Detective Inspector Lestrade looked around the crowded room and wondered why he was there.

When the Chief Superintendent had called him to his office to tell him about the new anti-crime initiative, he had been surprised—and sceptical, to tell the truth. He spent his days out on the streets, not in conference rooms. It was his job as a DI in the Serious Crimes Division, after all. He knew what kind of things people would do to each other and no new initiative, whatever it might be, was going to change that any time soon. The best they could hope for was a faster turnover rate in cases solved—nothing was ever going to prevent people being horrible to one another.

He supposed it was flattering, though, that he was being included. A little extra publicity—especially good publicity—certainly never hurt the Yard. It would be good for people to see that New Scotland Yard was devoted to finding new ways of preventing and solving crimes, and if some high muckety-muck wanted to back it with his own money? Even better. He could sit through a boring meeting or two for the good of the team.

He sipped at his tea as he scanned the room, looking for familiar faces, and caught a glimpse of a familiar profile. Was that…?

"Hi, Greg," came a friendly voice at his shoulder.

"John," he said, surprised. "I didn't expect you. Was that Sherlock I just saw?"

"Yeah," John said with a grin. "I told him he couldn't constantly complain about the ineptitude of the police force if he wasn't willing to do something to make them better. Basically, he's here under duress, but … he's here."

"He doesn't exactly seem the meeting and committee type," said Greg, eyeing Sherlock's aristocratic demeanour as he stood in the corner and scowled.

"God, no, can you imagine? He'll probably never come to another one of these, but at least this way he's got somewhere to direct some of his … suggestions."

"He's never had trouble directing them before," Greg said with a laugh, glancing at John. "You're looking sharp today. I don't think I've ever seen you in a suit before."

John shrugged. "It seemed more appropriate than my uniform. I'd rather be wearing jeans, but there'll probably be photos later and I didn't want to embarrass myself."

Greg smiled, wondering if John was expecting some kind of group photo, like for a class from school, but he didn't say anything. John was a good bloke and he didn't want to discourage him. "So, Sherlock dragged you along, then?"

"It was more a mutual thing," said John, glancing up at him with a sudden keenness to his gaze. "What do you know about this program, anyway?"

"That some lord or other has decided to get involved in crime-fighting for God knows what reason," said Greg, stifling a sigh. "He's launching this program to, I don't know, fund investigations or something. Throwing some of his own personal fortune at the more baffling puzzles, the weird ones that take that extra man-power and time to solve. I suppose it's not surprising that Sherlock's involved, come to think of it. It's just the sort of thing he'd love…"

His voice trailed off. It really was right up Sherlock's alley, wasn't it? Digging into the more complicated mysteries were exactly his cup of tea, and … how had he never considered? … Sherlock obviously came from money. Look at the suits he wore, that coat of his. His accent, too, spoke loudly (often piercingly) of higher echelon schooling and class. He wondered if the earl behind all of this was related to Sherlock. When was Sherlock's birthday, anyway?

Donovan wandered over then, giving a curt nod to John. "When is this going to start," she griped, "I've got mountains of paperwork on my desk."

"Being here is an honour and a privilege, Donovan," Greg told her firmly. "And if I have to put up with it, so do you."

"Some privilege," she said with a sniff, "Working even more with the Freak. I assume that's why you're here, Watson?"

Before John could answer, though, the Chief Superintendent had stepped up to the podium and was calling for attention. Greg was surprised when John started edging his way through the crowd, but supposed he wanted a better view. It was easy to forget sometimes that he wasn't a tall man.

"Thank you all for coming," Greg's boss was saying, "And welcome to the launch of the Undershaw Initiative. As you all know too well, despite our best efforts, we are sometimes confronted with crimes that are complex and unwieldy. Crimes that take more resources than we can reasonably commit to their solution. It is those crimes that this Initiative is here to address. But you hear from me every day. This, you should hear from the man himself."

Greg clapped politely as the people near the front of the room shifted, and almost held his breath as he saw Sherlock's familiar head nearing the podium. No, that wasn't possible. He had an older brother, didn't he? He couldn't be the Earl … could he? But no, the superintendent was talking about the earl's dedication to the public good as seen through his army service, and how his interest had only been piqued since he'd returned home from the war.

Huh. He wondered if the Earl's path had ever crossed John's … and then all but fell over as the Chief Superintendent stepped aside and John Watson himself stepped up to the microphone.

