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 sixth 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.

What if John were already an Earl when he met Sherlock Holmes?

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John limped up the street, leaning hard on his cane and trying not to think about what he'd just seen.

Corpses weren't exactly new to him, of course. He was a doctor, after all, and had spent most of his career in the army where he dealt with bodies in much worse condition than the lady dressed in pink had been. He thought that must have been the problem, really. She had looked so … untouched. Elegantly dressed, clean, no obvious wounds or blood. Just … dead.

That was probably the problem, he thought to himself. It had been a while since he'd experienced a death caused by something other than gross bodily trauma. Poison was vicious, but most of its damage was internal. The pink lady might almost have been sleeping.

He hadn't expected to be faced with death tonight. He had thought he was merely checking out a flat.

Not that that wasn't somewhat ridiculous of him. It wasn't that he didn't have somewhere else to go. He just wasn't quite ready to admit he was home yet. More specifically, home and broken.

Not to forget the intriguing flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. John had been sceptical last night on finding the man's website, but having seen him in action? Well, maybe you really could tell an airline pilot from his left thumb, because the information about the dead woman he had seemingly pulled from thin air was astounding. That on top of the deductions about John in the taxi … well, he was intrigued.

Or, he had been, he thought, right up until the git abandoned him in the middle of a crime scene and left him to walk home. He didn't think the intent had been malicious, though. Sherlock obviously was used to working alone. You could tell that by the way he treated the officers at the crime scene—and how they treated him. No, John thought that Sherlock had sped away on the wind of inspiration and simply hadn't remembered he'd brought his potential flatmate along on what was turning out to the be oddest flatmate interview John had ever experienced. Clearly playing the violin and not talking for days were not Sherlock's worst faults.

He shook his head as he trudged along. How had he come to this? Shot and invalided home and then abandoned on the side of the road like an unwanted dog. Life certainly did play its tricks.

Which was when the phones began to ring.

#

"Have a seat, John," said the elegant man leaning on an umbrella, as if holding up every stereotype of an English gentleman.

"I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but you could have just phoned me. On my phone," John told him, not fazed at all by the act. His grandfather had been a master at it. He wondered if this man had known him, or maybe his father. Maybe he worked for the estate? Though practically abducting John off the street wasn't exactly the best way to introduce himself, if that were true.

Still, he expected this had something to do with his family or the responsibility he was shirking, so he was surprised when the man said, "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," John said automatically, even as he hid his surprise. This was to do with Sherlock? But then, why should that surprise him?

"You don't seem very afraid."

John thought the man sounded almost disappointed as he said, "You don't seem very frightening."

A smile at that. "Ah, yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

As they bantered back and forth, part of John relaxed, just a little. If all of this was about Sherlock, then it really had nothing to do with him—flatmate or not. Nothing to do with his own family or duties undischarged.

The texts he started receiving from Sherlock just added a surreal element to the bizarre scene—verbally holding off the Mystery Stereotype Man while being quizzed about the very person sending messages to his phone.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked finally.

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't," John told him, voice level. "And anyway, why would you care?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

John almost laughed. No, no. That didn't sound stalkerish at all. "That's nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned," the man continued, inspecting the tip of his umbrella. "We have what you might call a difficult relationship."

"I wonder why," John said, "I mean, other than you kidnapping his flatmate off the street. Do you make a habit of that?"

The other man tilted his head, eyes sharp. "You're very loyal, very quickly, Dr Watson … or should I say Lord Undershaw?"

Damn it, thought John. How did he know that? He had worked so hard to keep his army-doctor persona separate from his inherited title. He kept his face still, though as he just watched the man, so certain he had hit a nerve. After a pause, almost as if surprised at John's lack of reaction, the man asked, honest curiosity on his face, "Why keep it a secret?"

"If we're going to be confiding secrets, perhaps you should start by telling me your name," said John pointedly. "But, no, don't bother. If you had expected cooperation, you would have arranged a more … amenable … introduction."

The taller man just blinked almost lazily down at him. "Yet it can be so informative, watching people react to an unfamiliar environment."

John lifted his eyebrows in the tiniest semblance of a nod. "Maybe, but it also sets the scene for the kind of relationship you expect to have. Tea at the Ritz would have been extreme, perhaps, but this isn't a warzone. If you'd wanted my help, you could have arranged this meeting any number of civilized ways that could have kept your anonymity. So, are we done?"

"You tell me."

For a brief moment, John wanted to ask how the man had known about the title. He had joined the army under his mother's name and had managed to keep his family a secret from his army mates. When his father had died several years ago, he had even managed to keep his day job out of the news—so far as anyone knew, Dr John Watson was an entirely different person than Sir John Brandon, Lord Undershaw. He wasn't even sure his sister knew the whole truth. So how had this unknown man found out?

