Part two of the Mistaken Identities series.

One year before the events of "Mistaken Identities."

The man walked into the flat with a slight hesitation. Unusual for him, thought Sherlock, noting the tips of the man's shoes and the way he held his shoulders. This was a man used to being in charge. Sherlock's eyes flicked over the custom suit, the expensive watch, and took note of the lines around the eyes. He was used to making decisions, but he was unsure about this visit.

He gestured him to the empty chair, but the man glanced around the room. "Is Dr. Watson not here?"

"No, he's at the surgery today," Sherlock told him. "Let me guess. You're a fan of his blog."

"You could say that," he said with a small smile. The name's Ian Littleston,"

Sherlock's eyes had widened slightly. "Littleston? Of LSE?"

Even Sherlock had heard of Little Stone Enterprises, one of the richest investment firms in the country, which explained the good suit and air of confidence in their guest. He studied the man in front of him. Mid-sixties, in good condition, but with a slight strain around the eyes and a hint of pallor to his skin. The suit was the slightest bit too large for him, as well. "How can I help you?"

Littleston tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair. "I don't know that you can. I don't even know if I have a case or simply an overactive imagination."

"They are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Please, explain."

"Of course. It's just … this is about my son." Littleston cleared his throat as he glanced around the room again. "My son, Geoffrey."

"He died recently, didn't he?"

"Oh, you know that?" A trace of relief in Littleston's tight voice. "Yes, a month ago. It was a hunting accident. We're not a traditional sporting kind of family, you understand, but Geoffrey loved it. He's always been fond of the outdoors and a challenge. He was good with a gun. Very good. Do you hunt, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock gave a tight smile. "Only criminals, Mr. Littleston."

Littleston nodded appreciation at the quip but merely said, "Of course. Well, my son did, and he was careful. He took good care of his guns, and never failed to make sure they were clean and in good shape. So, when his rifle exploded in his face …" His voice trailed off, horror hovering just behind his eyes. "It was declared an accident, but I … can't believe it."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

"Because he was always so careful! I'm told that this kind of accident never happens."

"They do, though. Sometimes equipment simply fails, Mr. Littleston. A small flaw in the metal that wears over time, or becomes brittle in extreme weather conditions. It's terrible, but not something that can be planned."

"Can't it? Couldn't a person create such a flaw?" His voice was intent.

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully over his steepled fingers. "It's possible, yes. But who would want to kill your son?"

The man's face crumpled. "I don't know. He was popular, my Geoffrey, a good person. Warm-hearted and friendly. He cared about people." His hand rubbed the fabric of the chair arm, stroking it like a cat for just a moment before it stilled.

"Yet you suspect foul play," Sherlock said. "You must have a reason. Does it have anything to do with your recent diagnosis?"

"What?" Littleston blinked at him, shocked. "How did you know that?"

"It wasn't hard, I'm afraid. The signs are there to be observed. Your suit is just a little too loose, so you've lost weight recently. The color of your skin and the transparency around the eyes suggest an illness. It could be grief, of course, at your recent lost, but there are marks on your finger from a pulse monitor, and you have a medical alert bracelet on your wrist. A new one, so it's a recent diagnosis."

The man's face had paled, but Sherlock continued. "It's something fatal, I'd wager, and something fast. You are concerned that, hearing about your illness, that your youngest son has taken steps to ensure his inheritance."

"How could you know that?" Littleston's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Because you are here," Sherlock told him. "And because Andrew has always been jealous of his older brother and selfish about what he believed was rightfully his. I was at school with them both when we were younger, and while I didn't know either of them well, the rivalry was obvious, as was the fact that it was almost entirely on Andrew's side."

Littleston was even paler now. "Yes," he said finally. "I'm afraid that Andrew has done something unspeakable. I'm terrified he won't let anything stop him from getting my fortune when I'm dead, all of it."

Having said the words, he was suddenly calmer. "I love my sons, Mr. Holmes," he said. "And I can't bear that one of them might have done this. And if he has, what he might do next."

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. "You could afford any detective in the country. Why come to me?"

"I know your work, Mr. Holmes. And I read Dr. Watson's blog. The cases the two of you take are often the ones that seem the most hopeless. The police have already told me that Geoffrey's death was an accident and are not willing to look any further. Without new evidence, even I cannot get them to re-open the case. I need someone who can find that evidence—or prove to me that it doesn't exist. Before something else happens."

Sherlock said nothing for a long moment, and then asked, "Why do you believe Andrew will come after John, Mr. Littleston?"

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What little blood was left in the man's pale face drained and he became completely still. Then, wiping his face with his hand, he forced a smile and said, "Your reputation doesn't exaggerate, does it? What makes you say so?

