NOTE:

Part 3 of the Mistaken Identities series. Follows "Mistaken Identities" and "A Chat With an Old Family Friend," and therefore includes spoilers for both of them. It definitely helps if you've read them first.

Obviously, I don't own the characters (other than the Littlestons) and have no connection to the BBC Sherlock. I just love visiting.

The day after the events of "Mistaken Identities."

Sherlock stood in the Watson family living room, holding a cup of tea and staring at the family portrait over the fireplace.

John was about five years old and, Sherlock had to admit, quite adorable in that blond-haired, blue-eyed way of his. He was sitting in his mother's lap and just beaming out of the picture, happy with the world. (Sherlock sniffed. It was John. Of course he was happy.) Harry was standing beside him, hair in plaits, and smiling—no sign of the bitterness ever-present in her face as an adult.

The parents, though. John's mother looked just as happy as her son, but John's father? Sherlock studied his face. The patriarch of the family, proud and strong. Kindness in the lines of his face, but there was a strain around the eyes, a glint of something haunting in their depth. Nobody knew it yet, but the man was starting to break.

"He was a cute kid, wasn't he?" Harry's voice came from the doorway.

"Yes." Sherlock turned and saw her leaning against the door jamb, fluffy robe over her nightgown. "You look tired."

She shrugged. "I didn't sleep well. Between John coughing up his lungs in the next room and, well, the rest of it…"

"It's been a stressful week."

"To say the least." She looked back at the portrait. "Studying that for any particular reason?"

Sherlock gave her a tight smile. "You all look very happy."

Crossing the room, she came to stand next to him. "Yeah, we were. Then."

She said nothing for a few moments as they both looked at the young faces, forever happy in their frame. "So, what exactly happened yesterday? What was that idiot after? What could Mum possibly have had in her diary that would make him come after it? And threaten John?"

Sherlock looked down at her rumpled hair. "You should ask your brother."

"He's asleep," she said bluntly, "And I thought you didn't want him bothered. So I'm asking you."

"Nevertheless, this is not a conversation we're having without John." He looked back to the portrait. "I'm surprised you still have this up. There aren't any other family pictures in the room."

She shrugged. "Mum and Dad practically built the wall around that picture. To take it down, I'd have to dismantle it. It's just easier to leave it there." She turned and walked back to the door. "I'm going to go have a shower. When Johnny wakes up, tell him we're going to be having a chat as soon as I'm done. I want answers."

#

Half an hour later, Sherlock was sitting over the newspaper when John walked into the kitchen. "Yes, I took my medicine," he said before Sherlock could open his mouth. "God. You're such a mother hen."

Sherlock smiled. "I learned from the best, though I don't see how you do this all the time. It's exhausting." He nodded at the bag on the table. "There are some pastries, courtesy of Mycroft."

"Good of him," said John, filling the kettle at the sink. "He has a fine future ahead of him as a caterer if this government thing doesn't work out."

"Well, he's always been fond of food." Sherlock turned the paper over. "Harry was up earlier, and asking questions."

Oh, wonderful. John was so looking forward to that conversation. He leaned against the counter. "What did you tell her?"

"That it was a conversation you needed to be present for. I did wonder one thing, though." John lifted his eyebrows. "That family portrait in the living room. Your mother's note said your father would protect the contract, but what if she didn't just mean he would uphold its terms? What if he is actually protecting it? What if it's behind that portrait?"

"But it's built into the … oh. I see." John was already walking into the other room, Sherlock following. "I never wondered why they would have built the bloody picture into the wall, but that would certainly keep something safe, wouldn't it?"

"My thought, exactly. Especially since there don't seem to be any other pictures about that could be hiding suspicious paperwork."

"I do have a couple framed photos back at the flat, though. Ones Mum had next to her bed," John said thoughtfully, still staring at the portrait on the wall. "But they're back at Baker Street. Any way to see if there's something behind this without dismantling Harry's wall?"

"What's this about my wall?" They both spun around. Harry was standing with her hands on her hips, ready to burst into full tirade.

"We're just wondering if whatever Littleston was looking for is behind this picture," John told her, placating. He hurried over to give her an awkward kiss. She was always so bad-tempered in the morning, even without a hangover.

"I thought he wanted the diary?"

John nodded. "He did, because the diary had a clue to something hidden, something he wanted to have. We just don't know what."

Harry glared at Sherlock. "This is your fault, isn't it?"

An elegant eyebrow rose. "Mine? This is your mother's diary we're talking about, not mine."

She looked furious, but couldn't find fault with that, though she clearly wanted to. She looked between the two of them and then said, "Fine. If you can manage without destroying the house, go to it." And she flounced to the couch and sat down, arms crossed.

John and Sherlock looked at each other and John rolled his eyes. Harry would never change. "The tools are in the garage, still?" he asked, and headed off to fetch them before she could answer. When he came back, Sherlock had moved a vase (tacky silk flowers) and an alarmingly cheap figurine of a girl carrying boxes off the mantle and had fetched a kitchen chair to stand on.

