Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked. This is the newest story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

In this short story, we jump ahead to post-Reichenbach … what if John's life had changed even more than expected while Sherlock was away?

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"What life? I've been away."

Sherlock ignored the sneer on his brother's face. Of course he looked judgmental—that was Mycroft's default setting, wasn't it? Oh, he supposed that maybe his comment could be considered insensitive or bad manners or some such nonsense, but it was the truth, wasn't it? No matter how baldly stated? It wasn't like John had been doing much (anything) with his life before he met Sherlock. Realistically, what could he be doing with it now? Working long, dreary hours in some surgery somewhere, no doubt. Dating a stream of bland, forgettable women, going for drinks 'down the pub' … God, the mere thought was enervating.

John was going to be so relieved to see him. After the initial surprise, he would be so glad to have something more interesting to do with his dull little life.

Mycroft was still watching him with that disapproving look he'd mastered by the time he was ten. There was an edge to it, though, that Sherlock couldn't identify. Expectation? Anticipation?

"What is it?"

"Whatever do you mean, brother mine?"

"Something about John. What is it? Oh, don't tell me. You're going to say something dull like he's moved on, or is in a relationship, or something equally boring."

Mycroft smiled. "As you said, you've been away."

Sherlock huffed. Was this really the time to be playing games? "Just tell me where I can find him, Mycroft."

"Of course," his annoying brother said, "He'll be at a charity event tonight."

"Charity event?" Sherlock admitted that was a surprise.

"One for wounded veterans," Mycroft said as Sherlock sighed. It was as boring as he'd feared. Poor John must have died of boredom while he was gone to have sunk this low. Wounded veterans? Really? Mycroft was still talking, though, of course. "One which provides possibilities for career soldiers who have lost their profession, as opposed to the average soldier who never plans on making it a long-term commitment. It's sponsored by the Earl of Undershaw, who has a distinct interest in such things."

Sherlock gave a dismissive half-nod/half-shrug. He supposed he could understand why John would be involved, in the absence of more interesting things (i.e., him). At least it wasn't one of those boring charities pandering to the self-pitying wounded who couldn't be bothered to find a new purpose for their lives. A small voice pointed out that John had been just such an ex-soldier before Sherlock came along, and didn't men and women who had sacrificed much for Queen and country deserve some help when they returned, but he just ignored that as annoying.

Well, he supposed that explained John's interest in such a charity, though he couldn't imagine what he was doing at a fundraiser. It's not like John had a surplus of funds, not unless things had truly changed since Sherlock had … left. Maybe he worked for them? Volunteered? Perhaps he had helped organize the event .. though he couldn't help a smirk at the thought of John being responsible for a ballroom full of wealthy donors.

All he said, though, was "Fine. Where is it?" and then tried to ignore the amusement on Mycroft's face as he told him. What could be so amusing? Charity events were always deadly dull. He was sure this would be no different.

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Sherlock entered the ballroom, unsurprised to find it full of boring, moneyed people looking for an excuse to dress up and give money away, all in return for their names in the paper. Dull. So very, very dull. No doubt the Earl behind the whole thing was just as boring, looking for attention in return for Good Works.

Carrying his tray, he circled, keeping an eye out for his erstwhile blogger. Where might John be in this crowd? If he was a guest, he was likely sticking near the outskirts—or possibly chatting with some of the ex-military types that were dotting the room. If John was working, though, he would be in a location where he could watch for problems—near the front, then. All Sherlock knew at this point was that John hadn't been in the kitchen when he'd collected his tray of hors d'oeurves.

Holding the tray high so as not to impede his progress (it wasn't like this crowd needed the extra calories), Sherlock worked his way toward the front of the room and, ah, there he was.

He stopped in his tracks for a moment, looking at John, absorbing the changes. His friend had lost weight in his absence. His hair was greyer than it had been and the lines in his face were deeper. His smile was as warm as ever, though, as he leaned toward the blonde at his shoulder. His suit was remarkably well-fitted, Sherlock thought, and better quality than his suits had been before. Keeping up appearances for the event?