"Hello," he said with his polite smile, appearing to enjoy the stunned silence. "I already know some of you, but I don't think we've been properly introduced. My name is John Hamish Watson Brandon, and yes, I'm the Earl of Undershaw."

Greg gaped at the man, totally blindsided. John? John Watson was an Earl? He glanced at Donovan and was only a little relieved to see that she looked even more stunned than he felt. He could see Sherlock at the front of the room, hands folded behind him as he smirked at the shocked faces—mentally berating all of them for not being more observant, no doubt.

After allowing a moment for the news to sink in, John continued, "Like I said, I know some of you already, because as Chief Superintendent Filch said, I've taken an interest in crime-solving—not least because I share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. It was a bit of serendipity, I think. I've spent the last fifteen years serving in Her Majesty's army in the RAMC as a surgeon, and have seen a lot of suffering—not all of it caused by armies or terrorists, either. I don't think I ever quite realized how many of the same crimes, the same atrocities were happening here at home—not until I began helping Sherlock and New Scotland Yard with some of their cases."

"I've seen quite clearly that the men and women who solve crimes are smart and dedicated to the greater good," Greg heard a small snort from Sherlock's direction. "Like all of us, though, they get overwhelmed. There are too many cases, too many crimes. Some may be fairly straight-forward, but the more complicated ones, the connected ones … well, they often take more resources, more time than the case-load permits, which brings us to the Undershaw Initiative."

Greg was listening intently, now. Knowing the lord behind all of this was John Watson—a man he'd grown to respect—made a difference. This wasn't just some titled duffer trying to find ways to spend his time and money, like a society matron doing Good Works. This was a man who had quite literally been down in the trenches, risking his life for the greater good. He couldn't disagree with John's assessment, either. The complicated ones did take time away from the easy ones, and Greg had often been frustrated when a case was shut down when he could almost feel the solution was right there, in reach, but their resources were needed elsewhere.

It had been one of the reasons he'd welcomed Sherlock onto his crime scenes in the first place—the man's love of puzzles and his attention to detail had helped put some of those complicated ones to rest quickly and efficiently. He was only one man, though, so a new initiative that would throw some money and resources at the hard-to-solve cases? It would be a relief, frankly, because Greg was in this line of work in the first place to bring closure and solutions to those beset with sudden, violent, life-tearing crime.

The fact that it was John Watson behind all of it … somehow, that just made it feel like it would work rather than fade out like other do-gooding programs had in the past. John Watson (John Brandon?) was a man who stuck to his commitments.

John had finished speaking now, and Greg joined in the applause with more enthusiasm this time and then turned to face Donovan. "What just happened?" she asked.

"John Watson just gave us advanced crime solving on a silver platter," he said numbly.

"That's the Earl of Undershaw to you," came Sherlock's familiar baritone, faintly teasing. "Do close your mouth, Donovan. You look like a landed fish."

"You knew about this, Freak?" Donovan demanded.

"About John's estimable initiative for defeating crime? Of course. Though before you ask, no, I did not put him up to it. It was entirely his idea."

"No, I mean, the Earl thing. You knew?"

He tipped his head, cocking one eyebrow. "Not at first, no. He was flying under the radar there at the beginning."

"Under the radar?" Greg repeated, "How can an Earl fly under the radar?"

"Using your mother's maiden name helps," John said as he stepped toward the group. "I needed time to … decompress … from the army before taking up my duties. I didn't tell anyone I was back in London. Skype is very useful, you know?" He glanced back at the crowd by the podium. "How'd I do, anyway? It's been a long time since I spoke in public."

"You were quite adequate, John," Sherlock said just as Donovan blurted out, "You're an Earl? For real?"

John sighed. "If I wasn't, do you think I'd announce it to a room of law-enforcement officials? But yes, Sally, the title goes all the way back to the first Earl—also a John—who sailed across with Richard Lionheart. My father died while I was still in Afghanistan, but I was determined to finish out my tour, so I dealt with my responsibilities remotely. When I came back … well, I just didn't tell anyone I was home early, not until I found my feet."

"Anyway … it went well, John. Or, er, how should I address you now?"

"John is fine, Greg. Titles have their place, but I don't like being my-lorded any more than I need to hear myself addressed as 'doctor' all the time. But, good. I was nervous."

"I thought you didn't have any family, though? Other than your sister?"

John shrugged. "Oh, there's family, believe me. They just ... well, they didn't know I was in the army, and I was walking with a cane and all … I didn't quite know how to tell them, so … like Sherlock said. Under the radar."

