Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Hamish Watson, of the Glasgow Watsons, had the sudden desire to punt that ridiculous dog out the window. Well, it wasn't sudden. He had been wanting to do that for years. The toy poodle was his father Harrison's pride and joy. The dog was vicious, lame, and blind besides.

It was also currently growling at him. Which was doing nothing for John's indecision. He was supposed to be in the ballroom, it was his birthday after all. But he wanted to go back upstairs and have Stamford, his valet, take off the stupid dinner jacket and replace it with John's favorite dress robe.

He had told his father he wanted a small, private affair with his friends back in Glasgow. But his father was the Master of the Society of Apothecaries in London, so it was a large, expensive party with only the top notch of London society attending.

John desperately wished his mother was still alive. She had a way of tempering the extravagances of her husband and the most outrageous behavior in her eldest, Harriet. If there was a poster child for wild nights and drunken rows, it was his older sister, Harriet. Being a woman, not being able to inherit, she was going to spend as much of the money as she could.

He hated it all. He was about to turn on his heel and go back to his room when he heard a discreet cough.

"Master John," a warm, friendly voice said.

John turned around slowly. His valet was standing there, hands tucked behind his back.

The barrel-chested young man shook his head. "You have gone and bothered with your tie again."

John's hand went to the offending article, but Stamford batted it away. He fixed the tie to perfection and John sighed.

"I don't want to go in there, Stamford," he muttered.

"And yet, you will," Stamford said with a smile.

"Why's that?"

"You father sent me for you."

"Shite!" John ran his hand over his mouth, covering another curse.

"I don't want to do this," he said, resigned.

"Do what, Master John?"

"This whole thing. I just want to join the army after becoming a doctor. Do good, instead of pandering to idiots all the time."

It was an old argument, one Stamford had heard a hundred times a day.

"And yet…" Stamford replied.

"Getting Father to agree wouldn't just be like pulling teeth, it would take a bloody miracle."

"And there you have your answer," Stamford said. He clasped John's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then he used the squeeze to turn John around and push him at the double doors.

John sighed and opened them. He was met with the rush of sights and sounds. Men in dinner jackets, and women in their finest with jewels glittering on their necks, hair, hands, and ears. The dim light from the lamps catching their glitter and drawing John's eyes to them. Everyone was here only to see and be seen. It wasn't about John at all. A lot of his friends couldn't even make it.

And suddenly he felt more alone than he had standing out in the hall. The people milling about were all rich, powerful, and beautiful. All things John never felt he was. His father held all the power and all the money. While Harriet got pin money, he was told that his allowance was going toward his education. But it was just another way Mr Watson controlled his children.

"There you are!" a voice cracked out. John flinched. He felt fingers tighten around his forearm and he fought not to cry out in pain. "Johnny! Man of the hour," Harrison Watson said as someone passed by them. Once their attention was elsewhere, Mr Watson shook his son.

"I told you to be here by seven. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

John shook his head. He had no idea how long he was out there, dithering.

"It is nearly eight!" The fingers on John's arms tightened and John cried out in pain.

"Father! You're hurting me."

"I'll do whatever it takes to make you listen," Mr Watson growled.

"I'm sorry!"

"You better be." He gave John a good shake that rattled the young man's teeth. "We have a lot of people for you to meet and we don't have all god damn night."

"Yes, Father," John said bowing his head.

"These are all influential people. And I won't have you mucking things up for me. We'll have no more of this business of you liking men, so tonight you'll pick a bride out of five I've chosen and you will marry her. Do I make myself clear?"

John nodded meekly, feeling sick. He didn't want to marry anyone. Especially not any of the women his father had chosen.

"The first one you'll meet is Janine Hawkins. She's the ward of Lord Milverton. Her dowry is £30,000."

John's eyebrows shot up. That was quite a lot. He could see why his father had sought her out specifically. He nodded submissively.

Lord Milverton was a man of average height with a slim build and a neat goatee. His sharp eyes peered out from thin spectacles and his light brown hair was slicked back and beginning to thin. Immediately John wished he was anywhere but near this man. John thought of his Shakespeare: Milverton had "a lean and hungry look." The young woman whose waist he had a possessive hand on was pretty enough, John supposed. Her dark hair curled fetchingly about her heart-shaped face. Her skin was dusky and smooth.

"Lord Milverton, this is my son, John. John, this is Lord Milverton and his ward, Janine Hawkins," Mr Watson said.

"She's a half-breed daughter of a whore, but she'll make you a pretty wife, Mr Watson," Lord Milverton sneered.

John looked over at Janine, but her head was down and she wouldn't meet his eye.

"Her father was a business colleague of mine in Belfast. And after his wife ran out on him, he became a drunk. But before he died, he left his finances to me and I made his daughter very wealthy indeed."

"Sounds like she owes you a great deal," John said.

"Yes."

"And how do you like London so far, Miss Hawkins?" John asked.

"Very well, it's much better than Ireland," she said, her eyes still cast down.

"Of course it is," Lord Milverton agreed. "London is vastly superior to Ireland."

"Yes, my Lord," she said meekly.

John stood there feeling uncomfortable for young woman. Her situation didn't seem too far from his own. But there was nothing he could do for her, because he was as powerless as she was.

Mr Watson nodded to the Lord and they made their excuses, leaving that poor girl alone with that monster.

The next young woman they met was an American. She was of mixed blood, like Janine, only it was clear what her parentage was, even without them standing behind her like sentinels. She had her father's dark, wiry hair, large lips, and broad nose, but due to her mother's milky skin, Miss Donovan's skin was more like chocolate than the coffee color of her father.

"Anton!" Mr Watson greeted.

"Harrison," the warm, thickly accented voice said. "It is good to see you again, old friend."

"And you. Your wife and daughter are looking lovely this evening."

"Ah yes," Mr Donovan said. "This is my wife, Margo, and my daughter, Sarina."

The daughter shook John's hand and said, "It's Sally. Nice to meet you."

"Miss Donovan, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"This is my son, John," Mr Watson said finishing the introductions.

"So, what is you do, Mr Donovan?" John asked once he managed to reclaim his hand back from the daughter.

"I'm what is called in the States, a rail baron."

"A 'rail baron'? So, you own a railroad line then?"

"I own three," Mr Donovan said with a warm chuckle.

John's eyebrows shot up.

"Such filthy things," Mrs Donovan said with a sniff.

"I love them!" Sally said.

"I took a train from Glasgow to London, I quite enjoyed the experience. Are you hoping to get in on a speculation here in London, Mr Donovan?" John asked, and the daughter looked put out that John was more interested in her father than he was in her.

"Yes, yes," Mr Donovan said, and went on to explain his plans in England. While John was listening he winked at Sally and she blushed.

Soon they made their excuses and left.

"She certainly is an active sort," John said hesitantly.

"Yes. If Mr Donovan's speculation pans out, she'll be a very wealthy woman as well," Mr Watson said.

John nodded.

"How many more do we have to see tonight?" John asked, taking a glass of champagne from a passing servant.

"Three more."

John coughed and spat up some of the champagne he had been drinking. "So many."

"Yes. One is the niece of a widowed silk maker, Mistress Shan. Soo Lin Yao is very beautiful, I'm told. The other two are wealthy, independent women of eighteen and twenty respectively. Mary Morstan, the younger of the two, is an orphan who just came into her inheritance, and Sarah Sawyer's father recently passed, leaving her with quite the estate."

"Lead on," John said with resignation. "Lead on."

Chapter Text

The first one Mr Watson took John to see was Sarah Sawyer. She was a pretty, petite woman with light brown hair and blue eyes.

"Miss Sawyer, may I present my son, John?"

"How do you do, Mr Watson, Mr John?" Her eyes never left their faces as she curtsied. She did not look away, but she wasn't brash and upfront the way Sally had been.

John was surprised. He wasn't expecting someone so quietly put together. "Miss Sawyer," he greeted. "I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a doctor, I believe."

"Yes. Thank you. His loss came as great shock to me. My mother had been in failing health for some time when she passed only a year ago, but my father seemed to be in good spirits before going away to meet with some Oxford friends. He passed quietly in his sleep. Or so I'm told."

"You have my deepest sympathies, Miss Sawyer. To lose both your parents so close to each other must be horrible to bear."

"I'm taking their loss hard, but I will soldier on. It's what they would have wanted of me," she said.

"You do them credit I'm sure," John returned.

"You are too kind."

"That is an awful lot of money he left you, Miss Sawyer," Mr Watson said, tired of the condolences.

"Indeed. But my father's dear friend, Mr Joseph Bell, has lent me the service of his accountant and I'm practically making money in my sleep. I've even put money into Mr Donovan's speculation. I think it will do well."

Mr Watson blinked. "You have a good head on your shoulders, Miss Sawyer. Any man who chooses you will never have worry where his money is going."

Her laughter was clear and bright as a bell. "I would certainly hope so." She turned to John. "And are you a doctor as well?"

"Almost. I have one year left of study," he said with a short bow.

"All his teachers are pleased with him," Mr Watson said, clapping him roughly on the back.

"Smart and good looking, is there anything else you can do, Mr John?" she asked with a grin.

"I play rugby and I can warble a tune or two," John said, returning her grin with a small smile of his own.

"'Warble a tune,' indeed," Mr Watson scoffed. "He's a fantastic singer. Got it from his mother. Now, me on the other hand, I send the dogs running for the hills."

This brought out another laugh from Sarah and it was soon after they made their excuses.

"So what did you think of that one, Johnny?" Mr Watson said, as he scanned the room for his next mark.

"Not likely to be induced to matrimony any time soon," John said with a scowl. It was highly inappropriate that his father would even suggest her. Yes, she was a rich orphan, but one still deeply in mourning for both her parents. Give her a year, maybe less. But not much less, then she might be persuaded. Right now, however, she was content to enjoy her fortune and freedom.

"Pity. Well, that's one off our list. I guess my source was wrong. I was sure she was looking for a match. Maybe she found another way to get out from under her vexing relations."

Lucky, girl, John thought viciously.

The second to the last was Madame Shan and her niece, Soo Lin Yao. Mr Watson spotted them in the crowd and dragged an unwilling John with him.

"Madame Shan, it is a pleasure to see you," Mr Watson said, bowing low. He made introductions and everyone said their 'how-do-you-do's'. The women were both in traditional Chinese dress, Madame Shan in blood red, Soo Lin in pale green.

"You ladies look lovely this evening," John said.

Madame Shan gripped Soo Lin's arm. Her long, red nails dug into the poor girl's flesh. Soo Lin didn't even wince.

"So kind. She is very pretty, wouldn't you agree, Mr John?" Madame Shan said in a lilting Chinese accent.

"Yes," John agreed. He fought to not look away. To the floor, the side, anywhere but the scene in front of him. But it would be worse for the young woman if he did. And likely himself as well.

"Such a pretty girl. Make such a pretty bride, yes?" she pressed.

"If you'll excuse me," John muttered before turning on his heel. He made it to a potted plant before he vomited.

When his father found him, he had slumped to the floor as people milled around him, not even noticing that the guest of honor had just finished puking in the hydrangeas.

"What the hell was that about?" Mr Watson hissed.

"God, how old is she?" John asked. "Fifteen, sixteen? Can she even speak English?"

His father glared at him. "What difference does her age make? Or if she can talk? It's not as though you are going to be doing much talking with her," he spat.

"I will not marry someone like that. On that you can depend," John said firmly, even though he knew that it would cost him later. When they were alone.

Mr Watson hauled him to his feet. "You have one more girl to meet and then you will pick one. Do I make myself clear? I don't care why you don't want to marry one or more of them as long as you pick one of them. Or I will pick for you."

John nodded.

They went in search of the final prospect. Miss Mary Morstan. They finally found her tucked away in some corner, clutching her drink.

"Miss Morstan," John said brightly. She was beautiful. Her soft blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face. Her bright blue eyes sparkled, a dusting of pink on her cheeks as she murmured her hellos.

She didn't say much, but he got the gist that her father had abandoned her years ago to join the army and was never seen or heard from again. What he did do, however, was leave behind a large fortune for her to inherit once she reached eighteen. John had no doubt that she was about to be victim to fortune hunters like his father. He felt sorry for her. But he didn't want to marry her. He didn't want to marry any of them.

His father pulled him aside when the strain of stilted conversation grew to be too much for Mr Watson's patience.

"Which one, John?" he growled impatiently.

"Um…uh…" John hedged.

"Which. One."

"The third one. Miss Sawyer," John heard himself say. That way, I can keep putting off the wedding, he thought.

"Good. You'll announce it after the toast."

John nodded.

He was allowed to mingle and eat after that. Far too soon it was time for his father to toast John and his accomplishments.

His father droned on and on about this and that, but mostly about himself. Finally he let John take the stand.

"Thank you all for coming here to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Um…." He looked out over all the people his father had invited. He saw not a single face among them that was there for him. He glanced at his father and despite the sick feeling of dread, he said. "I hope you thoroughly enjoyed yourselves. Again, thank you and good night."

He strolled out of the ballroom as through hell was fast on his heels. Because he knew it was. He made it as far the bottom of the stairs when his father caught up with him.

"What the hell was that?" the older man bellowed.

"I couldn't. I couldn't do it. I tried. I just. Can't," John wailed.

"You'll go back in there and announce you are marrying Sarah Sawyer. Do you hear me?"

John shook his head. Mr Watson grabbed the lapels of John's jacket and drew him up so they were inches from each other.

"You will do as you're told!" Mr Watson said and, pushed John onto the stairs. John raised his arms to catch himself and in flailing, struck his father. Mr Watson roared and began hitting his son, over and over.

Finally the older man was out of breath and he stood up. "Clean up. I don't want to see you again until you've changed your mind."

He strolled off, fixing his clothes and straightening his hair.

John limped up to his rooms, where a sympathetic Stamford was waiting for him.

"It's bad this time, Master John," Stamford said, as he tended to John's bruises.

"I can't stay here anymore, Stamford. What do I do?" he wailed into his pillow.

"Leave, run away. Anything is better than this," Stamford pleaded.

"Where would I go?"

"The army," Stamford suggested. "It's what you wanted, anyway."

"But how?"

Stamford smiled. "I have a plan."

Chapter Text

John and Stamford worked out that they had a few days before Mr Watson's patience wore out and he demanded to see his son.

The first thing they did was have John refuse to see anyone or take any food. After a couple days, people gave up trying to come in. They'd leave food in front of his door and walk away. John would leave it untouched and Stamford would sneak food into him at night. On the third night, John snuck out of his window wearing borrowed clothes from one of the other servants.

Hat firmly placed low on his brow to cover his face and a small satchel of food and whatever money Stamford had managed to scrape up, he crept out of the grounds and out to the street. He looked around briefly before he took off in search of the army enlistment post.

He was so concerned about avoiding his father's detection that he didn't keep an eye on his surroundings. It came as quite the shock when he ran into a man built like an ox. He stumbled back and the apology died on his lips. He looked up and kept looking up. The man was tall and scars riddled the brute's face and hands. Peeking from his collar was a tiger that looked as through it was trying to claw its way out. He had piercing brown eyes and blond hair, cut raggedly and sticking up in places.

John look a hasty step back.

"Well, lookie here," the behemoth crowed. "Oi, boss, come see what I've got."

John turned to run but the beast grabbed his arm and held in him in place. John looked behind the man gripping him tightly and saw a figure dressed all in black. His dark hair was slicked back and the single eye John could see in his profile was a dark brown, almost black. He was leaning up against a nearby building, smoking. He flicked away his cigarette and stood up, revealing him to be not much taller than John. But John was more frightened of this man than he was of the blond giant.

The other man strolled up to where John and the behemoth were standing. "Mmm…you're right, Sebby. He does look delicious." His voice was a rough Irish brogue that made John wince. He touched John's chin and brought his face up to the grim light of the lamp. "Better off than he looks. He'll do perfectly."

"I thought you'd like it," Sebby said with a grin. The boss tilted his head and breathed in.

"Oh, boys," he called and two other men came out of the shadows.

Seeing them John began to struggle, but he got cuffed by Sebby for his troubles. His head rocked back and for a moment, his eyes went dark. When he could see again, he could clearly make out the men. One was an older fellow, about John's father's age, frumpy and diminished in a way John couldn't describe. The other was a only a little taller than the boss but had the same dark hair and eyes. Only he didn't have the same level of vileness as the snake in front of John. If this man was a sea of darkness, his boss was the ocean.

"Sebastian always finds the best playthings," the frumpy one said.

"Yes, he does," the small dark one agreed.

"It was almost as good as that whore he brought me last time," the boss said. "Hope, take his satchel."

The frumpy one came up, grabbed John’s small bag and began rifling through it.

"Ooh, lookie, boss. We've got some good bread and cheese and well as a few coins," Hope said with a crooked grin.

"Let's have some fun, Small, Sebby!" the boss smirked. The two smaller men fell on to John, knocking him to the ground. John struggled to get away but Sebastian held him tight. So tightly John cried out in pain.

They began tugging at his clothes. Sebastian acquired his hat. They removed his jacket and when they made to pull off his trousers, John started to scream. The boss suddenly jerked backward and Small turned around to help the other man, but he paused. He stood up slowly, his hands in the air.

No longer feeling the pressure on his arms, John wrenched away and scooted back. Now he could clearly see why the three men had stopped and why the fourth hadn't called the alarm. A soft, round-faced man had a dagger pressed to Hope’s throat. John's satchel was at his feet, the bread and coins scattered among the cobblestone.

Sebastian had an equally frightening man behind him, a revolver pressed tightly to the back of the behemoth's skull. A wiry-looking kid was expertly pointing a pistol at Small. Off to the side was a shy girl, worrying a handkerchief as she watched the unfolding drama with trepidation.

But the one who caught John's attention was the man holding holding the slick gentleman by the collar. He was tall, not as tall as Sebastian and the man holding a gun to Sebastian's head, but taller than the rest. His dark hair curled fetchingly around his narrow face. His piercing blue eyes were trained on the slick gentleman.

"Shezza," the boss purred. "Come to join in on the fun?"

"No, Jim," the curly-haired man said. His voice sending shivers down John's spine. "I warned you what would happen if you stepped into my territory again."

Jim pulled himself from Shezza's grasp and straightened his suit. "Your little Baker Street Irregulars? Don't make me laugh. The Spiders go where they please. They don't answer to anyone, but me."

Shezza rolled his eyes. "Wiggins, shoot Small." The wiry-looking fellow fired a shot into the other man's knee.

Small fell, screaming and clutching his leg. Jim's eyes snapped to his fallen crony.

"You'll regret that, Shezza," Jim promised. He motioned to Hope and Sebastian to pick up the young man, and Shezza’s men allowed them to do so.

"Where to, boss?" Sebastian asked.

"Dr Franklin's." His eyes narrowed on the dark-haired man being lifted by his comrades. "This time."

Once the three had gone, Jim got up in Shezza's face. As close as he could without touching the other man. "You win this time, my dear." He closed his eyes and rolled his head. "But, I won't forget this."

"You never do," Shezza said.

Jim grinned and strolled off. "Catch you later," he called with a wave of his hand.

"No, you won't," Shezza shouted after him. He rolled his eyes and then rushed to John's side.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

John looked up to see those amazing blue eyes and had to remember to breathe.

"I--I think so," John said. Shezza helped John stand.

"He wasn't going to sodomize you."

John rocked his head back. "Excuse me?"

"He wasn't going to sodomize you," Shezza repeated. "You started screaming when he reached for your trousers. You thought he was going to sodomize you."

"Oh. Yes. So, what was he going to do then?"

"He was going to strip you, beat you, and leave you for dead in my territory so I that I would take the blame."

"Why would--" John began to ask as he took a step away from Shezza before the man's proximity caused heart palpitations, but as he took that step, his ankle buckled under his weight.

"Ah!" He cried out, and Shezza grabbed him to hold him up.

"I thought you said you were all right," Shezza accused.

"I must have twisted my ankle when they attacked me. I didn't notice until I put pressure on it."

"We'll have to take you back to our hideout to get it fixed."

