"What did you say your son's name was, John?" asked Mycroft, looking stunned.

"Ian David Brandon," said John, who looked like he was struggling to keep his face straight. "Mary wanted to name him after me, I wanted to honour my grandfather, so we compromised. At least we skipped Hamish."

"Thank God," he heard Ian mutter from the door.

"But … you …"

Sherlock's mouth was twitching, too, with his delight at his brother's bewilderment. "Since you asked, Mycroft, I was, in fact, talking to the Earl about his son—who's not as lost as one might think. Or as alone," he added, a hint of steel in his voice.

Mycroft was still struggling to find words, and neither John nor Sherlock were eager to jump in and help him.

Finally, Ian asked, "He's not going to try to get me to move out again, is he? Because Grandfather's house is boring."

"You're not going anywhere," said John, "And I'm sure Mycroft wouldn't dream of asking, would you, Mycroft? I'm sure neither of our fathers would appreciate that—though I admit, I hadn't known it was your father mine asked for help. He just told me it was taken care of."

"But … why would you do that?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock was glad he did, because he desperately wanted the answer to that himself. John had grown up in a wealthy home, much like he and Mycroft had, but had turned his back on it all. Successfully. Legally, even, and apparently without rancour. Sherlock was almost jealous.

"You know I'm stubborn," John finally said. "Believe me, I've heard my father complain about that my whole life. Stubborn. Independent. It frustrated both of us—he couldn't understand why I wanted to go my own way, I couldn't understand why he insisted I just follow the family traditions. Luckily for me, my father's open-minded enough that he was willing to let me go my own way, more or less."

He sighed, hands twitching for an absent cup of tea, before rubbing at his head. He still wasn't recovered from last night's ordeal, thought Sherlock as John continued, "We agreed that I would go my own way for university, and he didn't object—much—when I joined the army, either, but I know he hoped I'd put that aside once I got married, which I did in my own name, of course. But…" He looked over at Ian, "We loved each other, but Mary and I were never really the right match. For a while, the time apart helped, but finally—the marriage fell apart, and more and more, I was spending all my time as John Watson, not John Brandon, future Lord Undershaw … it sounds more complicated than it was, really. It's just that I was practically living two different lives, so I had separate names to match. I don't think most of the family has any idea that I spend most of my time going by John Watson."

Ian shook his head. "Mum told me when I was little that it was your secret identity, and I couldn't tell anyone. When I was really little, I thought Captain Watson had a cape and superpowers." The words were barely out of his mouth when he winced, obviously wishing he had kept that detail to himself, but John looked flattered.

"No cape, but the nurses used to tell me my scalpel was magic," John told him. "And anyway, it made life simpler, keeping my lives separate. It was never meant as a deception, really, just a way to make my own name."

"And your father approved all of this?" Sherlock could hear the disapproval in Mycroft's voice. That would never have been allowed in the Holmes household. There were obligations and expectations, and woe betide anyone who failed to live up to them—as Sherlock had learned the hard way. His lack of concern for social conventions and his experiments with drugs had made his family apply draconian restrictions on him and his trust fund as they tried to control him. They had never once considered that he was 'acting out' from a sense of boredom and frustration at the restrictions already in place. The more they tightened their grip, the harder he had struggled.

The idea of gracefully letting him go his own way would never have occurred to them.

John, meanwhile, nodded. "He wanted me to be happy, and it's not like I was trying to evade my obligations. Quite the contrary, I was making it possible to live my own, unorthodox life without it reflecting back on the family. If the marriage had worked out better, things might have gone differently, but … I have no regrets there, either. I got Ian out of the deal, after all."

"What do you tell your family, though?" Mycroft asked, still bemused. "When you get together for the holidays, and they ask what you've been doing?"

John shrugged. "Oh, they know I'm a doctor, so I mostly just say I'm busy and can't talk about my patients and then ask how they're doing, which pretty much fills up the rest of the conversation. It's not like they're preternaturally observant like the two of you. I don't think anybody's ever caught on to the army thing, which, don't even say it, is appallingly blind by your standards."

"But—your gunshot? How did you explain that?"

Sherlock watched John's eyes narrow and said, "It hasn't come up yet, has it, John?"

John shook his head. "At least not in my presence. I haven't been back that long, remember."

"They were at Mum's funeral, though," Ian said. "And you were limping a bit. I heard Uncle David wondering about that."

"David Brandon?" Mycroft asked, surprised, and then he shook his head. "Of course. He would be your cousin, John?"

John nodded. "Yeah, you know him?"

Mycroft was nodding, but Sherlock was uninterested in John's family. He was still trying to parse how a wealthy, powerful family not entirely unlike his own would be willing to let its oldest son go like that. He had met Jonathan Brandon just over an hour ago, and the man had seemed sane enough.

