Sherlock paused several steps behind John and scanned the gathered Brandon clan. He approved of the general consensus of unadulterated approval (and admiration in not a few faces at John's trim figure in its dress uniform). He saw Mycroft politely applauding with the others as he cast his eyes to his right-toward what clearly had to be John's estranged father.

The man did look remarkably like John—if John were thirty years older, had forgotten to smile, and ate vinegar and small children for breakfast while living in a mausoleum. And right now, he looked as if someone had just shoved a sour lemon in his mouth. His face didn't quite know whether it should look surprised, angry, or just more bitter and tart than usual.

To his side was Harry, looking equally surprised … and something else that made Sherlock frown as he tried to identify it. Frightened? He had never met John's sister before, and he knew they weren't close, but as the one family member who'd known he was alive, you would think she would be happy for her brother … but she wasn't. Or at least, not happy about the situation.

John's grandfather was waving him forward to speak and Sherlock could see how much his friend was hating this. John Watson might be fearless in the face of danger, but he hated being the centre of attention. He would step up, step forward when necessary (usually to help Sherlock), but given a choice, he did an excellent imitation of wallpaper—steady at your back, ready for anything you might want to throw at it, but otherwise just … there, holding things together.

Nevertheless, John moved to stand next to the Earl. "Good evening. I can't tell you how happy I am to be here. It's been far too long, and I'm eager to find out if the mince pies are as good as I remember. Really, though, I'm just thankful to my Grandfather for insisting I come, and for my cousin David for making it possible. We met quite by accident last week when Sherlock and I were on a case. We recognized each other right away, though, despite the twenty year gap. Frankly, I think it's because he still remembers the tenner I owe him from a bet we made in 1991. Which reminds me, David, I left my wallet in my other uniform."

There was a warm chuckle through the room as David waved at him, and for a moment, Sherlock thought everything was going to go smoothly.

And then John's father stepped forward and shouted, "I don't know who that is, but that is not my son. My Johnny would never have joined the army!"

#

It had been twenty years, but John could still read his father's body language, and he knew he was about to start something. While he spoke and bantered with David, he watched him, waiting … and it was still all he could do not to flinch back when his father lunged forward, shouting that he was not his son.

And … it hurt. It shouldn't have, he told himself. His father had very thoroughly disowned and disassociated himself from him two decades ago. Having him reiterate it now shouldn't have made any impression at all. But it did. Nor could John wholly prevent the long-ingrained flinch at his father's violent temper.

Facing the Taliban, Moriarty, Mycroft, and Sherlock in a tear all at the same time would be easier, he thought. None of them was his father. None of them had spent his entire childhood telling him how worthless he was.

He managed not to step back, though. With his grandfather at his shoulder and Sherlock a warm, steady presence behind him, John held his ground and tried not to think of the things his father had shouted at him the last time they had been together in the same room. Tried not to think about that last beating, the one to top all other beatings.

And so he just drew a deep breath and said, "Yes, that's exactly what you told me twenty years ago—that no son of yours would do such a thing. Funnily enough, though, when I told Grandfather where I've been, he told me he was proud of me."

"A doting grandfather," his father scoffed. "Grateful to see his long-lost grandson again. Of course he would say that—not that you are his grandson. There is no way John Brandon would ever have joined the army."

John licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "So you told me, which is why I used Mother's name instead. You made your feelings on the subject quite clear before I left." When you threw me out, he thought, but he didn't say so. This was a party, he reminded himself, his grandfather's party, and it wasn't the place to air his dirty laundry—though from the looks of him, his father didn't feel the same way.

"I say you're lying," his father insisted, pushing his way closer through the crowd, dragging a reluctant Harry by the hand.

"Father, this isn't the place…" John began, but his father was at the stairs now and cut him off.

"I won't have you telling these … terrible … lies about my son! Johnny would never have done such a thing. You're an imposter and a liar, preying on the fond hopes of an old man. It's despicable."

John was frozen, staring at his father. He had known this wasn't going to go smoothly, but this? Wasn't disowning him once enough?

He had no idea what showed on his face as he forced himself to look away, to look at Harry. She was pale and wouldn't meet his eyes.

He really didn't want to know whether his grandfather was believing any of this.

For a long (endless, eternal, longer-than-wearing-Semtex) moment, John just stared, trying to force himself to breathe.

He had always had nightmares—before Afghanistan, before Moriarty. Before being shot, before facing a giant crossbow or wearing a bomb vest while watching his best friend about to be shot … before all these, he had had nightmares.

And in all of them, he had seen this face. His father might have been a handsome man, but in a rage, like he was now? He was terrifying, and he had haunted John's nightmares for as long as he could remember. Other children had spoken of loving fathers, but that wasn't something John had ever known. He had just known fear from his.