John shook his head in regret. "I don't think I can walk five steps, let alone the requisite amount to get to your hideout."

Shezza rolled his eyes and scooped John up in his arms bridal style. John wrapped his arms Shezza's neck instinctively. "Then I'll just have to carry you myself."

The shy girl came up to them and still twisting her handkerchief said, "But, Shezza…we don't know him. What if he's a copper?"

The dark-haired man looked down at John, "Are you a copper?"

"A what now?" John asked, and then it dawned on him. "Oh! A policeman! No, of course not. I'm doctor. Or at least one in training."

"There you have it, Molly. He's a doctor."

She stepped back fluttering nervously.

"Let's hurry, Moriarty might have sent for the coppers anyway. And that's trouble I'd rather avoid."

"Shinwell, take Molly back to the hideout. Let them know we have company and that we might have company of the police persuasion."

The large man with the revolver nodded and grabbed Molly by the wrist as he passed. They left, Molly glancing behind before rushing away.

"Toby," Shezza said, turning to the remaining man John didn't know. "Make sure Moriarty and his men didn't leave any surprises in our territory. We can't take any chances."

Toby nodded and went the opposite direction from Molly and Shinwell.

Wiggins looked up at the pair of them with the largest grin on his face.

Shezza frowned. "What?"

"Aren't your arms getting tired?" Wiggins asked, indicating them both with his chin.

John and Shezza shared a glance. The dark-haired man had been holding the blond the whole time he had been talking to his gang.

"You're very strong," John commented in awe.

Shezza blushed.

"Come on, Wiggins," the gang leader said. "You'll need to be on the lookout for any Spiders. I wouldn't put it past them to ambush us."

Wiggins just grinned some more and followed his boss as they made their way to the hideout.

Chapter Text

John's heart was beating double time as Shezza and Wiggins wove their way through London's streets.

They finally came to a worn-down brownstone. Wiggins walked up to the door and did a jaunty little knock. The door swung open to reveal a dark-skinned man about John's age, his dark eyes serious.

"Picked up another foundling I see," he said, as he opened the door wider to allow them access to the building.

"You make it sound like I bring home a new one every week," Shezza groused.

"And you don't?" Wiggins asked, as he followed his leader and his burden into the house.

"Once a month maybe," Shezza admitted with a grin. Wiggins and the dark-skinned man shared a glance of surprise.

"Where are you taking the package?" Wiggins asked, indicating John with his chin.

"My room. Victor, grab the medical kit and meet us there," Shezza said.

The dark-skinned man nodded and went one direction while Wiggins went another.

"Why isn't Shinwell the doorman?" John asked.

"Of the two dark-skinned men trusted enough for the task, Victor is less likely to get into trouble. He can pretend not to understand English and begin speaking Hindi; it deters all but the most determined copper."

"Clever. And is he a trained doctor? I know Jim had one. He had Small taken to a Dr Franklin. Is Victor yours?"

"I wish. No, Victor is the closest we get, a tailor."

"Oh, so he can patch up all but the worst of wounds?"

"Yes." The clipped way he said it implied that Victor's inexperience had led to the death of at least one member of their group.

Shezza took John up the stairs and through a small kitchen to a quiet, clean room off to the side. It was sparsely decorated and had a large bed in the middle. It was to this bed that John was taken and gently laid down.

Just as Shezza was getting John situated, Victor came in with a small black bag.

"Victor, this is John," Shezza said. "He ran afoul of Moriarty's gang tonight. You'll need to check more than just his ankle."

"Hello, John," Victor said, his smile bright. "Let's take a look at that ankle first, shall we?"

John nodded. "I can tell it's not broken. I'd be screaming if it was."

"Broken a lot of bones, then?" the former tailor asked as he pushed up the leg to John's trousers, revealing the swollen appendage.

"A few," John admitted. "But I'm also in training to be a doctor. A lot of the elderly elite tend to break bones on a fairly regular basis."

"So how did a posh thing like you get into trouble with the Spiders?" Victor asked, as he felt around the ankle.

"I was on my way to the army recruitment post."

"In the middle of the night?" Shezza asked incredulously.

John just shook his head.

"Well you aren't going anywhere anytime soon," the former tailor said. "It's not broken, like you said, but it is sprained. Looks like you're stuck with us for a bit." He wrapped up John's ankle with a bit of instruction from John to do it better.

"I really should get going," John protested.

"The army is unlikely to take you with your ankle as it is, John," Shezza reminded him. "I'll tell you what, why don't you give Victor a crash course in emergency care while you're here. That way you can be useful and not feel you are taking advantage of us."

Victor and John shared a glance. Victor's hopeful, John's surprised.

"Yes, of course. I'd be happy to," John said.

"I'll let the others know," Shezza said and then turned to leave.

Once the gang leader was gone, Victor turned back to his patient. "Would you remove your shirt, please?"

John nodded, grateful Shezza wasn't here for this part. It was bad enough that a stranger was going to see what John's father had done, but he didn't think he could face the gang leader if he found out how weak John was.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt with trembling hands, revealing the once purple bruises now a sickly yellow. He shrugged out of it to show the damage Sebastian had done. The dark bruises of the man's large hands around his upper arms.

"Where did you get those?" Victor asked pointing to the older bruises. "You run afoul of another gang?"

"Ah, no. My father," John choked out. He cast his eyes down in shame.

"So that's why you were running away."

John blushed.

"Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone here is running away from something. Demons chase us all, some are just more tangible than others." Victor patted him on the knee, and he too made his exit.

Molly came in some time later with a small bowl and a cup of water. She slammed them both on the side table and shot him a glare that could curdle milk.

"We don't need you," she hissed. "You leave us alone." She stormed off before he could ask for an explanation.

Over the next few days, Shezza helped John get around and would tell him stories about the gang and their exploits. The gang leader really came alive around the blond man. Even when John was tutoring Victor in medicine, Shezza would be there, soaking up the information as much as the Indian.

John learned about some of the gang members' histories. Never the ones he was really interested in. Wiggins would wink and change the subject, Molly avoided him all together, and Shezza, well, the gang leader's history wasn't known to anyone and he kept all that close to the vest.

Molly found out John's past by eavesdropping on Shezza and him when they would talk for hours. She was told that this interloper would be gone in a few days, when his ankle healed, but she felt she had to get rid of him before he further corrupted their leader.

She snuck out one night and went to a small brick wall that surrounded an abandoned butchery. It was where she and her lover would exchange love letters and arrange meetings. She liked Jim. She wanted Sherlock, of course, but Jim made her feel good. Molly didn't believe all those nasty things her friends said about him. They were just jealous of his intelligence, cunning and good looks. John must have provoked Jim to make her lover attack him.

She left her little note, telling Jim who John really was and that someone might want him back.

Molly stared in shock as coppers raided her home. They were pulling out her friends and saying something about kidnapping John. This wasn't supposed to happen. John's father was supposed to show up and haul him home. Coppers weren't supposed to be involved.

John had been shoved into a carriage and kept out of sight.

She looked across the street and saw Jim receiving a small money pouch from a man who bore a striking resemblance to John, who must have been his father. Jim looked like the cat caught in the cream.

He spotted her and shook hands with the other man, bidding him goodbye. He strolled across the street, hands in his jacket pocket. He came up to her and then leaned over to say into her ear, loud enough that the nearby members of her gang could hear, "Thank you for the tip, Molly. Not only did I get rid of those pesky Baker Street Irregulars, but I got quite the hefty payout. Couldn't have done it without you, love. Drop me a note when you want to meet up again. You are a fairly good fuck."

He smiled at her and sauntered off to the shouts of "Traitor!" at Molly. She broke into tears and ran away.

Shezza was the last one to be placed into the police wagon. As he was being bullied into the vehicle, a voice cracked out, "Stop!"

The police and remaining neighbors turned see a tall, well-dressed man in a top hat, cape, and with an umbrella draped over his arm.

"I will be taking that one with me, if you please," the man said.

"Well, I don't please," the constable said with a sneer. "On whose orders, then?"

"Mine, of course," the man said slowly as if he was talking to a small child.

The constable scoffed. "Yeah? And who are you then?"

"Mycroft Holmes, civil servant and ambassador for Her Royal Majesty the Queen."

Chapter Text

The constable raised his eyebrows in shock and stepped away from the gang leader, his hands in the air.

"Thank you," Mycroft said with a small, pained smile. He turned to the tall, dark-haired man, still in shackles. "You are the one they call Shezza, correct?"

The constable scoffed. "That's him alright."

Mycroft turned his icy gaze to the man. "And you are?"

"Constable Dimmock, sir," he said, puffing his chest out in pride.

"Constable Dimmock, would you please release the whole lot of them," Mycroft said, pointing at the full wagons with his umbrella.

"What?" Dimmock asked. "All of them? But--"

"I know what the charges are. Kidnapping. But really, has this gang ever kidnapped anyone before?"

"Well, no…" Dimmock admitted with a sidelong glance at Shezza.

"And was there any ransom demand?" Mycroft asked, idly twirling his umbrella.

"Not that we're aware of…"

"Then you have nothing to hold them on. And really, arresting the whole gang for kidnapping? Ridiculous. Your department has been played. Badly at that."

Dimmock began releasing the gang members, starting with Shezza.

Once he was released, the gang leader rubbed his wrists and narrowed his eyes at the civil servant.

"What did you do that for?" he asked.

"Several reasons," Mycroft said with a smirk. "One, as that lovely little scene with one of your young ladies clearly showed, this is a ploy by the Spiders to get rid of your gang for good. Some of your members may have been released, but with its leaders in jail, the Baker Street Irregulars would have fallen apart. Leaving the Spiders to take over your territory. Which we both know would come to far more bad than good.

"Two, obviously Mr John Watson wasn't kidnapped, which means he ran away. Evidently, from his father, and I detest bullies. I aim to show Mr Watson that he is not the most powerful man in London. I am. And he best start taking notice.

"And lastly, while I could force you to come with me, I was hoping that releasing your gang will buy a little good will. Enough, perhaps, for you to come with me willingly."

"To where?" Shezza asked, suspicious.

"My home. We have many things we need to discuss."

"How long will that take?" Shezza inquired.

"That depends entirely on you. It could take mere hours or my hope is, for as long as possible," Mycroft replied.

"But what about them?" he asked pointing to his gang, most of whom had been released.

"You could do anything with them really. However, what I suggest is that you appoint one leader in your stead. You can communicate with them through various means, though I recommend using Miss Hooper's method. Drop points all over the city. And if they were smart, they would vary the times and the people who check the drop points. Is that sufficient for you?"

Shezza blinked and then nodded. He went to where the gang had milled around, waiting to see what the posh man wanted with their boss. There was some arguing and much waving of the arms, before Shezza stormed back to where Mycroft stood by, patiently waiting.

"I will go with you, but on one condition," the gang leader said.

"Oh? And what's that?" Mycroft inquired with the delicate raise of an eyebrow.

"That you teach me how to be like you," Shezza said.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows, "Like me? In what way?"

"Posh," was the abrupt response.

That surprised a chuckle out of the civil servant. "That could be arranged, yes."

Shezza opened his mouth to argue his point and then promptly shut it when he realized that other man had agreed. "Good. Let's go then." He crossed his arms and pouted, disappointed that he didn't have to fight for his one requirement.

"Indeed."

Shezza looked around at the opulent manor in awe. He had never seen anything so magnificent in his life.

"You actually live here?" he asked, as the older man led the way into the main hall.

"Yes, having become the master of the house at such a young age certainly has its advantages."

"I'll say," the gang leader whistled.

"I've had my valet draw up a bath for you and he will teach you how to properly put on your new vestments." Shezza nodded. "My housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, will show you to your rooms this time. Afterwards, you will have a maid assigned to you; to make your bed, draw your bath, and clean your rooms. You will be civil, I do not take kindly to guests mistreating my servants."

Shezza nodded vigorously and then moved to follow the sweet-looking older woman. When he reached the door, he turned back to Mycroft. "Thank you. For everything."

Mycroft merely smiled and Shezza followed Mrs Hudson through corridors and past so many doors leading to God knows where that Shezza wondered if he’d ever be able to find his way around on his own.

"The master's rooms are just two doors down," she said once they reached his room. "Anna will be your maid. When you are ready to meet with Mr Holmes, ring the bell and she will come and direct you to him. Now go on in, dear, Mr Lestrade is waiting for you."

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome, dearie."

Shezza opened the door to the room and gasped. Though it was sparsely decorated, it was the picture of luxury. It had a large four-poster bed, soft rugs, and matching drawers and table. He immediately wanted to jump on the bed, but he was saved from embarrassing himself by the valet coming out of a side room.

"Master Shezza?" the board-shouldered, grey-haired man asked.

"Yep," the gang leader said, popping his 'P'.

"If you'll follow me, sir," the man said as he turned around to go back the way he'd came. Shezza was quick on his heels and stopped at the door. In the center of the small room was a large copper tub and a small table.

Shezza began to strip without prompting from the stoic valet. He lowered himself slowly into the steaming water with a contented sigh.

Lestrade gathered up his things and pointed out the soap to the gang leader.

"I'll be back in a few minutes with to wash your hair," he said on his way out to the bedroom.

Shezza murmured some kind of response, but the valet didn't think he had actually been heard. Lestrade shook his head and went to burn the nasty things the young man had been wearing. He came back as promised and began washing Shezza's hair.

The young man started from his haze when the valet dumped a bucket of cold water on his head.

"What the hell!" Shezza protested.

"The hair is better washed in cold water, sir," Lestrade said, barely able to hide his smile.

Shezza thought about objecting again, then decided against it. Right now, he was the one in the weak position. After all, the valet could complain to Mr Holmes that Shezza had mistreated him and he'd be in trouble. Considering that he needed Mr Holmes, it was best to keep his mouth shut until he got what he wanted.

So he meekly submitted to a shave and hair cut. As well as to the many corrections the valet made when he dressed Shezza for evening drinks. He then rang the bell, and his maid, Anna appeared within moments. She was a red-head with freckles over her face and what Shezza could see of her arms. She appeared to be a slight figure, but he could she the fire in her eyes. There would be no messing with this one.

Shezza followed her back through the maze of corridors until they reached the smoking room.

"Mr Holmes will see you now," she said, her Scottish brogue falling softly on his ears.

Shezza thanked her and went inside, where Mycroft was seated, having a scotch.

"Ah, the clothes fit nicely, I see. I couldn't be sure. After all, I only saw you the once before and from a great distance," Mycroft said and indicated that Shezza should sit. The gang leader sat down gingerly, trying hard not to muss his new clothing.

The elder man chuckled. "You can sit however you like. I'll teach you how to sit properly later. I don't expect mastery from a rank amateur."

Shezza blushed, but settled back into the chair and made himself comfortable. Mycroft smiled.

"I wonder why you agreed to my condition so quickly," the gang leader said after a moment of sizing each other up.

"Because it matches my plans exactly," Mycroft said with a chuckle.

Shezza raised an eyebrow.

"There is something going on in court, loyalties changing on a whim and that makes for unstable ground. Which I will not tolerate. So, I need an extra pair of eyes. Someone younger, free to go about anywhere."

"And you chose me? Why?"

"A couple of reasons--"

Shezza chuckled. "I'm beginning to think you never do anything for just one reason."

Mycroft merely smiled before he continued. "One, you are undoubtedly a clever man. Especially to have to risen to the leader of a gang of at least twenty members at such a young age. How old are you? Eighteen?"

"About that, I don't know for sure," Shezza admitted.

"Two," Mycroft continued, "with your gang, you can send people in to talk to servants. Servants hear all the latest gossip from their masters about everyone. But they won't talk to someone like me. Or you, once we've gentrified you."

"So, what? I'm the perfect spy?"

"Something like that, yes."

"There's more, isn't there? What's the final reason?" Shezza asked.

Mycroft's face took on a sadness that Shezza couldn't name. The civil servant pulled open a drawer and took something out of it. He stood up and handed it to the younger man.

Shezza took it to find out it was a miniature portrait of a young boy of seven. "The resemblance is uncanny!"

"That is my brother, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "And that is who you will become."

Chapter Text

Shezza looked up at the civil servant in confusion. "Become him? What do you mean?"

Mycroft sighed and moved to sit back down. "It's better if I start from the beginning."

The gang leader nodded.

"Ten years ago," Mycroft said after a moment, "my brother and our mother were out riding in the carriage when they were attacked by ruffians. We believe the driver was in on it, but he had vanished with the thugs. They ransacked the carriage and murdered my mother. It is thought that my brother shared a similar fate."

"But? You said 'thought', meaning you don't know?"

"No. His body was never found. There was a blood trail leading away into an alley. It was my father's fondest hope that Sherlock had managed to get away and survive. My father spent his every waking moment trying to search for his youngest son. I was fifteen at the time.

"After I graduated from university, I came home to manage the estate. The years of uncertainty about my brother’s survival had drained the life out of my father and he died not long after I came home."

"And you think I'm him?" Shezza asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "You could be, and that's good enough for my purposes. You're the right age and coloring. As you said, the resemblance is uncanny. I will teach you as much as I can about my brother's childhood, in case you are asked. I have an eidetic memory, which means I can remember everything I have seen or heard. But that limits it to things I was there to witness. For everything else, you'll have to claim amnesia."

"That shouldn't be too hard. And an eidetic memory, huh? Wow. Can you teach me how to do that?"

"Sadly not. But I can teach you a technique that will help you with remembering things. While I was at university we studied something called the method of loci. It involves taking a memory and attaching it to a hall or room in a building or set of buildings, allowing you to recall anything you place in it, simply by going to that room in your mind."

"A mind palace?"

"Of a sort, yes."

"Wow, if you can teach me that, I won't need an eidetic memory."

"I will add that to your list of lessons. I'm afraid we don't have much time. The most I can give you is six weeks. There are things, bad things stirring underfoot, things that need to be stopped. I need someone I can trust."

"Don't you have a secret service for this sort of thing?" Shezza asked.

"They can't be trusted. They all spy on people for money," Mycroft said with a small smirk.

"Six weeks?" Shezza asked. "What about John Watson? He might not have six weeks, not if what you say about his father is true."

"Then I guess you will have to learn faster."

Shezza nodded, resolute.

Shezza's day was filled with studies of all kinds. After breakfast he was sent to Mycroft's valet, Lestrade. He taught the gang leader how to stand, how to walk, how to dress. What to wear to a garden party as opposed to an evening soiree.

They were having their one of these sessions when they got into an argument over the gang leader's posture.

"Stand up straight. Straighter!" the valet admonished for what he felt had to be the hundredth time that morning.

Finally Shezza had enough and barked back, "I am standing straight. As straight as I can!"

"Like hell you are, boy!" Lestrade sniped back.

"Prove it," the young man said cooly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"If I do, would you stop fighting me on every little thing and actually learn this?" Lestrade asked, mirroring the boy's pose.

"Done," Shezza said, and stuck out his hand. "We have a bargain."

Lestrade shook it and with a grin left the sitting room they were using for practice. He came back with a small stool and then picked up one of the books on the reading table. He set the stool next to Shezza and stepped up on it. Carefully he put the book on the gang leader's head, and it promptly fell off.

"That doesn't prove anything!" Shezza complained.

Lestrade just smiled and got down from the from the stool. And then he placed the book on his head. It didn't even wobble.

"You must have a flat head or something."

"You can check if you like," Lestrade said.

Shezza looked at him a moment and then said, "I'll have to take your word for it. So what's the reasoning behind it then?"

"The straighter the posture, the more balanced the book is. So it doesn't fall."

Shezza blinked and then nodded. Learned to both love and hate that book as Lestrade used it to teach him not only to stand properly, but walk as well. Sitting and drinking tea was also done with the cursed thing on his head, but he learned quickly and well.

His next lesson after Lestrade grilled him all morning was lunch with Mrs Hudson. Or as Shezza liked to call it, "taking the joy out of eating." She taught him which utensil to use and when. Which glass was the water glass and which one was for the white wine or champagne. There were as many glasses in front of him as there were spoons.

She also fed him, teaching the proper way to eat fish and shellfish. How to cut a steak or slurp an oyster. There was even a correct amount of butter to take. It literally made his head spin.