Though he supposed the trick with the CCTV cameras did give a hint.

So, no, this was not a conversation he was willing to continue. If the man with the umbrella were truly concerned about his association with Sherlock, well, he'd have to say so straight out.

Giving a brief nod, John turned and started to walk back to the car.

He had only managed three steps when the man spoke. "How do you expect Sherlock will react when he learns of your title, Lord Undershaw?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business," John gritted out through his teeth.

"Perhaps, but I don't believe he'll see it that way. Judging by your left hand, you don't, either."

"My what?"

"Show me," the man said as he stepped closer, just enough to examine John's hand. "Remarkable."

John snatched it back. "What is?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

Now that did surprise John. "Who the hell are you? How do you know that?"

"Fire her," he was told. "She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

There was another pause, then the man leaned forward as confiding in him. "You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. If anything, you miss it. No, your personal spectre is the heritage you choose to ignore … but you can only ignore it for so long. And when it comes time to face it, you should ask yourself if Sherlock Holmes is going to forgive the deception." He gave another smirk of a smile and then turned to walk away, twirling his umbrella. "Dr. Watson or Lord Undershaw? It's time to choose a side."

#

John felt numb in the car on the way back. What the hell had just happened?

Either Sherlock was being stalked by a control-freak with an extraordinarily high clearance level or … he didn't even know what the "or" could be.

That someone with a certain amount of power would be interested in Sherlock, he could well believe. In the short amount of time he'd spent with the man, his intelligence had been staggeringly obvious. Sherlock was gifted, and it was no surprise that the government would be interested in tracking him—hopefully out of a desire to be protective, not because Sherlock was a criminal of some kind, he thought.

Because the fact that Stereotype Man had known that John was in fact the Earl of Undershaw as well as ex-army doctor John Watson was staggering in its own right. It's not like one was a secret identity, not exactly, but the two identities had nothing in common. It would not be easy to draw a connection, yet this man had managed it in twenty-four hours, assuming he started when John met Sherlock at Barts yesterday. He'd even gotten his therapist's notes, for heaven's sake.

John almost didn't want to know if all that information had been gathered just since meeting Sherlock at Baker Street at 7:00 tonight.

No, the fact that this … person … had made those connections so quickly and was obviously interested in Sherlock's movements was … worrying.

Really, he thought these were more complications than he really needed in his life right now. If he truly wanted to stay in London without alerting the family, it wasn't like he didn't have funds to pay for a good hotel, much less the dreary bedsit the army provided. It wasn't money that was the issue.

No, the issue was that John wasn't yet ready to face his family. They would be upset enough to hear that he had spent the last 15 years in the army without their knowing, but that he had been shot? Nearly killed?

He wasn't ready to face that. John wasn't a coward, but there was something about the endless explanations that terrified him. He might have been raised with a knowledge of obligations and an awareness that certain aspects of his life could be of public interest (if only because of the glamour of the title), but there was a difference between a public appearance or a few photos and endless family debates about all the things he had kept quiet these fifteen years—up to and including the bullet.

That was the whole point behind keeping to himself right now. He needed time to get his bearings, time to recover … physically, yes, but mentally as well. He had been keeping in touch via email and the occasional Skype call just like he had for years. He hadn't let his responsibilities suffer. He was just … keeping his distance.

Except the problem with keeping his distance was that it was lonelier than he was used to. Along with the PTSD-like after-effects of being shot, he was just so damned tired of being alone. The idea of a decent flat and an amenable flatmate had appealed not only financially but for the sake of the company. He would be able to get used to something like a normal life without having to alert the relatives that he was in London. So far as they knew, he more or less permanently travelled.

He wondered what it said about him that he, the Earl, was essentially hiding from his various aunts and cousins. Wasn't he supposed to be the head of the family?

It was temporary, he reminded himself. He had promised himself that he'd leave the army once the title came to him and had already known this last tour was going to be his last … he just hadn't expected to be leaving wounded.

It would look bad, for the Earl to be a limping, haunted man. People would ask questions. His past would be dug up and people would be suspicious about his motives, why he had kept it quiet. They would never accept the obvious answer that knowledge of his title would have affected his doing his job.

He was better off, he told himself for the hundredth time, healing first, getting back on his feet, before heading home. And, anyway, he had spent so little time at Undershaw, much less the London house, it's not like they felt much like home.

Oddly enough, the little, crowded flat on Baker Street had felt more like home than anyplace he'd been to in years.

Still—Stereotype Man added a complication he didn't need. It would probably be wisest to let the car drop him at the bedsit and leave it at that.

Except … Sherlock's text had said it could be dangerous.

Damn it.

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