"Alfred?"

Usually, it was never a good sign when Alfred called in the middle of a business meeting.

"We may have a problem, sir."

Bruce Wayne frowned. "Problem?" Alfred's view of trouble could range from a destroyed dining room to the end of the world. Any scenario was plausible and all Bruce would never want to hear from his butler.

"...A man is here claiming to be Master Dick's estranged uncle."

Bruce lifted an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "There's nothing new about that, Alfred. We've dealt with it before."

They dealt with that a lot actually. It was the consequence of fostering a young boy with a murky family past. Strangers came by the manor from left to right the first year, claiming to be long-lost kin and hoping for a piece of fortune Dick inherited through his tragedy. The claims died down as time went on, but Alfred would not have lost his honored practice of showing the "Auntie" or "Uncle" the door.

Not without a good reason.

"This one is different, Master Bruce." There was an edge of stress from the usually stoic and calm man.

"How so?"

"Well..."

This was sounding more and more like the 'end of the world' scenario.

"Alfred?"

"It seems this claim...is true."

"No. Impossible." Bruce looked into Dick's history himself. He found no one to look after the boy. Dick had no one.

"Master Dick disagrees with you, Master Bruce. He is with his uncle right now. 'Catching up.'"

"You so take after your namesake," his dad once jokingly told Dick.

This statement confused Dick. He wasn't aware he had one. "Who?"

"Your uncle."

"John!" his mom cried, swatting his dad in a playful manner. "Don't fib!"

Dick didn't get the joke and looked back and forth between his mom and dad, hoping they would enlighten him on what his dad meant.

"I thought Uncle Sherrinford's middle name was 'William'?" Dick asked because that was the only explanation he could think of. He only had the one uncle.

His mom rolled her eyes. "Don't mind your father. He's just being an arse. Why don't you show me the moves you learned from Carl?"

Dick forgot the conversation in the mist of showing his mom the triple cartwheel he painstakingly learned that day. He does remember the gleam in his dad's eyes when he laughed and declared his son a troublemaker.

Dick saw his uncle at the entrance of the manor door and something just turned on in the back of his mind. Memories of laughter and simpler times he thought had faded now came back with striking clarity.

"Uncle Ford!"

A run and a couple leaps later and his arms were around his uncle's waist, giving him the biggest hug he could muster. Uncle Sherrinford didn't return the gesture but that was okay. He was like Bruce in that way, never allowing words are physical contact to get in the way of showing how they really felt.

Uncle Ford compromised by laying a gentle hand on the back of his head and ruffling Dick's hair like mimicking something he had seen his dad do a hundred times before.

"Hello, Richard."

Dick responded by breaking his hug and hitting his uncle in the stomach, not too hard to make it hurt but enough to make sure the breath was knocked out.

"Two years!" he cried.

He knew his father probably would have forgiven Uncle Sherrinford for the lack of contact...eventually. His dad always forgave the worst of sins when it came to his uncle. That didn't mean he didn't deserve a well-placed hit in the stomach though.

It would have been the face if he could reach.

"You left me for two years!"

Uncle Ford rubbed his stomach gingerly and bent down to be eye level with Dick.

"Well, I can't say I didn't deserve that. I'm sorry, Richard. I didn't mean to be away for so long."

"Where were you?"

"I didn't..." Uncle Ford paused.

No, he never did well with emotions. Dick knew that.

"I didn't handle your father's death very well."

Yeah, well neither did he.

"Why are you here then?" Dick asked with a slight edge of *wanting*. Dick was a master detective. In fact, he learned from the best. If his uncle stayed away in his grief, without a proper incentive, his uncle would have stayed away forever.

His uncle adored his dad. The loss would still be palpable, even years later.

"I needed to make sure you were okay. I wanted to make sure your life here was a happy and safe one."

This baffled Dick. "I live with the richest man in America. I'm surrounded by security and I can get anything I want."

Not that he has *asked* for anything, but the offer was always there.

"I meant in relation to your nightly activities...Robin."

Oh.

"I don't like it."

"Yes, I can safely conclude your displeasure after the seventh time you have stated it since you got back, Master Bruce."

"How long have they been in there?"

A raised eyebrow at the library's closed doors was the only facial expression the butler would allow to show his thoughts of the situation. "About an hour. They apparently have a lot to discuss."

"I still don't like it, Alfred."

"No bugs in the library you could use, sir?"

Bruce glared at him. Alfred knew the security at the manor just as well as he did.

"No."

Dick knew it too.

"Well, then I guess we will have to trust Master Dick to make the right choice when it comes to matters regarding his uncle."

Bruce growled at the door as if the sound itself could open it.

Nothing happened.

"I don't like it."

"Noted, sir."