"Mrs Hudson, stop!" Shezza protested after she tried to push a treacle tart on him after a rather large meal.

"But you are so thin, dearie," she replied.

"It comes from living on the streets most of my life, food isn't exactly flowing in the streets."

She pursed her lips and then said, "Well, we'll just have to slowly fatten you up then."

Shezza narrowed his eyes at her, wondering what she was up to. "If you say so, Mrs Hudson."

She only tried it the once.

At dinner that night, Shezza's plate was overflowing with food, while Mycroft's held only the normal amount.

The civil servant raised one questioning eyebrow and Shezza blushed.

"Apparently Mrs Hudson told the cook that I was starving and needed to be fattened up," he explained.

"I see."

Breakfast was back to normal the next day, but Mrs Hudson continued to leave treats for him all over the house, in hopes of enticing him to eat more.

The early part of his afternoon was spent with a tutor. Where Mr Gregson would teach him philosophy, mathematics, history, politics, certain sciences that were becoming popular at the moment and just about anything the tutor could think of. Mr Gregson filled his mind to the brim and then some.

And there wasn't a subject Shezza wouldn't devour. He wanted to know it all. There was many a night that Mycroft would find the gang leader slumped over a book, having read the candle down and fallen asleep. Mycroft would take the book and set it aside, then would cover him in a blanket.

After Gregson left for the day, it was time for Shezza's favorite lesson. It was the one thing that didn't make him feel stupid or awkward and that was his violin lesson.

He threw his feelings into his music. He could put the words that he couldn't find into song. He never felt out of place with his violin tucked under his chin and the bow dancing across the strings.

He was doing so well that Mr Chater went to Mycroft a couple weeks into their lessons.

The violin instructor poked his head into Mycroft's office. "Mr Holmes?"

"Ah, Mr Chater," he said waving the man to come in. "How is your student? No troubles, I hope."

Mr Chater sat down directly across from the civil servant. "Just the opposite. He has progressed from fingering exercises to being able to play anything by ear. And this afternoon I found this." He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket that was the folded long way and handed it to Mycroft.

The civil servant unfolded the paper and his eyebrows raised up.

"I see, and have you played it?" he asked, setting down the violin composition on his desk and tapping it with his finger.

"I don't have to, Mr Holmes. I know quality when I see it," the instructor assured him. "Are you sure he's never played before?"

"As far as I am aware," Mycroft replied.

His brother, Sherlock, had been playing the violin half of his life before he had died. But as Mycroft was forced to remind himself every day, Shezza was not his brother.

"Then you have a prodigy on your hands," Mr Chater said, standing up.

"So it would seem."

After dinner, Shezza would follow Mycroft into his office and they would discuss his lessons with his other tutors. If Shezza was having trouble with a particular aspect of his learning, Mycroft would spend the time before bed coaching him. If he wasn't having trouble, Mycroft would alternate between teaching the method of loci, Sherlock's childhood, and how to deduce.

Mycroft stressed the importance of the latter, saying that if they were to find out who was causing the trouble in town, they needed him to see the details people often missed. Because most people don’t realize that the things they do leave traces that those with a trained eye can see.

At first, Shezza would practice on the poor maids and footmen until he deduced that a pair of them were having an affair. After that, Mycroft took him to a different public place and pointed out someone for Shezza to deduce.

On one particular occasion he deduced that the elderly couple in the corner of the restaurant were having marital troubles. He was cheating on her with several people, men and women alike. But especially his secretary. She was hawking the jewelry he gave her and replacing the stones with fakes to help pay for the gambling debts that she incurred at the races.

"Very good, Sherlock--" Mycroft stopped. He had avoided calling the gang leader by that name so he wouldn't get attached in case this went south, but it seemed it didn't matter anymore. Shezza had become Sherlock in every possible way. "I guess, I'm going to have to get used to calling you that."

Shezza just smiled.

Chapter Text

It took Shezza only three weeks to transform himself into Sherlock Holmes. The street-wise gang leader had been obliterated and in his place was the cool and calculating member of the elite.

Mycroft was astonished by the transformation. Everything about Shezza now screamed "raised affluent." Shezza took to it like a fish to water. Mycroft should have been happy it turned out so well, thrilled even. But instead he felt a gnawing sense of guilt. It was as though he was sending a lamb to the slaughter. Still, his options were limited and after all the money he spent transforming the young man, he had no choice but to go through with it. God help them both.

So he did what every good member of the elite did when they were about to do something distasteful, he threw a party. And in the week leading up to the event he taught Shezza as many dances as he could. Just one more thing to add to the list of things Shezza immediately picked up.

The party would serve two purposes; an announcement of the return of his brother and a coming out party for the young man. That way Shezza or Sherlock, as he was now, would be introduced at one time to as many of the players as possible. During that week, Sherlock Holmes became the talk of the town. Everyone was theorizing about where Mycroft had found his brother, what he would look like now, what would his manners be like?

Mycroft would chuckle at the latest theory when he went into town. But no one had connected the young man who had been seen with the civil servant at the restaurant to Sherlock Holmes. It really made Mycroft wonder about the brains of these people.

There hadn't been a party at Holmes manor in ten years, so Mycroft went all out. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres before dinner and then dancing afterwards. Of course, an hour into drinks he would announce his "brother" to the guests.

John had been dragged to this ridiculous party by his father and fiancée. Both of whom abandoned him once they were through the door, so he resolutely stood in the corner ignoring everyone and clutching a drink, trying his best not to down it in one gulp.

The master of the house stood up and clinked his champagne glass to get everyone's attention and John refused to pay him any mind. He was here against his will and he wasn't about to pander to the wants of an overstuffed shirt.

"Thank you all for coming to celebrate this joyous occasion with me. As most of you are aware my father, the late squire, had spent the final years of his life seeking for the murderers of his wife and as well as searching for his son, whom he firmly believed to be alive. On the eve of his death he made me promise to continue his search.

"One month ago, I was pleased to discover that he had been right, my brother had survived. Lost and destitute, most of the memories of his life before are gone, but some remain. I took him into my home and now he is ready to be brought into society.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you and society, Sherlock Holmes!"

The former gang leader walked woodenly down the steps of the grand staircase, hoping that he wouldn't trip over his own feet and make a spectacle of himself tumbling down the stairs.

All the women gasped and the men were torn between appreciative murmurs and envious groans.

A woman by John's elbow hissed, "God, he's gorgeous. I bet Mr Holmes already has a bride lined up for him. He's just too handsome to be left to his own devices for long."

John sighed. He was going to have to turn around now, his curiosity wouldn't allow him to continue to ignore the young man for long. After all, it wasn't the young man's fault that John had been dragged to his coming out party.

John looked up and his drink slipped out between nervous fingers, falling to the floor with a tinkling of shattered crystal and a dull splash of whatever remained of the champagne.

Sherlock Holmes was by and far the most gorgeous man John had ever seen. The young man's curls had been tamed and slicked back from his forehead. His face was narrow and long, with deep set pale blue eyes that seemed to shift between grey and green and he had soft, pink lips pressed in a Cupid's bow. He looked young. Younger than his eighteen years. Probably due to the fact that he was being thrust into the spotlight after years of obscurity.

He also had a look of familiarity that John couldn't quite place. John forced himself to look away before anyone caught him staring at this empyrean being. And if that person was his father, he'd be beaten for sure.

He felt a hand slip around the crook of his elbow. He turned to see his fiancée and smiled wearily.

"He is quite the pretty thing, isn't he?" she asked with a grin.

John's smile turned fake as he lied, "He's nothing to you, Miss Morstan." His new fiancée's smile turned pleased.

"Doesn't change the fact that he's gorgeous. Makes you wonder where he's been these past ten years," she said as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I don't know," John said as he wondered the same thing.

After dinner Sherlock made the rounds, talking to everyone, chatting and being as charming as possible. Well, everyone but John. John he circled like a shark circles its prey. John, in return, had to force his attention back to Miss Morstan, where it belonged. Every time it appeared Sherlock would near, John's heart would race and his palms would sweat, but at the last second the younger man would veer off and speak to someone else, leaving the poor blond feeling both relieved and bereft.

Just when John couldn't take any more, Mycroft led the younger Holmes to John's group which now included his father.

"Ah, good. All three of you together, this makes introductions easy," Mycroft said as he neared them. "Sherlock, this is Mr Watson, Master of the Society of Apothecaries. His son, John and John's fiancée, Miss Morstan." Mycroft made a show of looking around. "Is Miss Watson not here this evening? I thought she would want to be here, the event of the season."

Mr Watson coughed and John and Miss Morstan shared a glance.

"Hmm, yes," Mr Watson hedged. "Unfortunately her trip to Paris coincided with tonight's party. She sends her apologies for not being here tonight."

Sherlock's eyes darted over the older man and then with a sneer said, "Translation: you didn't want her here tonight in case she got drunk and embarrassed you at the 'most talked about event of the season'."

Mycroft fought to keep his face blank, but a small smile crept through when he met John's eye. John coughed to cover the laugh that bubbled past his lips.

"Now, see here-" Mr Watson huffed, offended.

Sherlock ignored him and turned to Miss Morstan. "Do you like to dance?"

Miss Morstan smiled prettily. "Indeed, I love it, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock turned to John, "Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your fiancée for this one dance?"

John started. "No, not at all. I am well situated, I assure you."

Sherlock flashed him a bright smile and took Miss Morstan to the dance floor. As he walked away, John couldn't help but feel that he was the person Sherlock really wanted to ask to dance.

Mycroft bowed and left the two men standing there.

Mycroft watched as the former gang leader charmed everyone, and smiled. Mr Watson came to stand at his side.

"I see you've got quite the performing monkey there, Mr Holmes," the man sneered.

Mycroft leaned down close, "No, Mr Watson. He's not my performing monkey, you are." He straightened up and yelled to someone close by. "Mr Henderson! There you are. I've been hoping to speak to you about your cotton mill this evening."

A striking man turned around, "Mr Holmes, you have caught on the one thing I speak about with any kind of pleasure."

"I thought it might be so," Mycroft said with a smile. He turned back to Mr Watson, who looked offended that the civil servant would chose to speak with a mill owner over him. "Good evening, Harrison. Do enjoy yourself, it may be your last chance to do so." And with that he strolled off to talk to Mr Henderson about the cotton industry, leaving behind a bristling Master of the Society of Apothecaries.

But Mycroft wasn't the only one watching Sherlock with interest.

Lord Milverton grabbed Janine's arm and pulled her close.

"That boy is going to ruin everything. If you can't seduce the young Mr Watson, perhaps you'll do better with the young Mr Holmes," he hissed in her ear.

She nodded and moved to do so when he pulled her back to him.

"You do remember what happens if you don't succeed?"

"Yes, Lord Milverton," Janine whimpered. He shook her once and then thrust her from him, causing her to stumble away.

Across the room, a dark-haired woman watched the young man with her glittering blue eyes. Her red painted nails gripped her fan tightly and then she snapped it open to hide her face.

"Sherlock Holmes, hmmm…" she purred. "Let's play a game, junior."

She fanned herself once, before she snapped her fan closed. Her eyes narrowed on her target in anticipation.

"I aim to misbehave."

Chapter Text

John sat in the carriage, his back stiff and his head forward, as he couldn't bear to think of what was happening to his new friends. Knowing his father, they were probably all being arrested. It didn't matter if none of them were involved with his escape. They helped him, therefore they must be punished. He shuddered to think what would happen now that the Spiders held the territory.

He wanted to break down and cry, to mourn the loss of his new-found happiness, but he couldn't let his father see that he had won.

The door next to him was wrenched open and John turned, startled. There, with a grim expression and snarling sneer, was his father.

"Move over," Mr Watson commanded, and John hastened to obey. He scooted as far over as he could, trying to put as much distance between him and his father. It did very little good. His father was large man and he filled nearly the entire seat on his own. John wished he could move to the other chair in the carriage, but he knew that would only further anger his father.

"If I thought for one second that you had the brains to come up with this running away business on your own, I'd horsewhip you to within an inch of your life," Mr Watson growled and then tapped the ceiling to signal the driver to go.

"And when I find out who helped you, I swear to god…" he trailed off, but the implication was clear. "It can't be any of the servants, they are more brainless than you are. So, I've been talking to the guests to find out which one of them it was. Not that I told them you'd gone."

Of course not, John thought bitterly.

"I've been telling them that you've been ill and seeing which ones twitch, but so far none of them have. Though that could just mean they're a better liar than you are, which isn't saying much."

Mr Watson took out his pipe and began filling it. And then he lit the thing, clogging the air with its vile smoke.

"I was ready to send out bloodhounds to look for you, when I got word from that Moriarty fellow where you were. Interesting chap; if he wasn't Irish, I'd hire him."

Thank god for British and Scottish pride, John thought.

But his father went on, heedless of his son's thoughts. "Can you imagine the scandal if I hadn't found you. I would have been the laughingstock of London!" Mr Watson roared. John was afraid he would get hit then and there, but the blow never came.

"Your sister is home from whatever bender she'd been on. I worry one day that she'll come home, fat with some artist or musician's child."

John rolled his eyes. She would have to be screwing men to get pregnant, but that wasn't what Harriet liked.

It was ironic or maybe just cosmic payback that the biggest bigot in London, if not all of England had two very gay children.

"Oh, and you were wrong about Miss Sawyer, by the way," Mr Watson sneered. "She has been courted and accepted the marriage proposal of a Mr Thornton. A mill owner from up north. All in the space of the five days you've been gone."

That made John sit up. Not the part about Miss Sawyer, she could hang for all he cared, no. It was the fact that his father had thought he'd left the day of the party. John wasn't sure why that interested him, but it made him feel good that he had fooled his father that well.

"And apparently also in the time you've been gone, Madame Shan found a man for her niece. Some rich oil baron in America. He didn't have your scruples." John could tell that his father thought that having morals or scruples of any kind was a sign of weakness.

"So you are left with three brides to choose from. Sarina Donovan, Mary Morstan, and Janine Hawkins. And you will choose one," Mr Watson growled, grabbing John's arm tightly. "No more waffling and this namby-pamby nonsense, do I make myself clear?"

John nodded.

"Say it!" Mr Watson snarled, shaking John until his teeth rattled.

"Yes, sir," John muttered.

"Good," he said and threw John against the side of the carriage.

That night he lay in his room sobbing. His father had dogged his steps all day, making sure that he didn't run off again, and he was finally alone. He sobbed over the new bruises he had, the pain in his ankle which he felt more keenly here than he had ever done on Baker Street, and for loss of the friends he'd made in the street gang.

He was still sobbing when Stamford came in to lay out clothes for him to change into for bed.

"Oh, Master John!" Stamford cried and came to sit on bed next to him. "I'm sorry it didn't work out. Maybe your wife will let you join the army. You won't be under your father's thumb then."

John laughed bitterly. "I heard him tell his lawyer that I'm to only get a small allowance when I marry and he will take her dowry and fold it into his fortune. We won't see a single penny of it."

"Can he do that?"

"This is my father, he can do whatever the hell he pleases. So, here I am, stuck in a life I never wanted."

"Well, at least you are away from those ruffians," Stamford said as he helped John out of his clothes.

"Those ruffians were the only people who liked me for who I was and not just because I am the only son of Mr Harrison Watson, head of the Society of the Apothecaries. I was judged on my own merit and they liked me. They honestly liked me. God, I want to go back. I was doing good there." John pulled on his night clothes and flopped on the bed.

Stamford watched him a moment before he said, "So, what's his name?"

"Shezza," John said without thinking, and then blushed. "Pretend you didn't hear that."

"So, who's Shezza then?" Stamford asked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

John's blush deepened. "He's the leader of the gang I stayed with."

"Ooh, so an older guy," Stamford teased as he pulled the covers out from under John. John yelped and tossed a pillow at his valet, who deftly caught it and began fluffing it up.

"I'll have you know he's only eighteen!" John huffed as Stamford bullied the young man into his bed and under the covers.

"So, gorgeous then?" the valet asked with a wink.

"God, I can't believe I'm telling you this, but yes, you fiend. He's absolutely gorgeous and brilliant and, and, amazing!"

"That's good, John. Too bad he isn't some rich guy with a lot of power. That way you could get married and tell your father to hang!"

John sighed. If only.

His father had set up a series of outings with each prospect, during which John would be their escort. The first of these was with Sally Donovan. There was a large picnic to be held by a Mr Anderson and his wife. Mr Anderson was an associate of Mr Thornton and ran one of the other mills up north. He was in town trying to drum up interest to save his failing business.

Things started off well, Miss Donovan liked to chatter. She especially liked talking about the wide, open spaces of America and how nice it was that people who came from practically nothing could make a name for themselves. John thought it sounded lovely.

Harriet was even behaving herself. Well, that was probably because of the lack of hard liquor served at a picnic. As long as he kept an eye on her, she wouldn't get tipsy. Their father was out of town on business. Which, John reflected, was why Harriet was here at all. Father's little spy.

The problem arose when Mr Anderson took an interest in John's pretty companion. His eyes raked over her frame, and he sauntered over to them.

"Miss Donovan," he said, leering at her breasts. "It is a pleasure to meet you." He reached out for her hand and kissed it. She blushed and covered her face. He didn't bother greeting John at all.

"Mr Anderson," John said, trying to get the attention off his charge. Mr Anderson's eyes flicked briefly over to John before they settled back on to Miss Donovan.

"I don't see your esteemed parents here today," Mr Anderson said, "I hope they are well."

"I'm here as her escort," John said and again was ignored.

"They are quite well, Mr Anderson, they just aren't picnic people."

"And they let you come in their stead. How wonderful for us all. Do you like strawberries?" he asked, holding out his arm for her to take. She took it without a backward glance at John.

"I love strawberries!"

"Miss Donovan!" John cried, but his objection fell on deaf ears.

He watched after them until they were out of sight. He was completely floored that Mr Anderson would take a lady away from her escort, and that she would allow it! He hastily looked around for Mrs Anderson, hoping to at least steer her away from her husband's wandering eye.

But it appeared that Mrs Anderson was too busy doing some wandering of her own. With his sister. Now he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He should go remove his sister from flirting with the lady of the house, but if he did that same lady might find out her husband's own philandering. Which would bring up scenes unpleasant for everyone. He didn't know what to do, or who to turn to. He was friendless and alone.

He thought about Shezza. Shezza would know what to do, or he would make John laugh. Oh, how he ached to see his friend again.

Chapter Text

Tea with Miss Morstan was delightful. She even brought a friend with her, Miss Louise Mortimer. Harriet was also in attendance, acting again as their father's spy.

"It was nice of you to accompany Miss Morstan, Miss Mortimer. Have you come to London seeking your fortune as well?" John asked, as his maid poured their tea.

The other young lady was perhaps a little older than John. She had dark hair and eyes, and she smiled at John.

"Miss Mortimer is the first woman to be admitted to the Society of Apothecaries," Mary told them proudly.

Miss Mortimer blushed. "She's correct. It's very exciting. I am rather enjoying my studies."

John had heard of her, of course. His father had been livid. But as Miss Mortimer had pointed out, there was nothing on the books that prohibited her from studying there. So they were forced to allow it. The general consensus had been that she would wash out before the first semester was up. She was on her second year and doing better than most of her male peers.

John coughed discretely into his napkin. "I know your name very well, Miss Mortimer. I know it as well I know my own, having heard it so frequently these past couple of years."

Harriet scoffed. "What he's trying to say is our father yells about you, loudly and at length."

"Harriet!" John hissed, but Harriet just simpered.

"My apologies, Miss Mortimer," John said. "I hear you are doing very well in your classes. Are you going into any kind of speciality?"

"Surgery. I did some of it while I was working as a nurse in one of the free clinics and rather enjoyed it. And you? What is the son of the great Harrison Watson going into?"

"Surgery as well. But I'm dabbling in everything, it's all just so fascinating." He paused a moment and then turned to Miss Morstan. "Oh dear me! I have neglected you. I'm so sorry. I really do enjoy being a doctor. I believe you said that your father was in the army. What did he do?"