More worrying, the blonde next to him was smiling at John as if he'd hung the moon. The attraction seemed mutual—not that that meant anything. John's dating history supported the theory that he would fall in love at the least encouragement. No, what was worrying was that the woman was a liar. But lying about what? She couldn't be a gold-digger, not if she was sniffing around John Watson. Sherlock would be the first to admit John's sterling qualities, but wealth had never been one of them.

He was trying to sort through the flood of deductions when someone collided with him, causing him almost to lose his tray. Recalled to his disguise, he started to apologize, but blinked when he recognized Lestrade. What was he doing here?

He ducked his head, though, and offered his tray. "So sorry. Canape, sir?"

"No, thanks. I wasn't watching where I was going," Lestrade said, smiling as he looked past him. "I was too busy watching for … there he is. John!" He gave a friendly nod and stepped forward as John's head turned.

Sherlock turned away quickly as John looked in his direction, praying that his friend's tendency to see but not observe was unchanged. As much as he looked forward to surprising John, the middle of a ballroom was not the place for it.

He was in luck, though, because even John had a tendency to overlook serving staff—or at least he did when a good friend distracted him. "Greg," he called over. "Glad to see you."

Lestrade hurried over, a wide grin on his face as he reached forward for a handshake. "You, too, John. And Mary. It's good to see you again. This is quite a turnout."

"I was just saying that to John," the woman—Mary—said. "He seems surprised."

"Well, John is nothing if not modest. You should be proud of yourself, though, mate."

Ah. So John was involved with the charity, Sherlock thought as he moved necessarily away. Perhaps that had to do with his new suit? A need to look professional yet blend in with the wealthy crowd of donors? He wondered if Mary was one of them. She had her hand on John's arm, now, so clearly more than a professional acquaintance.

The variety of possibilities were overwhelming. Sherlock hurried back toward the kitchen, intercepting a waiter heading that way and trading his full tray for the man's empty as an excuse to get out of sight. He dropped the empty tray on a convenient counter and kept walking until he found a quiet corner.

Leaning against the wall, he considered. He hadn't expected seeing John to be so overwhelming. He was glad to see his friend looked well, after all. And he supposed John would have needed some kind of employment during Sherlock's absence, but seeing him laughing and at ease, in a (good) suit, with an adoring woman on his arm … he was missing something. What was he missing?

He could hear the amplified voice of the evening's master of ceremonies, thanking people for coming. Sherlock worked back toward the door, anxious to see more of John, wondering again at his role in the event. Hugging the wall, he watched as the remainder of the guests took their seats until only a handful of people were standing. The MC at the centre of the head table, microphone in hand, next to two empty chairs. Mary was sitting in one of them now, which surprised Sherlock. He had thought she was John's date for the evening?

"…It's because of him that we're all here together. His experiences in Afghanistan sent him back to London without a profession—other than the hereditary one, of course." There was a murmur of laughter as the MC smiled over his shoulder toward the corner where John stood. What was going on? "The army's loss, though, was our gain, because not only did he find a new life helping solve crimes with Sherlock Holmes, but he was driven to found this charity, the reason we're all here tonight. Please help me welcome the man who has dedicated himself to helping our wounded heroes find new meaning for their lives—and if he has a penchant for law-enforcement, who can blame him? I for one think our police force benefits widely by the skills the army puts in place. So, please, welcome the man of the hour, the Earl of Undershaw, Lord John Watson Brandon, former army surgeon and captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

The burst of applause must have been deafening because suddenly Sherlock couldn't hear a thing over the ringing in his ears. Had the man just said what he thought he'd said?

At the head table, John was smiling and shaking the man's hand as he took his place at the podium. "Thank you, Geoffrey, for that overwhelmingly flattering introduction. And he's right, of course. Some of our wounded veterans have lives to get back to when they can no longer serve. Families. Careers. Options. But there are some—and I was one of them—who devoted their careers to the armed forces and, when that is ripped away, are left with a very specific set of skills and nowhere to use them."