"They know now though, right?" asked Greg, picturing legions of cousins finding out John's past when they opened their morning paper tomorrow to see his picture as he launched the Undershaw Initiative. He could only imagine the firestorm that would follow that revelation.

To his relief, though, John nodded. "I bumped into my cousin David a couple weeks ago, and I've been going to the house often enough that, yeah, I came clean. They were all horrified to learn I'd been in the army for almost two decades without any of them noticing. Sherlock was appalled at their lack of observation. The annual Christmas party is going to be … interesting." He grinned up at his flatmate.

"Wait," said Sally. "You have a house? In London? And … you moved in with him?"

"By 'him' you mean Sherlock? Why, yes, Sally. I did. I know it's a shock that I'd want to spend time with my best friend, but there it is." His lips tightened as he let his eyes skim past her, dismissing her.

"Right. So, what made you do this, John?" Greg asked him. "I mean, it almost sounds like you're making one of Sherlock's dreams come true, but that can't be it. I can't believe you'd want to draw attention to yourself like this just to make Sherlock happy."

Sherlock smirked again. "Very good, Lestrade. So why is he?"

Greg looked at John, whose face was suddenly stolid, as if braced for calamity. "I don't … something … Something happened didn't it? What was it?"

There was a pause as John's jaw clenched, as if he were trying to decide whether to say something. Finally, he just said, "Fifth pip," but it was enough to make Greg freeze for one long moment as Donovan started beside him.

"Christ, I told you to take up fishing, didn't I?" she said.

John turned a glare on her. "It wasn't Sherlock's fault, Donovan, and it all turned out right in the end. Just … it made me think that making sure our crime-solvers have more resources for actually stopping that sort of thing wouldn't be a bad idea, and so here we are. It seems to me that if we spent less time sniping at one another, maybe some of us would be open to new ideas and get things done a little more efficiently. You know, Donovan, you're a good officer, but you let your own prejudices get in the way. I know you and Sherlock don't get along, and he gives as good as he gets—because you do, Sherlock—but maybe he's got something he could teach you about observing things? And maybe he'd learn better how to deal with people professionally if you gave him some professional courtesy in the first place? I've spent years in the military, and believe me, I know about childish behaviour. But I also understand the value of being a team."

"Fifteen years in the army, and you're an Earl," Greg said. "That still doesn't make sense, John."

"What? The peerage isn't allowed to serve?" John asked with a small grin.

"Sure, but aren't they usually sitting safely behind desks? Not out where they can get shot … Christ, you're an Earl and you were shot. Do the papers know?"

John blinked. "God, I hope not. Talk about bringing the attention to the wrong detail! And it's not like it's the first time. My great-great-grandfather was killed in World War I, after all, and the Brandons have been serving the military since, well, centuries. I just opted to use a different name, is all. I figured I could get more done if I kept a low profile.

"Not low enough, if you got shot," Sherlock said, teasing. (Sherlock, teasing?)

"I was on a convoy that came under attack," John corrected him. "It's not like I was out on the front lines. And I was treating an injured soldier when the bullet hit—that was more important than ducking."

"I wouldn't say that, exactly…"

"Leave it, Sherlock. Just be grateful it sent me home early to bump into Mike, yeah? The important thing is that it's a dangerous world, no matter where you are—or where you work. I just want to give the good guys a better chance, is all."

Greg watched, amused, as the two bantered, and then saw John's eyes widen. He turned to look over his shoulder and almost laughed. It seemed like all the officers from the NSY were pressed up against the glass wall, goggling in John's direction. "I think the news has spread," he told John. "No more secret identity."

"It was inevitable, I suppose. My only regret is not getting to see Anderson's face when he heard the news." He clapped Greg on the shoulder and said, "Right, well there are people I should probably be talking to. We weren't really planning on an intermission at this stage, but Sherlock insisted that the news of my, er, secret identity would need time to sink in. But just a few minutes more, I think. We've got work to do."

Greg watched as he faded into the crowd, thinking about John's heritage, his military past, his work with Sherlock—and, Christ, John was the fifth pip? He hoped he'd hear that story someday, but in the meantime, he nodded at Donovan. "Exactly. Work to do, right?"

She was staring after John, watching as he slipped in next to the high muckety mucks near the podium as if he belonged there. Her eyes were wide as she obviously worked to reclassify the army doctor in her head. "Right, boss," was all she said, but Greg knew as well as she did—this was a whole, new ballgame.

#

THE END