Entitled

Verb

to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow

to confer a title of rank or honour upon

A title

John picked up the post from the little hall table, where Mrs Hudson always put it. Sherlock never bothered to collect the mail. "The three Bs, John- bills, bumf and boring" was his reaction. "Nothing interesting ever comes by snail mail," he would sniff and walk right by the ever growing pile of envelopes.

Well, someone had to go through it and throw out the flyers for discount pizza delivery (An American perversion of bad Italian food, John; really, Angelo's is just SO much better). John threw out the junk mail, and shuffled through the remaining envelopes. A few final demands for utility bills. He wondered how Sherlock seemed to never worry about these. (Debit cards serve a purpose; the hard copies are just for our records) John sometimes wondered how Sherlock managed his finances. He had never seen his flatmate check a bank statement, or use a cash machine to check his balance before withdrawing some money. Given the expensive clothes he wore, Sherlock obviously had resources. It did make John wonder at times why he had needed a flatmate to share the rent. And he did seem remarkably unbothered about charging his clients for cases. Mind you, it only took a few like Sebastian Wilkes' bank to pay the £20,000 that he'd given them for Sherlock not to have to worry much.

However diffident Sherlock might be about money, his brother's three piece suits and Eton education screamed old money, so John had learned to relax about the bills.

He kept thumbing through the pile. A post card from Harry, a photo of some tropical desert island in a turquoise sea. "Dear Johnny- wish you were here? Well, so do I, but I'm stuck in a boring job in a country with a miserable winter climate!" He smirked. She was saving for a trip next summer to the Greek islands, so he decided to buy her a guide book for Christmas to give her imagination some time to get even more excited.

Then he found a stiff envelope. One that didn't have the ubiquitous plastic see-through window that heralded yet another bill. He put the other pieces of mail down on the table again, and looked at the envelope carefully. The first thing he noticed was the quality of the stationery- very expensive, at least 200 g/m² and in a linen finish. John knew this after surviving an extensive lecture from Sherlock, who had deduced the origins of the envelope holding the pink phone that started off Moriarty's five pips bombing campaign.

On the back of the envelope was a small embossed coat of arms, with a coronet. John didn't recognise it, but it looked suitably impressive, yet tasteful. Maybe a wedding invitation mis-delivered? Mrs Turner's tenants next door were something important in media, perhaps it had gone in the wrong letter box by mistake. He turned over the envelope to see to whom it should have gone.

The address was hand written, in beautiful calligraphy, to "The Honourable Sherlock Vernet Holmes"

The Honourable? John went upstairs, calling for Sherlock, but there was no reply. His coat and scarf were missing, so John assumed his flatmate was out. He fired up his laptop and googled. And then clicked on "Courtesy titles in the United Kingdom". He scanned down the page, and his eyebrows went up even higher. "The younger sons of earls, and the sons and daughters of Viscounts and Barons are granted the courtesy title of The Honourable before their names."

Just at that moment, he heard the tell-tale thump of Sherlock charging up the stairs to the flat. His friend burst through the door, threw his coat and scarf onto the peg and slipped straight into the kitchen.

"I've got Indian take-away; we need to eat quickly though because I've just heard that Molly's got a special cadaver in- a body that's been in the Thames down by the Tilbury Docks. She wants a second opinion about how long- thinks it might be three weeks. It's a great opportunity to test out the new cellular decay protocol I've been working on." He said all this while reaching frantically for plates, cutlery and serving utensils.

For a moment, John's train of thought was distracted by the image of a smelly bloated decomposing cadaver and wondering how Sherlock could possibly be hungry when facing such a prospect.

"Sherlock, what's this?"

His flatmate turned around and cast a swift glance at the envelope in John's hand. He snatched it away, took one look at the address and tossed it unopened into the bin in the kitchen. "Nothing, just junk mail."

"Sherlock, that was not junk mail. It was in an embossed envelope, with a posh hand-written address to you- and just when were you going to tell me that you're an "honourable"? Not to mention what the hell kind of a middle name is "Vernet"?

"Still junk mail."

John huffed. "Nope, I'm not letting you out of the door unless you confess. No nice horrible cadaver unless you tell me the truth. That title means you're some kind of aristocrat."

"What difference does it make, John?" He said this with his mouth full of pilau rice and chicken jalfrezi, which he had just shovelled in at speed.

The blonde doctor giggled. "Well, maybe I was wrong. If you were from one of England's finest families, I would have thought that your mother might have taught you better table manners."

Sherlock swallowed, then sniffed. "It's definitely junk mail, because it's from Mycroft. He does this every year, just to irritate me. It's an invitation to a posh dinner dance that he puts on, for mummy's favourite charity. She used to do it, but after she died, he became patron."

"If Honourable is the title for the younger son, what does that make Mycroft?"

"A prat."

"Sherlock….come on. If I am going to tease someone with a title about his weight the next time Mycroft kidnaps me, I'd better know if I could end up in the Tower of London."

"His full title, which he inherited from Mummy by the way, nothing to do with the Holmes side of the family, is Lord Mycroft, The Viscount Sherringford. She was the Viscountess, and it is a hereditary title.

"Bloody hell," muttered John. "Now I am going to be dragged off to the dungeons next time I insult him."

"Don't be absurd, John. He doesn't use the title professionally; he finds that politicians are a bit wary of aristocrats these days, especially if they are European, where most of their nobility ended up in front of a guillotine or a firing squad. And anyway, the House of Lords was reformed in the UK so that very few British heredity peers are involved in politics. It's meaningless."

"So, what's your middle name mean?"

"That's my mother's, too. Her mother, Sophia Vernet, was French, and her family was rather artistic. A great grand uncle was Emile Jean Horace Vernet, a prolific and highly successful painter of the mid nineteenth century. That means more to me than some silly title."

"Sherlock, it isn't silly; it's your family!"

He made a face. "It's all pointless, John. I'm not 'honourable' because of anything I did; it's just an accident of birth. Your titles, 'doctor' and 'captain' are more meaningful because you actually earned them. You're entitled to be proud of them, for good reason. Now are you coming to join me? I could use a doctor's professional opinion about that drowned body." He handed John a plate of curry and rice, with a fork. As an afterthought, he added a napkin. John's comment about his table manners had stung a bit.