John caught his eye then and said, "You're overthinking it, Sherlock. It's really not complicated. My father and I came to a compromise about what I wanted and what needed to be done. It's not like it's a deep, dark secret or anything. It was just something I choose not to tell everyone. You don't go advertising the Holmes family history when you're dealing with Donovan, or the homeless network, do you? It just gets in the way of the work—especially when you're trying to provide medical care to a bunch of army grunts. John Watson is just a retired army doctor. He and John Brandon don't exactly move in the same circles, but both of them meet their responsibilities—just, usually not on the same continent."

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "That's all well and good, but why would you have continued your … secret identity when you came home?"

John's voice was weary as he answered. "It's not like it's an assumed identity, Mycroft. All my professional credentials are as John Watson, and invalided home or not, I'm not about to give up my medical license or pretend the last twenty years never happened. At some point I'll have to go through the paperwork to merge the two back together, I suppose, but I've been busy. It's not like John Brandon has had so many obligations that take up a lot of time."

Sherlock noted the way John was leaning his head on his hand now, and decided this had gone on long enough. Ian appeared to feel the same way, because he had turned back to the kitchen to pour John some tea. "Is it okay to drink tea with a concussion?" he asked, voice worried.

John smiled as he took the cup. "If it's not, the British nation would have collapsed centuries ago. Thank you."

"You do look tired, John," Mycroft said.

Sherlock actually felt amused. As if Mycroft would have been concerned about that before learning of John's heritage? "Yes," he told his brother, "Let's think why, shall we? Having someone threaten and harass his son while he deals with a concussion and the after-effects of being abducted and nearly killed last night? When he's supposed to be resting?"

"I didn't harass…"

"You did, though," Ian piped up. "You implied I was a bad influence and that you could make Dad lonely again. Or, that you would 'hate to see him' as alone as he was. Except, he wouldn't be, because he's got me."

Sherlock saw John's lips curve into a smile, but he didn't say anything, just sat and sipped his tea.

It was almost worrying.

Except, it was hard to be worried when so amused by the glare Ian was sending Mycroft's way—a justified one, Sherlock thought, since Mycroft had so badly put his foot in it this time. It was always such a pleasure to see him make a social misstep, and the idea that he'd been misreading John from day one? It was delicious (and took the sting out of his own failure).

He knew John thought so, too, because he had been enjoying this conversation, too … right up until his energy level bottomed out and his skin took on that unhealthy grey tinge.

And so, with a pointed look at the way his flatmate was slumped in his chair, Sherlock said, "Exactly, so you can toddle off, Mycroft. Everything is under control—unless you'd like me to call the Earl for you, so you can insult him directly?"

"Not amusing, Sherlock," his brother said, looking down his nose even as he glanced at John's flagging self. "I can see that I'm not needed, though. Good day, John, Ian."

"Bye, Mycroft," said John, with a wave. "Thanks for stopping by."

Sherlock relished the look on Mycroft's face as he took one last look at the exhausted doctor before turning away, lips tight, to leave the three of them in peace.

#

Months Later

"You have your present for your grandfather?" John asked as he straightened his tie.

"And for cousin Sara, too," Ian said, making a face. "Are you sure you don't want to wear your uniform?"

John looked at his son's reflection in the mirror. He thought they'd settled this. "Why is this so important to you?"

"Because …Well, it's Christmas, and you're home for good, so it doesn't have to be a secret anymore. It's not like Mum's here to be upset by it and … Sherlock's coming, so … won't people wonder?"

"I told you, Ian. It's not a secret. I don't mind if you tell people. I'm proud of the work I did in the army, but I'm not in the army anymore, and the work I do with Sherlock doesn't exactly require a uniform. What difference does it make?"

Sherlock strolled into the room, adjusting his jacket. "Isn't it obvious, John? For some reason, the boy's proud of you."

"Ta very much," John said, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out.

"You've already said you were willing to 'come out' with your secret identity, but who's going to believe in the Adventures of Captain Watson without at least a visual aid?"

"Yeah, Dad," said Ian. "You don't want people to think you're ashamed of it, do you? And, how often do you get a chance to wear it?"

John sighed, looking at the two of them. "You don't really care about the rest of the family," he finally said. "You just want to see it for yourselves."

"What can we say, John? We're proud of you."

"Fine," John said as he turned for the door, spotting the pleased look the other two exchanged. "I knew you were a nag, Sherlock, but you're obviously a bad influence on my son."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock protested. "If anything, it's the other way around."

"Whatever. You two work that out while I go change. I hope you like the smell of mothballs."