"Boring things, I have no doubt. But anything is better than listening to the pair of them droning on about doctor-y gibberish," Harriet said snidely.

"Oh no, Miss Watson. It wasn't boring at all! He was stationed in India and he saw elephants and strange birds and once he even found a tiger in his tent!"

"A tiger!" Harriet was impressed. "What did he do?"

She told them the story. And then they had her tell them another and another. Wild stories, stories about the animals, about the people, and the culture. Everyone was leaning forward as this once-shy girl became the center of attention. She lit up and glowed from their interest not only in her stories, but in her as well.

Mary also talked of her youth, of going from relative to relative, never really finding her place and how much she was loving London. Like she finally belonged somewhere.

John felt drawn to her. He would never fancy her, but when it was time for the ladies to leave, he wanted her to stay.

The last and final outing was with Miss Hawkins and her guardian, Lord Milverton. They, along with John's sister and father, were to go see an opera in Lord Milverton's private box. Mr Watson was more thrilled to be seen in the private box than he was to actually go to the opera. John fully expected his father to be asleep by the third act. Harriet wanted to show off the new dress their father had bought her. No doubt as payment for her spying. It had lace and bows everywhere and John thought it was hideous. Miss Hawkins's dress in comparison was simpler, but cut a little more daring. John couldn't help but wonder if maybe the Lord was having his young ward on the sly.

Once they reached the box, the two older men sat at the ends, with Harriet between her father and John, and Miss Hawkins between John and her guardian. John shifted uncomfortably. His seat in the middle made him feel like he was on display somehow. He tried to shake off the feeling as he looked at the playbill.

The opera was called Genoveva and was about a lord who entrusts his wife with his young servant, but when the lady spurs the advances of the young servant, he sets up a plot to get her accused of adultery. It seemed like it would be good and he leaned forward attentively when the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.

He was so engrossed in the story that he didn't notice the touches at first. They were light and innocent. But as Golo, the servant, was coming up with the plot, the touches became more incessant.

He looked to his left and Miss Hawkins winked at him. He turned his attention back to the story unfolding in front of him. Miss Hawkins touches started on the arm but by the time the intermission started she had progressed to his leg.

John was grateful for the fifteen minutes away from her roaming hand. If they hadn't been in public he would have jumped out of his seat and run. But when it came, the intermission was a relief. And when he tried to get Harriet to swap seats with him, she told him that he was there to escort Miss Hawkins, and he couldn't do that if he wasn't sitting next to her.

John groaned and prepared himself for another long couple of acts.

Again she started out light. Brushes against his hand, his arm. She was soon trailing her hand up and down his leg. And as the two guards were sent to kill poor Genoveva, her hand reached the apex of his leg and she dipped her fingers between his thighs. He quickly crossed his legs so that she would be forced to withdraw.

She merely smirked and placed her hand on his rear. John tried so hard not to squeal and jump away. Finally the lord restored his lady's honor and all was well. John forced himself not to run away from Miss Hawkins and offer her his arm instead.

The second he got home he had Stamford draw him a bath and he spent twenty minutes trying to wash away the dirty feeling her touch left behind. After he had gotten out and ready for bed, he supposed that had Miss Hawkins been his cup of tea, he might have jumped her after the opera, but as she wasn't even close, not even in the same hemisphere, her touch left him feeling disgusted instead.

The next morning it was apparent that neither his father nor his sister had noticed anything amiss the night before, and they were calmly having breakfast when John came down. Mr Watson was going through the morning's post.

Without looking up, Mr Watson growled, "Have you made your decision, Johnny?"

As the only decision Mr Watson cared about was who John would marry, he said, "Yes, sir."

"Well, who is it, man?" his father demanded.

"Miss Morstan, sir," John replied. If he was going to be forced into a marriage he didn't want, it might as well be someone he could actually tolerate for longer than five seconds.

"Hrumph! Good enough," his father muttered. "What's this then?" he asked, holding up a particularly ornate envelope.

"Ooh," Harriet said, leaning close. "So fancy."

John watched as his father opened the note to reveal an invitation. Mr Watson began muttering to himself as he read the elaborate handwritten script.

He frowned. "Looks like you get that Paris trip after all, Harry." He tossed the invitation John's direction.

John picked it up as Harriet clapped for joy. "Ooh, is it a party in Paris then?" she asked.

"No."

She blinked, confused.

"I didn't know Mr Holmes had any family," John said before Harriet could kick up a fuss. "Much less a brother who had been missing."

"I didn't either. But according to that," Mr Watson said jabbing at the paper in John's hand, "not only has one been found, he's having a coming out party."

"God, this is going to be the most talked about event of the season," John murmured. "How the hell did we get invited?"

"What do you mean, how did we get invited? I am the head of the Society of the Apothecaries! Of course I'd be invited."

John just shook his head. His father and Mr Holmes didn't run in the same circles. To have his father invited was not only odd, but unheard of as well.

Harriet coughed and both men turned to her. She was standing with her arms crossed and an angry twist to her full lips.

"If there is this huge party that everyone is going to be talking about, then why am I going to Paris?"

"Because I will not have you make a fool out of me the way you did at the Governor's Ball!" Mr Watson bellowed.

John winced. Harriet had gotten so drunk that she managed to convince the governor's daughters to strip to their shifts and dance in the water like sea nymphs. John had been the one who had found them, hands all over each other. It had taken Mr Watson a very long time to make it up to the governor. It was also the first time John realized his sister was a lesbian. How his father didn't see it, he had no idea.

Harriet stomped her foot. "So, what? Paris is my consolation prize?"

"Yes! And you will go or so help me!" Mr Watson stood up and raised his hand. Harriet cowered back in fear.

"Yes, father," she whimpered.

John had never seen their father raise a hand to his sister before and it truly frightened him.

Mr Watson rounded on his son. "And you will take Miss Morstan to this thing. As your fiancée, do you hear me? Or you'll get more than my hand, I'll use my crop!"

John nodded glumly. He had been looking forward to party only moments ago, and now he looked on it with dread.

Chapter Text

Mycroft tapped the arm of his chair nervously as he waited for Shezza to join him.

The party had been a success and he wanted to hear about what the former gang leader had thought of the attendees.

He didn't have to wait long before the young man let himself into the politician's office and then promptly threw himself into a nearby chair. Shezza grinned at him.

"I really must thank you for this. This has got to have been the most fun I've had in a long time."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Your evisceration of Mr Watson was particularly delightful. Speaking of whom, what did you think of him?"

"An easy read. He is, as you said, a bully. But one that is clearly losing control. He's afraid of something. Which makes him the least likely candidate for the source of your troubles. Also, that fear means that he won't do anything that might drive Miss Morstan running for the hills, so he'll dial back on the physical violence until after the wedding."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I got the same impression. And I think we have plenty of time; no date has been set for wedding, making it a safe bet that it will be some time in the far future."

"Indeed," Shezza agreed. "The fiancée was far more interesting. She is smitten with John and may be fast on falling in love with him. But I believe she also is aware of his proclivity toward his own sex."

"Fascinating. Do you think that would cause her to be dangerous?"

"Very. To anyone who wants John Watson; to the rest of the nation, not so much. She may look like a dainty flower, but her core is solid steel."

Mycroft nodded. "Were there any standouts among the guests that you think bear watching?"

"There were three that really struck me that require looking into further. I have already sent a message to the Irregulars to go digging into their past."

Mycroft was impressed. He didn't expect the younger man to take the initiative like that. He waved his hand for Shezza to continue.

"The first was Miss Irene Adler. I couldn't get a read on her at all. I was almost afraid I had lost the ability for a moment when she came up a big question mark. I picked a person at random and was relieved to know that I hadn't," Shezza muttered.

"Ah yes," Mycroft said. "She is an American opera diva trying to make it in London before trying her hand in Paris. She has ruffled quite a few feathers in town. Caused a fair amount of scandals, as well."

"But you will watch her, yes? She is too slippery an eel."

"Of course," the politician assured him.

"The next one is Sebastian Wilkes. He was talking to all the wrong people," Shezza said, shifting in his seat.

"What do you mean?"

"As the heir to one of the largest banking empires, you would expect him to hang around other rich people. Those who have made their money through investments and speculations, but instead he was chatting up people who, while they have substantial bank accounts, are more known for their influence than for their monetary value. People like Lady Westwood, Lord Smallwood and his wife, the Cartwrights. He was even seen chatting up Mr Watson at one point during the evening."

"You're right. That is unusual. Do you think he's the one?"

Shezza shrugged. "I think he bears a second look. He may be nothing more than a simple sycophant, but he may also be linked to the person causing the trouble."

"Agreed. Who is the last one?"

"Langdale Pike. He had been watching me the whole night, and not like others had. While their interest was written plainly – greed, lust, control – his wasn't any one of those things. It sent a chill up my spine whenever I felt his eyes on me." Shezza shivered. He did not have fond memories of that gaze.

Mycroft chuckled. "He's one of ours, actually. I will have to let him know that he needs to brush up on his subtlety."

Shezza's eyes went wide. "He's a spy?"

"He doesn't seem the type, does he? That's what makes him so good. He looks so lazy and indolent, but he is a panther waiting to strike."

Shezza huffed. "I suppose so." He was upset that he didn't peg Langdale Pike as a spy.

"Were those the only ones you spotted?" Mycroft asked with a smile.

"This time round. Your master manipulator might have not have been there or might have stayed out sight. After all, if this was easy, you would have figured it out months ago."

Mycroft blushed.

"Thank you."

John hated having to parade Miss Morstan around like some prized filly. He liked her well enough, but he needed a break. So, he was grateful when the men split up from the women after a particularly stressful dinner party at one of his father's friends.

He moved away from the older gentlemen and scanned the room, looking for a place he could hide from his father and just relax. He found one such spot but it was currently occupied. John wasn't sure if he was thrilled or upset to see that it had been filled by Sherlock Holmes.

Against his will, John found himself drawn to the small nook to which the younger Holmes had absconded. Sherlock looked up and smiled.

"Mr Watson," he purred. "Come to join me in hiding from well-meaning busybodies?"

John gulped. "Mr Holmes," he stuttered.

Sherlock smirked.

John looked over at his father and then back at the younger man, "Something like that. You don't mind if I share in your hiding spot, then?"

"Not at all. You are more than welcome to my nook."

"Would that make me the cranny?" Sherlock chuckled as John squeezed in next to him.

"This must be a nightmare for you," John muttered into the silence. "All this sudden attention after years of living in obscurity, to be thrust into the limelight."

Sherlock smiled warmly down at the blond. "It is different from the life I'm used to, but I believe it is worth it."

John's heart caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly. He blushed darkly. He didn't even know why he was blushing. There was nothing that indicated that he was what Mr Holmes thought was worth it.

But before he could ask, it was announced that it was time to join the ladies for card games.

John and Sherlock ended up at different tables, but John's seat afforded him a good view of Sherlock's profile.

His card partner and fiancée, Miss Morstan, would laugh every time he got caught out staring when it was supposed to be his turn.

He went home feeling distinctly out of sorts. He was worried that he was as fickle as a woman, switching his affections from Shezza to Sherlock in such a short time.  

Stamford chuckled as John sighed like some swooning maiden in a Byronic tale.

"So which pretty face has turned your mind tonight, Master John?" he asked as he drew John's bath.

John shook his head. "You just want a saucy tale to tell the maids."

Stamford laughed. "If I wanted a saucy tale, I'd pump Clara, your sister's lady, for stories."

John raised an eyebrow. "I can only imagine."

"So, come on then. Who's got your eye?" Stamford pressed, as he divested John of his jacket and waistcoat.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said, finally giving in. It wasn't as though he could talk about these things to anyone else.

"I hear he's quite the looker," Stamford said, as he continued to strip his master.

"Gorgeous. Brilliant. Legs that go for miles."

"Sounds you have a type."

"A 'type'? What do you mean?"

"I mean it sounds like you have a preference in the men you like."

"Oh." John looked up at his valet shyly, "You mean I'm not fickle?"

Stamford laughed. "Of course not. But at least this one's rich, eh?" Stamford winked and left John to his bath.

John stumbled through the front door and leaned heavily against the door frame, exhausted. His classes at the Society of the Apothecaries were getting more and more difficult and it was leaving him drained. He was glad he only had a year left.

He quickly straightened up when he saw the housekeeper hurrying toward him.

"John, sir!" she called out. "You've had a visitor while you were out." She held out the small silver dish she had with her. In its center was a calling card.

John picked it up and turned it over. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. He turned on his heel and quickly dashed up to his room, calling for his valet. The housekeeper smirked and walked off, feeling pleased with herself.

Stamford helped him into his favorite suit with his best top hat and gloves. He fiddled with his cravat as Stamford called a hansom cab. When the valet caught him at it, he slapped his wrist.

"Stop that!" Stamford admonished.

John jumped into the cab and told the cabbie the directions. His heart was racing as the cab weaved through London streets, the rattle of the cobblestone clattering beneath the wheels and hooves of the horse.

As he pulled up to the gated manor, he feared that he may have been a tad rash rushing over here. After all, his caller might still be out visiting. John looked up at the nameplate "Undershaw" with slight apprehension. But there was nothing for it. Surely the servants had seen him pull up and unless he wanted to be the talk of the town for coming to the house without even approaching the door, he'd best exit the cab.

He sighed and stepped out. He told the cab to wait for him and rang the bell. Upon being told his caller was in residence, he paid the cab, then turned to follow the maid through the gorgeous manor.

He was shown to the library and twisted his gloves in his hands nervously as the maid announced him to his host.

"Mr Watson!" Sherlock cried, jumping to his feet. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest."

John just smiled.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was surprised to see John so soon. According to Mycroft's man, Lestrade, convention dictated that John would not be coming until tomorrow morning at the earliest. So he had resigned himself to an evening of reading. And yet here was the man, clearly having rushed over after he got out of class, smiling at Sherlock as though he'd hung the moon.

John coughed discretely into his hand and Sherlock jerked awake. He had been staring at the young man for far too long. He rushed to clear off a chair for John to sit down. "Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink? I can ring the maid for tea."

John sat down in the newly cleared chair and smiled up at Sherlock. "Whiskey will be fine, if you have it."

Sherlock nodded and dashed over to a sideboard to pour them both a shot of whiskey. He walked back to John and handed him his glass before sitting across from him.

"I understood from your maid that you had classes today," Sherlock said after he took a sip of his drink.

"Yes, I'm nearing the end of my courses. I have a little less than a year until I get my physician's degree."

"Incredible," Sherlock said. "Are you going into any particular field?"

John nodded. "Surgery. Though if my father has his way, I'll never see the inside of an operating theatre."

"Why's that?"

"He finds it unbecoming for a son of his to be up to his elbows in blood and god knows what else. But it's better than listening to some heiress complain about fainting or her mother saying that she has for sure whatever the new illness of the week is." John shook his head.

It took all of Sherlock's resolve not to rant on about what he thought of that and John's father in general. Instead he smirked. "You don't seem to be a fan of your, or rather our, class."

"As a doctor, no. As a member of their class...still no."

That surprised a laugh out of Sherlock. "I'll admit I find all the posturing they do to be tedious."

"Do you miss it? Your old life, I mean," John asked.

Sherlock's eyes wrinkled and the smile slipped a little. "I miss the freedoms I had. I could go anywhere without the occasion being remarked upon. I could be friends with anyone without it being scrutinized. Do I really like the person or am I only getting close to them because I want something from them? It's enough to give a man a headache." Sherlock rubbed his temples.

John winced. He felt for Sherlock. He stood up and walked behind the young man. "Rubbing your temples actually does help with headaches if you do it in the right place," he told Sherlock. Taking Sherlock's hands, he moved them back and up. "Right...here." He applied a little pressure and Sherlock made a small gasping noise.

"That does feel better, thank you!"

But before John could move back to his seat, the door to the library opened to reveal two gentlemen dressed for a night out.

"Oh, Mr Watson," Mycroft said with surprise. "I didn't realize you were here." He looked back and forth between John and his brother. "The three of us were going to dinner."

Sherlock jumped up. "Oh, was that today? I had forgotten."

Mycroft nodded as John moved around to the front of the chair. "Where are my manners? Mr Watson, my friend, Langdale Pike; Mr Pike, this is Mr John Watson. Son of the head of the Society of Apothecaries, and soon to be a doctor in his own right."

The two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

Sherlock watched them a moment and said, "Would you care to join us, Mr Watson?"

John looked torn, but he shook his head. "I'll have to take a raincheck, I'm afraid. I have a test in the morning that I must study for. Thank you, though."

He shook hands again with Mr Pike and then shook hands with Mycroft. He turned to Sherlock and extended his hand; the young man took it. It lasted long than what was strictly necessary and they only let go when they were startled by a discrete cough. John looked at Sherlock a moment longer before taking his leave.

Langdale waited until he was out of earshot before proclaiming, "Gay!" to his friends.

As it was the social season, there were parties and outings of all kinds. Today it was the Royal Horticulture Show. Everyone who was anyone was there, either as a participant, like John's father in the medicinal portion of the show, or as a spectator.

John was looking for Miss Hawkins when he found her in a secluded corner of the show with Sherlock. From the looks of things, she was attempting the same seduction techniques she had tried on John, to similar affect.

He walked up to Sherlock and placed his hand on the small of his back. "There you are, Sherlock."

Miss Hawkins put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to tell John to bugger off, but the moment John touched Sherlock, he visibly relaxed and smiled down at the older man. Immediately she shut her mouth and her arms dropped her sides.

But she wasn't about to bow out gracefully, "How is your fiancée, Mr Watson?"

John bared his teeth in what could barely be called a smile. "She is doing well. In fact, she told me if I saw you, I should tell you that she is waiting for you by the lilies. Something about wanting your opinion."

Miss Hawkins flushed in irritation before she stormed off in a huff.

John turned back to Sherlock, "Come on, the Apothecary tent has a few plants that would interest you."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, as he let John lead him back to the main part of the show.

"Yes, I heard you had some curiosity about poisons. We always display them to let people know what to avoid."

"Belladonna?" Sherlock asked excitedly.

"Only the best for you," John agreed.

Mr Watson was looking at the meager crowd in front of his tent with dismay. He could see that the show was bustling with patrons, just not at his tent. He scowled deeply.

"Hello, Mr Watson," a smooth voice said into his ear. "Things don't seem to going as well for you this year."

Mr Watson whirled around to face Mr Holmes. "This is your doing!" he accused the civil servant.

Mycroft ignored him and merely inspected his nails for dirt, looking bored. "I may have let it slip at the latest meeting that Miss Watson was seen coming out of a whore house the other night. Whether she was a client or one of the wares is anybody's guess."

"Are you suggesting my daughter is a queer?" Mr Watson bellowed.

Mycroft looked him in the eye. "That or a whore. Though, I find it interesting that you would be more concerned that she might like women than if she were selling her body for money."

Mr Watson glowered and Mycroft smirked. "Good day, Mr Watson," the civil servant purred. And then with a smile and small salute with his umbrella, he leaned forward to whisper in the other man's ear, "This is just a small part of the havoc I can reap on your life. Do remember that, won't you?"

And with that he strolled off whistling and swinging his umbrella, vanishing into the crowd.

John and Sherlock were making their way through through the throng of people when they heard a plaintive cry.

"You there, excuse me," the voice said.

Both men turned to look and there, clutching a broken shoe, was a beautiful dark-haired young woman in a blood-red dress.

"Could you help me, please?" she asked sweetly.

John and Sherlock shared a glance, before the younger of the two sighed.

"You go," Sherlock said. "Your father will be waiting for you. I'll help her and then come meet you."

John turned to the young woman. "You'll be in good hands, then," he told her.

She simpered at him. "I don't doubt it."

John shifted uncomfortably for a moment before he left them alone.

He had been at the exhibition tent some time before Sherlock arrived with the young woman, who was clinging to his arm. It had taken them so long that Miss Hawkins had arrived with John's fiancée, Miss Morstan.

