NOTE:

I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here.

So, what if John's family background was different than we thought? What if it were pretty much like we said in "Heritage Trust" … except for ONE thing …? He says in that story, "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." So ... what if, this time, his father were a good man? (And no, you don't need to have read that story for this one to make sense. They're just kind of mirror images of each other.)

University

"No, really, Father. I'll be fine."

Jonathan held the cheque out and said, "I insist. It's a Father's prerogative to give money to one's child at school. Besides, your sister spends less than this on clothes each month. You needn't worry about me being out of pocket."

John sighed and took it with a rueful smile. "Well, I won't say it's not helpful, but I meant it when I told you I wanted to support myself."

"Yes, John, I know, and I don't say it's not admirable, but…" He looked around the dingy flat and John could see him trying not to wince.

"It's fine, Dad." John told him. "It may not be to your standards, but it's clean, it's safe, it's close to class, and it's affordable. At this stage of the game, that's all that matters. I'm lucky to have it."

"If you had just let me…"

"No, Dad. That would have defeated the whole purpose of me doing this on my own. I won't say I don't appreciate the extra money, but I'm not moving into a flat I can't afford just because it makes you happy."

Jonathan's forehead creased. "I would make up the difference for you…"

John just looked at his father and shook his head. He loved him, but he didn't think they would ever understand each other. His father had grown up with certain expectations as an Earl's son—even a younger son—and he could never understand John's desire to make his own way.

Or well, to want to try to, at least. He certainly couldn't complain about having been brought up in a nice home with all the amenities a boy could ask for. He'd never exactly been extravagant, so it wasn't like he had spent time asking for things he couldn't have—even if money was tight by his father's standards, by those of normal people, he was doing very well for himself.

The biggest problems John had had were with his classmates. He liked to think of himself as a likeable fellow, but there had always been that stigma of being the kid that came from the Big House on the hill. It wasn't his fault his clothes were always newer and more expensive than the rest of his friends, but his mother had wanted him to go to the local school rather than a private one like Harrow or Eton. She had thought it important for him to know "normal" kids.

In theory, in retrospect, he could agree, but it hadn't always been easy. His friends had all known his grandfather was an Earl, and it had affected the way they treated him. Not all the time, but … sometimes.

That was exactly the reason he was doing this, now. He didn't want special treatment—either to his advantage because of the family money, or to his detriment because of his presumed entitled "attitude."

No, he was putting himself through school and was doing it all under his mother's much more common name of Watson, rather than the more rarefied Brandon that his father and grandfather used.

He would earn his own way, damn it. He would make his mother proud in heaven (assuming there was such a place). He would show the world that he, John Hamish Watson Brandon had what it takes to succeed, with no reflection on who his parents were.

The hard part was convincing his father.

On his father's part, just like the school decision when John was a child, he understood the concept. He approved it, even, but he still couldn't quite manage to … let go. He appreciated that his son wanted to be independent, but when he saw where he was living … well, he was having a hard time.

Not that any of this was new, and so John was firm and patient, just like he had been when they'd argued about sports equipment or making sure he had new, pristine uniforms at school. John's feeling was that, as long as things worked and were in good condition, there was no reason to replace them. His father couldn't understand that.

The fights were nothing more than squabbles, though, and both of them ended up giggling about the irony that it was the parent arguing for spending more money while the teenager strove for economy. But then, John's father didn't go to his school, and had no idea how badly John just wanted to fit in.

John had been well aware he was brighter than many of his friends, and had had no objection to being put in the more advanced classes—as long as he still could play rugby or football and hang out with his friends. His father bemoaned the fact that John wasn't one of the school leaders. "You're so smart, so popular," he would say, "Why aren't you head of your class?"

Except, of course, that that was exactly what John had not wanted. It was bad enough being (presumably) the wealthiest kid in his school, and bright enough to attract the wrong kind of attention from his less enlightened mates … he wasn't going to willingly draw a target on his back by putting himself forward. Generations of Brandons might have been leaders, but it had just been easier to go with the flow.

