Mycroft stared at the sheet draped body atop the cold autopsy table. The florescent lights hummed softly above him, the only other sound was the soft sobs coming from Doctor Molly Hooper a few feet behind him. Never before had Mycroft Holmes ever felt so powerless. It didn't work as it was meant to. They thought it was an ironclad plan. Every variable was taken into account. How did they get it so wrong? Mycroft's right hand flexed around the grip of his cane in regular pulses. The building pain in the tendons kept him from losing control. Never had their judgment failed so badly.

"What are we going to do, Mycroft?" Molly asked softly, her voice thick with tears and sorrow.

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer but nothing emerged. Sensing a deep tremor of grief run up his spine, he swallowed tightly and made another attempt.

"I'm not sure, Doctor Hooper. I wish I had something else to tell you but...I'm not sure."

"I'm not...I ca-...I can't do the autopsy. Not on him," she whispered and Mycroft glanced away from the body for the first time to look at her.

Her hair was still pulled back in a ponytail but it was messy. Pieces trailed down her neck and curled around her ears. Some of the strands hopelessly knotted from her constantly messing with it. Her eyes were red and the lids were puffy from her tears. Her bottom lip trembled slightly but she forced herself to hold back the sobs. Mycroft turned back to the table and slowly sighed.

"I don't believe an autopsy is necessary in this case. We know what the cause of death was."

Memories attacked Mycroft Holmes again and he released a single shuddering breath, his only outward reaction. This was going to change everything. Building up his mental walls, Mycroft steeled his spine and moved forward.

"Sign the death certificate and release the body to me. I'll take care of everything from here."

Mycroft turned away from the table and approached Doctor Hooper. Understanding social norms didn't help him perform them, but in this case he knew it was required. He reached out and gently touched Molly's elbow to turn her tear stained gaze to him.

"Thank you for everything, Molly."

Molly's lip quiver was more pronounced now and she jerkily nodded before turning to the desk where she kept the death certificates. Mycroft glanced once more at the table and walked towards the morgue doors.

There were things to be seen to.

He left the warm body of Doctor Molly Hooper behind to deal with the cold body of the former Doctor John Hamish Watson.

(!)(!)(!)

Two Years, Five Months Later

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders until the familiar weight of the Belstaff settled correctly. Almost two and a half years he had been away, and now it was finally time to come home. Mycroft stood silently by the wall watching the younger Holmes. He seemed tense but Sherlock attributed that to the red tape he'd have to go through bringing his little brother back from the dead.

"I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted," Sherlock said as he ruffled his hair, not seeing Mycroft's grimace.

"You think so?"

"Mm, pop into Baker Street and - Who knows? - jump out of a cake."

"He isn't there anymore," Mycroft replied softly as a nearby door opened.

Mycroft looked at the agent and received a small nod. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question.

"John isn't at Baker Street? Where is he then?"

"Come, Sherlock. I'll take you to John," Mycroft said and turned to lead the way from the building to the awaiting car.

There was a slight bounce in Sherlock's step that hadn't been there before. The city of London spread out in front of him, he was finally home. Slipping into the town car, Sherlock didn't even say anything snide to Mycroft. He couldn't bring himself to bother, he was going to see John. They were going to start taking cases again and annoying Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson would make tea and scones and protest that she wasn't their housekeeper and all would be right in the world. He watched the city fly by as they flowed in and out of traffic. Mycroft frequently glanced at his mobile and would occasionally purse his lips. Must be some war that wasn't going to plan. Sherlock relaxed back in the seat and let his eyes close as the sounds of London streamed past him. Angelo's. John and he would go to Angelo's. Well after John finished yelling at him; then they would go to Angelo's. Angelo would bring a candle, John would blush, and Sherlock would smirk. Yes, Sherlock loved John. John was his best friend. They always had each other's back.

The town car slowed and took a turn before slowly accelerating. Lifting his head, Sherlock smiled as he turned to look out the window. What sort of place did John move to? The view that greeted his gaze startled him. Silent headstones stuttered past the window. A sign eased by saying Kensal Green Cemetery. This was where Sherlock's fake headstone was placed. Sherlock's head snapped around to look at his brother in question.

"Mycroft?"

The car slowed to a stop and without speaking, the elder Holmes opened the door and stepped out. He left the door open behind him, knowing Sherlock would follow. In a few moments he did and hurried after Mycroft. From his position behind Mycroft, Sherlock could only see the obsidian tombstone with the white lettering. Mycroft stopped to let Sherlock catch up and took a deep breath before stepping aside. Next to the fake headstone stood another, the same size but grey with black lettering. The words burned into Sherlock's brain but he kept reading them, hoping they would change. John Hamish Watson - A Doctor, A Captain, A Friend, A Brother - If a man has not discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live.~Martin Luther King, Jr. Sherlock swallowed painfully and a strained giggle escaped.