There was a darkness in John Grayson. Dick never saw it directed at him, but he knew it.

There were those times when the days were long and the nights were longer, his dad's laughter became heavier and his shoulder would twitch like there was a pain that wouldn't go away.

His mom pushed Dick away during those times, directing him to go play with Zitka and the other animals until his dad's mood passed.

When it got really bad, his mom called his uncle.

His uncle came, no questions asked, and he and his dad disappeared for a few days.

Dick always asked his mom what they were doing and his mom always just shook her head.

"They're just blowing off some steam. That's all, dear."

He wanted to ask his dad. He was dying to ask his dad except for the fact that, when they did come back, his dad was the happiest Dick would ever see him. He usually passed this happiness down, making up for lost time with Dick.

He might not know the method, but who was he to argue with the result?

He didn't report to Bruce until well after Uncle Ford was gone and settled in the hotel he was staying at downtown. He waited until they were down in the cave and they both were comfortable in their second skin.

"He wanted to know about Robin."

Silence.

Dead silence...until. "I see."

No, no he didn't. Batman was good at predicting any and all situations, but nothing could ever prepare him for the tornado known as Sherrinford William Jones.

"I didn't tell him." Dick would be certain that was Batman's first thought. "But he knows."

"What do you think he will do?"

"I don't know." An honest answer. No human could predict how a tornado moved.

"And what did you say?"

It was a few nights later before the two men did actually meet.

Batman was out doing his nightly patrols, while Robin was ordered to stay home until they knew what danger laid ahead with an extra man knowing their secret. Robin objected of course, citing that his uncle's observations skills was hardly his own fault. It took some time and a lot of staring him down until Robin huffed and slumped into his chair for monitoring duties. It was fine for now but Batman knew the moment there was even a sneeze of danger, Robin was going to defy orders and head out to meet it head on.

Robin was quite predictable in that regard.

"Having a deep, psychological fear of bats does not mean everyone else will share that fear," a voice called out. Batman looked up to the ledge above him to find a tall, pale man coming out of the shadows. The dark curls on his head nearly blended in with the night but his skin looked almost reflective against the moonlight.

"But I do suppose that is rather the point, isn't it? To instill the fear so they can share it."

His smile, Batmen knew, was dark and certainly dangerous.

"Hello, Mr. Wayne."

If Batman was effected by the dramatic reveal, he didn't show it.

"Sherrinford Jones," he calmly acknowledged. Everything he read up on the man told him not to be surprised on how much of a showman he was. "Also known as Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes smirked and nodded his head in respect. "So we both have our secrets exposed. The field is level."

The slits on his cowl narrowed. The man made it sound like this was all just a game. Batman could deal with mind games well enough but that didn't mean he enjoyed them.

"What is your connection to the Graysons?"

The man scoffed and waved the question off. "Sentiment mostly. But you being the 'World's Greatest Detective' should know the answer to your own question."

Batman slightly huffed at the resentment clearly shown in the man's proclamation.

"John and Mary Watson," Batman stated. "The names aren't that original. They were easy to find once I knew what to look for."

"That's the beauty in 'hiding in plain sight'." Holmes leaned over the ledge just a little to lord over his height advantage. "No one suspects the obvious. Besides, John was a sentimental man. I admired that in him greatly."

"Why now?" Because that was the burning question between both Batman and Robin. Robin didn't get his answer before but Batman was determined to find out. "After two years, why are you here now?"

"Because I am a selfish man." A fact. There was no empathy in Sherlock's statement. "It was better for the boy to be out of my reach. Better for the both of us. But when word had gotten to me about a small, dark-haired boy running around the roofs of Gotham in a ghastly bright costume, I knew I had to come to put a stop to it."

That...was surprising.

"That's not your decision."

"I am very dogging when it comes to a goal." The smile was gone, but the volume of 'danger' still remained on Sherlock's face. "John had to leave everything behind when he and Mary went into hiding. His name. His profession. His reputation. All the great sacrifices he made in my name. The least I can do is to protect the one thing I have left of him: his son."

"You lost that right when you left." And Batman silently thanked all the deities he never believed in for that opportunity.

"And you think you have that right to put him in danger?"

"I've read John Watson's profile," Batman responded. "And I read yours. You're one to talk about running around rooftops to look for danger."

"Like father, like son." For a brief second, Batman saw a flicker of emotion, a ruminate of a memory from a time long ago.

Sentiment. Not just a heartless bastard as most would believe. There was a certain danger in dealing with a man with nothing to lose. Much worse, from Batman's experience, was the danger of facing a man with something to lose.

Batman noted to himself to look further into Zucco's 'accident'.

Sherlock continued. "Richard was a gift from John."

