"John."

Dead silence was the response.

"Doctor Watson, I really need to speak with you. It's important. It's about Sherlock."

Blinking the dark blond looked up from his place on the sofa, curled up with a Union Jack pillow and Sherlock's dressing gown. Swollen red eyes gazed at the skinny man with the umbrella, daring him to speak more, his cell phone clutched between his fingers.

"I know you received his text. Mrs. Hudson called me when she heard you yell. There are some things I need to explain to you."

Without invitation, Mycroft sat on the closest chair, John's chair, and steepled his fingers.

"The man you know as Sherlock Holmes, is not who you think he is. There really was a Sherlock Holmes, he was my younger brother. But I'm getting a bit a head of myself, aren't I?"

He paused and watched as the doctor sat up, clutching his items closely to his person, almost looking like a single wrong word would shatter him completely. It was not that hard to deduce that he had not slept or eaten properly since he watched the world's only consulting detective fall, no, jump off of the building in front of him.

"To people like Anderson and Donovan, and even Lestrade and yourself, Doctor Watson, Sherlock Holmes was dead on the scene. But no one noticed, not really, that he was not taken to the morgue after the hospital declared him deceased. We took care of him. You see, he wasn't actually dead, merely..." he paused search for the correct adjective to describe the state the body had been in.

"Merely in stasis".

John's head tilted as he tried to process this information and it was clean on his face that it wasn't making sense.

"Now, I can pick up where I started. There really was a Sherlock Holmes, he was my younger brother. He had a vivid imagination, and an IQ to match it. As a child, he met a funny man with an impossible blue box. That man was called the Doctor. He had no other name. And for a while, in his early adolescence, he traveled off and on with the Doctor.

"But when it became too dangerous for him to continue, he was abandoned by the very man who showed him the universe. I wouldn't have believed him if it weren't for having met him once. He came, to see me and ask about the Brigadier," there was a tiny smile on the older Holmes' face, as if remembering a fond memory.

"Grandfather nearly had a fit, when I brought the Doctor to him. But it was all so we would understand what was going to happen to Sherlock. He took it very hard, being left behind. He turned to substance abuse and alcohol to get himself through dealing with such "mundane" creatures as Homo Sapien sapien."

Even in his bewildered state, John could see it clear on the usually emotionless face, a moment of pain, of grief.

"Sherlock died the same day the Doctor returned. He told me of his watch, how it would turn him human, and he needed to be human, forget who he was, to protect the universe. He turned himself into Sherlock, and I helped him. It wasn't hard, to fake the reports of my brother's death being untrue."

If John could have felt anything beyond the numb throbbing in his chest, it probably would have been a cold chill at the realization that Mycroft held enough power to do such things. But he didn't react, too fascinated by the story being woven for him.

"It was simple enough, and he never remembered. And then I realized why the Doctor always had a companion, even in his human state, he had told me before his companion always stayed with him. He could get wild, and he did, and you, you Doctor Watson helped tame him. I will admit to arranging the need on your part for a flat-share, but I went no farther than that. No matter what he might have accused me of, even I do not posses the power to have a man shot for my own purposes."

Mycroft paused when Mrs. Hudson entered, looking older and thinner than she previously had, but still the caring landlady John had come to love as a second mother. Even her "I'm not your house keeper" was familiar and comforting, and he gratefully took the tea, just so he could have something to hold onto, his thoughts having moved from frozen to whirling indecently, tumbling one after the other, over and over, each trying to vie for his attention.

As the door clicked shut gently, and her retreating footsteps sounded, Mycroft took his own tea and looked at it, contemplative.

"When we opened his FOB watch, and he revived, everything came to him. Who he was, who he pretended to be. He explained everything, he even managed to get rid of Moriarty."

He sipped his tea, lightly, eyes never leaving John's face as the man stared at him, a bit confused as to why he was telling him this story.

"I see your curiosity has been piqued, as would have made him proud. I have told you this, not so you could assuage your own feelings of guilt at not being able to save him, though if that does happen, it would not be harmful, but to better prepare you for what is most likely about to happen."

John never felt the cup slide from his hand, nor did he hear it crash to the floor, as a brilliant blue police call box appeared in their-his-their sitting room. When the door opened, and Sherlock stuck his head out, he stood up, never having bothered to remove his shoes, and limp and all, rushed to hug the man.

No one would ever admit if it was a laugh or a sob that left Doctor John Watson's mouth when he first touched the man he thought he had lost forever, but it was most definitely a solid left hook that caught the scarf wearing man in the jaw, when words of rage laced pain spilled out, the dam of silence broken, only to be stopped by another hug and a good solid kiss.

Looking at Mycroft he shook his dark head and sighed. "You didn't give him my proposal did you?"

The seated man shrugged and motioned towards him.

"Never mind, it's far less dull when I do it. So, Doctor John Watson, would you like to continue to be my companion? Travel the galaxies and solve mysteries? There's a whole new load of villains to catch. The game, is still on!"

Smiling, the human doctor nodded and chuckled, "You're not getting rid of me that easily, Sherlock."

Mycroft smiled as Watson was pulled into the TARDIS, the argument cut off by the shutting of the door, and the starting of what he supposed was the engine. Getting up, he whistled slightly and told Mrs. Hudson that John Watson had to take some time for himself, out of country, and that he would make sure the loft was paid for, in full, until his return.

Anthea looked at him as he entered the car and shook her head.

"I thought it was against UNIT policy to assist the Doctor?"

"Ah, you know what they say, history has a tendency to repeat itself."

EDIT

Disclaimer: I have no rights to any Sherlock or Doctor Who characters. Just for fun, and to try and soothe my broken heart. I might continue this, but it's most likely not going to be. It's just a one-shot.

Though if anyone can guess what the text said, I'll make a short bit to tie up any loose ends ;)