Which brought him to his current situation. He wasn't the first rich, privileged child to yearn to strike out on his own, but he really worked at it. Thanks to his local school, he could adjust his accent away from the rarefied heights his family used. Since he was determined to make his own way, his wardrobe certainly wasn't attracting any attention, and his part-time job at a sandwich shop certainly didn't hurt his impression that he was a poor student like everyone else.

Nor did the name. He was getting his degree under his mother's maiden name, Watson, rather than his father's far more prestigious (and recognizable) Brandon. His father knew, of course, though he was less than happy about it. John had patiently explained that he wasn't ashamed of it or trying to disown the family, just … he didn't want the attention.

"You're coming for Christmas, of course?" his father asked, giving one last, confused glance around the dingy room.

"I wouldn't miss it," John said, "Besides, Grandfather would disown me. You know how much he loves Christmas."

"He certainly does, but he loves having the whole family in one place even more," Jonathan said with a smile. Then he looked solemn again. "He knows, of course, that you're living under your mother's name for school, but your cousins…"

John nodded. "It's not something he wants to broadcast, I understand."

His father paused. "I'm proud of you, you know. I may not always understand, but I am always proud."

"I know," John told him, feeling his eyes prickle. "I am, too."

#

Army

"Did you see that new captain? I swear, if his nose were any higher in the air, he'd be a giraffe." Jackson flung himself on his cot, still in his scrubs, not even bothering to pry off his boots.

"Toff-nosed bastard," Murray grumbled as he followed him into the tent. "Probably given everything he ever wanted, never had to work for anything in his life, not like us, right, Watson?"

John watched his friends warily. He hadn't known they'd been assigned a new officer. "Who are we talking about?"

"New officer—on the administrative end, of course. Heaven forbid he should get his lily white hands dirty. God, I hate the upper class. His vowels are so round, I'm surprised he can get them out of his mouth, the idiot." Jackson leaned forward enough to punch at his pillow. "Christ, I'm exhausted."

Now John's eyebrows were raised. He looked back at Murray. "Was he really that bad? What's his name?" he asked, all while praying he didn't know him.

He'd been lucky in the army. Between the uniform fatigues and the actual, bone-sapping fatigue—not to mention and his mother's name—the few army officers who might have known John Brandon, grandson to the Earl of Undershaw had failed to make the connection to Dr John Watson. He had yet to come across another soldier near his own age, though, and lived in dread of the day when his family history would come to the fore.

Because conversations like these had only reinforced his early determination to make his own way. Prejudice was a two-way street, and he dreaded the possibility that his friends and fellow soldiers would look at him differently if they learned of his blue-blooded background.

"Geoffries. Captain Alan Geoffries, and I swear he's one of the youngest captains I've ever seen. He must have bought his way in. There's no way someone that young could have worked his way up like the rest of us poor slobs."

John gave a nod and a chuckle, hoping it didn't come out sounding bitter. He did know Geoffries, and wished he didn't. "Nothing wrong with using the advantages you've got though, right? I mean, as long as he can do his job?"

"That's awfully democratic of you, Watson," Murray told him.

"Yes, well, what can I say? Mum told me it's important to judge people by who they are and what they do, not where they were born."

"And you always do what your Mum says?" Jackson asked, grunting as he tried to pry his boots off without unlacing them.

John gave a non-committal shrug. His friends must have noticed something, though, because Murray tossed a tee-shirt at him. "Missing your Mummy, Watson?"

He just fielded the shirt and lobbed it back. "Ever since the funeral," was all he said, but his friends froze. "Don't worry. It's been over ten years."

"Was she sick?" Murray asked.

"Cancer," John said, not wanting to talk about it. "But my point remains—if this Geoffries is competent, that's all I care about." (Well, that, and hoping he doesn't recognize me, though the last time their families had visited was at least ten years ago.)

"Judging by what we've just seen, I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you," Jackson told him as he stretched out on his bunk. "But by all means, let's be fair. He would probably be just as incompetent if he were a poor bloke like us."

"That's the spirit," John told him.