Sherlock stared at his former flatmate and wondered if he had perhaps had a stroke. Had his hearing returned at all? Maybe he was hallucinating? Because there was his friend speaking comfortably in front of a crowd of wealthy snobs, being charming as he spoke about his feelings of loss on his return to London, and how meeting him, Sherlock Holmes, had changed all of that. "I know what you're thinking," John was saying, "It's not like I needed another career when I had an earldom waiting for me—except that would mean you don't know me very well. I've never been one to sit idly, so it would have been impossible for me to sit and twiddle my thumbs waiting for my father and grandfather to die and leave me the title. And anyway, it didn't matter if I'd been raised in a palace or a council estate—losing the career you've worked your entire life for—or two careers, in my case—is devastating. I was sleepwalking through my days, bereft of purpose until I met Sherlock."

It was an illusion, of course (or a hallucination), but Sherlock could almost believe John was looking right at him as he said that. Had he really had such an effect on John's life? Or rather, of course he had, but he was surprised to learn that John realized that.

"It was through Sherlock that I started working—no matter how unofficially—with the good men and women at New Scotland Yard. Suddenly, I had purpose again, as well as an outlet for the rather unique set of skills I had learned from being not only an army surgeon but a soldier as well." He paused to take a sip of water. "You all know, of course, what happened to Sherlock—hounded to his death because of Moriarty's lies. After his death, there was a time when I could have slipped back into depression, but then I inherited my title and found a new purpose—finding satisfying careers for the other men and women who had served their country and found themselves in the same boat—if you'll excuse the Navy reference."

There were chuckles around the room and Sherlock blinked, recalled to himself, trying to assimilate this new flood of information.

Was it actually possible that John was the Earl of Undershaw? How had he kept that from Sherlock all those months?

He absorbed the facts in front of him. John's well-fitted, bespoke suit. The introduction. His ease in speaking in front of the crowd of strangers. If this had been a scheme of some kind—assuming John would be involved with anything like a deception on this scale—there would have been traces of guilt or deception in John's body language. But there weren't. His expression and demeanour were as open and friendly as always.

Certainly the others in the room seemed convinced that he was authentic. And then there was that damned knowing look on Mycroft's face earlier.

It had to be true, then. Somehow, beyond all rational possibility, John Watson, his loyal blogger, was the Earl of Undershaw.

"Of course," John was saying, "Not all military skills can be easily translated into civilian life. Marksmanship and familiarity with firearms, for example. Outside the occasional duck hunt, it's not like getting a weapons permit is easy or even possible. Believe me, I know."

Sherlock couldn't help the snort of laughter at his friend's familiar black humour. As if John had ever let the lack of a permit stop him from carrying his gun when needed. The tickle of amusement dried into a cough in his throat, though, as John's eyes met his … for real this time, because John froze mid-sentence, eyes boring into Sherlock's as his face visibly paled.

Sherlock kept his gaze steady even as the rest of him froze to match, both he and John held motionless for one long moment of recognition.

Too long a moment, though, because the audience of wealthy dilettantes were starting to rustle about in their overpriced clothes, and some were starting to turn Sherlock's way, curious as to what John was staring at.

Well, that would never do, and so Sherlock stepped quietly back into the shadows along the wall. When had he stepped away to begin with? Clearly the shock of learning John's identity had wiped away his normal situational awareness, since Sherlock had no desire to draw attention to himself. He had wanted to see John, to surprise him, yes, but not in front of a crowd of one hundred wealthy, bored gossips.

Luckily, his step backward, fading into the shadows, had recalled John to his own position, and Sherlock watched him blink as he glanced down to his notes. "I … er … so sorry. I was momentarily distracted," he said, and then slapped his hand to his pocket and pulled out his phone. Glancing down at it, he looked back at the audience and said, "Saved by the bell. I am truly so sorry. This is the worst possible timing, but I'm afraid I really need to take this." His eyes met Sherlock's again as he added, "In the hallway," leaving Sherlock with no doubt but that it was an order to meet him there.

Sherlock moved along the wall, easing his way among the few people and serving staff still standing. He heard John laughingly telling people to please get on with their meals, and then his blogger was moving toward the exit closest to Sherlock.

Finally.

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