Mrs. Hudson walked up the stairs to Sherlock's old flat. It was so empty without the man there. Only John was there now, never knowing what to do with his life. She sniffled as she pressed her hand against the door, thinking of the news she was going to press onto the poor man.

He was distressed enough, she decided, pulling her hand away and walking downstairs.

A knock on her door caused her to startle. "Hold on, I'm coming!" she yelled, hustling over to the door.

"Morning, Mycroft." she muttered as she opened the door for the man, swinging his umbrella.

"Morning," he curled his nose. "I'm here for the boxes of his paraphernalia."

"Oh good." she paused.

"Have you told him yet?" Mycroft asked.

The woman sat down heavily at the kitchen table. She shook her head. "I can't get myself to do it."

Mycroft breathed in, bracing himself for the somewhat sentimental conversation he was going to have to have.

"I tried just a few minutes ago, but I can't even seem to knock on the door. If I do get into the apartment, he is already so close to tears, I just can't do it."

"Martha," Mycroft said firmly. It was the first time he had used her first name. She didn't even know that any of the Holmes brothers, or even John, knew. "You have to tell him. You are leaving in three weeks. It's the law, you have to tell him. You don't want him to end up on the streets of London do you?"

"No, we'll tell him together."

"Fine." Mycroft rolled his eyes, starting up the stairs cooly, his umbrella leading the way. He tapped on the door twice, the walked into the flat. About 10 large cardboard boxes were filled with Sherlock's belongings, waiting for the elder brother to collect.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, as a squeaky note erupted from where the man stood beside the window, holding his best friend's violin.

Mycroft shuddered, and tried to put himself in the maudlin feelings of those surrounding him. It didn't work. John's playing was terrible and even Mrs. Hudson was cringing.

John turned around, the light from the window casting an odd circle of light around his face. "Morning." he grumbled. "You can take the stuff."

"How long have you been playing the violin, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked, trying her best to smile.

"I was Googling it for the past few days. I can't stand my playing, but the grating sound of this damn violin is even worse in the silence."

Mycroft tapped to floor with his shoe, giving subtle hints to Mrs. Hudson to stop the jabbering and the small talk.

"John," she said, catching the hint. "There's been something I've been meaning to tell you the last few days. In fact, it was the day before he jumped that a young couple approached me about buying 221. They are expecting a baby and they want to secure their finances so they want to rent out the apartments. His brother is a carpenter, so he'll fix up the unit downstairs."

Mycroft stared vaguely and unattached to his watch.

"But this is my flat!" John shouted, surprising all of them with his reaction. He returned to his stoicism and sat down on the couch. "I'm sorry. I pay you the rent, you have every right to move on whenever you are ready."

"I'm going to my sister in Banff, she's got a nice little cottage near the downtown that she lives in and she wants me to live with her."

"Banff. I can't even think where Banff is! My brain has been deleting itself of all this information that I used to know!"

"Canada. The Rocky Mountains, John." Mycroft said sternly, knowledge just disappearing was not something he enjoyed hearing. The world was populated by enough stupid people already.

"I'm sorry. I should have known that, I've just been upset lately."

"We all have, love." Mrs. Hudson went to give him a hug, but he kept himself closed from the embrace.

"I'll pack up my stuff. How much time do we have?"

"About two weeks."

"Do you want me to put on some tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked to both of the men.

"I'm fine," Mycroft said, waving his hand. He pulled out his cell phone and quickly texted his crew to come and pick up the boxes. He knew without a doubt that his brother was not actually dead. There were many things his brother was, but a fake and a suicidist were not any of them. He knew Sherlock was out there somewhere, but if John and Mrs. Hudson didn't know, he wouldn't be the one to tell them.

John tried to smile politely at Mrs. Hudson as she asked him again about the tea, but it came out as more of a snarl. She left to buy some groceries for the next few days.

"John," Mycroft muttered. "I know this must be hard on you, and it's hard for me to believe as well, but it's probably good if you moved on from my brother. Get out of London. Get a job somewhere else, I can have some of my people help you get a job at any hospital in Britain. In fact, if you wanted to just leave the country, my people will help with that too."

"You want me to forget Sherlock?"

"Forget, no. Move on, yes."

"Move on where?"

"I can get you a job in Newcastle, Edinburgh, or Manchester. You could go back to school and learn something else entirely."

Six men came in behind Mycroft and picked up all the boxes, bringing them downstairs to be shipped to Mycroft's mansion.

John sat down on the couch, tears welling up in his eyes. "I don't want to leave. I don't want to leave Baker Street."

Mycroft turned before walking out the door. "I'll see you later this week."