That was worrying. It was bad enough trying to direct the Joker's obsession off of Robin. Batman wasn't too sure what would happen with having Sherlock's attention on his ward.

Sherlock smiled slyly as if he saw the worry in Batman's stoic stance. He jumped from his raised perch to stand on even level. Sherlock probably did so as a tactic to calm his opponent. Or, more likely, to intimidate.

"You see," Sherlock clarified. "The name 'Richard' had great significance to John. It was the alias to one of my most dangerous enemy, Moriarty." Sherlock hissed the name. "This man used the name in his attempt to 'burn' me and my reputation. John was unfortunate to be close to me at the time and could not remain unaffected emotionally to its near-disastrous results.

So, it is a mystery to why John decided to name his only son after my darkest foe. He pelted me with little lies and misdirections on the reason and now-"

His breath hitched.

"Now I will never know. The answer died with him."

"The. Point." Batman growled.

"The point," Sherlock sneered back. "My ties to John Grayson are not to be underestimated. Neither are my ties to the son. Richard may not have inherited his father's name, but he certainly inherited his light... and his father's darkness.

'Richard John Grayson': The greatest mystery I have ever encountered. I have vowed to protect that until the end of my days."

Gotham burned in the weeks following.

The fear of the Bat turned to fear of the unknown shadow. Mafia families, gangs, small petty criminals couldn't stop the wave of vengeance raining down on them.

Robin shrugged from behind the computer console. "I think he's trying to put ya out of business, B."

Batman growled. Deep. Dangerous. It was not just the infringement on his territory. The crime scenes literally burned away in the fires, leaving behind only tied up bodies, struggling at a safe distance.

There was no evidence. Nothing to process and use against these criminals.

There was no justice.

Robin looked back at Batman, unconcerned at the danger.

"He's just making a point," he explained.

"Point. Made."

Dick may have inherited his father's darkness, but he also inherited his knack for getting into trouble.

Three months later, he was taken.

Not as Robin and not as Bruce Wayne's ward.

He was taken as Dick Grayson, walking down the street on his way from a friend's birthday party to meet Alfred.

No one could have suspected that.

"Your father..." James Moriarty purred, causing Dick to shiver at the sound. "naming his son after me."

Dick wasn't tied up. He wasn't harmed in any physical way but he also didn't move from the chair he was sitting in as the man rumbled in front of him.

Having a bomb strapped to his chest tended to keep him still.

For now anyway.

"I must admit, I didn't expect that. I may have underestimated John Watson."

Robin went head to head with some messed up characters, the Joker being one of them. The difference between the madness of the Joker and the man in front of him was in the eyes.

The Joker, there was fire in his eyes, hot and destructive. Like a molten lava.

James Moriarty aka 'Richard Brook' had nothing. No spark. No fire. Just a cold burn.

It was just as destructive.

"It's time to play a game."

There were parallels between Sherlock and Moriarty. Between the then and now.

Sure some things were different. They were more than a decade and an ocean apart. The pool they were staged next to was on a rooftop instead of a community center.

And the hostage with the bomb was much smaller and younger.

Everything else was the pretty much the same; right down to the laser pointers from sniper rifles dancing all around and the gun in Sherlock's hand. Even the 'Watson' standing next to Moriarty was giving the same scowl his father had back when they played this round years ago. The bomb vest he wore blinked as an unspoken threat.

This was it. All or none.

Moriarty smirked. "You had to have known. This was how it should have ended. This was how is always ends."

"I refuse to play into your game, Moriarty." Years ago, yes, he would have jumped in glee at the thought of a challenge in wits. Not today.

Look at how much he had grown. John would have been proud.

Moriarty's chuckled a wicked laugh and reached from behind his back to bring his own handgun. "Now, now, Sherlock. You don't really have much of a choice in the matter." He placed the barrel behind the boy's head. The boy winced at the contact, but he made eye contact with Sherlock and gave a slight nod as non-verbal communication. He was unharmed at the moment and willing to stand by until he got the signal.

Snipers, a bomb and, now, a gun. It was dramatically overkill and it was all for Sherlock.

Brilliant.

"You made a mistake in taking the boy," Sherlock all but growled, tighten his grip on the gun.

"Sentiment," Moriarty scorned. "It makes you weak. This-" he pulled at the bomb attached to the boy. "will always make you weak. That is why I win and you lose, Sherlock."

That...

Sherlock burst out laughing.

He kept on laughing.

He couldn't help it. It kept on being funny.

"Stop it!" Moriarty refused to let any confusion show at this turn of events but the flinch of pain from the boy as the barrel pushed deep against his skull proved the man's agitation. "What. Is. So. Funny?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and glanced briefly to check on the boy before turning his attention to Moriarty. "Do not underestimate sentiment, Jim. It gives men a reason to fight. And it gives a man something to lose."