Sherlock introduced them all to the lady at his side. "This is Miss Irene Adler…"

The ladies curtsied and the men bowed. Miss Adler looked up at them through her eyelashes. "I'm so sorry it took us so long to get here, it was entirely my fault." She held up her ruined shoe. "I just kept stumbling and tripping. I was so grateful when Mr Holmes came along and offered to help me."

And a lance of jealousy sliced through John when she failed to mention that he had been there, too.

Sherlock sat her down and then had John lead him to the poisonous plants. John looked back at Miss Adler and she shot him a conceited smirk. John turned away, jealousy simmering in his chest. Once the men had gone, Miss Adler turned to Miss Hawkins.

"And that is how you seduce men, darling. Your blatant fumbling makes you as subtle as a bitch in heat."

Chapter Text

Miss Hawkins was furious. "First the younger Mr Watson comes barging in when I almost had him and then that…hussy comes along. She had the gall to tell me that I was being too over the top. Me? With her sitting there with a broken-heeled shoe, which I have no doubt she did herself."

Lord Milverton watched her pace back and forth. He sat in an armchair, legs crossed. His elbows were resting on the arms, his fingers tangled together in front of his chest. His face was a blank slate as she continued to rant about John Watson and Irene Adler.

She stopped and turned to him. "There was one consolation in this whole miserable scenario."

"And what's that, my dear?"

"He didn't seem interested in her at all. Once they got to the tent, he was eager to get away from her."

A grin spread over his face.

"I see."

Another ball, this time hosted by the Wilkes family. Miss Morstan was home sick and John had been stuck escorting his sister tonight.

She was even behaving at the moment, so John let his eyes wander. He would like to claim that he wasn't looking for anyone in particular, but he knew he was searching for that tall, dark-haired gentleman with pale eyes and high cheekbones.

He was so lost in his search that the jab to his ribs startled him. He turned a glare at Harriet.

"I know what you are doing, by the way," she sneered.

John scoffed.

"You're looking for that delectable Mr Holmes."

John rolled his eyes. "So, what if I was? It means nothing. Just looking for a friendly face."

"It means everything. Especially since he is more than 'friendly' to you. I'd even go so far as to say he fancies you." She opened her fan and hid her smirk, letting her eyes convey her disdain.

"As long as Father lives, I will do his bidding," John said and went back to scanning the room for the object of his affections.

There was a loud snap indicating that Harriet had closed her fan. He turned to her. "And it's not as though I'm the one sleeping through every whore house in the district."

"How dare you?" she screeched.

"Oh, I apologize. Every whore house in Town, then."

Harriet let out a wordless scream of rage.

He turned back to the crowd, "Just because Father refuses to see it doesn't mean the rest of us are that blind." He leaned his body close to hers. "Oh and you should probably be more discrete when trifling with your maid, Clara. The household staff knows, it's a miracle Father doesn't," John growled. "And that is just the lower class. Who knows how many wives and sisters you've trifled with in your own class."

Harriet stamped her foot and stormed off, leaving John to go back to his search in peace.

Sherlock was bored. He had had enough balls and parties to last a lifetime. Unfortunately he had been informed that there were two months more of this sort of thing.

He sighed dramatically. John hadn't arrived yet and Sherlock was going mad from the tedium. He'd even be grateful to see Mycroft at this point, but the civil servant had wandered off with Mr Pike once they got here. And thus he was left to his own devices.

Sherlock huffed out another sigh. He silently wished for a distraction. The one he got was the last one he would have expected. He raised an eyebrow as Sebastian Wilkes made his way to his corner.

"Mr Holmes," the banker's son greeted, fake smile plastered on his face.

"Mr Wilkes," Sherlock replied, letting surprise color his tone.

"I was made to understand that you don't remember much of your life before the accident–"

"I may not remember much, Mr Wilkes, but that was no accident. The murder of my mother and my attempted murder was very much a deliberate act." Sherlock practically spat the last word.

"My apologies. I was trying to be delicate," Mr Wilkes said, raising his hands in surrender.

"There is nothing delicate about murder."

"No, no, of course not. Anyway…" he went on about how they were such pals growing up and how it was such a pity Sherlock didn't remember those days, as Sebastian looked on them with such fondness. And how wished for them to be friends again.

The younger Holmes let him blather along in the overly ingratiating tone for a few moments before he interrupted. "You'll pardon me, Sebastian," Sherlock hissed. "I do recall that you were a bully, a sneak, and a thief." Sherlock got up in the other man's face. "And the incident with the cat was completely your fault, regardless of what lies you and your cronies spread, placing the blame at my feet. Good day, sir!" Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked off, radiating fury.

From the shadows Mycroft stepped out into the light, shock making his jaw go slack. While he had told Shezza that Sherlock had been bullied by some of the other boys in the neighborhood, he had left out the who and when.

As for the incident with the cat, he had been told about it by Mummy. Sherlock was about six when it happened. Mycroft had come home for the summer holidays to see their mother honestly yelling at Sherlock. He had asked her about it once Sherlock had been sent to bed without supper. According to the other boys, they had seen Sherlock nailing their elderly neighbor's prized sable Persian cat to the garden wall.

Mycroft didn't believe it, even though clearly Mummy had. He had always suspected the little Wilkes boy, who had a mean streak and had been caught on more than one occasion throwing rocks at the cat.

He hadn't told Shezza about it because Mycroft hadn't been there so he deemed it best left in the past. But judging from Mr Wilkes's reaction to the accusation just now, Mycroft could believe that maybe there was more to this Shezza than met the eye.

But one mustn't theorize without all the facts. And the facts are what Mycroft was good at.

John and Harriet had gotten home from the party late in the night and immediately sought their beds, their servants quickly and quietly divesting them of their finery and replacing it with their sleepwear.

John fell asleep to pleasant memories of the ball, only to be awakened a scant couple of hours later to screams. He threw on his robe and dashed into the hall, tying the sash tightly around his waist.

What he saw frightened him. His father had pulled out Harriet out of her bed by her hair and into the hall.

"You queer whore!" Mr Watson bellowed. "Have you no shame?"

He kicked her in the ribs, forcing Harriet to try and curl around them in pain, but the grip on her hair prevented her.

"Father!" she cried. "You're hurting me!"

He kicked her in the ribs a second time. "Shut up you whore!" He pulled her up so she vaguely faced him, looking up through the strands of her hair. "When Mr Holmes first told me about it, I couldn't believe it. Not my daughter." He struck her in the face with his free hand. "So I did my own research. Do you know what I found?"

Harriet whimpered and Mr Watson shook her so hard that John swore he heard her teeth rattle.

"Answer me!" Mr Watson screamed in her ear.

"What–what did you find, Father?" she sobbed.

"That he had undersold what a whore you really were. Not one brothel, not even two, but every whore house in the entire district!"

Harriet screamed as he dragged her to the stairs. Fearing for his sister's life, John raced to them. He grabbed his father's wrist and tried to turn him around.

"Stop!" he pleaded with his father.

Mr Watson dropped Harriet and she slumped to the floor in a heap. He turned on John.

"You want the same beating, boy?" he growled, advancing on his son.

"You leave her alone!" John snapped back. Mr Watson grabbed his collar and dragged him so they were inches apart.

"I've only left you alone because of that pretty fiancée of yours, but don't think I won't beat you within an inch of your life if you step a single toe out of line," he snarled. He pushed John away and then struck him so hard he stumbled to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and ran for his room.

"That's what I thought." John could hear the 'thump, thump' of his father dragging his sister down the stairs. John's eyes met Stamford's and the gentle valet nodded. The rotund young man made for the servants' stairs.

John started throwing on whatever clothes he could find, forgoing the cravat in his haste. His shirt was left mostly open as he pulled on his heavy coat. He peeked out of his room to make sure his father hadn't come back; seeing the coast was clear he made his own dash for the servants' stair.

From there he made his way through the kitchens to the outside, where Stamford was waiting for him. He stood next to John's horse, which was completely saddled and ready to go.

John mounted as Stamford held the beast steady.

"God speed, sir," Stamford said handing him the reins.

John nodded. "Go to the police, if you think they'll believe you. If you don't, head to Baker Street. Ask for Shinwell and Victor. Tell them Doc needs their help. Bring them back here through the servants' entrance. I pray that they have been released by now."

Stamford looked as though he wanted to protest, but nodded instead.

John spurred his horse forward, galloping down the drive to the street.

Chapter Text

As far as John was concerned, besides the Baker Street Irregulars, there was only one person he could trust. He spurred his horse on, its hooves clattering against the cobblestones as they raced through the dim lit London streets.

Once he got there, John practically threw himself from the saddle to the door. He pounded on the door, fear spiking in his chest. He hoped that someone was home.

The door opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes in nightcap and robe. The elder Holmes held up the candle he carried to see who was banging on his door so late at night.

"Mr Watson?" he queried.

"Please, I don't know who else to turn to," John pleaded.

Mycroft blinked. "Of course, come in. Come in."

John looked back at his horse.

"Leave it," Mycroft assured. "My man will tend to it."

John nodded and squeezed past the civil servant to the manor inside. Mycroft closed the door after looking out briefly.

"Lestrade," Mycroft said to the grey-haired man standing behind them, hovering on the bottom step. "Rouse Sherlock, Emily and Dawson. Dawson to tend to Mr Watson's horse, Emily to get him a glass of water, and Sherlock, well…" he turned to look at John, who blushed under the scrutiny. "I have no doubt, it is he that Mr Watson is really here to see."

Lestrade nodded and tore off. He didn't have to get Sherlock, for as he turned around, the younger Holmes was coming down the stairs, tying the sash of his robe. He took in the scene before him and then rushed to his friend's side.

"John!" he cried. "Are you all right?"

That simple concern undid John's control and he broke down sobbing. Sherlock and Mycroft led him to the study and had him sit down. The maid came a moment later with the water. Sherlock took it from her and gave it to John.

"Here," he said. "Drink it slowly."

Once John had emptied the cup, Sherlock took it and handed it back to the maid.

"Now, tell me, John," Sherlock prompted. "What's wrong?"

John explained what had happened. When he got to the part about his father hitting him, Sherlock ran a smooth finger over the darkening bruise. John blushed and stammered a bit before he could continue his story.

"Dear god, man," Mycroft admonished. "Why haven't you gone to the police?"

John shook his head. "If my father can get an entire gang arrested just for harboring me when I tried to run away before, there is nothing the police would do."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to Mycroft, but neither man said a word.

"I just hope that at least some of them have been released," John continued, unaware of the glance the men shared.

"Why's that?" Mycroft asked.

"I sent my man to them to get some muscle. And someone to patch her that isn't under my father's thumb."

Mike Stamford hated the dark and the cold, but he would do anything for his master. He remembered when the young man had come out to him that he was gay. It had been a bittersweet moment for the valet. On the one hand, he was glad that John had finally realized his attraction for the same sex, on the other he knew the boy's father would not take lightly to the fact his son was queer.

The whole household staff had taken to protecting the children from the master, but as years wore on, Harriet became increasingly harder to safeguard as her habits turned wild. John, on the other hand, they could keep out of harm's way for the most part. Until that fateful night when John was supposed to announce his bride.

Stamford fully believed that the master had learned that his son was gay and was trying to suppress it, and if that didn't work, beat it out of him. That's why the staff had tried to get him out. The attempt failed. But they didn't give up hope. Not yet.

In his haste to find this hideout John spoke about, he nearly tripped over a large bundle. He was about to hurry on his way when the bundle moaned. He looked down the alley and then back to bundle. He sighed and leaned down to see what the bundle was. It was a brown-haired girl. Her clothes used to be nice, but now they were covered with several months' worth of grime and dirt.

"Miss?" he asked, as he hunkered down. "Are you all right?"

She raised her head wearily. "I'm fine, sir." She looked him over. "What you doing in my neck of the woods?"

Stamford smiled at her. "I'm looking for some friends of my master. Maybe you know them, Victor and Shinwell of the Baker Street Irregulars?"

She nodded. "I'm familiar with them. I use to be one of their gang until I snitched on a young man in their care." She shook her head woefully.

Stamford frowned. "John Watson?"

"That's the one," she muttered. She looked up to see that he had stood up and was dusting off his hands. "He's the friend looking for them, huh?"

"Yes," Stamford said stiffly.

She looked down at her hands. "I could take you there, if you'd like. I know how to avoid the other gangs and the worst garbage."

"And why should I trust you?" he asked.

"Because I am a loyal Baker Street girl," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "I was jealous of the attention they were all giving John. Especially Shezza." She bowed her head. "I never meant for it to go as far as it did."

Stamford looked down the alley again. "Fine. I'm in a hurry. But if you betray me, girl, there will be no place in heaven or earth that will keep you safe, do I make myself clear?"

She nodded and dashed down the alley, Stamford close on her heels. She led him through some of the worst alleyways and streets he had ever seen, and if this was avoiding the most vile of places, then he was grateful. She stopped across the street and looked on forlornly at the house that used to be her home.

"This is as far as I go," she explained.

He turned to thank her, but she had already gone.

He sprinted across the street and knocked on the door, glancing nervously around him. A young Indian man answered the door.

"Maiṁ aṅgrējī nahīṁ bōlatā," he said in Hindi.

Stamford cursed and replied, "Maiṁ madada kī jarūrata hai kr̥payā."* He knew his accent was terrible and he probably said it wrong, but he hoped he got the message across.

"Jŏna nē mujhē bhējā. Usakī bahana kō cōṭa lagī hai."*

The man frowned at him and said stiffly, "Kyōṁ maiṁ tuma para viśvāsa karanā cāhi'ē?"*

Stamford threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "Because I'm the one who helped him escape in the first place!" he growled in exasperated English.

The man at the door looked him over, "You're Stamford?" he asked in perfect English.

"Yes!" he huffed. "He told me to ask for Shinwell and Victor."

"I'm Victor. Are you sure you were to ask for Shinwell and not Shezza?"

Stamford nodded. "I believe my master assumed that your leader would still be in prison, even if the rest of you were released."

"Ah," Victor said. "Wait here." He dashed inside and then came out with his bag and a large black man.

"Shinwell, Stamford." The two men nodded to each other, then they dashed off following Stamford back to the manor.

As they were hurrying along, Stamford asked, "Is Shezza still in prison?"

Victor and Shinwell shared a glance.

"Of sorts," Victor admitted.

John and Sherlock had ridden up to the house on the back of John's horse just as Stamford and the Baker Street Irregulars burst through an alleyway across from the drive.

Sherlock and Victor's eyes met and immediately Sherlock's hand went to his temple. He tapped once with his forefinger before sliding it down to rest on his chin. The Indian's eyebrows shot up in shock.

That was the signal for not revealing the person to a con mark. Sometimes the gang would run cons on unsuspecting old ladies for their pin money. While the gang could steal quite a lot of the things they needed, there were times when the cutpurse couldn't bring in enough money for the things they had to buy. What confused Victor was how John was a mark. He knew he was about to find out, however.

John dismounted and handed the reins to Sherlock. He walked up to the three men on foot. "Victor! Shinwell! You came!" He shook each of their hands effulgently.

Stamford took the opportunity to take the horse from a similarly dismounted Sherlock and let his master speak with his friends in private.

"Victor, Shinwell, this is my good friend, Sherlock Holmes. Mr Holmes, these men and their leader saved my life."

Everyone shook hands, though Shinwell looked uncomfortable.

John looked at Victor and said, his voice shaking, "Is he all right? I would have sent a note or something, but my father kept too close an eye on me."

"It wouldn't have done any good," Shinwell grumbled.

"I'm afraid that is so, sir," Stamford said as he was returning. "These gentlemen have informed me that their leader is still in prison."

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at Victor and the other man just shrugged.

"Of a sort," the Indian murmured.

"John," Sherlock interjected when it looked as though John was going to ask more questions. "We need to find your sister before irreparable harm comes to her."

"Of course," John replied. "Victor, Stamford, I need you to wait here for Mr Holmes's carriage. The elder Holmes is bringing it behind us. Victor, you will tend to her wounds, and Stamford will show you where to take her. I can't know, you understand?" The two men nodded.

"Sherlock, Shinwell, come with me," John said, his jaw set. "I'll need the muscle to aid me in her rescue."

John looked around at the men who looked to him for direction and realized that he didn't need his father for anything. He had friends. Real ones. He nodded resolutely and then turned to lead Shinwell and Sherlock into the house.

Chapter Text

John led them through the kitchen, but was stopped by Clara, Harriet's maid.

"Oh, sir," she cried. "He's taken her to his study and just asked for his belt."

John nodded. He had arrived just in time then. He led them down halls and up staircases, the soft pads of their feet muffled by the still air. He tore open the doors to the study and yelled, "Stop!"

Mr Watson turned to the shout, his arm raised, belt in hand ready to strike. Harriet lay on the floor sobbing. From what John could see, she wasn't bleeding, but heaven only knew what other kind of injuries she had.

Mr Watson frowned at the sight before him. His son had arrived with a large black thug and that Holmes boy.

"What's the matter, Johnny?" he sneered. "Couldn't dare to face me on your own?"

"I learned years ago I was never enough. And I know you've tried to isolate Harriet and me from the world, to keep us to yourself. Well, you failed on both accounts, didn't you?" John said as he strode into the room, Sherlock and Shinwell flanking him.

"I have Mr Holmes to stand as witness and Shinwell to ensure that you don't do something stupid."

Mr Watson scoffed. "And how is he going to do that?"

"Shinwell," John said ignoring his father. "Please take the lady to Mr Holmes's waiting carriage."

Shinwell stepped into the room and Mr Watson began wrapping the belt around his hand. The large man rolled his eyes and pulled out a pistol from the back of his waistband. He aimed it right between the eyes of Mr Watson, who wisely dropped the belt and held up his hands in surrender.

Sherlock came up and took the gun from the gang member, keeping it trained on the master of the house. He jerked his head in the direction of one of the chairs, indicating that Mr Watson should sit down.

"If you would sit down," Sherlock said. "Please," he added when the older man refused to move.

Mr Watson moved to the chair and sat.

Shinwell scooped up Harriet.

"You can take the whore anywhere you want, but I'll find her. She is my daughter. You can't keep her from me," Mr Watson said with a sneer.

"Actually, he can," Mycroft said as he glided into the room, oozing confidence. "Especially since he has no idea where she is being taken to. And for that matter, neither do I." He turned to the gang member. "My carriage is ready, Mr Johnson. If you'd be so kind."

Shinwell nodded and walked out with his precious burden.

"What do you mean you don't know where she is being taken?" Mr Watson asked, confusion furrowing his brow.

"She is now is under the protection of the Baker Street Irregulars and will be taken to one of their safe houses."

Mr Watson scoffed. "Those idiots? I had them all arrested."

Sherlock growled and tightened his grip on the gun.

"Actually, Harrison," Mycroft purred. "You'll find that they are very much not in prison."

John frowned. "What about Shezza? I thought they said he was still in prison."

Mycroft looked at John, his expression carefully blank, "Did they? They would know more than I."

But before John could ask more questions, Mycroft turned to Mr Watson, who was scowling in confusion.

"You have brought swift destruction upon yourself. When I told you of your daughter's habits, I had no idea of you taking them this way. I never thought you would deign to hit a woman."

"My swift destruction? By you?" Mr Watson asked.

"Of course by me. I have had this planned for a long, long time. I saw your pettiness and anger even as a boy. I watched as you fooled around while your own wife withered away to nothing. I watched as you grew more and more violent. You beat your servants; it was only a matter of time before you turned to your son. And when I heard that John had taken "ill", I knew. Oh, did I know."

Mycroft leaned down and hissed, "I do not like bullies, Mr Watson, and you are one of the worst I have ever come across."

Mr Watson jumped up and would have hit Mycroft had Sherlock not coughed. He looked at the younger Holmes and gulped when he saw the barrel of the pistol a mere hair's breadth away from his head.

"You lay a single finger on his head, Mr Watson, and I will not hesitate to pull the trigger, I assure you," Sherlock snarled.

Mr Watson sat down.

"Far too long," Mycroft continued unperturbed, "the people of this town have allowed you to continue on, seeking to curry favor with you. But no longer. You have lost your family. You will lose your position. Everything that you hold dear will be gone and you will waste away in this empire of dirt, surrounded by your possessions."

