Martha Hudson had never approved of the plan. It was too risky, too dangerous, for both of her boys. But she agreed with Mycroft Holmes that his younger brother needed help to finally return home. Sherlock had been stymied in his attempts to neutralize the final assassin, and rumors of his survival were starting to circulate amongst the last of Moriarty's associates. The last major threat, someone named Moran, needed to be lured out of the shadows.
What better lure than John Watson?
As Martha waited for the implementation of the plan to unfold, she remembered the night that John showed up at her flat to hear the plan from Mycroft. Once the elder Holmes recovered from the military-issue punch that had landed on his face, he outlined the plan to the angry doctor.
Step 1: Use moles already in the remnants of Moriarty's organization to confirm that Sherlock Holmes is still alive.
Step 2: Convince Moran that the only way to make Sherlock slip up would be to carry out the threat against John.
Step 3: Fake John Watson's assassination in front of Sherlock and Moran.
At this part of the plan, Martha had interrupted, "Why does John have to appear to die? Isn't that too much of a risk?"
Mycroft looked at his hands, clasped together on his lap. "Moran will drop his guard once he thinks he's defeated Sherlock. And my dear brother, well, … either Lestrade will show up with his officers in time, or Moran will not survive Sherlock's reaction."
"Or I could take the shot at Moran myself," suggested John, from his place on the couch by Mrs. Hudson's side. At her shocked expression, John reached out and clasped her hand. "I'll do anything it takes to bring him back."
The sound of shattering glass broke into her reverie.
An instant later, she heard a windowpane being thrown aside, accompanied by an exchange of gunfire. The door to her flat swung open, and a man with short-cropped blond hair wearing a plain black coat said, "Stay where you are, Mrs. Hudson. Wait til I give you the all clear." She sat stiffly in her chair, until she heard the opening of the outer door and footsteps in the hallway. A voice, a precious voice she hadn't heard in years was yelling.
"John!"
Sherlock Holmes raced up the seventeen steps to 221B Baker Street. At the blond man's nod, Martha Hudson opened up her door to see a swirling black coat disappear into the upstairs flat, quickly followed by Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, and several officers. She had thought she would be too nervous to perform her role in the plan, but now she was anxious to do so.
Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs as quickly as she could. She heard Sherlock frantically calling out, "John! John! Where is he? John!"
As Martha entered the flat, she saw Sherlock pacing, his hands clutching at his hair. "Oh, Sherlock, sweetheart."
He stopped his pacing and whispered, "Mrs. Hudson, I couldn't save John."
She rushed to his side and rubbed his arms. "It's alright, I promise, everything will be okay." Her touch could not prevent the man from shivering with shock.
Mycroft was on the phone, quietly and firmly asking for information from his team. Greg was barking orders at his officers as they picked through the glass and scoured the sitting room, looking for the bullet that was meant for John.
"Who are you?" yelled Sherlock, noticing the blond man who followed Mrs. Hudson into the flat, dressed in John Watson's black coats.
The man looked at Lestrade, who nodded his head. "I'm Sergeant Ronald Adair."
"I don't…" Sherlock paused, growing ever more agitated.
Then steady footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs that led to John's old room. Martha heard Greg mutter, "It's about time" as John Watson appeared in the doorway, sniper rifle still in his hands.
A hush fell over the flat as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson came face-to-face for the first time in three years.
Sherlock's eyes were wide with confusion. "John?"
John handed the rifle to Adair, never losing eye contact with his former flatmate.
Sherlock was sucking in heaving breaths, his hands clasped to his stomach. "John, is this how you felt the day I fell?"
So quietly that he was almost inaudible, John replied, "That is how I've felt every day since." Then John turned around and left the flat.
Sherlock sank to his knees. Martha rubbed his shoulder blades, trying to comfort him.
"Everybody out now," commanded Lestrade. After retrieving the rifle from Sergeant Adair, he immediately made a call on his mobile and moved into the kitchen.
Quickly and quietly gathering their investigatory tools, Lestrade's officers left the flat. The only sound breaking the silence was the gentle rasp of Mrs. Hudson's hands moving over the familiar dark wool of Sherlock's coat. Mycroft Holmes remained rooted in place, standing a few feet from where his brother knelt on the floor.
Greg returned from the kitchen. "I've got a crew outside John and Mary's building. Sally is in charge." He took a deep breath. "I don't know how fast the news will get out."
Never taking his eyes off of his brother, Mycroft replied, "There has been a shooting at 221B Baker Street, Detective Inspector. The media will take note, even if they don't know the truth yet."
"Dimmock is on his way here. I've told him to keep everyone out and to be discreet about it."
Mrs. Hudson interjected, "It's going to be a bit chilly in here tonight, with the broken window." She was still rubbing the silent Sherlock's shoulders, as he continued to kneel.
