(( Hi everyone! Fourth chapter, nearly at the end, now! I hope you all enjoy this one lots – it was a bit of a task to get through, and frankly, I'm glad it's nearly over. I do want to finish it, though, for sake's sake. Either way, enjoy!))

As soon as Mycroft told her, Mrs. Hudson made a mild squeak. Mycroft then proceeded to tell her how he had done such a thing, and even managed to offer a theory as to why. Mrs. Hudson listened to it all in pale-faced solemnity. Once Mycroft seemed to finish, Mrs. Hudson merely sat back on her chair and stirred her tea. "Well."

A pause.

"I can't say I'm surprised. He always was rather funny that way, bless his little heart. Though I'll have a right row with him when he returns, mark my words, Mycroft. I'm too old for him to be doing things like this, you know. Though I imagine John'll want him before I do. You'd think he'd at least have the common decency to let his flatmate know. I swear, John's such a gentle man, and Sherlock's going to be the ruin of him, you know he will."

And yet Mrs. Hudson was smiling, and smiling wide. Mycroft saw behind that smile her perfect happiness, and Mycroft had no doubts that he had done the wrong thing. With that said, he stood up and brushed his trouser legs off. "I should hope not, Mrs. Hudson. Doctor Watson will be the making of my brother. That being said, I believe I hear the good man making his way up the stairs now. If you'll excuse me."

Mrs. Hudson gave a little tut – the man had only eaten one biscuit. Although she had listened as Sherlock complained about the man's invisible weight, she had never thought the man in need of a diet. She doubted anyone did. However, she let him go without much of an argument – whatever redemption Mycroft had given her today didn't mean that she trusted the man entirely. Too much like Sherlock without the kindness the younger man contained.

There were a few shared words upstairs – Mrs. Hudson couldn't tell exactly what they were. Then there was John's raised voice, and a smack large enough to make memories flood Mrs. Hudson's mind and to make her jump in her chair. A little while later, Mycroft walked down the stairs with a handkerchief pressed to his nose. Although Mrs. Hudson offered him help, he did not respond. There was only thing left to do, then.

After Sherlock's death (about two weeks prior, now), she and John had grown rather close. Initially, that had not been the case. John had shunned Mrs. Hudson completely, preferring to stay inside the flat. For the first day, Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen him come out. Indeed, for the next few days, he only went out when necessary, never stopping by or never offering a kind word to her.

It was especially difficult for Mrs. Hudson at night.

When Sherlock had been alive, everyone in the flat had been keenly aware of John's nightmares. Usually it was just heavy breathing that only reached Sherlock's ears, but sometimes it was full-out shouting. Mrs. Hudson had never seen worse nightmares with John than after Sherlock's death. It was heartbreaking. So, one night, when John had been unable to sleep, Mrs. Hudson had went up and invited him down to look at some old photo albums of hers. John had fallen asleep that way, and so, quite a few times, now, Mrs. Hudson would allow John to sleep in her flat. She didn't quite understand how it worked, but John slept without nightmares.

And, of course, it was especially soothing to have someone else in the flat. When Sherlock had been alive, Mrs. Hudson would often hear some sort of sound. Waking up to utter silence was a tad bit frightening to her.

She went up to the flat, brushing off the apron she had around her. "Now, John, I just saw him walk on by. I understand you're upset at him, but that's no need for violence."

"Sorry- so…so sorry." John sputtered about. He was cradling his hand close to his chest, and he looked utterly surprised at himself. His shock was so sincere that any annoyance Mrs. Hudson held against him vanished. She crossed over to him and patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"It's quite alright, dear. Times are what they are, you know. It was horribly impolite of him to come without at least calling first. Sit down, you've got yourself in a tizzy. You've cleaned up a bit, John, that's nice. Goodness knows the place needs it."

Single-handedly, Mrs. Hudson had calmed the Army man down, got him to sit down, and even ushered a faint smile from him. Anyone who thought Mrs. Hudson didn't know how to get things accomplished was a damn liar.