He turned and walked away. "Come along, Sherlock. John. We're leaving."

The two men nodded and followed Mycroft to the door. Mycroft let them leave and then like a flash of lightning he was leaning over Mr Watson, their faces so close their air mingled together.

"I know your secret, Mr Watson. I know what you did. To your wife and to my family. And I won't let you get away with it any longer."

"You have no proof," Mr Watson growled.

"You keep on thinking that."

Mycroft slipped out the door.

Sebastian fidgeted as he sat across from the person pulling his marionette strings. He had wracked up so many gambling debts that the one he referred to in his head as the Snake was blackmailing him. Sebastian wished the Snake would leave him alone. He knew he had paid off his debts months ago, but still this creature refused to let him go.

"There is one last thing I need you to do, and then I'll release you," the Snake said.

Sebastian sighed in relief. This is was it. And then he would finally be free. A box was slid across the desk between them, and he took the box with shaking hands and lifted the lid.

He shut it quickly and moaned. "You can't be serious?"

"I can and I am, Mr Wilkes. You will do this or your indiscretions will be the front page of the financial news tomorrow."

"I can't–I–" he stammered. He had to. There was no other choice. "Yes, fine."

"Good. Your instructions are in the box as well. Do this right and I will even make sure that your father places you as vice president of his company by the end of the year," the Snake informed him.

"You'd do that?"

"Of course. Provided you do it right."

"Yes, yes."

Sebastian hurried off.

Putting fingers to lips, the Snake smiled. "Yes, do this right and all my opposition will be swept out of the way and London will only be the first step to total control."

Miss Adler sat in her dressing room, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. She had paid many calls to the younger Holmes brother and he didn't have any interest in her whatsoever. Once she had even fainted on him and still nothing. In fact he seemed more annoyed than concerned. She had had several offers to be her lover, from men and women alike. But none were like Sherlock Holmes.

He was intelligent, and gorgeous. Those cheekbones. She wanted to taste them. She wanted to put him on the mantel of her past lovers. In the center, of course. He would be her finest trophy. Her greatest accomplishment. But still he pulled away.

She was beginning to think he was out of her reach.

There was a knock on her door and then her maid, Kate came in. "Miss?"

"Yes, Kate?"

"You know how you told me to tell if anything happens at the Holmes's manor?"

"Of course."

"John Watson was seen tearing up to the house on horseback in the early hours of the morning. Soon after the younger Holmes joined John Watson on the horse heading back to his own manor. Then the elder Mr Holmes pulled away in the carriage."

Miss Adler blinked. "That is interesting indeed."

"What are you going to do about it, Miss?"

"I'm not sure. I think I'll need help."

"Not him, miss," Kate shuddered. "He frightens me."

Miss Adler grinned. "He's supposed to."

"Hello, darling," Jim purred in Molly's ear. She shrieked.

"Jim!" Molly said as she whirled around.

"Miss me?" He leaned into her space and nuzzled her neck. She tried to push him off, but he remained unfazed by her efforts. "I missed you. No one screams like you do. My Sebby comes close, but there is nothing quite like your breathless screams of pleasure."

Molly closed her eyes. "You used me," she whimpered.

"I use everyone, darling. You are no different."

He began kissing up her neck and then nibbled on her ear. "You have been a bad girl."

"I don't know what you mean, Jim," she said, as she continued to struggle uselessly.

"Bringing strangers into our territory, tsk, tsk."

"I avoid your territory."

"Hmmm..." he said and ran his hand up her leg. "We'll see about that."

He pushed her away, and she stumbled back, hitting the ground.

"I've got a letter for you to deliver. Now be a good girl and run along."

She nodded, taking the letter and running off.

"Don't deviate, love. Or I'll skin you," he called after her.

She clutched the letter to her chest, tears running down her face as his laughter followed her.

Chapter Text

It took Sherlock three days to convince John to leave his father's house. Mr Watson had spent the whole time holed up in his room, but that did nothing to soothe Sherlock's nerves. But he finally managed it, and even offered John the use of Undershaw until John could find his own lodgings.

Though Sherlock secretly hoped that John would stay forever.

John had settled into his new home with Stamford in tow. Even Clara had been sent away from the Watson estate, in case Mr Watson tried to take out his anger on his daughter's maid.

Once there was no sign that Mr Watson had had them followed, Stamford took John to see his sister. John dressed down in clothes similar to what he wore the night he had run away from home and was blindfolded. John chuckled as he was led down several alleys, thinking all the while that had this been Sherlock, the blindfold wouldn’t have done a damn thing.

John was surprised when his blindfold was removed and he found himself standing in the neat cottage of Stamford’s sister, Elizabeth. There were children running around, so many and they moving so fast that John couldn’t tell exactly how many there were. What he could see was that their mixed heritage was clearly stamped on their features. Their skin was a dusky brown as opposed to their father’s darker hues. Their hair more brown than black and their chins more rounded.

The lady of the house herself was a plump, pretty sort with sparkling blue eyes and a bright smile. Her husband had an open air to him that immediately endeared him to John. He felt so relaxed here.

“Mike!” Elizabeth called when they came in. She hugged her brother.

“Hey, Lizzy,” Stamford greeted. “This is John.”

She hugged him. “You were so brave,” she murmured in his ear. He blushed.

“I don’t feel brave,” John admitted.

“Which makes it even more so,” she said and took his hand. “Come meet my husband. Your sister will be here in a moment, she’s out in the garden with Alice.”

John nodded and let her lead him to the man who was sitting in the tattered armchair reading the paper.

“John, this my husband, Jai Tiwari. Jai, this Harry’s brother,” she introduced.

John reached out his hand and Jai took it in a firm grip. They pumped once and let go. Yes, John was very much liking this place.

“John!” someone cried from behind him. He turned just in time to get an armful of his sister.

“Harriet,” John breathed. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” He pulled her to arm’s length and was surprised. Bruises notwithstanding, this was a very different Harriet Watson than he was used to seeing.

Her were eyes clear, not the bleary, hazy look of someone who had been out too late drinking. Her sunken face was starting to show signs of recovery. She held herself like she was proud to be who she was.

He hugged her again. She dragged him to meet her new friend, Alice. Alice Tiwari was plain girl of only fifteen, but she held herself like someone wise beyond her years.

John had a very pleasant afternoon and was sad to go, and only the thought of seeing Sherlock again saved him from something like regret. As he was getting up to leave, Harriet pulled him aside.

“I want to apologize, John–” she began but John held up his hand.

“Nothing to apologize for, Harriet,” he said, sternly.

“But–”

John shook his head. “We each had our own coping mechanisms and that was yours. I can forgive you for something you did to protect yourself. It’s over with now.”

She nodded and they hugged one more time.

“Bye, Harriet.”

“Bye, John.”

Molly stood shivering in the foyer of a grand flat, waiting for the lady to come. The lady made her wait nearly an hour before she led the shivering girl to the sitting room. Not that either of them sat down.

The lady was tall and statuesque, her dark hair swept away from her narrow face. She wore a green dress so lacy that when she moved, Molly swore it was sheer.

The lady took the letter from Molly and read it before tossing it into the fire. Molly fought the urge to run to the fire to save it.

The lady’s face twisted into a sneer. “Did you think that I would give it back to you, little mouse?”

Molly ducked her head. She had hoped that the lady would write her reply on the note and give it back to her so she could read what they both had to say. But the lady was far cleverer than she thought. She was almost as clever as Jim or Sherlock.

“You’ve got guts, girl. I’ll give you that. But I can’t let it get out that I traffic with certain...miscreants. Especially one as ruthless as Jim.”

The lady ran a red fingernail down Molly’s cheek, causing the girl to flinch. “And no one will believe a street rat like you. Especially after your little betrayal.”

Molly tried to pull away, but the lady grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at her. “That’s right. I know all about you. He told me that you would be a good little fuck. Quite the screamer. I’d love to find out.”

Molly spat in her face, causing the lady to jerk away. The lady wiped her face and then slapped Molly as hard as she could.

“Out!”

Molly ran, eager to get away. As she reached the door she heard the maid call the lady Miss Adler. Molly rubbed her cheek. Adler my arse, she groused. More like adder. Bitch!

She saw Hope waiting for her across the street, having followed her on Moriarty’s orders. She made a rude gesture and he bowed ironically, taking off his hat to her. He slipped into the shadows and Molly spat on the ground.

John was at yet another ball, only unlike the last time, Mary was with him. Silently he seethed. He wanted to spend the night holed up in a corner with Sherlock, talking. But no, he had to play escort to a woman his father had set him up with.

John was growing tired of her endless chatter. He knew she was only worried about him and what happened between him and his father, but he didn’t need her pity. He had visited her the day after the incident and had also informed her in a missive that he was safe and staying with the Holmes brothers, but this didn’t seem to soothe her nerves. Instead it seemed to have inflamed them.

He scanned the room and his eyes lit on his father, who jerked his head to the side. John nodded. It was time to have this out. He moved to follow his father, but Mary stalled him with a touch on his arm.

“Be careful, John.”

He nodded, and then when he saw his father was headed to the billiard room, his eyes sought Sherlock. Like his father just moments before, he indicated that Sherlock follow him. Sherlock nodded, but stayed back where Mr Watson couldn’t see him.

John slipped into the billiard room to see his father pacing the floor like a caged tiger. John watched him a moment before speaking up.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

Mr Watson growled. “Don’t sass me, I’m still your father, boy.”

John laughed.

“No, you’re a bitter old man who is losing his grip on everything you supposedly hold dear.”

Mr Watson raised his hand but John didn’t even flinch.

“That bitch has ruined you,” Mr Watson snarled.

“Miss Morstan?” John asked incredulously. “Oh god no. Father, I hate to break it to you, but you have not one, but two queer children.” John leaned in close. “Do you want to know what gets my blood going? It’s not soft breasts and wide hips, no. It’s strong chests and long, hard, throbbing cocks.”

“Like hell!” Mr Watson snarled.

"In fact, I intend to break my engagement to Miss Morstan as soon as I can."

Mr Watson grabbed John's arm but the younger man shook him off.

“You can’t do that,” Mr Watson protested. “I’ll disown you. You won’t get a single cent.”

John shook his head. “Go ahead. I couldn’t care less. I’m living with the Holmeses, I think I’ll come out on top. Probably better, if I’m honest.” John turned on his heel and walked out into the hall where Sherlock had been anxiously waiting.

“Did he hurt you?” Sherlock asked as he looked his friend over.

John shook his head. “He tried.”

Sherlock let out a gusty sigh of relief and they went back to the ball where John danced a couple of dances with Miss Morstan.

But as pretty as his partner was, he just wanted to be in Sherlock’s company, so after the third or fourth dance since his talk with his father, John sought out the tall young man. After looking in a few places, John found his friend in the library.

“What is about you and libraries?” he asked as he walked up to Sherlock, who was glancing at the titles on one of the shelves.

The dark-haired young man smiled at him.

“They are quiet, contemplative places of knowledge. And they don’t trod on your toes.”

John winced. “I saw that. I swear on my life I have never seen anyone dance as ill as Miss Hunter.”

“Quite. Her mind is best suited to more intellectual pursuits.” Sherlock looked down at blond young man and said, “Dance with me, John.”

John looked up into those crystalline eyes and nodded.

There was no music to be had but it didn’t matter to them. The music was in their hearts as Sherlock led.

John wasn’t sure how long they had been dancing, but suddenly he noticed that he and Sherlock were now very close. All it would take was small stumble on John’s part and they would be chest to chest.

“John...” Sherlock breathed and then their lips were touching. But before John could deepen the kiss, a cry was heard out in the hall.

They dashed out and saw a maid screaming over the fallen body of Mr Harrison Watson. John rushed to his father’s side and checked for a pulse. By the time he was done, he had acquired an audience.

One that gasped at his pronouncement.

“He’s dead.”

Chapter Text

John stood up and wiped his hands on the front of his trousers nervously. He had hated his father for so long, he couldn't recall a time when or if he had ever loved him. But this? This was not how he wanted to see his father go.

It wasn't something he had actually thought of, but he never imagined anything like this. Harrison Watson had been a man great stature, and seeing him slumped on the floor, foam oozing out of his mouth in the entrance hall of his good friend Mr. James Winston, made even John sorrow at his death. No one needed to die like that, now as if on display to curious guests.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he began examining the body while John looked on in stunned silence. The crowd twittered in curiosity as they watched this young man bounce to and fro as he examined the eyes, his fingernails, his clothes.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, stepping out from the crowd.

"I need to check the billiard room!" the young man cried out and dashed to a door on the right.

John and Mycroft were fast on his heels and stood at the door. They watched as he did a similar dance in the room as he had with the body. Bobbing and weaving about as he examined everything.

Finally he popped up from behind the billiard table. "Ah ha!" he shouted and held up a small glass. He smelled it and then ran his tongue over the edge. He spat it out a mere second later.

"It's poisoned."

"And you licked it?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock just grinned.

“How do you know it was his, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked with the air of a teacher directing a prized pupil.

“There is another glass next to it. As everyone knows, Mr Winston likes a nightcap with his son in the evenings so there are always two glasses set out. And as the other glass is unused, and seeing as the remaining glass isn’t next to its brother, that means that this is the missing glass.” He held up the poisoned glass.

“Still could be anyone’s,” Mycroft drawled.

“Ah, but the evidence of the poison in the glass, plus the path of the carnage Mr Watson created as he tried to get help, suggests the glass is his.” Sherlock flashed a triumphant smile.

“Explain,” Mycroft prompted.

“He poured the drink and after taking a sip from the glass, immediately sensed something was wrong. He scrambled away from the sideboard, dropping the glass to the floor. In his rush to get to the door, he kicked the glass. You can see the stain starting from where the glass spilled its remaining liquid and if you follow the droplets you can see where it landed under the billiard table. He scratched at the door trying to wrench it open, but by then he was losing control of his limbs. But he did manage to get it open and stumble into the hall, where the poison finally overtook Mr Watson, and he died.”

“Brilliant,” John breathed. Sherlock blushed.

“What else, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“It was a powder. The murderer coated both glasses with a fine dusting of the poison because he wasn’t sure which glass Mr Watson would use. But he was sure that a second glass wouldn’t be poured for him, suggesting that he knew Mr Watson would see him as inferior and not offer him one.”

“You keep saying ‘he’,” John said. “How do you know it’s a man?”

Sherlock grinned. “A woman would have been remarked upon entering the billiard room. And as no one has mentioned such a thing, the reasonable conclusion is that the murderer is male.”

John blinked. “Amazing.”

Sherlock looked him in the eye and cocked his head to the side. “Do you know you do that out loud?”

Mycroft snickered as John blushed.

“Sorry, I’ll stop.”

“No, it’s...fine,” Sherlock said.

“So what do we know about the murderer other than he’s male, Sherlock?” Mycroft urged.

“It was someone Mr Watson trusted. Or at least someone so unremarkable as to be underestimated. A young man. Not a peer. Because even if it was a man Mr Watson’s age, but of lower stature, he still would have poured a second drink. Ergo, a younger man. Definitely someone here at the party and not someone who came to the house for a meeting.”

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock and nodded for him to continue. But before he could inhale the breath to speak, someone grabbed John from behind and dragged him back into the hallway.

“Here’s your murderer!” the man called as he threw John to ground in front of the crowd.

“Mr Cartwright, if you please!” Mycroft implored.

“A young man that Mr Watson trusted? Look no further than his own son. Spreading lies about abuse and drunk behavior? Abandoning his father after his sister ran away with some whore? The rakish behavior with the youngest Holmes brother? What did he do, boy? Threaten to cut you off for cheating on your fiancée?”

John stood up and looked his accuser square in the face. “My sister did not run away with a whore. I sent her away to someplace safe after my father nearly beat her to death upon learning she was gay. And this is what he did to me when I tried to stop him,” John said as he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve. The crowd gasped. “I have the Messrs Holmes as witnesses, if you doubt me further. I went to them for aid when it became clear that I alone wouldn’t be able to stop him. They took me in when I had no other place to go. My sister is safe because of them.”

“Further motive,” Mr Cartwright sneered. “I noticed you skirted the issue about cheating on your fiancée.”

John lifted his chin. “I have never cheated on my fiancée. Not ever. And certainly not when I was living my father. But I did not murder my father. If you must know, I was in the library with Sherlock Holmes.”

All the heads turned to Sherlock and the young man blushed. “John Watson is a good and honorable man. He would never do this. And he was with me in the library. I’m not used to so many parties. I lived a quiet life in obscurity before Mycroft found me, and sometimes it gets to be too much. Mr Watson was merely checking up on me after I left the dancing hall.”

“How do I know that you aren’t lying to protect him?” the man snarled.

“Mr Cartwright, you have gone far enough, I will not have you call my brother a liar,” Mycroft huffed.

“Don’t you go sticking your nose into this, Mr Holmes. We all know you have a soft spot for your long-lost brother. You are in no position for protestation.”

“I can attest that Mr Watson was in the library,” a small voice said from the back of the crowd. The curtain of people parted to reveal a distraught-looking Miss Morstan.

“My dear lady,” Mr Cartwright began, but Miss Morstan cut him off.

“I followed him out of the ballroom and into the hall. I watched as he checked a couple of the rooms before settling on the library. He didn’t go near the billiard room,” she said, her tone dull as if she were reciting her French lessons.

John was torn between elation and despair. Elation, because she had confirmed his whereabouts, and despair because she had been following him. How long had she been doing that, he wondered. Was it merely her concern for him after the incident with her father, or was it something she had done before?

She avoided his eye and despair washed over the feeling of elation. He closed his eyes.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Morstan,” Mycroft said into the silence that had descended on the party. “Having two witnesses to his whereabouts absolves Mr Watson in the death of his father.” He pointed to the servant. “You there, boy. Go and get a constable. I’m afraid in the spectacle of watching my brother work out the fact that the late Mr Watson’s death wasn’t an accident, we have forgotten to ring for the police.”

The manservant dashed off and there was a scoff from the crowd.

“What the hell gives you the right to order my manservant around, Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft spun on his heel and glared at the man in question. “A great deal, considering your refusal to do so, Mr Winston.”

The master of the house glowered at Mycroft, but offered no rebuttal. The guests were ushered back into the ballroom while they waited for the police. Mycroft and Sherlock convinced the detective, an Inspector Abernathy, that they should be allowed in on the interviews. They would even offer up their testimonies first. Abernathy agreed.

Lord Milverton was slimy and smug, but he had been talking to several of his peers about the coming elections. Mycroft didn’t like the look on his face when he mentioned that fact. There was something self-satisfied in that grin. But Mycroft couldn’t quite place his finger on why.

Irene Adler was simpering and vague, but a maid had seen her with a high-ranking government official. Miss Adler had raised an eyebrow and cocked her head with a smirk when they figured out what she had been doing with said official. The man was married and it would have caused quite the scandal had Mr Watson not been murdered.

Poor Miss Janine Hawkins was a wreck. She had spent most of the interview sobbing. She wouldn’t say much, but from what she did say, it was clear that she hadn’t committed the murder. Several people had seen her trying to hit on the servant in charge of the food buffet.

Mary Morstan had earned the suspicion of the Inspector. Standing outside the library waiting for her fiancé to emerge was not a good alibi, and the fact that she hadn’t seen anyone else in the hall did not endear her to the police officer. In fact, Inspector Abernathy was quite keen on hauling her into the Yard for further questioning, but Sherlock begged him to finish the rest of the interviews, as he was certain it was a man and not a woman. It took some work, but eventually the Inspector agreed.

Then there came Sebastian Wilkes. His swagger matched Lord Milverton’s. Firm in the belief that he had this in the bag. Sherlock’s eyes swept over the young man’s form. Immediately he noticed the splash of whiskey on his trouser leg, and the trace of white powder on the sleeve.

He looked at Mycroft, who nodded. Yes, he’d seen the same thing. They started asking him questions, pressing him further. Inspector Abernathy grew weary the more they plied Mr Wilkes, oftentimes repeating questions.