#

It turned out, his uniform didn't smell of mothballs at all. Apparently, sometime in the last month, they had gotten it to a dry cleaner without his knowing. He wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or manipulated.

Still, it was oddly familiar to wear his dress uniform again. He had never spent much time in it, of course—basic camo and medical scrubs had been his daily uniform—but still, being captain in the army had been how he identified himself for so long. Even if this particular uniform hadn't been worn often, it still represented a part of his life that he was particularly proud of.

Luckily, running after Sherlock had kept him in shape, because the dress uniform still fit. He didn't dawdle, knowing how impatient the two downstairs could get, but he couldn't help taking a moment at the mirror to make sure everything was in place, self-consciously noting how much straighter he stood, trying to decide if the ribbons were strictly necessary.

"John!" came Sherlock's voice up the stairs. "You were the one who was worried about being late."

"And then you two decided I needed a wardrobe change," John called back, brushing at a piece of lint on his sleeve. It'll have to do, he decided, reaching for his phone and keys and hurrying for the stairs.

"Dad," Ian breathed as he came down the stairs. "You look amazing."

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock, reaching for his coat. "Very impressive. Let's go."

John smiled to himself. He had seen Sherlock's eyes skimming the details of his uniform and was sure he hadn't missed a thing—assuming he didn't already know every detail of John's service. That was one thing that had changed after The Pool. (He couldn't help the capitalization, even in his head. Wearing a bomb is just automatically one of those All-Caps kind of events, wasn't it?) Anyway, Sherlock had paid a little more attention to John and Ian's well-being since then. Since the Blind Banker case, really, when he found out about the Earl thing—but John knew his flatmate well enough to know that Sherlock's concern predated that knowledge, if only by a few hours. That night of danger had cemented a friendship forged while chasing a murderous cabbie—Moriarty's game weeks later had only proven its depth.

No, John thought as he climbed into the cab, Sherlock might not have made a fuss over his uniform, but he wouldn't have helped set this up if he hadn't been interested.

Nobody mentioned the uniform in the car, and it wasn't until he was taking his coat off at his father's that it was brought up. "New suit, John?" asked his father wryly as he met them at the door.

"Not quite. It was Ian's idea—and Sherlock's. Apparently it's time for my secret identity to come out."

His father's eyebrows lifted. "And about time, I'd say. It looks good on you. Ian, my lad, do me a favour and go check on the mince pies? Sherlock, glad you could come."

"Thank you for having me," said Sherlock, handing over the bottle of aged, single-malt scotch he had brought along. They made polite conversation for several minutes (even Sherlock), while John tried not to fidget with the collar of his tunic. He was just starting to relax over the Scotch his father handed him when he heard an outraged, "John Brandon! Don't tell me you've enlisted!"

He winced briefly before smoothing his face into a smile as he turned. "Aunt Susan, it's good to see you. And, no, I haven't enlisted—more like retired. May I introduce my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes?"

She barely nodded at an amused Sherlock as she stared at John. "What do you mean, retired?"

"Left the service," John said, "About eight months ago, now."

"Left the … but, John? When did you join the … what is that … the army?"

"About fifteen years ago, Aunt Susan. It was just something we kept quiet…"

"Fifteen years!" He tried not to wince again at the piercing note stabbing his eardrums. "Did your father know?"

To John's relief, he saw his father coming and waited for him to join them, saying, "Of course I did. He was a captain in the RAMC when he … left last Spring. I'm very proud of him. Now, come along, Susan, let me get you a drink."

He led her away and John turned to meet Sherlock's amused gaze. "Yes, very funny. This is going to be so much fun tonight."

Sherlock smiled at him. "Ian thought so. I think he got tired of not being able to brag about you properly to his friends."

John snorted. "Right. Because teenagers brag about their parents all the time."

"Of course not, John, but you can't blame them. Most of their parents are insipidly dull—not super-hero material."

"Don't you start now," John said, the warning clear in his voice.

But before Sherlock could say anything, he heard his cousin David come in. "Good Lord, is this supposed to be a fancy dress, party? Nobody said. Hello John, old man," he said, walking up to them and running his eyes up and down John's uniform. "That's quite the costume you've got there, though I should tell you that real soldiers take offence at civilians wearing honours they haven't actually won."

John glanced down at his ribbons. "Luckily, that won't be a problem. How are you doing, David?"

"How am I … John. I'm telling you, it's mildly offensive, not that we have any military chaps in the family to rag you on it, but still—I work with military types all the time, and they're really very sensitive about this sort of thing. At least take off the medals."

John ignored that and gestured to Sherlock. "This is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my cousin David Brandon, who works at the palace."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "We've met. He knows Mycroft."

David gave a discreet nod. "Yes, I do. And you're sharing digs with John, here?"

