Note: Awwww, you're all so sweet! Thank you so much for all the lovely compliments. They mean a lot!

###

John stood in front of the receptionist, trying not to think how her outfit had probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

"I'm here to see Geoffrey Barrington."

She sniffed down her well-powdered nose. "And your name ... sir?"

"John Watson."

She gestured toward the waiting area. "Please have a seat."

John complied, wishing he had called ahead. David had assured him it was unnecessary, that the solicitor had represented the family for years and would be happy to meet him whenever it was convenient for John. John couldn't help but feel this seemed arrogant. He knew what it was like trying to meet a schedule when someone was insisting you drop everything and help them right now. (Yes, Sherlock, I'm thinking of you, he thought.)

Still, considering what his schedule was like these days, trying to call ahead would have been difficult. He and Sherlock had been working all hours lately, and about the most notice he could have given the solicitor would have been the fifteen minutes' transit time from Baker Street.

He shifted in the chair, trying to ignore the look the receptionist was giving him. Maybe he should have changed into a suit, but if he had delayed, Sherlock would probably have dragged him off again, and John had put this meeting off long enough.

He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he apparently was an Earl now.

An Earl.

It sounded ridiculous even in his head. He had grown up in a small, solidly middle-class bungalow with his single mother. They had never starved, but they had never had abundant money, either. John had had a newspaper route when he was twelve, not for pocket money, but to help with expenses. They had worked for their living, both of them. And all the time, his grandfather was a member of the hereditary peerage.

John wasn't sure what this meant in terms of income and property. He had certainly heard enough about old families in debt, struggling to make ends meet just like anyone else. With his luck, the title he was inheriting would be one hung about with debts like chains. Though he supposed he could live in a nice ancestral home while trying to figure out how to deal with it.

He laughed to himself. As if he would leave 221B? And the thought of him in charge of anyone's financial well-being was, well, laughable. He didn't exactly have the best track record where money was concerned. Not because he was frivolous. He had grown up with too much penny-pinching to be truly careless, and it wasn't like he had had a lot of living expenses when he was in the army, and he had made a decent salary which should have seen him comfortable enough not to need a flatmate when he'd returned to London.

He didn't like to think about how stupid he'd been, getting involved with that poker game. One stupid night's worth of playing with stakes that were higher than he'd realized had blown his credit. It had taken him every bit of his savings to scrounge enough to satisfy the swindlers, but what else could he have done? The only saving grace had been that, since the card sharks hadn't exactly been working above board, nobody official knew of his stupidity. His sudden broke-ness hadn't affected his credit or made an official record. But ... money had been tight ever since.

His own fault. He had never argued that. And he had tried to be responsible ever since, but ... this? He knew nothing about finances on this kind of scale. He didn't know what an Earl even did in this day and age. It's not exactly feudal England anymore.

John sighed and stared at the magazine selection on the coffee table, shaking his head at the titles. Even the magazines were outside his budget. Really, what was he doing here? It was like a cosmic joke.

Down the hall, a door opened, and two men came strolling up. "...And of course, all you need do is call if you need anything, Brian."

"I will. Thank you, Geoffrey."

There was a moment of small talk and then the client left and, sparing a glance at John, the solicitor turned to his receptionist. "I don't suppose ..."

"No, sir. Lord Undershaw has not phoned."

Geoffrey nodded. "If we have not heard from him by the end of day, we'll need to contact Mr Brandon again. I know he said his lordship would contact us, but it has been several days, and there are pressing matters to attend."

He leaned closer to the desk and asked a question too quietly for John to hear. The woman answered with a sidelong look at John. If he were depending on her good graces to meet with the solicitor, it seemed obvious that wasn't going to happen.

Maybe he should have brought Sherlock with him, John thought with an internal grin. It certainly would have gotten their attention ... just before they were kicked out. Though, really, that was unfair. When he chose to use them, Sherlock had impeccable manners. It was convincing him to use them that was the challenge.

It looked like Geoffrey was about to slip back to his office, so John stood up. "Excuse me, I'm ..."

The solicitor turned with only the slightest hesitation and held out a hand. "Yes, Marie was just telling me. I'm afraid I'm quite busy, though. If you could perhaps make an appointment?"

"Yes, I apologize for dropping in. It seems rude, but I was told time was of the essence and my schedule this last week has been impossible to plan ahead, so I came when I had a chance. If it's inconvenient, I only have myself to blame."

"I'm afraid there must be some misunderstanding, Mr ...?

"Watson. Dr John Watson. David gave me your card," John said, with a slight emphasis on the name. "He offered to come along, but ... like I said, it's been impossible to plan ahead for anything this week."

He saw the glimmering of understanding in the man's eyes as he asked, "David?"