Defying his father at 18, telling him he was going to become a doctor, join the army, live his own life, had been the most difficult thing he had ever done. It had been worth the beating, though, because every bruise, every loose tooth had paid for his freedom. In the end, leaving had been easy.

But now? The face that had haunted his dreams his entire childhood was in front of him, raving and furious, and John was rapidly losing the ability to think.

#

Sherlock waited, expecting John to let loose one of his patented Captain Watson commands—the kind that could make him eat or be quiet. But as the silence lengthened, he took a closer look at the tension thrumming through his friend's body, the blank look on his face, and realized.

He was terrified.

No matter how well he was controlling it, John Watson, of all people, was terrified of this man in front of him.

Impossible as that seemed, it could not be allowed, and so Sherlock stepped forward to stand next to his friend. Before he could say anything, though, John's grandfather spoke, asking, "Do you have any proof of that, Jonathan? From what John has told me…"

"That's not Johnny!" the irate man burst out. "Look at him, dressed in that ridiculous outfit, attracting attention. My son would know better."

Sherlock glanced past the pale face next to him to examine the Earl, looking grave. "Well, John?"

John was pale, but standing firm, and his voice was level when he spoke. "Those opinions are what he always said, Grandfather, though he's never called me an imposter before."

"I've never met you before in my life," John's father spat out. "You couldn't possibly be my son. He's been gone twenty years now … dead, no doubt. Tell him, Harry."

He pushed Harry forward, and Sherlock took in the pallor and wide eyes, the tremor in her legs as she tried to keep her balance. "I … I don't know what you want me to say, Father."

"Tell them—tell everyone—that your brother is dead. That you haven't seen him in twenty years."

Harry's eyes were wide as she looked up at John, her father's hand white-knuckled as he gripped her shoulder. Next to him, Sherlock saw John mouth her name, bracing himself against the lie that was definitely going to come. And then the line of the jaw changing, the trace of pain in John's face as he watched his sister, ready to disavow himself to get her away from the monster who was their father.

Sherlock couldn't bear to let this farce go on for another minute. "John," he said, his voice cutting through the tension, drawing all eyes away from the trembling woman below, her angry father, and the best, most self-sacrificing man he knew.

John's head didn't move. "What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, not tearing his eyes away from his sister.

"Give me your phone."

John blinked. "What? Now? No, Sherlock."

"No, really, John. I need it." Sherlock looked over at the Earl, who was suddenly looking frail. "You need to see it, sir."

Understanding dawned in John's eyes, and he started to turn, protesting, but Sherlock was already moving, reaching into his pocket and pulling out John's phone, which he quickly handed to his grandfather. "Look at the back."

Somewhat dazed, the Earl did as he was told, blinking as he read the inscription. "To Harry, Love Clara," he read aloud.

This was met by a confused silence, but Sherlock nodded. "When John was shot and invalided home from Afghanistan, he had almost nothing. No money but his pension, nowhere to live, no friends. His sister couldn't do much for him—certainly couldn't let him stay with her—but she did do one thing. She gave him her old phone, a gift from her ex-wife that she couldn't bear to just throw away but which she hated seeing every day. Recycling by gifting it to her disabled brother was the perfect solution for her—she was able to be generous in a way that wouldn't draw attention from her father."

He turned back to John's father, noting that Harry was trembling even harder now. "I wondered at the time why a war hero didn't have more help from his family, but now I understand. Not only did you throw him out when he was 18, but it was because you didn't approve of his career choice—apparently becoming a surgeon and then devoting your skills toward helping save the lives of the men and women protecting Queen and Country during a war is such an embarrassment. Whatever could he have been thinking?

"No, you threw him out and then spent the next twenty years refusing to discuss him—or to allow anyone else to search for him—but you also spent the intervening time making sure that the one other person who knew that John Watson Brandon was alive kept her silence."

A distant part of his brain remembered that John had been hoping he wouldn't cause a scene, that there are some things that are best kept discreet, that this was a Christmas party, not an interrogation … but none of that mattered. Not only had Jonathan Brandon failed in every possible way as a father, but (worse) he was trying to discredit John Watson, Sherlock's friend.

And so he let himself go in full-deduction mode. "I'm guessing that you've never physically abused your daughter—hitting her would go against your antiquated notions of what was due your station, or some such nonsense, but looking at her, it's plain the woman is terrified of you. Emotional abuse then, along with … what? … bribery to keep quiet about John's fate? Perhaps you promised her his share of the inheritance if she kept her mouth shut? Except—poor Harry—you've spent it all, haven't you? You're too proud to work for a living, even though members of the nobility have been doing so for decades now. But no, you've terrorized her and threatened her to keep her from contacting her brother. No wonder the poor woman is an alcoholic, with this hanging over her for twenty years."