Fifteen minutes and a cloud of dust later, the portrait was off the wall. Harry came off the sofa as Sherlock lifted it down, trying to nudge John out of the way. Sherlock said nothing, but angled the back of the picture toward John. An envelope was taped to the back, his name written on it.

He reached for it, coughing, and then protested when Sherlock slapped his hand away. "Oi, that's mine, Sherlock!"

"There's too much dust and you're coughing too hard. We'll take it into the kitchen." And with a complete disregard for the mess, Sherlock swept into the other room, carrying the envelope with him. Harry and John exchanged glances, sharing a rare moment of sibling accord, before they trailed into the kitchen behind him.

#

In the kitchen, Harry plunked herself down at the table and reached for the bakery bag.

John automatically went to the sink to wash his hands, flicking the kettle back on. He reached for cups and plates in the cabinet and then measured tea into a pot, all while very much NOT looking at the envelope on the table.

Sherlock watched curiously as Harry's face began to grow red, her eyes going back and forth between her brother and the envelope, impatience building. The instant she started to reach for it, he slid his hand over it. "It's addressed to John."

She glared at him. "As if you didn't want to know what's inside. And you, Johnny. What are you waiting for?"

John wiped his hands on his jeans and carried the teapot to the table. "Maybe I don't want to know."

Harry's face grew even redder. "How is that possible? I was kidnapped for whatever is in that envelope! So was your precious Sherlock!"

John heaved a sigh. "I know, Harry. I'm sorry."

Sherlock's face was neutral as he observed them. Their interaction was so different than his and Mycroft's, but they were obviously siblings. They clearly didn't get along, yet had a long history of knowing each others' mannerisms, weaknesses … and the buttons to push to get a rise. He found he did not like the way Harry was trying to dominate John, either, or the way John shut himself down to avoid her badgering. And he still looked tired.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Maybe if I told Harry some of the things she missed yesterday?" he offered. "While you eat something?"

Sherlock met John's eyes, trying to let him see his concern. "Yeah, why don't you do that, Sherlock. I'll save my voice. All that coughing, you know."

Sherlock hid a smile and turned to Harry. "It started with a note that Andy Littleston found in his father's things." He went on to explain how the diary had a photo hidden in the back. He told her how they had discovered that the Watson family mortgage had been paid by LSE. He told her that Ian Littleston was ill, and this his son—notoriously jealous of his older brother—had found the beginning of this trail in his father's things. And how Sherlock had taken steps to make sure John would be protected.

By this time, Harry's jaw was almost on the table, and she was staring at John in disbelief. He just sat at the table, hands wrapped around his tea, staring at the steam wisping up from the cup.

"I don't believe it," she said. "Johnny, tell me he's making this up!" He still just stared, so she turned back to Sherlock. "Do you have these pictures with you?"

John said, without looking up, "In my bedroom, Sherlock. I didn't want to leave them at Baker Street last night."

Sherlock gave Harry a look that said don't-pester-him and got up to fetch the diary. He paused a moment in John's boyhood room. Harry had barely changed a thing, other than taking down whatever posters had been hung on the walls. They left bright rectangles on the otherwise faded wallpaper she hadn't bothered to replace. There were no toys or trophies on the bookcase, but the furniture was still obviously what John had grown up with. Utilitarian pieces, a desk, a dresser, a narrow bed, all a bit battered about the edges but otherwise taken care of.

He only took the time to give the room a cursory glance (much as he would have liked to study this Museum of John exhibit longer), then he swept the diary off the bedside table and hurried back to the kitchen.

John and Harry were still sitting in silence, not moving. Sherlock pulled the photo of Ian Littleston and their Mum out of the diary and handed it to Harry, who just stared. Then, with a glance at John, he showed her the baby photo that had been in the note Andy had found. "It appears that your mother and Ian Littleston cut all contact after John was born, but each of them kept mementos."

He glanced at John.

"And then there's whatever is in that envelope."

#

John sighed. "Right," he said, and reached for the envelope. Using a knife from the table, he slit the envelope open and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

The cover sheet was a note from his mother. At the sight of her familiar handwriting, his eyes blurred.

"…Your father was a good man … knowledge weighed on him. … in all the ways that mattered … not your biological father … promised when you were a baby … couldn't bring myself to tell you … father's name was Ian Littleston. … never regretted … gave me you … offered to do more … hard enough for your father's pride … love you always …"

John couldn't take it in. He sat, stunned, until Harry pulled the letter right out of his hands. He looked up then and saw Sherlock's annoyance, and handed him the very legal looking contract as well as (another shock), a notarized letter from Ian himself, acknowledging John as his son.

Well, he could see how Andy would feel threatened by that. He wrapped his hands around his now-cold cup of tea.

After the events of yesterday, it's not like any of this was a surprise, exactly, but seeing it written straight out in black and white made it so much more real.

Harold Watson was not his father; Ian Littleston was.

Harry was still staring at him. "What are you going to do?"

He looked up at Sherlock. What was he going to do? He didn't know what Sherlock read in his eyes, but his friend nodded to himself and stood up abruptly, with John automatically rising to his feet as well.

"I'd say it's time you met your father, don't you think?"

#