"Thanks. Just came at a bad time, Mycroft did. Not that I'm too keen on talking to him." John grumbled next to her, his hand going to rub at his knuckles. "Maybe later. I was just cleaning up the flat. Place is a bloody mess, you're right. I've just got to clean up the little things. Had to get the bloody knife out of the Cluedo board, took the headphones off the thing on the wall…"

It was heartbreaking. As John was speaking, Mrs. Hudson could nearly see the wall set up on him. An Army man, through and through. Mrs. Hudson had dated a few Army men, and they were all the same. Her lips pursed a bit and she nodded in conjunction with John. "I don't suppose you've any plans for it all, once you get it all together?"

John offered the woman a light smile. "Before I, er…punched him, Mycroft offered to take it all away. Right kind of him. Can't imagine why he'd want it, but I don't have any reason not to let him have it."

Mrs. Hudson knew why. It was rather obvious, actually. Mycroft was hoping that Sherlock would come back. Would come back and, hopefully, need his things again. She didn't know if that would happen. After all, she knew Sherlock – as big and intelligent as he was, there were times when he was tenderly fragile. He avoided emotional conflict. Why would he want to return from the dead to his best friend, then?

It was the most horrible feeling, knowing it. Sherlock was out there, somewhere, and not in 221B where he belonged. Although Mrs. Hudson didn't know how Sherlock thought of her, the boy might as well have been her son. Whatever happened, whatever she said, whatever he did, the boy would always be her son. And now her boy was out somewhere, doing God knows what. Sherlock didn't do well alone.

Some of her bridge friends asked her how on Earth her poor heart could take being Sherlock's landlady. Moreover, how was she so fond of him? There was a certain instinctual habit to it – Mrs. Hudson had always been motherly, loving, and broody. Sherlock, if nothing else, needed to be taken care of that. Beyond that, there had been the feeling, ever since she had met the man, that whatever happened to him, Mrs. Hudson would somehow be involved. The bonus of it all was that she was certain Sherlock would be there, if anything ever happened to her.

Oh. John was saying something. Best just to smile and pat his shoulder.

"Yes, yes, dearie. Don't fret over it. You've enough to worry about, you know. I'd offer to help you with all this rubbish, but…my hip, you know." Mrs. Hudson gave a smile at him, and then it occurred to her.

She should tell John.

It was awfully unfair, him being the only one not to know. Especially since he was the one person, if any of them, that deserved to know. Besides, this was almost physically painful. John was doing it again, just staring at the knick-knacks Sherlock had squirreled away. He had the most pained look in his eyes, and his hand trembled at his side. Mrs. Hudson immediately went over to put a hand on his back.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. No need to worry."

"Of course, dearie, of course." Mrs. Hudson murmured, immediately standing up and pressing her hands against her hips. She had to tell him. Of course Mycroft had sworn her to secrecy, but she had never been much of a fan of that man. Really, she only allowed him about because he was Sherlock's brother, and she was so keen on getting them in each other's good graces. So she cleared her throat and nodded once.

"John, dear? Sherlock's alive."

…

Mycroft hadn't been angry, either when John punched him or when John had called him, announcing that he knew the entire story. There was a sense of joy all throughout Mycroft that couldn't be squashed, now. Sherlock was alive. Oh, that clever, clever boy. John could have killed him at that moment, and Mycroft wouldn't have even spoken a bad word against him. When John called him, however, he didn't express any surprise or shock. He was confronted only with a blunt earnestness. The purpose of his call was simple enough. Sherlock needed to come home.

Initially, Mycroft had argued. Of course he understood why Sherlock was away, and John did, too. John didn't seem to care. So, for the first time in his life, Mycroft had heard John beg, and Mycroft soon felt he was faced with no choice. After all, if he refused a plan for John, John would just do something stupid and childish on his own. Something that would get him killed, and, by proxy, get Sherlock killed.