Finally Abernathy had had enough of their constant repetition and pulled the two men out into the hall. He demanded to know what the hell they were thinking that a man like Sebastian Wilkes could have done the murder. The argument had begun to get heated when a shot rang out.

Chapter Text

Sherlock and Mycroft shared a glance with each other and then dashed back into the study, Inspector Abernathy close on their heels. They saw a small pistol on the floor that for some reason they couldn't fathom in that moment, Sebastian had brought with him to the ball. They weren't even sure where the man had kept it during the interrogation. But he had put it to use. He was lying on the floor, a small hole in the side of his head, black powder marks dusting the entry. His eyes were staring wide at the ceiling, the gun on the floor by his side. It was clear that Sebastian Wilkes had ended his life.

Sherlock slumped against the doorframe. "Now we'll never know for sure if he was the murderer," he whined.

Mycroft strolled into the room and picked up a small piece of paper from the desk. He unfolded it slowly and a single eyebrow arched.

"Apparently not, brother dear," he said and held it out to Sherlock.

The young man strode over and plucked it none too gently from his brother's grasp. Mycroft's answering smile was bemused.

"He admits to the murder," Sherlock told the inspector. "I'm not sure what it is, but something feels off."

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. He turned to the Inspector, who had snatched the note from Sherlock. "Would it be all right, Inspector, if I copied the letter for further perusal later?"

Inspector Abernathy just shrugged. "I don't see the harm," he said. He looked from the note to the dead body. "Christ, was it really him? Why would he kill someone so wholly unconnected to him?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Indeed. That is a true mystery."

The guests watched as both bodies were taken away. The elder Mr Wilkes cried out when his son's covered body was carried out of the house. He had to be restrained as he tried to run to his boy. And then those holding him back suddenly had to hold him up as his body gave way under the grief.

"No!" Mr Wilkes screamed. "My beautiful boy, no!"

John in contrast looked on in stoic silence as his father's covered form made its way from the house to mortician's wagon. He thought his life had been in disarray before; it wouldn't even hold a candle to the chaos that was about to descend on him. He was now master of the Watson estate.

John had spoken with his professors and they had given him a week to get his father's affairs in order. And after three days, he decided it would take a year to wade through this mess. At least, if he did himself.

He called in the cavalry. He called in his father's solicitor and his accountant, Messrs Croup and Vandermar. Within moments of seeing each other, they descended into puerile bickering and arguing. It took John less than two hours before he called in the man who could herd cats with a single look. Mycroft Holmes.

The elder Holmes arrived in good time, strolling in with a smile. "Go home, John. I'll take care of this."

John opened his mouth to protest. This was his responsibility. But Mycroft raised a hand to stall him. "Sherlock is expecting you."

And all protests melted away. Mycroft would make sure his interests were looked after and he could spend an uninterrupted day with Sherlock. They hadn't seen much of each these last few days. Either Sherlock was holed up in Mycroft's office trying to understand Sebastian Wilkes's motive for killing John's father or John was at Watson Manor sorting out his father's estate. John was desperate for an hour in the man's company.

They all needed a change in scenery.

"Ah, Miss Morstan," Sherlock said as he stood up to greet her. "I'm afraid Mr Watson hasn't returned for the day as of yet. Would you like come back later or would you prefer to wait?"

"I'm here to see you, actually," she replied. Sherlock's eyes danced over her. Everything screamed distraught. The way she clutched her bag, the way her hair seemed to fly about her head.

"I see, may I offer you a drink?" Sherlock asked, turning around to the cabinet where they kept the liquor. He knew she was here to confront him about John and was hoping that a drink might calm her nerves. He froze when he heard the tell-tale sound of a gun being cocked. He cursed himself. This life was making him soft. Out on the street he knew better than to turn his back on an enemy.

He held up his hands and slowly turned around. Sure enough, Miss Morstan was holding a small pistol which she must have brought in her bag. The bag was on the floor at her feet.

"I want him back. You took him from me!" she screamed.

"Miss Morstan, please," he said, knowing full well what she was talking about.

"You and your mighty family coming in and sweeping my John off his feet. And that little lie he told about not cheating on me. Oh how I could have laughed." She made a sound that Sherlock supposed was a laugh, but it was a bitter, hollow noise. "I didn't just follow him into the hall, I saw everything. That little dance between the two of you, heard that breathy way you said his name. The kiss."

Sherlock had closed his eyes by this point, but when he heard a gasp they flew open to reveal a stunned John Watson at the door.

"No!" Mary screamed. "You aren't supposed to be here!"

John turned to Mary. Her hands shook, but her aim never wavered from Sherlock's chest.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"John-" she began, but let out a wordless scream of rage when Sherlock moved to step closer to John. "Get away from him, you can't take him from me!"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Both John and Sherlock didn't dare move as they watched the tears stream down her face.

John sighed. "I should have done this before. I should have taken the time to tell you. I thought I would have the time after I set my father's affairs in order. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "You are a wonderful woman, but I don't love you. Not like I love Sherlock."

"You didn't give us the chance!" she screeched. "Just- just give me a chance. You will learn to love me..."

John closed his eyes and opened them slowly. "Please, Mary, don't do this. There is nothing you could do that would change how I feel- about you, about Sherlock."

"No," Mary whimpered. "You are mine. He- your father, he gave you to me."

"Mary, I'm gay, I'm attracted to men. My father knew that. And he still tried to make me marry someone I could never love."

"You can't be gay, John, no..." she wailed. "Louise- Miss Mortimer explained it. You like both. You can like both. YOU HAVE TO!"

"I know, I do know. But I'm not one of them. It's always been men for me. I can't change who I am. I never wanted to hurt you."

Mary began to sob in earnest, but she never wavered from her purpose.

"I like you. I really do," John said. He looked over at Sherlock. The young man had been slowly moving toward John and in her distress, her body clocked the movement, following him with the gun leveled at his chest, even if her mind hadn't picked up on it yet. He was now almost close enough to touch. So John took a step forward.

"You're a sweet girl," John continued. "I really liked talking with you. But you can't do this; hurting him won't make me love you."

He took another step forward. "But if it wasn't him, it would be someone else. Another man. My father forced this on me. I would have been faithful. But I wouldn't have been happy." He continued moving forward until he completely blocked her line of sight to Sherlock.

"John, move!" she cried.

"I can't do that. This isn't right. Killing him won't make me love you," John implored. "You know that. Deep inside you know that. Please-" he reached for the gun.

Mary let out a wail of despair and sank to her knees. John lunged forward and took the gun from her limp grasp. He handed it to Sherlock, who immediately unloaded it.

"I don't want to be alone," she sobbed.

"You have friends, Mary," Sherlock said gently. She looked up at him. "You don't need a husband to be happy."

John smiled up at Sherlock and then looked back to Mary.

"You are a woman of means," John said. " You can do anything, go anywhere. Travel, see the world."

Mary looked up at John, uncomprehending. "I can do whatever I want?" her voice was rough with emotion.

"Yes, Mary," John agreed. "Anywhere in the world you want to go. Take a friend."

"I-" she stopped and cleared her throat. "I don't need a husband to travel?"

"God no," Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh."

John helped her stand.

"Send for Miss Mortimer," John instructed Sherlock. He nodded and left them alone.

"Do you really love him?" she asked as John led her to a chair.

"Yes, I really do," John admitted.

"Will you marry him?"

John paused. "I think I'd like to."

"Does he make you happy?"

"Mary..."

"No, John. I need to know," she said.

"Yes, yes, he does. More than anything."

"Good."

Within the hour, Miss Mortimer had came collected Miss Morstan. John flopped down on the chair the lady had so recently vacated with an elongated sigh.

"Christ!" he exclaimed as Sherlock handed him a stiff drink. "Life just seems to be out to get me these days. First my father beats the living daylights out of my sister. Then the old devil goes and gets himself murdered, and now this!" He threw his arms wide, causing his drink to slosh a little in the glass.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Thank god for you."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I haven't done anything," he protested.

"You've been there for me, and I am grateful."

Chapter Text

Later that night, Mycroft and Sherlock retreated into the study. They were still no closer to a reason why Sebastian Wilkes would poison Harrison Watson and then turn a gun on himself. They were on their last tether, ready to give up for the night when John came in to bid Sherlock good night.

As he neared Sherlock he spotted something on the table. Mycroft and Sherlock sprang to their feet to stop him from picking it up, but they were too late. John was already reading it.

"Is this Sebastian's suicide note?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Oh," John said dully. "It just doesn't look like his handwriting."

Mycroft's head rocked back in shock. "Are you sure, John?"

The blond man nodded. Sherlock plucked the note from his fingers and started to scan it.

John shook his head. "After spending those three days going through my father's papers, I have actually read a lot of letters from Sebastian Wilkes."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "What would a banker's son want with the head of the Apothecaries?"

"It looked like a lot banking stuff. And it was all about the Apothecaries, too. Nothing about personal loans or anything of that nature."

"I see, and you're sure this isn't his normal handwriting?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

"Give it here, Sherlock," Mycroft requested. "If John can recognize it after seeing it for three days, I can after today."

Sherlock begrudgingly handed it over to the elder Holmes brother. Mycroft's eyes darted over the page, Sherlock looking over his shoulder.

"It's code!" they said together.

" I aM sorry that I kIlled Mr Watson. DeVil, though hE may be, he didn't deseRve to go That way, pOisoned aNd gaspIng for hIs laSt breath.

I beg thE family's forgiVeness. I wIsh them every goodness left in this worLd.

I have no hope left for me. I know what awaits me now that I have failed.

Farewell,

Sebastian Wilkes"

"Go ahead, Sherlock," Mycorft prompted. "What does it say?"

"M-I-L-V-E-R-T-O-N-I-S-E-V-I-L," Sherlock spelled out. "'Milverton is evil'?"

"Did Milverton force Wilkes into doing this somehow?" Sherlock asked.

"That would be the most likely explanation. Which would account for there being no motive for the murder. If Wilkes was blackmailed into doing so, then it would make sense," Mycroft said.

John blinked. "Milverton, as in Lord Milverton?"

"So it would seem," Mycroft agreed.

Lord Milverton was in his study, throwing things at the wall in his fury. He was about to throw a vase, when Irene Adler stepped out of the shadows.

His face, already a mask of rage, twisted into a snarl of disgust. "Go away, bitch," he growled. "I haven't the time for you."

She smirked. "Oh, I think you do, Lord Milverton," she purred like a cat in the cream. "Your little plan got ruined because of the Holmes boys."

"Mr Watson's death was supposed to remove John Watson from the younger Holmes brother's side. And throw the Apothecaries into disarray, paving the way for my man to step in as head. But no, now there is talk of making that idiot boy head! And all because he has the backing of the Holmes family!" he roared.

"I know. It was such a lovely plan. But with that beautiful display of deduction Sherlock put on at the ball, he went and ruined everything," she sneered. Lord Milverton sat down in his chair.

"Come to gloat, Miss Adler? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you being an American and all."

"That always was your flaw, my lord. Not seeing the value of anyone not English. But you'll find we have our uses."

"Your only use is between your legs!" he snapped.

"Now, now. That's no way to talk to someone who can help you bring down the Holmes brothers."

His fists curled briefly before he relaxed them on the arm of his chair. "Do impress me, Miss Adler. You haven't yet."

"I hoped you'd say that," she said as a man stepped out of the shadows.

"Jim Moriarty, hi!" he greeted the stunned lord.

Molly ducked down below the windowsill. She had started to follow Jim after the incident with Miss Adler. No one in the Spiders really paid any attention to her. She was just some hanger-on. Jim ignored her. As long as she didn't try to make contact with her old gang, he didn't care what she did. He had even stopped trying to get her into his bed. It seemed that he had other things to occupy his time.

Tonight when she saw that he had met up with Miss Adler, she was determined to find out what they were scheming. And now she knew. But who to tell? She couldn't go back to the Baker Street Irregulars. The Spiders would notice and if she did make it to the Irregulars alive, who would believe her after snitching on John like she did. She didn't know where Shezza was. She hadn't seen him around. But Jim had mentioned Shezza's name along with someone called Holmes.

He would have to do. Over the next couple of days she talked to her contacts on the street, trying to find this Holmes. When she finally found him, she watched his house for a couple of days before deciding on going in through the side door. The servants' entrance was too busy, and trying to go through the front door would no doubt get her tossed on her rear.

Her luck wasn't with her, because as she slipped through the door, she was met with a stern-looking fellow. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he tapped his foot.

"I saw you watching the house. I will not have you stealing my master's things."

Oh, great, Molly thought. He thinks I'm a thief.

"I need to see Mr Holmes," she growled.

"Ha!" he said. "I've heard that one before. I start leading you to Mr Holmes and then you give me the slip and make off with some vase."

"It's important!" she screamed.

"Calm down," he said sternly. "I will not have you bringing Mr Holmes into this. You will turn around and go back where you came from."

"Lestrade?" a voice called from the hallway. The man, Lestrade, looked at the door and then glared at Molly.

"Yes, Master Mycroft-" he said as a man entered the room. This new fellow was certainly posh. He had this elegant bearing and a dignified air that made her squirm.

But she had to talk to him. She brushed past Lestrade and came up to him, "I need to speak with you, it's urgent!"

"Miss!" Lestrade protested.

"It's all right, Lestrade," Mycroft said gently.

Lestrade huffed angrily when Molly shot him a pleased smirk.

"There will be none of that, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said severely. "You will be civil."

Both Molly and Lestrade looked at him shock.

"After all if it weren't for this young lady, I would have had to work to get Shezza to come with me." Mycroft's smile was almost feral.

She gulped. Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. "Are-are you with Jim, I mean Moriarty?"

"God no, I don't consort with vipers. I'd get bit. I merely made use of the situation," he explained.

"How did you know?"

"Hmm?" he asked.

"About what I did?"

Mycroft smile. "Oh, that. I had the late Mr Watson followed for months. The second Moriarty slinked onto the scene, I knew to make my appearance at the right time."

Mycroft indicated that she follow him and he led her to the kitchen, Lestrade only a step behind.

"Mrs Turner," he said to the cook, "would you get the young lady some water, please?"

Mrs Turner filled a battered tin mug with water and then handed it to Molly. She sat down on a stool, while Mycroft sat at the table. Lestrade stood behind Mycroft like a bodyguard. Mycroft put his elbows on the table and tucked his chin into clasped hands.

"So..." he said with small smile. "You wanted to speak with me?"

She gulped and was suddenly nervous. "Do you know who Miss Adler is?"

"I am acquainted with Miss Adler, yes."

"A week ago, Jim sent her a message."

"Do you know what it said?" he asked.

"No, she burnt it before I could get a good look at it," Molly grumbled.

"That's fine, go on. Miss Adler received a communication from Moriarty?"

"Yeah, so I decided to follow him around, see what he was up to. I'd never seen her before but judging from the way he talked about her, it was clear they had met before.

"Two nights ago, Miss Adler and Jim went to this fancy house. Even fancier than Miss Adler's. But nowhere near this place. Cor!"

"Thank you, I think," Mycroft said. Lestrade snorted.

"Anyway," Molly said with a glare at Lestrade. "They snuck into this guy's study and waited for him to come in. Who does that? Sneaking into people's houses just talk to them?"

Lestrade scoffed. After all, she had done the same thing herself. Molly turned bright pink.

She coughed. "Right, anyway. This really posh bloke came and started smashing things up a bit. And then she stepped out from the shadows, all dramatic like. She called him Millerson or Milton-"

"It wouldn't happen to have been Milverton, would it?" Mycroft asked through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, that's it!" she said, snapping her fingers.

If it had been anyone other than Mycroft Holmes, one might have said he blanched. But Mycroft Holmes does not blanch, thank you very much. It was clear he was rattled by this, however. Lestrade immediately went to get him a stiff drink and pressed it into his master's hand.

Mycroft murmured a thank you.

"Is that bad?" she asked.

"The fact that Lord Milverton is consorting with a known thug and a woman who is highly suspected of being an American spy? I'm afraid it is very bad indeed."

Molly took a long drink of her water and then looked down at her cup. "It gets worse," she said softly.

"Oh?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

"They are trying to get rid of you."

Mycroft flashed her a feral smile. "They can try."

"Lord Milverton said your pressure point was your brother," she said, looking up at him. And then Mycroft really did blanch.

"What about Sherlock?"

She went on to tell him everything she heard.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sat in his study thinking about all the things Miss Hooper had told him. She had confirmed that Lord Milverton was at the apex of whatever was happening in Court. And he now had a witness that Milverton had orchestrated the murder of Harrison Watson, motive and all.

And worse, the information Lord Milverton had acquired about Sherlock- no Shezza. Mycroft closed his eyes. He had tried so hard to separate Shezza from his dead brother, but every time he thought he had succeeded, Shezza would do something that reminded him of Sherlock and he would smile fondly, as if he really was his brother.

Mycroft breathed in a deep shuddering breath. He found the whole thing frustrating. But now the young man was in danger. Even more so than they thought. There had to be a way to protect this young man.

He almost wished he could cry. To actually let out emotion and sob at the unfairness of it all. But he hadn't cried since his father died. Oh, his tear ducts worked. But he had been closed off for so long that tears wouldn't come.

He breathed out a sigh. If only the young gang leader was Sherlock- well, now there is an idea. What if Shezza was Sherlock? There were so many things that Shezza did that reminded Mycroft of his little brother, what if the reason for that was that he was Sherlock Holmes? Could it really be possible? The incident with Sebastian, and Shezza being sure that it had been the other boy that had killed the neighbor's cat was something that only Sherlock would know. Then there was the boy's skill on the violin. Mycroft had only heard such finesse from his eight-year-old little brother. And that was just for starters.

Mycroft had only done a perfunctory look into Shezza past. It was time he amended that. He rang a bell that he kept on his desk and a young woman oozed out of the shadows.

"Ah, Anthea," Mycroft said, surprise coloring his tone. "I didn't know you were here."

She merely smiled.

"I need you to get more information on Lord Milverton. I need to know all his movements the past six months."

"Shezza already has the Irregulars looking into it," she purred.

Mycroft smiled. Of course he did. The young man was rash, but clever.

"Then that gives you more time to dig into our young friend's past. I want everything. If he sneezed when he was twelve, I want to know which direction the wind was blowing."

She nodded.

"I will need funds."

"Of course," he nodded. He got up and went to the safe. He pulled out her normal retainer and £300. "This should cover it, I believe."

She raised an eyebrow and then slipped back into the shadows.

It was time Mycroft Holmes showed everyone that messing with those he cared about was the biggest mistake of their lives.

A few days later, Anthea slipped into study, late at night after Shezza had retired for the evening.

"That was quick," Mycroft said with a soft smile and raised eyebrow.

"It is what you pay me for," Anthea said with a chuckle.

"I pay you for a lot of things, my dear. Speed is just a bonus."

"Indeed." She handed him her report and watched with a shark's grin as he read it. His eyes widened, his eyebrows shot up, and his jaw dropped.

"Are you sure?" he breathed.

"Yes, sir."

He huffed out a breath and then he started to laugh.

John fidgeted. He didn't like large parties to begin with and now that he was throwing one, he liked them even less. But Mycroft had insisted. He said that it was the best way to prove to everyone that not only was John his own man, but that the Watsons were not to be brushed aside.

He couldn't argue with that, so he was determined to make it as extravigent as possible. He got a new suit and Harriet got a new dress, shoes, petticoat, jewlery, the whole thing. He wanted her to look radiant. That their father's attack hadn't made her crumble.

He had even moved back home. Which, of course was the worst part of this whole ordeal. Just when needed Sherlock most of all, he was deprived of the young's man company. It wasn't that Stamford and the other servants hadn't been wonderful, but as much as he loved them, they couldn't understand all the pressures he had on him now. Not like Sherlock. The younger Holmes knew what it was like to have this type of responsibility thrust upon him.

And then there was the fact that since that first kiss they hadn't had much time to talk about their relationship. John ached for the feel of Sherlock's lips on his.

