loved this holiday and it's not possible to celebrate without raising a glass to him."

Jonathan lifted his and toasted his father, trying not to think about how much he would have loved what was coming next. "There's an old saying about how God doesn't close a door without opening a window, and so I have an announcement."

He tried not to grin at the eager way everyone's attention sharpened, focused on him.

"I received a surprising phone call from David a fortnight ago. You all know David as a responsible, hard-working, honourable man, of course. But when he rang up to tell me that there was someone that I simply had to meet, I suspected him of trying to set me up on a blind date. Thought he was bored trying to amuse the old man and wanted me out of his hair."

He could almost hear the speculation that he was marrying again now.

"It turns out, though, that if anything, David was trying to skip out on me," he told the crowd, and watched their anticipation turn to confusion. "In the course of his duties at the palace, David had met someone ... No, no. Don't let your thoughts stray. He is still just as happily married as ever."

"No, the person David met was a former Army Captain, an RAMC surgeon who served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers until he was shot in the line of duty and forcefully retired. Since then, in addition to working in one of Her Majesty's medical clinics, he has taken up helping to solve crimes with his flatmate. You might have heard of them—Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson."

He watched as recognition passed over at least some of the faces turned his way. "Why am I interested in Dr Watson, you want to know?"

He nodded over their heads to David, ready by a laptop. At a keystroke, the projector lit and an enlarged version of the picture Jonathan had given John appeared on the wall by his head.

"It's an old picture, but you might recognize the young fellow on the right. I've aged a bit since then, of course," he told them. "The woman with me? Her name was Tess D'Urberville Watson, a woman named for one of literature's most tragic heroines, and one well able to keep her own secrets."

Another nod, and the picture changed to one John had provided—18-year-old John in his army uniform, arm draped over his mother's shoulders.

After a pause, there was another blink of dark transition and then the two pictures showed side by side. It was the same woman in both, but two different young men—men with the same colour hair, with the same smile beaming into the lens.

Jonathan gave them all a moment to absorb what they were seeing.

"Like I said, Tess was good with secrets. She never told me about her son, and she never told him about his father. Though to be fair, I'd never told her about this inherited title of mine, either, so I suppose we were both close with our secrets. She never knew that she'd raised a boy next in line for an Earldom ... but she did."

He took a breath, face determined.

"It's almost forty years late for a birth announcement, but ... I'd like to introduce you to my son. John?"

He turned up the stairs and there was John in his uniform, looking both competent and nervous. Jonathan grinned at him, though. He very much looked like a soldier facing the enemy, and Jonathan had to remind himself that his son (his emson/em) was not used to addressing crowds. He laid his hand on John's shoulder, though, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Don't let them intimidate you—after the Taliban and the Holmes brothers, the Brandon family should be easy."

John nodded, straightening his shoulders with barely a wince at the bad one, as Jonathan stepped back.

"Yes, you heard that correctly," John told the guests. "No-one was more surprised than I was when David and Jonathan stopped by Baker Street to tell me I was the long-lost son of an Earl. In fact, I blame David entirely for being far too observant when we met. I'm used to that from Sherlock Holmes, but as he likes to say, people usually see but they don't observe."

He was steadying, Jonathan could see, settling in to his speech.

"I can't blame David too much, though," John said. "He spent his whole life expecting to be the next Earl of Undershaw, and while I can't say for sure that he was willing to take any escape he could, he decided to do the honourable thing and drop the whole thing in my lap, despite my serious lack of qualifications."

Jonathan wasn't going to let that slide, and stepped forward. "Although, John here was an army surgeon in actual battle conditions. He can command army soldiers when they're wounded, in pain, and at their most difficult. He keeps a level head under fire, and is just the kind of man you want at your side in an emergency ... and to read the papers, that sounds like daily life with Sherlock Holmes."

He smiled down at his guests, happy to stand at John's side as they traced the resemblance in their features.

"Don't let John's modesty fool you. He might not have been raised to be a Peer, but he is more than qualified for the job. And before you ask, yes, I've seen his birth certificate and, yes, we have had a DNA test done. He's the real deal, and I couldn't be happier—not only to discover that I have a son, but that he is as accomplished a man as John Watson."

He lifted his glass again. "Please help me welcome my son to the family. John Hamish Watson ... Brandon!

#

John stood by the fireplace, exhausted and grateful to have found a peaceful corner. He would almost rather face another attack by Afghani insurgents than more nosy queries from his new-found family.

Not that he hadn't been welcomed. He had been. But he couldn't help feeling like an intruder.

It had helped that David had stood at his shoulder for much of this, being urbane and charming, shrugging off any suggestions that John had poached his position. "Don't be silly, it's a relief," he had said again and again. "Sending a soldier into the House of Lords to represent the family is the smartest thing we've done in a long time."

Sherlock had been a reassuring presence, as well. John didn't think he had ever seen him display such impeccable manners for such a long period of time before, and could only be grateful that Sherlock was on his best behaviour.

John had only been half-surprised to see Mycroft at one point, looking smugly satisfied at the revelations. "Did you know?" John asked.

"I'm sure I don't know of what you are speaking, John," Mycroft had said. "If Lord Undershaw himself didn't know, how would I?"

"Because you're Mycroft Holmes," John answered.

"That doesn't mean I know everything," Mycroft said, but John knew that cagey look and just raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I suppose that I might have noticed a family resemblance," he finally admitted, "but I promise I did not know more than that. I'm not psychic, John."

John snorted. "Please. As if you would allow yourself to be anything so illogical."

"Indeed."

Mycroft had given a frosty smile before taking himself off, and frankly, John was tired of this entire thing. All he wanted was to go sit someplace not surrounded by nosy strangers-cum-family for a while. He wasn't a shy man, or one unused to adversity, but ... it was easier facing villains with bomb vests and sniper rifles than the unending curiosity of people with nothing better to do than ask intrusive questions.

For a moment, he could understand why Sherlock had so little patience with them.

Still ... it had been a nice night. The food had been excellent, and the company—not counting the curiosity-seekers—pleasant. He found that his father was wry and witty and altogether good company, as was David in his urbane way.

The challenges of knowing he was next in line to be Earl were daunting, but somehow, he thought he might just enjoy it.

A waiter came by with a tray and John took one of the mince pies. Probably not as good as his Mum's, God rest her, but being staggeringly polite was exhausting.

Watching the family mingling, Jonathan holding court by the fireplace, John smiled. It would be good to have a family again.

Lifting the pastry to his mouth, he took a bite and froze.

This was the best mince pie he had ever had in his life.

Really, this might not be so terrible after all.

#

THE END