"Yes, David Brandon. He's my cousin—which still seems odd to say. I only met him a week ago, and it's still fairly new. I was the only son of a single mother, so discovering I have, well, not only a cousin but an entire extended family is something to get used to.

"David Brandon," Geoffrey repeated as his receptionist gawked. "So then you are ...?"

"The Earl of Undershaw, yes," John said. "I know I don't look the part. Like I said, I am sorry about showing up without any notice, but I was afraid if I delayed to change my clothes that Sherlock would find something else for me to do, so ..."

Geoffrey looked like he had found his composure and John was relieved to see a faint trace of humour as well. "You mean Sherlock Holmes?"

"The Net Detective?" the receptionist asked with a gasp.

John nodded. "The very one—and the reason my schedule is practically impossible to predict."

"Well." Geoffrey almost visibly girded himself. "Won't you come in, my lord? We have much to discuss."

"Please, call me John. I'm still trying to get used to the title," he said, following him into the office. "And I have a feeling we will be spending a lot of time together."

"I don't think that would be appropriate, sir," Geoffrey said.

John sighed. "How about we start with Doctor, which at least is a title I feel I earned. Or Captain. I'm still working my way up to Earl."

"But ... Captain and doctor?"

"RAMC," John said. "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers until I came back to London."

He glanced back over his shoulder at the receptionist. She had torn her eyes away from them and was now madly typing at her computer. "Any bets that she's looking up my blog right about now?"

Geoffrey smiled. "I didn't know you were a gambling man, my ... er ... Doctor."

"Not anymore," John said fervently as they closed the door.

#

The next day, John was sitting in the bull pen at NSY, watching Sherlock rant at Donovan over some procedural issue. He thought about going over to try to break it up, but it was too much work. Instead, he would sit here and try to sort through some of the things he had learned from his solicitor yesterday.

Like, the fact that he had a solicitor.

Lestrade came over and watched for a moment. "Those two are never going to agree on anything, are they?"

"Doesn't look it," John said. "I'm going with the argument that the competition will keep both of them on their game, what do you think?"

"If they don't kill each other first," Lestrade said, glancing at the television tuned to BBC news in the corner.

He froze and, brows creasing, leaned forward. "Something you've forgotten to tell us, John?" he asked quietly.

"What?" John turned and looked at the monitor. "Oh, that. Look, Greg, do you think you could ...?"

But before he could get the television switched to another channel, one of the grunts he didn't know had turned on the volume.

"... the new Earl of Undershaw, John Watson. He is a former army doctor who had attained the rank of Captain before retiring from active service a year ago. If you think he looks familiar, that's because we know him as the assistant to Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective who has achieved notoriety of late in a number of ..."

One by one, it seemed that the entire room turned to face him. Even Sherlock and Sally had stopped their squabbling.

"Watson? Is that true?"

"You're having us on, right, mate?"

"Well done, John! You had me fooled."

Right. So much for keeping this a secret until he felt secure in his footing. Luckily for him, his nerves were at their best when he was under pressure.

Giving a nod, he stood up and cleared his throat in a suddenly silent room. "Thank you. I wish I could take credit for the convincing fake newscast, but ... it's not fake."

He paused to clear his throat, ignoring the disbelieving looks being sent his way.

"It turns out that my grandfather was in fact the Earl of Undershaw, something I only just found out last week. My father died in an accident just three months after marrying my mother, leaving her pregnant with me, but out of touch with his family. They apparently hadn't gotten along, and so in turn, she kept her pregnancy from them."

He heard Lestrade laugh. "And I thought my family was bad."

"Everybody loves secrets," John told him. "Anyway, nobody knew any of this until my cousin David found my parents' marriage license in my grandfather's safe and started to investigate until he found me. It's all true, and nobody is more surprised than I am."

He was greeted by silence that lingered.

"You're really not having us on?" Donovan finally asked.

"No, hard as it is to believe, it's the truth. Believe me, I'm still having a hard time wrapping my head around this."

"Maybe if you dressed the part?"

"Oh, please," John said with a groan. "I already went through this at the solicitor's. I'll try to hunt out the ancestral ermine when I go visit the house."

"You have a house?" Anderson's voice was dripping with disbelief.

Sherlock swept forward, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "You don't think an Earl would sleep on the street, do you, Anderson? Of course he has a house. And I ... I have a case."

John gave a nod. "Right. That's my cue. Feel free to talk about me behind my back after I'm gone."

And, relieved, he followed Sherlock out the door.

#

"May I help you?"

John looked up at the very stiff, starched butler with a sigh. Here we go again, he thought. "I suspect you can. I'm John Watson, the, er, new Earl."

To his relief, the man just nodded. "Of course. Do come in, your lordship."

And, taking a deep breath against whatever might be coming, John stepped inside.

#

THE END

And that's it. I'm sorry. I wish there were more, but that's really all there is! Hope you enjoyed it!