#

Years Later

John wearily heaved his duffel bag to his shoulder and waited his turn, more than ready to get off this blasted aeroplane already. He was anxious to start his leave, but more than that, it had been eight hours and if he didn't get away from certain of his comrades-in-arms soon, he was going to say something he'd regret.

Not that he was feeling particularly good about himself at the moment. By a fluke, he was on the same plane as Captain Geoffries, and too many of his mates had spent the flight joking about the man. Not by name, nothing overt that would get them in trouble, just … the same kind of giggles the trouble-makers in school always made from the back of the room. In his seat, Geoffries had gotten more and more tense as the flight went on, and John had done nothing to stop it.

The problem, so far as he concerned, had nothing to do with Geoffries' blue blood or his alleged privileged background. (Though, just looking at the man or hearing him talk, his personal history was pretty obvious.) No, the problem was with Geoffries himself. John had never liked him on the occasions they had met as a child, and he liked him even less now after serving with him the last few years. The man did go through life as if he expected special treatment, he did act as if he thought he were better than the average soldier.

John considered himself specially qualified on this particular subject and found that he had no patience for that attitude, any more than his mates did. It was just for a completely different reason. He hadn't taken advantage of any connections his own family might have used on his behalf. With the exception of some really nice Christmas and birthday gifts, he had earned his own way on his own salary instead of relying on family money. He had worked damned hard to earn his own rank and his own reputation without relying on anyone else, and he found he had little patience for a man who hadn't bothered to do the same.

Especially considering it was Geoffries. John didn't like him any more now than he had when they were children, and was only grateful they hadn't had to spend more time together, that the camp had been large enough to avoid him.

But, still … watching the tight way the man held his shoulders as he sat in his seat, waiting for the others to deplane made John feel guilty. Maybe Geoffries couldn't help it? Maybe he had no idea how his intonation and posture would be interpreted by ordinary soldiers. John still thought he was a prat, but he was still a prat willing to do his bit for Queen and Country.

So, as his mates bustled and joked their way to their feet behind him, John sighed and dropped his duffel into the just-vacated seat next to him and waved them on. "I'll wait for the crush," he told them with a smile (patience, patience, he chanted at himself). It wasn't their fault he was feeling edgy. There was something about being back in England, he supposed, that pulled at his ancestral strings and made him feel a certain nostalgic sympathy for the toff-nosed prat sitting two rows front.

He watched as the aeroplane emptied and, finally, Geoffries heaved himself to his feet, straightening his shoulders in relief, looking for all the world like a schoolboy who had avoided the bullies for the day. It didn't make John like him any more, but he nodded to himself. "All right there, Geoffries?" he asked, making the other man jump.

"Watson? I didn't know…"

"I didn't want to deal with the crush getting through the door, so I hung back," John told him. "It's my first time back in a while. You?"

Geoffries nodded stiffly. Their rank matched now, but he still seemed to consider John's company beneath him. Fine, then. Conscience appeased, John nodded back and wished him a good leave and then strode forward. And the man wondered why he didn't have any friends? Had nobody ever taught the man anything about dealing with people? You'd think he would have picked up something with all the cohabitation of the army, but no … apparently not.

He got stuck on a slow line in customs, and by the time he was through, he could see Geoffries up ahead of him. No doubt he had a limousine waiting for him and would be relieved to slip into his bespoke suits for however long his leave was.

Geoffries had paused now, as if he recognized someone and … yes … was reaching forward to shake the hand of … John's father. Crap. How had he found out this was John's flight? He could see the two of them talking, but his father's eyes were searching back through the crowd—searching for him.

It would be wrong to slink away in the other direction, John reminded himself, and lifting his chin, he stroke forward.

"John! You're looking well, son."

"Father," John said, trying not to notice Geoffries' jaw dropping. "I didn't expect to see you. I see you met Captain Geoffries?"

"Indeed," John's father beamed at the two of them. "I was just talking to your father the other day, Alan. I had no idea you and John knew each other."

"I … that is …"

John tried not to smirk at the other man's trouble connecting words. "We're in completely different departments, Father. It's not like we have a chance to socialize. Geoffries is in administration—keeps the army moving while my team keeps it on its feet."