"Did someone target John? Did you have to fake his death as well? Where is he hiding, Mycroft?"

No. Surely the grief on Mycroft's face couldn't be real. He had to be faking it. This had to be a joke. A cruel, horrifyingly cruel joke. Mycroft was never this savage.

"Mycroft?"

"However much I wish it. This is not fake, Sherlock."

Sherlock had never heard his brother's voice sound like that. So broken.

"No. No, you're lying. Where do you have him hidden? He must be safe. He has to be safe," Sherlock pleaded as he slowly backed away from the headstone.

The date blurred before him. His vision hindered by the tears that threatened to fall. He couldn't believe this. Six days after his fall. Six days and John...faked his death for some reason. There must be a reason. His chest started to tighten and his heartbeat was echoing in his ears. This was wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"Mycr-"

"The cyclist that was tasked with clipping John to disorient him. The crowds made it more challenging than he anticipated, and when he struck Doctor Watson, it was much harder than intended. He struck his head when he fell. Five days later he was found in an alley," Mycroft said quietly, as if he was reading off a grain report from a second world country.

"'He was found in an alley'? Wha-?"

"After your...'death'. He lashed out at everyone. The tabloids were dragging your name through the mud...his as well for being associated with you. He disappeared into the city. Avoided the cameras."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out except an almost silent whimper. His legs trembled again and he pressed a hand to his chest. He didn't want to hear what Mycroft had to say next. It couldn't be. Please, no Sherlock begged; begged for all he was worth.

"A subacute subdural hematoma. By the time he was found and delivered to the hospital it was already too late. He passed away."

An inhuman scream ripped from Sherlock's lips as his mind imploded. Pain shot up his thighs from his knees impacting the soil. Subdural hematoma. Slow bleed into the brain. Took six days to die. Five of which were spent wandering alone around the city, when just forty-eight hours previously he had been running with Sherlock. John had bled to death slowly...in an alley...alone...while Sherlock had been in Istanbul. In Istanbul, hale and hearty, picturing John back at Baker Street having a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson, or having a pint with Lestrade. He couldn't breath. The trembling wouldn't stop. He dug his fingers into the dirt and felt the coolness from the grass. The warmth from the soil, warmed by the sun. The soil which covered the coffin. The coffin for John. A disgusting feeling churned inside him and he lunged to the side to retch. He crawled while he heaved, trying to get away. He couldn't. The pictures in his head played on repeat, seeing what Mycroft had told him. The curse of a powerful imagination. Crushing sobs escaped from him. Dropping his torso, he pressed his forehead into the grass and beat his fist against the ground. How had he gotten it so wrong?

Hands gently touched his back and a soft hand petted his hair. Rolling his head, he looked to the side and saw a set of knees not belonging to Mycroft. Words started to reach him through the fog of anguish. A soft voice calling his name. He lifted his head just enough to see who would dare intrude on his grief. Molly's delicate face with twin tracks of tears looked down at him. A small tendril of hope curled in his chest.

Rising on his knees, he grabbed Molly's biceps and shook her. "Tell me the truth, Molly. Please! Please tell me Mycroft is lying."

Her lips trembled as fresh tears fell and she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry but it's the truth. John is dead."

Those words destroyed him.

Molly clasped his head to her bosom as he sobbed. Mycroft draped himself over Sherlock's back and held tightly for any comfort his presence could provide. Sherlock couldn't ever remember grieving this much for anything. But then again, he never had anything so precious and valuable. He felt the sting of a needle but he didn't care. Couldn't care anymore. His thoughts and sobs slowed and hands gently tilted him to the side until he was curled in fetal position on the grass. Molly knelt next to his head and carefully wiped away the streams of tears. Sounds and sensations started to fade again, this time chemically caused. He slowly blinked as his vision started to narrow on Molly's face. She cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over his damp cheekbone.

"Rest, Sherlock. Just rest."

He didn't want to rest. He didn't want that. He only wanted… "John."

The murmured name followed him into the chemically induced darkness.

(!)(!)(!)

Sherlock blinked awake and his gaze focused on the framed Periodic Table hanging on the wall of his bedroom. He was back at Baker Street...without John. A light blanket was tucked around him and a quick self inspection indicated he was still dressed except for his shoes. Sensing another body in the room with him, he didn't move from his position but continued staring at the Periodic Table.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you bring me back?"

Mycroft sighed. "You were already so intent on tracking down the web. To try and bring you in just to find John? At the time, I felt it wasn't needed. I imagined John would be found eventually, hungover or still drunk. You coming back would have disrupted everything we had put in motion to protect you. To protect everyone else."