Greg smiled at the kindly woman. "I was prepared. Already got some plywood downstairs. I'll be right back." He secured the sniper rifle in a case and left the flat with it.
Martha moved to stand in front of Sherlock and tilted the younger man's face towards her. "Sherlock, let's get you up. There are fresh towels in the bathroom, and I even found and laundered some of your old pajamas to put on. Hmm?"
Sherlock remained on the floor, until Mycroft leaned over and hauled his brother to his feet. "Go with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. You'll feel better if you clean up."
Martha grabbed one of Sherlock's hands, and he allowed himself to be led to the bathroom. His eyes were glazed, as if he were in shock. Maybe he was. She pushed his coat off of his shoulders, and it fell from his lean frame. After draping the coat over the sink, she sat him on the toilet and started to take off his shoes. A pale lean hand stayed hers.
"I can do this myself, Mrs. Hudson." He raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it.
She squeezed his hand and said, "Well, get on with it then. Your pajamas are hanging behind the door and the towels are under the sink, just like they used to be." As Sherlock slowly stood up, she continued, "I'm pretty sure I stocked your favorite shampoo, but I hope you aren't too picky about the toothpaste. I couldn't remember if you had a preference."
Sherlock stopped in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt and just stared at her.
"Oh, don't mind me, I've seen it all before."
"Thank you."
Martha heard the message behind the words. Thank you for your compassion. Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for your forgiveness. She barely kept her tears in check as she closed the bathroom door behind her.
Back in the sitting room, she was surprised to see that Mycroft had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to help Greg board up the windows. Mycroft held the boards while Greg nailed them in place.
"It won't be easy to bring Sherlock back from the dead," Greg was saying.
"Now that he is back, I will facilitate the necessary paperwork. Then we will clear his name," responded Mycroft. "I must thank you for the work that you, Sergeant Donovan, and John have done already towards restoring my brother's reputation."
"The press will make this rough on him."
"And John," added Martha.
Greg paused in his hammering and chewed his bottom lip. "The press conferences are going to be nightmarish."
"I wish there was a way we could avoid putting Sherlock in front of the press." Mrs. Hudson winced at the thought of it.
"Do you think John will attend with him?" Lestrade hammered the last nail in.
Mycroft sighed, unusually weary as he unrolled his shirtsleeves. "I did not anticipate that he would leave so quickly this evening. I do not know what to expect from here on out."
Trying to inject some humor, Greg remarked, "That must be a strange feeling for you."
Mycroft smirked with gratitude, as he shrugged on his jacket.
"John will come around." Martha's voice betrayed none of her small misgivings. "Those boys are devoted to each other. They'll get through this."
Greg looked over his shoulder at her. "We'll keep a detail here at Baker Street for as long as you need us. You just let me know if the press gets to be too much" He smiled gently "Or if you need me to break up any fights between those two."
"And I'll have a glazier here tomorrow to fix the window properly," added Mycroft. "Someone I trust to not take advantage of the situation."
"Thank you." Martha looked at the glass shards on the floor around her. "Will it interfere too much in the investigation if I clean this up?"
Greg and Mycroft exchanged a look. "I think the Detective Inspector has everything his investigation needs, am I correct?"
"Indeed."
Martha grinned at the two men and retrieved a broom and dustpan from her flat. As the two men continued to strategize the return of the Sherlock Holmes, she busied herself by sweeping up the glass. She thought to herself that she was wise to have had the floor rug rolled up and was just about to ask for help laying it back down when she heard Sherlock walk through the kitchen.
He stood quietly in the doorway to the sitting room, looking around like he'd never seen his own flat before. His still damp curls were frizzing around his head and his blue silk dressing gown was slipping off of one shoulder, exposing a too thin torso underneath his old pajamas. Fatigue and loneliness dominated his posture.
Martha walked towards Sherlock, and Mycroft said, "Let me assist you, Mrs. Hudson." He helped her guide Sherlock into what was once again his chair. As Sherlock lifted his feet so he could curl up into a tight ball, Mycroft picked up the Union Jack pillow off of John's chair.
"You will watch him all night, won't you, please?" asked Mycroft, as he carefully tucked the pillow into his brother's arms.
"Of course, I will." Martha was amazed she still had the ability to speak, with her heart breaking.
Greg rested a hand briefly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Glad to have you home." He cleared this throat and then told Mrs. Hudson, "I'll be back tomorrow."
She was pleased to see Mycroft drop a kiss onto Sherlock's head, then ruffle his curls. "I'll check in on you soon, little brother. Behave for Mrs. Hudson."
Then, much to her delight, Mycroft gave Martha a hug and a kiss on the cheek before leaving her to comfort her lost boy.