It took him approximately twenty minutes for him to think of a plan to get the man back. Sherlock couldn't have worn his heart on his sleeve, after all.

John's dead, brother. It's time for you to come home. I'm sorry. M

A delay. Mycroft had the inkling that Sherlock was just looking at his mobile in shock, rather than not being around the device. There was no feelings of guilt or remorse. One of the Holmes brothers had to be able to distance himself, after all.

Why would I need to come back? SH

He said goodbye to you. I believe you owe him the same. M

Mycroft leaned back on his chair. In the meantime, he sent texts to Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John – calling would have been easier, but he wanted to stay by in case Sherlock decided to text him again. They understood the plan and they were off accordingly, fulfilling their roles. This was similar to Mycroft's job – putting himself the head of some elaborate plan and watching the others dance.

I'll be on the next plane. I should be in London within twenty-four hours. Would you tell Molly to free her extra room? SH

I shall. Farewell. M

Sitting back, Mycroft realised that his role was done. Everyone else merely had their jobs to do, and Mycroft hoped with all of his heart that they weren't the idiots he believed them to be.

…

Lestrade had had a taste of the illegal side of the Yard before. Hell, he worked with Sherlock. Sherlock had introduced himself to a darker side of both the Yard and London. Darker than the side he had previously envisioned. This, however? This made him feel a little bit sick to his stomach.

Faking John Watson's death.

Mycroft had asked him to play the appropriate part. Sherlock would likely suspect some sort of trick – after all, only two weeks and John Watson was dead? It seemed improbable. So, Mycroft told him, Sherlock needed to believe there was a crime scene. Finding the appropriate paperwork was easy enough for it, and John had temporarily loaned his gun for the cause. Greg placed some fingerprints on it (unidentifiable, according to the computer, but really belonging to one of the John Does in the morgue), and tagged it and bagged it.

It was child's play. Frighteningly easy to do.

The official cause of death was 'homicide by unknown persons'. If pressed, Greg would say that someone had obviously broken into 221B and shot John with his own Army revolver. Mrs. Hudson, thankfully, was out at the time. There was nothing that could have been down. Kindly send flowers to his sister, Harriet Watson.

He finished up the paperwork and quickly filed it. There. Now, if Sherlock wanted to get someone to find out the truth for him, the paperwork would be filled out and easily accessible. As soon as he turned it away, though, he just leaned forward and tried to fight the queasy feeling in his stomach.

It shouldn't have affected him like this. After all, it was just fake. On paper. Yet Greg couldn't help but get the feeling that he had just killed John Watson, and he gagged a few times. Nothing came up. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach, trying to calm himself.

How ironic, then, that the only use Mycroft had for him was paperwork.

…

Molly was ecstatic.

Mycroft had had a plan to make Sherlock come home.

Yes, of course, there'd probably be some emotional trauma involved for Sherlock, and he would just want to spend his time with John, but he would be coming home. He'd bumble around the morgue again and compliment her lipstick and occasionally throw her a few looks of apologetic fondness.

Oh, it was brilliant.

The past few days, she'd been wearing high turtlenecks to hide the light scar on her neck. Nobody had much asked her what had happened to her, because the majority of the people she conversed with were dead. Dead didn't bother much with fashion.

Mycroft had texted her, in his usual pompous, informed way about what she was to be doing. It wasn't difficult, in all respect.

Try to find a man that was the same height and weight as John Watson. Hair colour would be optimal, as well. Beyond that, she was supposed to simply stand back and let Mycroft's men do their work. So that was what Molly did – there had been a man in. Lovely old gentleman, from all accounts. Worked his job faithfully when, at roughly John's age, he'd just had a heart attack and keeled over. Terrible tragedy, really.

A few hours later, when Mycroft's men all started to head out, Molly returned to look at the body. When she saw it, she was amazed.

The man was a splitting image of John Watson. Frightening, really. He even had the same scar on his shoulder. Every detail seemed to be in place.

That was that, then. The only thing left to do was call John Watson, tell him to come, and tell him to hurry.