It was silent for a moment as Sherlock absorbed the words. Growing tired of laying in bed, he slowly pushed himself up and swung his legs out from under the blanket. Pushing the covering aside, he stared at the floor between his sock clad feet. The flat was silent except for the sounds from Baker Street.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

Mycroft shifted in the seat but Sherlock didn't turn and look. "Molly is speaking to her. Informing her of your...resurrection."

Sherlock flexed his toes and dug them into the rug.

"She's not going to be happy with me," Sherlock muttered and slowly stood to walk to the window.

The view hadn't changed much since he last looked out this window. A few plants were taller, pruned or just missing. Tucking one hand into his trouser pocket, he reached out his free hand and traced a finger down the glass pane, feeling the coolness seep into his skin. He felt lost. For almost two and a half years he had a path, a plan, and he followed it. Followed it religiously. Knowing exactly what awaited him at the end. But now...his prize, his goal was...gone. He felt unmoored.

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Please."

He turned and looked at Mycroft. His brother looked rough. His suit was wrinkled and there were grass stains on his knees. His hair was no longer neatly coiffed and the tie was askew. Normally Sherlock would say something cutting but he just didn't have it in him. He turned back to the window and tapped his finger against the pane.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. You've never spoken more true, Mycroft. I gambled and lost. Risk versus gain and I overplayed my hand." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in what he hoped was a dismissive gesture.

The chair made noise again and a few moments later he felt a hand gently rest on his upper back. "And I have never been more wrong. What you and John had...was what made up the stories Mummy and Pop told us as kids. Thick as thieves. Brothers in arms. Blood brothers. However you want to phrase it. You made each other into better men."

Sherlock either choked on a laugh or a sob, he wasn't sure. He didn't want to know which it was.

"John made me better. I...I didn't do anything for him except bring him grief. He was the good man between us," Sherlock said softly and dropped his arm back to his side.

He turned away from Mycroft and felt the hand slip off his back. "I'm going to take a shower before seeing Mrs. Hudson. I'll be out shortly."

Mechanically, he collected a fresh set of clothes and enclosed himself in the lavatory. Spinning on the dials, he stripped while waiting for the water to heat up. When he could see the steam billowing from the top of the shower, he stepped under the pounding spray and leaned against the wall. John was dead. He needed to come to terms with that concept. He couldn't keep expecting to see John come walking through the door and start making tea. Or sitting in his chair. Or fussing at Sherlock about some experiment in progress in the kitchen. He found himself forgetting about the scene at the cemetery and thinking for a brief moment that John was coming up the steps. Or that the thump he just heard was John dropping a book. Quickly enough though, reality would intrude and remind him, not so gently, that his friend was no longer among the living.

Sighing, he reached for the shampoo. He would grieve and he would move forward. He wouldn't move on. He could never forget John and all that he had meant to him. Best he could do was just move forward and keep moving forward in increments until time passed and it perhaps got easier. He had lived and been alone before and had been fine. He could do this. Do this for John. Solve crimes for John. Save innocents and bring justice in John's memory.

Lathering the shampoo in his hair, he turned his back to the shower spray. In turning, he bumped against the wall and knocked the soap bar to the floor of the shower. Stepping back to regain his balance, his heel landed directly on the soap and his foot went out from under him. His soapy hands, scrabbling for anything to stop his fall, met only slick walls and an insubstantial shower curtain. He saw the next five seconds play out in a flash in his mind. Given his positioning in the shower, his height and rate of descent; the back of his head would strike the tub tap and crack open. Possible immediate death. He felt himself falling and closed his eyes against the anticipated collision.

A moment later he opened his eyes and blinked at the view. He was laying on the bottom of the tub, staring up at the open mouth of the tap. The back of his head was atop the drain and he could see and feel the water still pounding down on his thighs and knees. Confused, he cautiously reached up and felt along the sides and back of his head. No pain. Looking at the hand in question, he confirmed there was no blood. Vision was fine. No physical signs of concussion. Slowly sitting up, he shifted around the tap and twisted to stare at it. He head should have struck it. Again feeling the back of his head, he used both hands to explore his cranium. No injuries at all. He couldn't hear any noises indicating someone had heard him fall. No racing footsteps or pounding fists on the door. A fall like that should have created noise; Mycroft was in the flat and would have heard. The soap sat innocently by his thigh and he reach out to carefully place it back in it is holder. He cautiously stood up and rinsed the remainder of the shampoo from his hair before shutting off the water. The bathroom was silent except for the random drips from the showerhead. Shaking his head, he dried off, dressing quickly before he towel dried his hair. He could hear voices coming from the sitting room and he took a deep breath before opening the door and stepping out. The conversation came to a screeching halt and Sherlock focused on the person that shakily stood.