Sherlock glanced at John and found himself reassured to see his face was no longer as pale or blank as it had been—and that his gaze was once again fastened on his father. This time, though, his expression was implacable.

"The joke is on you, though, Mr Brandon, because both of your children are better than you deserve. Not only has John spent his life helping others and bravely putting himself into danger for their sake, but your daughter has more loyalty than you ever supposed possible. She stuck to the letter of your demands—not speaking of John to anyone—but she kept in touch with him. Knowing John, he spent all of his childhood taking your abuse to protect her, and he would never have left without being sure she was safe. I'm quite sure that if you had ever laid a finger on her, he would have found his way back from whatever war zone he was posted in to protect her … because that's what John Watson Brandon does. All Harry may have been able to do in return was give him her phone, but it turns out that to have been a fairly significant gift, don't you think? Because it proves his identity—who else but her brother would carry that phone?"

Breathing fast as the series of deductions shifted down to more-ordinary observations, Sherlock looked around, checking first, as always, with John.

There was anger on John's face, but not directed at Sherlock.

For that matter, there was a matching glare on the Earl's face, and Sherlock was reminded suddenly of the genetic link between the two men, which had never been more obvious.

The Earl spoke first. "Is this true, John?"

John's voice was perfectly level as he replied, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I never wanted you to know."

"Perhaps, things might have been easier had you told me. Harry, child, come here," and he stepped down to hold out his arms to her. Trembling, she stepped into his embrace, eyes locked on her brother.

"It's okay, Harry. Believe me, I understand," John told her, but he was still watching his father, warily.

"Father," said Jonathan, his voice cracking. "You can't possibly believe these lies? Who is this person?"

Sherlock stepped forward with a smooth smile. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service, and I assure you. The only one lying here tonight is you. Well, one of the servers is having an affair, but that has no bearing on this."

He glanced back and saw Mycroft working his way closer. "Indeed," Mycroft said, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket. "Mycroft Holmes. I can provide proof of John's claim, my Lord. I have here the results of the DNA test your grandson David asked me to perform. It proves without doubt that Dr John Watson is in fact John Watson Brandon."

The Earl nodded over Harry's head. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. So, Jonathan? Anything else you choose to say?"

Which was when John's father lifted his head and they saw his eyes. He was anything but broken, and it was only a split second before he lunged.

#

This time, John was ready.

He had spent most of his childhood protecting his little sister from their father. True, the man had only ever directed the physical abuse toward John, but his vitriolic comments and manipulations had often left Harry in tears. She had always been more fragile than John, never able to fight back or stand strong in the face of abuse.

Like Sherlock said, the alcoholism made all too much sense.

But even though the three of them had not been in the same place for twenty years, John's brotherly instincts were still strong. He might have momentarily been flustered and unable to defend himself, but protecting Harry?

As his father sprang forward, reaching for Harry's hair, John was already moving. He jumped in front of his father and caught his wrist in his own strong fingers. He vaguely heard Sherlock behind him, making sure his grandfather and sister didn't overbalance and fall on the stairs, but his attention was on the enraged face in front of him. "How many times have I told you not to touch her?"

"That wasn't you, imposter," the other man gritted out through clenched teeth, "And she's mine to do with as I want."

"Not true," John told him, holding strong—strong because he had to, the best defence for his emotionally fragile sister behind him, and his 90-year old grandfather who was still absorbing the shock of learning the kind of man his younger son was. He knew Sherlock would look after them, but it was up to him to put a stop to this. "And we had a deal. I agreed to leave and not look back; you agreed to leave Harry alone."

"So what do you call this? You're not supposed to be here!" His father looked past him to snarl at Harry, "And you … you gave him your phone? What kind of stupid bitch are you? Just as bad as your mother."

John's grip on his wrist tightened as he heard the gasps from the gathered family. "Now, you know that's not acceptable language in mixed company. And, really, how was I to know you were keeping your end of the bargain if I didn't check in with Harry?"

"That's why you left, John?" his grandfather asked, voice stunned.

John just looked down at the man in front of him. "Do you want to answer that, Father?"

The man squirmed in his grasp, bringing up his other hand to try to pry at John's fingers, but John just grabbed the second hand, holding tight, refusing to acknowledge the twinge in his bad shoulder.

After a moment, though, his father went limp, the fight draining from him. "Why am I cursed with disobedient children? You've been nothing but trouble from the day you were born, no matter how hard I tried to teach you. Your sister is no better, but that at least is understandable. You can't expect as much from a girl, I tried to make allowances. But you? You were always so determined to shame me—going to the local school and associating with those common children. It was your mother's fault, but she never listened, either, when I tried to show her how she was wrong. I thought when she was gone, that you'd understand, but it was already too late. You were weak. Keeping you close, keeping an eye on you, was no longer an option."

The room was entirely quiet now, only Jonathan's harsh breathing punctuating the silence.