Sherlock sat quietly, watching as the man ran nervous fingers through his hair. "You were disappointed that John wasn't here, you wanted to meet him, yet your body language showed that part of you was relieved, so this is a conversation you did not want to have in front of him. Yet you keep looking around the room. There are a lot of things to look at, but you're not examining them or curious about them. No, you're picturing someone else in the space. Your face softened when you looked at John's laptop on the desk, and keep touching the arm of the chair because it's his. Now, that could be simply because you are a fan of his blog, but if that were the only reason, you would have been disappointed he wasn't here."

A small nod, but the man's posture had changed. He was still reclining in John's chair, but all the muscles had stiffened, as if he were expecting a blow.

"You are genuinely grieved for Geoffrey's death, and hate yourself for suspecting Andrew might have had a hand in it. You have the connections and the power to force a deeper police investigation, but you're … afraid?" Sherlock tipped his head, considering. "Worried, let's say, about what they might dig up. Yet you came to me, knowing that I am likely to find whatever it is you hope they won't.

"The only reason for doing that would be because you want me to know, even if you hope I won't take it any further. The only reason for that would be because John was in danger."

Littleston didn't move, but his right hand trembled slightly. He folded his hands and took a shaky breath. "I am impressed, Mr. Holmes, and you're right on all counts. I don't break secrets, though, so let me ask you—what might you theorize would be my reason?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over the man again, noting the remains of sandy hair in amongst the gray, the shape of the nose, the curve to the lips as he tried to smile. "I'm sure John doesn't know your sons from the military, nor from university since he's somewhat older than both of them. But I can't help but wonder if perhaps you know him? Or, perhaps … his parents?"

A slow, careful nod. "As a matter of fact, I did have a brief acquaintance with his mother before he was born, and have a great deal of respect for the Watson family." He coughed slightly. "In fact, I was able to help them out with a problem with some money problems. It's possible that when I'm gone, certain records might come to light that would make my son … curious."

Sherlock looked at the man opposite him, so tense under his casual façade he looked as if he might shatter. Standing abruptly, he walked to the kitchen and poured whiskey into two glasses, then carried them back to the sitting room. Littleston accepted his with a look of surprise and took a grateful sip as Sherlock sat back in his chair.

When there was more color in the man's face, Sherlock asked quietly, picking his words with care. "Why would your son care if you had helped an old friend out? Would that affect him in any way?"

"It would if I decided to split my estate between my sons," Littleston said, with a sideways flick of his eyes to John's laptop.

"I … see. Is there any particular records that would … worry … your son?"

"Naturally, there was a contract at the time, laying out the mortgage requirements on both sides. I believe my old friend kept it hidden in her house, with some kind of guide in the diary she used to keep. Hidden, you understand, so her children wouldn't find it."

"But you think the time might be coming when they would need to know?" At the other man's nod, Sherlock blinked, the implications exploding in his brain. He blurted out, "You do realize that not everyone is suited for large sums of money."

A small smile. "You come from money, Mr. Holmes, yet don't have a lavish lifestyle. What's the harm of a little extra money in your pocket?"

"When the extra can be counted in the millions, it can do quite a lot of harm, Mr. Littleston, as Geoffrey may have found out."

Sherlock took a sip from his own glass. "My recommendation to you is to think very carefully about what you know of your son's temperament, and what he might be likely to do if he were to learn of an unexpected rival claimant to your estate. I'd suggest you think about that and then get a team of lawyers to craft a will so iron-clad that he would not be tempted to stray down the wrong path."

The man looked dissatisfied. Sherlock considered him. Dying, grieving, worried, and showing an unusual vulnerability. "Do you really want me to investigate Geoffrey's death?" Sherlock asked gently. "Or do you want me to find something I can use as leverage, should the need arise later on?"

"I love my sons, Mr. Holmes," Littleston said after a moment. "I've already lost one, and while he deserves justice, I confess part of me doesn't really want to know, no matter what I suspect."

"Denial has its own comfort, but cannot be relied on to keep one safe."

"I can't bring Geoffrey back. I just want to be sure Andy doesn't do anything else." Another fluttering glance over at John's empty desk.

An interesting dilemma, Sherlock thought. Or it would be if it wasn't affecting John. "And you hope I would be able to keep him safe?"

Littleston looked smaller in his chair now, almost beaten. "I don't know what else to do."

Sherlock was uncomfortable, too. He had promised no more life-changing secrets from John, but he was being asked to make choices for him, about him. He had John's life in his hands. Again. Sherlock's mind was busy running scenarios of what would happen when John learned that he had kept this from him.

Sherlock said, thoughfully. "I am not qualified to give legal advice, of course, but I suggest again an iron-clad will to remove any incentive for … creativity."