Mrs. Hudson looked older than he remembered with more lines around her mouth. One of her hands came up to cover her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks. She slowly walked towards him but Sherlock wasn't going to wait. In two steps he bent and engulfed her in a tight hug. He wished Mycroft and Molly weren't here to witness the reunion but it couldn't be helped. Grief rolled up from his stomach again but he refused to let it overcome him; he needed to begin controlling it before it controlled him. Sherlock determined that he would learn to do so one way or another.

"Sherlock...Sherlock, I couldn't believe it when Molly told me. I hoped, maybe that John had gone with you. The two of you working together, but she said...she said it wasn't like that. That John was really gone...not fake gone, like you. And oh, Sherlock, you missed his funeral and didn't even know," she sobbed and clutched at his neck as he nodded jerkily.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry for everything. Sorry about leaving and sorry about John. So sorry about John," he murmured, rubbing her back.

"Oh, Sherlock, it was terrible. Losing you both so quickly, John gone so soon after you. If it wasn't for Molly, Mr. Holmes and some others I don't know what I would have done."

The lead weight in Sherlock's gut felt worse the more Mrs. Hudson spoke. He murmured nonsensical words until her sobs slowed. His time away had given him time to think about emotions and...sentiment. He didn't understand the proper procedures and reactions but he realized there were generally accepted actions. Hugging, muttering general platitudes and showing similar remorse. He could do all three of those. He lost track of how long they stood there. Eventually Molly gently guided Mrs. Hudson back to her own flat to take an herbal soother. Mycroft remained in the flat with Sherlock and watched as his little brother went into the kitchen and started to make a cup of tea.

"Are you going to be alright, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked and listened to Sherlock prepare his mug.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as he waited for the kettle to click.

"What did you do with John's stuff?" he questioned and immediately grabbed the kettle once it clicked.

Pouring the steaming water into his mug and putting the kettle back, he stood, silently watching as the water slowly turn brown. His eyes flickered around the counter top and spotted John's RAMC mug against the back splash. Reaching out, he picked it up and gently cradled it in one hand, feeling the comforting weight. Sighing, he set the mug back down and pushed it back into place.

"Doctor Watson's things were packed up but left in his room. Harriett Watson tried to get a few things but...her attention span wasn't the best at the time."

Sherlock snorted. "Meaning it was a half-arsed idea but she couldn't follow through because the drink got in her way. Did she even attend his...she attend the funeral?"

"She did. She was drunk but she was there. Mummy, Pop and myself attended. The clinic John worked at closed for several hours so the staff could attend. There was an impressive military contingent. Lestrade and half the police force," Mycroft commented and Sherlock nodded as he picked up his mug and walked to his chair.

Slowly sitting in his chair, he savored the sensation for a moment before sighing and relaxing into the leather. Sherlock felt himself wanting to look at the empty chair across from him but knew it probably wouldn't be for the best. His emotions were still too close to the surface. Both Holmes were silent as Sherlock sipped his tea. Molly called a soft goodbye from the bottom of the stairs and the sound of the door closing seemed to echo loudly in the pervading quiet. Sherlock tilted his head back and let his eyes slide shut as the mug warmed a circle on his thigh where it rested.

"I'll need to go and see Lestrade tomorrow. When are you announcing my return?"

"A press release will be issued the day after tomorrow. No conference and no interviews. We'll try to keep it quiet. I can have Detective Inspector Lestrade brought here tomorrow morning to see you," Mycroft said as he stood and straightened his clothing.

The only thing out of place on Mycroft now were the grass stains on his knees and the faint scuff marks on his shoes. Sherlock stared at the grass stains and started to remember how he got them. Cutting off that thought, he sipped his tea and swallowed.

"I'll go and see Lestrade tomorrow at his office. Best to just jump back in, right? I'm sure he has stacks of unsolved mysteries that he needs my help on," Sherlock said and set his empty mug off to the side.

Mycroft paused at the door and gripped the doorknob before looking over his shoulder at Sherlock. His little brother was staring into the cold fireplace, maybe hoping to see some answers as to what he should do. His brother had changed during his time away, Mycroft could easily see that. Coming home to the knowledge that John had been dead for years had changed him even more. There was a new tightness around his mouth and a new darkness in his eyes. Mycroft worried what that darkness might mean for the young Holmes.

"Sherlock."

Blue-gray eyes turned to look at him. "Have caution when you go to see Lestrade. Especially around his team. Lestrade thought he lost two good friends and now to have one return will be a shock. He'll think the same as Mrs. Hudson did, that John was helping you out. Discovering that you faked your death and that our actions, in turn, inadvertently caused John's real death will not be easy for him to accept. You might be struck."

Sherlock nodded before turning back to the cold fireplace.

"I'd expect no less from the good Detective Inspector," Sherlock muttered and the soft sound of the door closing behind Mycroft is his only reply.