"Wait, how long ago did you two meet?" John asked as Sherlock nodded.

"Mycroft recommended him for a job … well, I really can't go into details," David said, temporizing.

Sherlock, never one for equivocation, said, "The Woman, John."

Now it was John's turn to be surprised. "That was David? That was you? And here I thought I only had Mycroft to thank for that fiasco."

"What do you mean?"

"The Adler case," John said, "Where I almost got shot and Sherlock was almost killed by a booby-trapped safe, just before being drugged senseless. Thanks a bunch for that, David."

"But … Sherlock you were supposed to be discreet," David said, nearly stammering.

"And so he is—some of the time, anyway—but since I'm his assistant…"

"Colleague."

"Fine, colleague, but the point is if Sherlock's working a case, then usually so am I."

David looked utterly speechless, as Sherlock said, "In regard to John's uniform … you say you work with the military, so I'm surprised you don't recognize the real thing when you see it."

David looked between them, confused, as John nodded. "Captain John Watson, RAMC, retired," he said crisply. "Do you want my serial number, too? I'm afraid I left my dog tags at home."

"But … John? How is that possible?"

"I went to school, joined up, and spent the next fifteen years in the army," John told him. "I left just before Mary died, God rest her."

David looked stunned. "Wait … did you say Watson?" He turned to look at Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes … and John Watson? That's you—with the blog?"

Even more amused now, John nodded. "You've read it?"

"Of course, all part of the background check when Mycroft recommended Sherlock." He shook his head. "I can't believe that's you. How did you keep this a secret all these years?"

John shrugged. "Just didn't say anything. It wasn't a secret, exactly, but I enlisted under Watson instead of Brandon, and it was easier to keep it separate. I didn't want to worry anyone. Father knew, that was enough. Enough about me, though. What's new with you? How did you get involved with The Woman?"

For a moment, David looked horrified, but then his better nature stepped up and he laughed. "I didn't, sad to say, but you actually met her?"

"I did," John told him, "And in quite a remarkable outfit, too. Just a pair of high heels, earrings, and nothing else until she added Sherlock's coat a bit later. Come to think of it, you never did explain how you got that back," he said, turning to Sherlock.

Before Sherlock could answer, though, Ian came sloping over, a mince pie in each hand. "Here, Dad. I knew you wouldn't want to wait until after. I brought one for you, too, Sherlock."

"That's my boy," John said, biting into his pie with delight. "You remember your Uncle David, don't you?"

"Of course. How are you, Uncle David?"

"I'm well, Ian. And you? Enjoying your Christmas?" David's voice had softened.

John was momentarily concerned, but Ian just nodded. "Dad and Sherlock keep me busy—and sometimes even let me help on a case, though they've gotten boring about it."

"Boring? Because I'd rather you not get killed?"

"I'm not the one who almost got shot—again," Ian said, protesting.

"No, you were almost skewered."

"But I wasn't."

David's head was going back and forth like he was at a tennis match, but finally he asked, "Wait, John … you were shot?"

He shrugged. "It's not a big deal."

His efforts at down-playing it, though, were for nothing when Ian said, "It forced you out of the army. You almost died. That is a big deal."

"It was at the time, but it's not now," John said. "And so far as I'm concerned, it was a good thing, because it meant I was here and not in Afghanistan when your mother … well, anyway, it's not party conversation. Do you think these mince pies are as good as usual? I've gotten used to Mrs Hudson's."

"You're not denigrating Mrs Hudson's mince pies, are you, John?" Sherlock asked him.

"Oh, no. All her baking is excellent … but that doesn't mean that Mrs McTavish doesn't have an edge where mince pies are concerned. Mrs Hudson's are good, but Mrs McTavish's are sublime."

The conversation devolved into a debate about baked goods then, and then another relative was asking about the uniform, and before John knew it, the evening had flown by. He even started to enjoy the shocked look on people's expressions as he explained that he'd been in the army for fifteen years—though he did try to avoid talking about the reason he left, and tried to let his cousins believe it was because of Ian that he'd retired, not because he'd almost died.

Not only that, but watching Sherlock and Ian navigate the conversational waters turned out to be enormous fun. It was almost a relief to see that Sherlock actually had manners when he chose to apply them. (Donovan and Anderson would probably never believe it. Not that this was an evening he planned on sharing with them.)

He wondered if he should not have kept this a secret in the first place, but no, he had made the right choice. They were accepting it now because it was in the past. So far as they knew, his life now was quiet and safe … though how long that would last once someone put the pieces together to connect him with Sherlock's partner in crime-solving…

"Oh my god! Cousin John, I just realized. You're John Watson!"

Yep, he thought, catching Sherlock's amused eye. Here we go.

#

THE END