The guest list was massive. There were a few notable absences; the Donovans had gone back to America after Mr Donovan had caught his daughter in a compromising position with Mr Anderson. It was the scandal of the moment. There were even rumors that Mrs Anderson was seeking divorce. Mary, of course, was on her way to the Continent. She had taken Janine Hawkins with her. For that John was grateful. Janine needed to get a way from Lord Milverton. Who was another that hadn't been invited. Not after Sebastian's confession had been decoded. Even Mycroft agreed it would be for the best.

He stood by the door and with Harriet by his side, greeted every guest as they arrived. John's feet were starting to hurt. He just wanted to sit down and have half a bottle of Scotch, or maybe the whole damn thing. He sighed. He didn't mean that, not really. He liked having parties, just not large ones where there was too much noise.

Finally Sherlock passed through those doors and John's heart soared. Here was the reason he had been suffering through everyone else. His reason for breathing. Sherlock Holmes. God, the man was gorgeous.

Sherlock shook his hand and then leaned in close. "When you're done here, come see me. I have something I need to tell you."

John nodded and then said loud enough for those nearby to hear, "Where is Mycroft?"

Sherlock smiled wearily. "He has some business to attend to, but he will be here later."

John nodded. Sometimes John forgot that Mycroft actually had a job that he was required to attend to.

Finally the last of the guests had arrived, and John went in search of his love. He found the young man arguing with a familiar-looking waiter. John couldn't place where he'd seen the man.

"You have to tell him, boss," the waiter urged.

"I know. I will!"

"When?" the waiter pressed.

"Sherlock?" John called, uncertain.

Sherlock turned around. "John," he said, his voice turning soft. The waiter vanished by the time John thought to look at him more closely.

"You wanted to speak with me?" John asked as he drew near to his love.

"Yes, John," Sherlock said. "I want to tell you something. I-I-"

Just then the doors to ballroom swung open with a crash. All heads turned to see Lord Milverton enter, flanked with Inspector Abernathy and...wait...was that Jim Moriarty? It was.

"One moment, Sherlock," John said with a frown.

"No, wait!" Sherlock called but it was too late. John was stalking toward the trio.

"Get out," he growled when he reached them.

"Oh, I don't intend to stay," Lord Milverton sneered. "I'm only here to root out the imposter, and then I'll be on my way."

"Imposter? What imposter?"

"Him!" Lord Milverton shouted. John turned and saw that the lord was pointing to Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

"This man is a fraud!" Lord Milverton called out again.

"No," John said, distress etching into every line of his frame. Sherlock's face mirrored his anguish.

John reached out a hand, but was stopped by Moriarty's voice. "Remember me, Johnny boy."

John whirled around and snarled, "Of course I remember you. You're the one that had his cronies attack me and would have left me for dead if it wasn't for Shezza."

Moriarty smirked. Inspector Abernathy frowned and began eying the thug warily.

"Saved by him," Moriarty said, indicating Sherlock with a jerk of his chin.

"You're- you're Shezza?" John whispered.

Sherlock hung his head and nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to!" Shezza cried. "I had to make myself over like this just to get you to notice me!"

John's face softened. "Oh. No, Sherlock- I mean, Shezza. I fell in love with you out there." He pointed out to the streets. "I fell in love with Shezza the moment he pulled those thugs off of me. Looking up into his crystal blue eyes, I knew I was done for. All the time I was falling in love with Sherlock, I couldn't help but feel I was betraying Shezza. And now to learn that they are one and the same makes me so happy."

There was a mocking laugh that echoed through the hall. "So sickeningly sweet," Lord Milverton sneered. "But it doesn't change the fact that he impersonated someone else. Which is fraud, and therefore illegal."

"Not if he actually is Sherlock Holmes!" an oozing voice said from the doorway behind Lord Milverton.

Chapter Text

“Hello, Sherlock.” Mycroft oozed through the crowd like an over-fed house cat. He was dressed for traveling, wearing a top hat, cloak and stark white gloves. He carried a wooden cane. John thought he looked quite the striking figure. Which, he supposed, was the idea really.

Lord Milverton sneered, “So desperate for a family that you would make things up just to keep this street rat? And here I thought the house of Holmes could sink no further.”

Mycroft cracked a smile reminiscent of a predator advancing on its prey. “Better an honest street rat than a snake in the grass,” he said, his grin never wavering. John shivered.

Moriarty returned the cold smile.

“But as it stands,” Mycroft continued. “Shezza the street rat is Sherlock Holmes, the lost heir of Undershaw.”

“But...” Shezza stammered.

“There were so many signs. And I chose to ignore them,” Mycroft said with a shake of his head. “I should have looked into it when I first had suspicions and I could have spared you this humiliation.”

“Mycroft,” Shezza whispered, pained. He didn’t have the words to tell the older man that it was fine, so he released John’s hand and went up to the civil servant, surprising himself and everyone else by hugging Mycroft.

Mycroft embraced him back. “I’m going to fix this,” he whispered in Shezza’s ear. He held the young man out at arm’s length. “Do you trust me?” Shezza nodded. Mycroft gave his arms a squeeze and then let go. He turned around, his cloak billowing about his shoulders like wings.

“My first suspicions began with how uncannily the gang leader known as Shezza looked like my brother. From the dark, tousled hair to those unusual blue eyes. My brother had heterochromia. A strange discoloring of one eye that turned one side green, while the other was a startling blue. A mutation, you see, that the young Shezza shares.” Shezza touched his hair and then brushed his fingertips under his left eye, his mouth hanging open.

“I couldn’t have been more shocked than the day I came home to find him in Sherlock’s favorite chair, his long legs dangling over the arm of the chair as he read some work on rare animals in Africa. He flashed me that same goofy grin my brother got when he was caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t. I forced away the thought that he could be Sherlock. Surely, I was chasing ghosts.”

Shezza ducked his head. That was the night Mycroft first offered to teach him deduction.

“Then there was the fact that he would be conversing with people and recall something that I hadn’t told him. I tried to fill him in on everything I could, of course. But only from my point of view. He would comment on the banker’s dog digging up our mother’s lilacs and the banker would blush and apologize. I knew of the incident of course, but I never thought to tell Shezza about it. Why would I? It was so trivial.”

“And then came the incident with Sebastian Wilkes. God rest his soul. I overheard Shezza tell Sebastian to stop trying to befriend him when he knew what he’d done to our neighbor’s cat. Sherlock had been blamed for the thing’s demise, but I always suspected it was the other boys trying to get him in trouble. In fact, I talked to a couple of those boys, and though they didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, they admitted that, yes, Sebastian had killed the cat and pinned it on my brother.”

There was a collective gasp from the gathered crowd. Moriarty stuck his hands in his pockets and yawned, “Bor-ing.”

Shezza’s eyes grew wide. “I-I didn’t think it was real. I thought I was making something up to get him to leave me alone.”

Mycroft smiled at Shezza before turning back to those assembled. “Then there was the practiced ease with which he played the violin, an instrument that according to his own admission, he had never touched before. There are prodigies, to be sure; however, it was more like someone picking up something that they hadn’t done in years, but the memory of it was still there.

“All those incidents could be brushed away as coincidence, but for one thing,” he said and turned back to the gang leader. “What is your earliest memory of being on the street, Shezza?”

The young man frowned. “I’m frightened. Panting for breath. I’m cold and wet, but it’s sticky. I smell a bitter tang in the air and I think it’s coming from me. I try to scrub it off, but it won’t come off. I’m running, then I crash into something hard and I black out.”

The crowd murmured at this pronouncement. It did sound like the story of a frightened Sherlock running from his would-be killers and hitting his head.

“This is ridiculous," Lord Milverton scoffed.

“Where’s your proof, Mr Holmes?” Moriarty sneered.

“Would witnesses to the murder of my mother and the testimony of the washerwoman that found the young boy be sufficient?”

“If you could produce such evidence,” Lord Milverton said, folding his arms in front of his chest.

Mycroft pulled out papers from his jacket and held them up. “I have the written testimonies here!”

Inspector Abernathy took the papers from Mycroft and began skimming through them. “The interviews were conducted by Inspector Hopkins?”

“Yes, he was very accommodating,” Mycroft replied.

“It’s very clear,” Inspector Abernathy said.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said with a smirk. “Let me spin the tale. I had returned home during the holidays with a black eye, and Sherlock was scared that if I could be hurt, then he would be abused daily at school when he started the following year. So my mother decided to get him a dog that would follow him to and from school as protection.

“They were on their way to pick out an Irish Setter pup when their carriage was waylaid. By three men. Our informant asked to remain anonymous, but the other two men were Clint Winston and Harrison Watson.”

This proclamation was met with stunned silence, followed by a small cry from Harriet before she fainted. Moriarty rolled his eyes and gave the impression of being put upon. John ignored him and rushed to her side. He patted her cheek until she came round. John looked up at Mycroft, pain laced in that glance.

“Why did you take me in then?” John asked, as he helped his sister to her feet.

“Because the sins of the father clearly did not reflect in the son. Or the daughter,” Mycroft added, with a nod to Harriet.

“I watched you both. It became clear very quickly that Harrison Watson’s brutality hadn’t been passed on to his children. Even if certain other vices had.” He raised eyebrow at Harriet and she blushed. She knew she had gotten the drinking and whoring from her father. She just hadn’t cared before. She cared now.

“Although this does not excuse him, our informant said that he played a minor role in the incident. This was substantiated by Mr Winston, who is currently in custody.

“Thus our true story begins. If my mother and brother hadn’t gone out that day, they wouldn’t have had this happen to them. But the blame rests in the three men, who had been drinking and whoring for several days.

“They had been drinking heavily when they were kicked out of their current watering hole and saw my beautiful mother waiting at the cross street for a hired cab to move out of the way. They decided to have a little a bit of fun, not knowing that my brother was with her.

“Winston and Watson tried to coax her out of the carriage while our informant held the driver and horse steady. When she ignored them, they became more insistent. They pulled her out of the carriage. That is when Sherlock screamed.”

“They shot her,” Shezza muttered. “They shot her as she tried to protect me.” He fell to his knees. John wanted to go to him but Harriet wasn’t steady yet on her feet.

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered. “Watson pulled out a gun, probably to frighten the young boy. My mother saw and thought that they were going to shoot him. She grabbed the gun and they struggled. Winston came up behind her and hit her on the back of the head. But as he did so, the gun went off. Firing a shot into my mother’s stomach. Sherlock ran to her aid and bit Winston. Winston shook free of Sherlock, who stumbled, falling against the side of the carriage.

“My mother was only dazed and she turned from Watson to check on Sherlock. Watson, frightened that she was going to attack Winston, fired again. Sherlock screamed and with her last breath she told him to run. A terrified little boy, having just seen his mother die, did what he was told and ran. Watson attempted to fire at Sherlock as well, but the gun jammed. By the time he got it clean enough to fire, Sherlock was gone.

“Watson wanted to hunt the boy down, but Winston stalled him and said they had bigger fish to fry in the form of the driver. They set it up to look like an inside job and bailed, taking the poor, distraught third man with them. They threatened his life and the lives of his wife and children if he ever told.

“He only came forward because Watson is now dead.”

Inspector Abernathy was still reading the reports when Mycroft finished.

“Looks like it’s all here.” He turned to Lord Milverton. “You are coming with me, my lord. There is a little matter about the false report you just filed. And the consorting with known criminals.”

Moriarty smirked. “You hear that, I’m a known criminal.”

Inspector Abernathy grabbed Lord Milverton’s arm.

“Unhand me!” Milverton hissed at the Inspector.

“Oh, he’s done worse things than that,” Mycroft said coolly. “I also have evidence of blackmail and conspiracy to commit murder.”

“I’ll be needing those proofs as well,” Abernathy said.

Mycorft smiled, “The proofs have already been given to a judge,” and then raised a hand. Police flooded the place.

“I guess I’ll be taking these two with me,” Abernathy said.

“Oh, I have one more for you.” Mycroft lunged for someone in the crowd and hauled her to the fore.

Miss Adler stumbled to her knees, her shoes tangling in her dress. “I’m innocent!” she cried.

“Lying is such a nasty habit, Miss Adler,” Mycroft sneered.

Sherlock got to his feet. “Indeed.” The young Holmes boy walked up to her. “We have a little witness to your crimes; perhaps that will teach you that sometimes a little mouse can roar.”

The shock wiped the innocent mask from her face as she screamed in fury, trying to scratch Sherlock. He merely stepped to the side as police subdued her.

The Holmes brothers watched as she was carried away, struggling and shrieking wordless obscenities. Milverton went with police complaining all the while. Moriarty looked Sherlock and smirked, before the police pushed him to the door, his smirk turning into a snarl. Sherlock and Mycroft turned to each other and smiled.

Chapter Text

John let Harriet go and went to stand next to Sherlock. "You will have tell me what all that was about some day," he told the younger Holmes.

Sherlock turned to John and looked at him, surprised, as though he had forgotten John was even there.

"I promise." Sherlock looked at his feet. "Do you really not care that I lied?"

"I really don't care, Sherlock," John said, taking the younger man's hand. "I understand why you felt the need to. And you were clearly trying to tell me before Lord Milverton came in. It's fine, Sherlock. Honestly."

Sherlock let out a sharp breath and curled his fingers tightly around John's hand. "Thank you."

"I do have one question, though," John said with a frown.

"Only the one?" Sherlock asked with a grin. Mycroft chuckled behind them.

"The only one I can think of at the moment," John admitted. "The waiter from earlier?"

"Mmhm?"

"That was one of your old gang, right?"

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, and I'll have to tell Wiggins to work on his disguises for next time."

John grinned. "Well, to be fair, I only thought he looked familiar. Like Sherlock and Shezza looking alike."

Sherlock smothered a laugh. "It is amazing how much a change in posture, bearing, and diction can do to disguise a person."

"I still feel like I should have known somehow," John said, shaking his head.

"No, John," Sherlock admonished. "I did everything I could to make sure you didn't know."

John looked up at him, a shaky smile beginning to form on his lips, strengthening when Sherlock returned it. John got down on one knee.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are everything I have ever wanted in a mate. Me and mine have only done you ill. My father for tearing your life away, and me for making you think that you had to go through all this just to woo me."

"I'd do it again a thousand times," Sherlock breathed.

"I know, and that's what makes you such a wonderful person. I love you. With all my heart. I would spend all my life treating you like a king because it's what you deserve."

"John..." Sherlock breathed.

"Say you'll be mine, say that you'll never leave me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver band, which he held up to Sherlock. "Say you'll marry me?"

Sherlock's free hand went to his mouth as he gasped. Holding back tears, he cried, "Yes!"

John surged to his feet, he gently grasped Sherlock's hand and moved it away from his face. He slipped on the ring, and the tears that Sherlock had been holding back broke free.

They kissed to the roaring crowd.

As Mycroft looked on, a single tear slid down his cheek. He had his brother back after all these years. So long he had despaired that Sherlock was lost to him forever. Mycroft's heart was swelling with such love and happiness that the tears he had locked away sprang forth. He touched his cheek and when his fingers came back wet, he began to laugh with great joy.

Sherlock and John broke the kiss to look at Mycroft, but when they saw the sheer delight on his face, they joined in.

A year later

Sherlock paced among the packed boxes that were scattered around the room.

"Sit down, you great berk," John said from his place on the floor, where he was busy packing the last of the things he wanted to take with him. The maids offered to do this for him, but he declined. Some things he just had to do for himself and this was one of them.

"Are you sure you want to be selling this place, John?" Sherlock asked, throwing himself into a nearby armchair. "I was serious about my offer to move in here after the wedding."

John smiled at his fiancé, "I know you were, but there are too many bad memories here, and I want our life together to be nothing but good ones."

Sherlock smiled at him. "Where is Harriet going then?"

"Back to Glasgow, I have a friend out there who is willing to help her."

Sherlock nodded. After a few minutes, he jumped up and began pacing again. John got to his feet and placed himself in his love's path.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

The young man grabbed his own hair. "I feel like I'm depriving you of everything that makes you you. You're moving out of here and you still won't enlist in the army. What's left for you?"

"You, and setting up that clinic on Fleet street."

"What if it's not enough?" Sherlock asked softly.

"You will always be enough, Sherlock Holmes."

They kissed slow and gentle, the world and its cares melting away from them in that moment.

The last two weeks for John had been the most hectic he could ever recall He had moved to Baker Street with Sherlock, and graduated from medical school with honors, all the while planning his wedding.

But as he looked across the altar at his love, he wouldn't have given it up for anything. He loved his life with the mad man known as Sherlock Holmes.

The past year had been hard on both of them because of the fallout from that fateful night with Milverton and Moriarty. There were still ripples being felt as more and more people came forward saying that Milverton had blackmailed them as well. The effects were far-reaching, going as far up the chain as members of the royal family being at the very least harassed by Milverton. Mycroft was still cleaning up the mess. But it gave him a promotion with more influence.

People had come out of the woodwork; they were either nasty, siding with Milverton, claiming that the Holmes brothers had orchestrated the whole thing, or they were being sickeningly sweet, hoping for handouts. It was really hard on them trying to figure out who were friends and who weren't. But when they announced their wedding, it became very clear who was on their side by the person's reaction to their upcoming nuptials.

The wedding was small and intimate. All their friends were there, including the Irregulars, who were given nice clothes to wear for the occasion on the requirement that they be on their best behavior. Even Miss Morstan and Miss Hawkins were in attendance.

Both looked well from their travels abroad. Miss Hawkins had found a young man that she had fallen in love with and they were set to get married soon. Mary was happy being single and didn't mind losing her traveling companion, as she had several other girls lining up to take Janine's place.

John couldn't remember much about the actual ceremony, only that he must have said the right things at the right time, because he was kissing Sherlock. There was much cheering from their friends and family. When they broke off the kiss, Sherlock's cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, but John just laughed with joy.

Later that night after their first dance, John sat curled up in Sherlock's warm embrace as they watched the guests dancing in the soft glow of the candlelight.

"Is Mycroft very angry with you?" John asked.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock murmured.

"About you stealing Mrs Hudson away from him?" John explained. Mrs Hudson had been a part of the Holmes household for so long, John feared that Mycroft would be displeased about Sherlock taking her with them to Baker Street.

Sherlock chuckled and John grinned at the fact that he could feel the laugh as well as hear it. "No, love. Mycroft is very happy with her replacement."

"He may regret that when he finds out Molly Hooper isn't a pushover," John said with a giggle.

"Oh, he knows that. She has already made changes in the house for the better. Mrs Turner, the cook, is so over the moon with Molly that she bullied the rest of the staff into going along." Sherlock grinned at the memory.

"I'm glad she's doing well," John said. "I was worried for her after everything that had happened."

Sherlock snuggled closer to John. He had been worried, too. But Molly was made out of sterner stuff than anyone realized.

After a few minutes of silence, John spoke up again. "What's going to happen to the Irregulars?"

Sherlock pulled John tight against his chest. "My little worrier," he said fondly.

John blushed. "I just want everyone to be as happy as I am."

Sherlock kissed the crown of his head. "I know you do, love. They'll be fine. Wiggins will be a good leader."

"Good."

John surged to his feet and then turned to Sherlock with his hand outstretched.

"Dance with me?"

Sherlock smiled warmly and took his hand. "I'd be honored to."

They made their way to the dance floor and slowly the other dancers trickled away, until it was just the two of them.

They swayed to the music, lost in each other's eyes.

"I love you," Sherlock breathed.

"I love you, too." John smiled up at his husband. Husband. He liked the sound of that. He liked it so much he just had to say it out loud.

“My husband.”

Sherlock smiled. “Forever and always.”

“I can live with that.”

And then they both began to laugh.

Mycroft watched from the corner of the room. If someone had told him a year ago that he would be attending the wedding of his brother Sherlock to John Watson, he would have laughed himself sick. But here he was and he could finally relax. Enjoy himself for once. There was a tap on his shoulder.

He turned to see Lestrade holding up Mycroft’s cloak. “Are you ready to go, Master Mycroft?” the valet asked.

He looked back at the happy couple and then smiled at his valet. “Yes, Gregory. I think I am.”

Lestrade helped him into his cloak and led the way to carriage that would take them home. Yes, it had been a good year indeed.