John stared at his father, trying to think as an educated medical professional rather than the child who had been terrorized by this man for half of his life. He knew madness when he saw it. His father not only had to be kept from hurting Harry, he needed help in his own right. He couldn't be allowed to hurt himself either.

Face firming in resolve even as his eyes softened, John shifted his grip.

#

"John, that was impressive. You made subduing a madman look like child's play," David said later while John selected a mince pie from the dessert table and took a bite with a sigh. Just as good as he remembered.

"If you do it often enough, it's easy," John said, though to himself he acknowledged that nothing about that scene had been easy.

Right now, he was just grateful his grandfather wasn't angry at him for spoiling the party. He had wanted to reintroduce John with a splash, after all, and, well … mission accomplished. Nothing about that had been subtle.

Oh, they hadn't gone around smashing the furniture. Nothing (physical) had been broken, and the people further back in the crowd … and seriously, when had his family gotten this big? … they hadn't heard that final conversation, when the Earl had told his son in no uncertain terms that his behaviour was inappropriate and inexcusable. But still … the fact that there had been a confrontation had been obvious to all. The fact that Jonathan disappeared shortly thereafter was equally plain.

Mostly, though, everyone was far too polite to comment—though that also meant they were having a hard time approaching John at all, presumably feeling it would be indiscreet, or something.

"Grandfather took that better than I thought he would," John said after a moment.

"He might be old, but he knows his son. I don't think he was ever entirely oblivious to his … personality flaws … though I don't think he had any idea how bad it was." David looked at John. "I feel like we all failed you, somehow."

"Oh, no," John said automatically. "Don't worry about it. I've done pretty well for myself, all things considered. If I'd had a different kind of father, everything would have been different. I might have wished otherwise, but there's not much about the last twenty years I'd change—except maybe seeing all of you. I hadn't realized how much I missed Grandfather."

"He missed you, too," David said, and then glanced past John's shoulder. "Mycroft, Sherlock—good timing, both of you."

Mycroft gave his polite smile. "I was just telling Sherlock that he should apologize for disrupting the proceedings, but oddly enough, found my heart wasn't in it. How are you doing, John?"

John looked at the concealed smirk on Sherlock's face and then nodded at Mycroft. "I'm fine, thank you. The DNA test was helpful. I admit, I hadn't seen that coming—that he would accuse me of being an imposter. It's not like I was after anyone's inheritance, after all. The most I was after was my share of mince pies."

Now David smiled, "You might get more than that. Grandfather said something the other day about a trust fund that Uncle Jonathan has been trying to get into for years—a trust fund in your name."

"What? Really?"

"Yes, linked somehow to the Conan estate, which became yours when you were twenty-one. Uncle Jonathan has been using its income for years now. With your arrival, that's no longer possible."

John shook his head. "Wait … I have an estate? I never knew that."

"He never mentioned it when you were a child? It's family land… Honestly, how did nobody ever notice …" David said with a sigh before continuing, "Anyway, since he made sure you were never actually declared dead, your father simply continued to use the income. Your unexpected return, however…"

"Would theoretically mean I was taking it back … even though I didn't know about it in the first place." John had forgotten how convoluted things could get in this family. "Okay, now my head is starting to hurt. Let's talk about something else."

"I've noticed some admiring looks tonight, John," Mycroft told him after a moment. "The uniform suits you. I hadn't realized you'd won so many medals."

John gave a laugh. "Pull the other one, Mycroft. I'd bet you had my service record in your hands before we even met."

Mycroft's lips quirked. "Possibly, but it's still different, seeing the ribbons displayed. You should be proud."

"Unlike his father," Sherlock said, finally joining the conversation. "What did you say, John? Anything less than a Major was an embarrassment?"

"I blame Jane Austen, myself," John said. "If he got half the teasing I got in school about Sense & Sensibility … though at least he didn't have to deal with the Alan Rickman comparisons."

He hid a smile at Sherlock's blank expression, but David laughed. "Oh God, I know exactly what you mean. I had to deal with the same thing—and I was never in the military. No wonder you changed your name."

"Exactly," John said, swallowing the last of his pie. "It would have been nice to make Colonel, just because, but I suppose it's just as well. If I were still in the army, I wouldn't have met Sherlock, and then I wouldn't have bumped into you at the palace, and all in all … I wouldn't change a thing."

"Even being shot?"

"Well, I confess, it would have been nice to have avoided that, but …" John gave a shrug and reached for another mince pie and bit into it with relish. "Right now? No complaints."

#

There's a companion piece coming to this one, kind of a mirror-image version, based on this quote from above: "If I'd had a different kind of father, everything would have been different." What would John's life have been like if everything else in this background were still true BUT his father was actually, you know, a good person? And how well can I slot that idea into canon? Coming up … "Trust Heritage."