Easy job, really. Easy way to make a few thousand.
When he had taken it on, he thought it was crazy.
She was just an old lady; wasn't even Holmes' mother. Why would it affect him so much to loose her?
But, Money was money.
So, he had set up on Baker street weeks ago, being as helpful as he could to the old bat to get close.
And now the time was here.
If he got word that Holmes didn't jump, pop her in the back of the head and get out...
And out of the blue she had brought him tea.
But it wasn't really out of the blue, because she did things like that for him all the time.
Cookies, pasties, tea...
Bringing blankets up because she knew that old room was drafty.
She handed him the tea, smiling, and he smiled back.
She turned away and his face changed.
He knew now.
If he got the call, he wasn't going to do anything.
All he could do was pray he didn't get the call, then she wouldn't be in danger of anyone.
Later that night, after Sherlock's suicide was plastered all over the news, he found himself outside her door. She opened it, and he found himself in her arms, crying.
Big, bad hitman.
And she held him and told him everything was alright.
And for the first time, he believed it.