A sigh from the older man. "My son has never shown himself liable to be governed by outside influences and can be … impulsive. Perhaps it might be best if he received nothing at all except, perhaps, a trust fund or allowance of some kind. Something with very strict limits."

"And a clause about being ineligible if caught in a violent crime, perhaps? Though naturally, that would only be effective if he knew the terms in advance."

"Hmm," Littleston sipped his drink again. "That would bring up its own questions, wouldn't it? Ones I might not be ready to answer. It's a possible solution, though. Especially if backed by certain facts about hunting accidents?"

Sherlock gave a small nod in answer to the question in his voice. He was suddenly very curious about Geoffrey Littleston's death.

Littleston was looking around the flat again, this time taking in all the detritus of two busy, hectic lives. "What do you think about unexpected windfalls, Mr. Holmes?"

A windfall coming from the LSE tree could be extremely sizable, Sherlock thought, enough to through anyone off balance. "I think generosity is best when tempered by a sense of proportion, Mr. Littleston."

"Too much of a good thing?"

"Exactly. Especially when coming along with an emotional shock to someone who has had too many of them in his life." Sherlock shrugged, "Not that I am an expert on the human heart. For that, you want to talk to my friend John. He is the finest man I know."

The man's skin flushed a bit warmer as he drank again. "Indeed? He seems like it in his blog. A good man."

"A very good man, who has spent his life helping people solely because it's the right thing to do and he can't help himself. He's quite remarkable. Generous, caring, brave, loyal … though," Sherlock added, " I should mention, he has his faults. A bit of a temper, for example. And not always the most reliable when it comes to money."

"I find that having a reliable money manager can do wonders," Littleston said after a moment. "Perhaps your brother could recommend someone, if the need were ever to arise."

"Perhaps." Sherlock smiled tightly.

The two men sat quietly for a moment, hidden, unspoken sentences hovering in the air around them. Then Littleston raised his glass. "To men like your flatmate and my good son. May at least one of them have the bright futures he deserves."

Eyes dark, Sherlock tipped his and said, "To John and Geoffrey," and took a sip.

Just then, there was a clatter from the stairs and John's voice came through the door. "Don't worry, Sherlock, I can manage the groceries without help!"

#

The door swung opened and John stumbled slightly as he maneuvered several shopping bags across the threshold. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said with a slight blush when he saw the two men across the room. "I didn't realize there was someone here. Carry on. I'll just, er, put these away."

He stumped into the kitchen and heaved the bags to the counter. Sherlock and Littleston looked at each other and then Sherlock said, "You're not interrupting anything, John, we were just finishing up."

He stood and, glancing at Littleston, said, "You should say hello before he leaves, John. Apparently my guest is quite the fan of your blog."

A quick look of gratitude flitted across Littleston's face as John came to the door, brightly curious. "Yeah? Well, I'm flattered." He held out a hand. "John Watson."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson," Littleston said, voice polite, but Sherlock could see his heightened color. "I've been a long-time fan. You're an inspiration."

"Oh no, please. I just trail after Sherlock and do the shopping."

Sherlock said firmly, "I said he reads your blog, John. He knows you're a doctor and an army veteran, as well as a valued friend. You underestimate yourself."

John gave Sherlock a quizzical look but turned politely to the guest. "He's going to make me blush which, I promise you, is totally unlike him. I can't think what's gotten into him."

"Just being nice to an old family friend," Littleston said.

"You know Sherlock's parents, then?" John asked, interested. The man nodded. "Well, please, don't let me rush you off. Stay for tea? I was just going to make a cuppa."

"No, I thank you, but I really must be going." He held his hand out for another shake and then turned to Sherlock. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Please don't forget what we discussed."

"I assure you, I won't."

Both men looked at John, who blinked uncomfortably a moment, but then the moment was past and Littleston was excusing himself out the door. "What was that all about, then?"

"Just an old man who recently lost his son," Sherlock said.

"He didn't look well," his friend the doctor observed. "Cancer, I'd guess. Losing a son on top of that won't help."

"No, but I'm sure meeting you will. He's a fan, remember?"

"I'm not a miracle worker, Sherlock," John said. "I don't think shaking his hand is going to help."

Sherlock gave his friend a warm smile. "You'd be surprised, John."

John just gave him another quizzical look before turning back to the kitchen. "Well, I'm surprised to find you being so friendly. What did you do, put fingers in the milk again? A spleen in the crisper drawer? Have you incinerated all my clothes again?"

All Sherlock said, was "Not that kind of surprise, John."

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NOTE: Part 3 of the Mistaken Identities series will be the multi-chapter "Free Will."