"Sentiment," Sherlock concluded. "Makes a man dangerous."

He watched as a shadow dropped behind Moriarty and the boy. Even Sherlock's keen ear couldn't detect a sound of the descent.

"And as a dangerous man, I went and did something you would never expect; I asked for help. You see, Jim, when I said 'you made a mistake'..."

The shadow rose bigger and bigger. Everything about the apparition was amorphous except for the distinct shape of pointed ears on top.

"...I wasn't talking about me."

Dick knew.

Dick knew the answer to Sherlock's mystery.

Years ago, during happier times, he once woke up to the sound of a door closing and his dad laughing in the room next to him.

"John! Shhh! You're going to wake Dick!"

Silence came on the other side of the door and Dick tried to stay as still as possible.

The wait must have satisfied his parents because, after a minute or so, his mom start talking again.

"That was mean."

Her tone was soft, but the walls to their trailer was paper thin and Dick could always overhear what his parents were saying. It was a secret he held and coveted for as long as he could.

"What?" His dad's voice held confusion and astonishment. "Do you really think I would make it easy for him? After all he's done to me?"

"No," his mom responded. "But you didn't have to egg him on act like a child."

"He is a child."

"That doesn't make you one. I swear, the two of you are worst that Dick. At least Dick has an excuse of actually being a one."

Silence stretched into nothing more than the occasional sound of glassware 'clinks' and objects placed on the table. Dick was just about to fall back to sleep, when:

"Are you ever going to tell him?"

Dick's attention perked back up.

"He would hate it if I did. He wants to figure it out himself, so I'll let him figure it out."

"Do you think he will?"

"It's bloody Sherlock Holmes...of course not."

"And why is that, dear husband?" his mother teased.

"Have you met the man? 'Emotion' and sentiment' are not his strongest points."

"Okay...then explain it to me."

"Explain what?"

"The answer. Divulge your mystery to your wife."

"You don't know?" his dad asked, surprised. "You agreed to the name when I suggested it."

"I suspect I know the reason but I want to hear it from you. Why did you name our son 'Richard', John?"

'What?' Dick sat up in surprise. His parents were too involved in their conversation to hear the soft rustling of bed covers in the next room over.

"Sherlock is part right," his dad said after a long pause. "About the rebelling. I refuse to make James Moriarty superior to me by letting him get to me."

"But it's not the real reason," his mother concluded.

"No. It's not. I guess..."

Dick waited out the silence in anticipation.

"I guess I didn't want that darkness to win. It was the only thing I could think of. I wanted to replace that negative part in my life with some light."

"And you did."

"And I did," his dad agreed.

His mom laughed. "I think you underestimate Sherlock Holmes. I believe he understands more than you think he does."

There was a very long silence. Too long before his dad sighed and muttered something Dick couldn't understand.

Two figures stood in front of two graves.

Dick winced a bit at the bruises from last night's escapade as he placed a bouquet of yellow and red roses in between the two sleek, black markers.

'John Grayson' 'Mary Grayson'

"You..ah."

Dick risked a glance at his companion.

Sherlock grimaced before he turned his head away from the sight. "You've done well with what you have here in Gotham."

Dick smiled. It was a small smile that was both happy and sad for the lost memories they shared.

"He'd be proud of you too, Uncle Ford."

He caught just a flash of surprise before Sherlock returned the smile.

"Spring is coming," Sherlock continued as if he didn't hear the compliment but it was too late. That was definitely both praise and a smile in the span of a minute. A rare day indeed. "The days are getting longer and I suspect the 'robins' will-"

"You don't have to be subtle about it," Dick chimed in. "I had no intention in giving up being Robin. Bruce gave up a long time, so what made you think you could have stopped me?"

"I-" Sherlock tried to process that information. "Stubborn and resilient. I...underestimated how much you're like him."

Dick's stomach leaped at the comparison. "You're leaving, aren't you? You wouldn't be giving this 'Spring' speech if you were planning on staying."

This time, Sherlock placed a hand on Dick's shoulder and crouched down for a hug. The actions were more affirmation than any words said so Dick leaned in and accepted the unusual display of affection.

"I have to settle some affairs overseas before I head back."

Dick leaned back and looked at his uncle in disbelief. "Wait, what do you mean 'back'?"

"I already talked to your guardian and we both came to an agreement. I can come to Gotham from time to time to tutor you."

"You-" Dick hugged him again. The tense reaction this time was more like his Uncle Ford.

"He seems to have the impression that you are trained by the 'World's Greatest Detective'. I would hate to make him a liar."

Dick smiled at his namesake and laughed.