Geoffries was staring now, finally appearing to make the connection. John had to give him credit. He did have manners, and he regained his composure fairly quickly. "You'd be surprised at how long it took me to recognize your son, Mr. Brandon. His going by Watson threw me off."

John grinned at him, actually impressed—when had the prat grown a sense of humour?—as his father said, "He changed his name when he left for school. I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted."

Now Geoffries was staring again. "Why would you do that, Watson?"

"I wanted to see if I could make it on my own, is all," John said, trying to think of a tactful way to explain himself without outright insulting the man in front of him who took the easier (?) path. "It's made some things harder, but some easier."

Jonathan smiled at them as he looked around the terminal building. "Do you have a ride, Alan?"

Geoffries nodded. "Thank you, sir. I do. Please don't let me keep you. Have a good visit, Watson."

"You too, Geoffries," John said, feeling uncomfortable again. "See you back there?"

"No, after my leave I'm being stationed somewhere else."

"Ah," John said, then reached out to shake his hand. "Good luck."

"You, too," Geoffries said, a gleam of respect and … regret? … in his eyes, and then he turned and said, "Nice seeing you again, Mr Brandon."

A few more pleasantries, and he was gone.

#

Years Later, But Far Too Soon

It was like swimming through dark sludge, but John slowly rose to the surface. He winced, recognizing the familiar beeps of machines, the smell of disinfectant in his nose. Had he fallen asleep on his shift again?

He wondered at the heavy weight on his left shoulder as he tried to remember. Why was it so hard to wake up? He didn't remember the hospital being so busy that he should be this exhausted. In fact, he didn't remember being at the hospital at all. The last thing he remembered…. He frowned, trying to fit the noise and chaos in his memory with his napping on duty. And why the bloody hell was his shoulder so sore?

"John?"

John forced his eyes open with a gasp, blinking blearily at the man sitting next to his bed.

"John? Don't try to get up, son," His father said, running his hand over John's.

"Father?" He looked around the ward and saw that it was, in fact, the familiar hospital he'd been working in. But why would his father be in Afghanistan? Just because he'd overslept?

"Yes, John. It's all right. You're going to be fine. Do you remember what happened?" He reached over for the cup of water next to John's bed and held the straw for him to sip.

And … suddenly he did. In full-color, surround-sound memory. "I got shot," he said, breathless as the scene replayed behind his eyes. Oh God, his father must have been terrified when he heard. "I'm sorry."

"What? For what?"

"Didn't mean to worry you," John said, appalled that his father had come all this way, picturing how much red tape there must have been to get permission.

"You've been worrying me for over thirty years now, John. That's nothing new," his father told him just as Murray and Doctor Phillips came bustling over.

"Dr Watson, you're awake. That's excellent. What do you remember?"

"A firefight where there shouldn't have been one," John said, trying to piece together the images in his head. "Jackson was calling me, and I was working on Singh … then … I don't know."

Murray caught his eye, all sympathy. "You were shot from behind while you worked—and no, Singh didn't make it, I'm sorry. There was nothing you could have done, though, even if you hadn't been wounded. The shot went straight through his heart, unlike yours. We managed to get you back here and …."

John nodded. "Prognosis?"

"Too early to tell," Phillips said. "You lost a lot of blood—the bullet came damned close to the artery—but while we got that stopped, you threw a fever when it got infected. You should regain most of your mobility, but it's too early to tell how much."

John just stared. Less than full mobility, in his dominant hand? There went his entire career, he thought. He licked his lips, mouth cottony dry again. "Right. Murray?"

"Yeah, Watson?"

"Thanks for getting me out."

Murray nodded briefly, then his eyes slid past John, to his father, and then he was gone. Another nurse came over and began to poke and prod and John just … drifted, numb through more than just the narcotics. He could see the professional sympathy in his fellow medical staff, and knew his father was watching everything, but somehow, right then, none of it mattered. As soon as the nurse had made the last note on his chart, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

#