This was the task that Mrs. Hudson had been assigned as part of the plan, not that she would have had it any other way. She had missed Sherlock so much, had missed having both Sherlock and John to care for. She moved into the kitchen that she had recently restocked and started making tea. She put some digestives on a plate and carried them out to the sitting room. Sherlock had not moved.
"I'll bring you a nice cuppa, dear." She placed the biscuits on the side table and had turned back to the kitchen, when she heard Sherlock whisper, "Will he come back?"
Martha knew he was not talking about Mycroft or Greg.
"Of course, he will," she replied, as reassuringly as possible.
Mrs. Hudson continued to straighten 221B as Sherlock remained silently in his chair. She kept up a single-sided conversation to fill the silence.
"I hope I didn't break any of your equipment when I packed it away. It's all boxed up in your room."
"I think John has your skull."
"I'll hang up your coat in your room. Looks as good as new, all things considered."
"I had your suits laundered."
"Fresh linens on your bed. I hope you like the smell of the soap."
"And here is your violin."
At this, Sherlock perked up a little. Mrs. Hudson placed the violin case on the desk and lovingly moved the fragile instrument to the stand next to Sherlock's chair. She saw him glance quickly to where he'd hidden his compositions amongst his books, and said, "I'll be back. Must pop down to my flat for a moment."
When she returned, she placed a folder on his side table. He looked at the label. Compositions: Random. She smiled at the confusion in his face, as he must be wondering why the folder was so slim. She then placed a second folder on top of the first. Compositions: John & Sherlock. She was not surprised to hear his sharp intake of breath.
His voice was gravelly, but from lack of use or from excess of emotion, she could not tell. "You read music."
"Yes, dear."
He reached out to touch the folder. "I did not know."
She was about to ask him exactly what he did not know when there was a soft knock, and John Watson stood in the open doorway to 221B.
Mrs. Hudson beamed at him. "John, please, do come in."
Sherlock stayed in his chair, curled in on himself.
After a brief hesitation, John stepped into the sitting room. He placed a paper sack on the couch, then walked over to stand in front of Sherlock. The resurrected detective did not look up to meet John's gaze.
Mrs. Hudson moved to the kitchen, where she could watch from a distance. She wanted to give her boys some privacy, but also wanted her presence to moderate the tumult of emotions both men were experiencing.
John slowly knelt in front of Sherlock's chair. He extended his left hand out to touch Sherlock's leg and gasped when he made contact. Sherlock unfurled himself and leaned closer to John.
"John, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I owe you a thousand apologies, I'm sorry…" Sherlock did not pause even to breathe.
John looked at his old friend in amazement. "I had no idea that you would be affected like this," he said, as he started to rub Sherlock's knees in a calming fashion.
"Forgive me, please, John. I'm sorry, I had to, I'm sorry, but I had to, I'm sorry..."
"Shh… Just let me say a few things, alright?"
Sherlock stopped his flood of words and barely nodded his head.
"This isn't going to be easy for us. I'm so angry. But I couldn't let you think…" John paused and took a deep breath.
"I just want you to remember, whatever might happen, whatever I might say in the upcoming days, that I am so fucking happy that you're alive. This is the best night of my life. Never doubt that. I am so glad you're back. Please, remember that when I get angry. I'm happy, I'm so happy you're here. Oh, god, please never forget that I am so happy you're alive. Don't you ever forget that. Please, please…"
"Anything, John… for you… anything…" Sherlock clasped John's face with both hands, pulling closer until their foreheads were touching. John placed his hands over Sherlock's and kept his eyes open, while the detective closed his eyes and deeply breathed in the closeness of his friend.
Martha watched as the two men remained silently in that pose for several minutes. She could feel some of the tension leaving her body, as she witnessed a moment that she had secretly feared would never happen.
John squeezed Sherlock's hands and gently pulled them away. He stood, saying, "This is as much as I can do tonight." He seemed embarrassed by his display of emotion and cleared his throat. "Right."
As he walked towards the door, John pointed to the paper sack he'd placed on the couch. "Tiramisu from Angelo's. Eat it all."
Mrs. Hudson moved to stand by the fireplace as John continued towards the door. "I'll make sure of it." She saw a panicked plea in Sherlock's eyes and asked, "John, will you join us for tea tomorrow?"
John paused to glance back at the two of them and nodded curtly. And then he was gone.
Mrs. Hudson sat on the arm of Sherlock's chair.
"He came back," Sherlock said, wonderingly. Martha Hudson looked at the younger man next to her. She had mourned him like a son and recognized keenly this gift of a second chance. She pulled him into a warm embrace, kissed his temple, and whispered in his soft dark curls, "Yes, yes, he did."