In the end, it didn't take that long really; they had been ready with his new persona and life in ten days. Well, he had been shown ten days after the discussion. Who knows, at this point whether or not this was already loosely based on a contingency plan that Mycroft had had in the wings.
As for it to take effect, that took around sixty-two.
He had moved back to Baker as to keep his home in the country, it wouldn't have done for him to stay and then just claim to be somebody else. He retained his physician status and most of his military career, and also gained a knighthood for services for the crown and acts of bravery. This tickled him to no end knowing that Sherlock, if watching would be quite proud of his John at that very moment.
Well, not John. He would be proud of Auryn Rhys Holmes, his cousin on his father's side. His mother had died in childbirth and his father, Siger's brother, had passed only 4 years ago. He missed them, but had spent most of his time away in posh schools in America, then home with private tutor's, and eventually landed at St. Bart's on a bohemian whim. He had wanted to help, and looked at it as an opportunity to give back; he just wasn't expecting on getting shot in the village where he had been helping at.
Yes, Sherlock would be very proud of his cousin indeed.
The day of John's death had not been an easy one. He had to go through the day as if it were any other. Later, they could know. There would be tentative whispers to the correct ears in about a year's time. They planned it so that Mrs. Hudson would be on holiday with Mrs. Turner when Mycroft and Lestrade found his body. Lestrade received the call at 1:02 p.m. on September 17.
He had rushed there, Mycroft pulling up right after as Lestrade unlocked the front main door. Both of the men had rushed upstairs to find John dead in the master bedroom from an overdose, of what later would be found as a mix of cocaine and morphine. He had left a note for both Lestrade and Molly to be read immediately. One for Mrs. Hudson for when she got back home. Of course, the dear woman would be in on it. She knew how to keep her secrets. They didn't want to risk a heart attack.
Later, Mycroft and Lestrade would go through the men's flat and catalog and box everything. It was being taken to one of the estate's storage facilities. While cleaning, they found both of the men's journals. They took turns reading the days that corresponded or those that were close to the same date. Sherlock was fastidious only if experimenting or finding out something new about John. John, on the other hand wrote everyday.
They found out how the two slowly fell in love with one another and how quickly Sherlock knew they would be inseparable. It took John a little longer. Then, the night of the pool. When it became John's life in the balance, Sherlock would have killed them all than have John die or suffer at Moriarty's hands. John trusted Sherlock enough to take their lives because he knew in that instant life would be nothing without one Sherlock M. Holmes.
They had slept together almost every night, at least stayed in the same bed. Sherlock would get up but never stray further than the kitchen in case John, no Hamish, needed him. He had taken to calling him Hamish, beloved, and his heart. It became too much to bear for both men so they moved back to John's. It was no better. It became worse. He was so resolute about not pushing Sherlock's boundaries. Taking their time.
John expressed his physical need more freely, but they also learned how impassioned he was about life from that point on as well. How he would do anything to end the self-harming, the drug abuse, which he had won up until the day Sherlock committed suicide. They still had to war with depression, but they had handled it.
Then the talk began of a ring. On both sides. Secreted, neither knowing. It saddened Lestrade to no end, but he had to find the rings. He had to know if they had been made. Maybe he could bury them with John. John's on his finger, Sherlock's in his coat pocket for the other side. Somehow make this right in his mind, somehow.
That is how the day before the funeral, at his wake, John Hamish Watson, came into possession of both rings. The viewing window had not been very long, as the Holmes family had asked for privacy to bury one of their own. Harriet was no where to be found, most likely on another bender.
Lestrade could not bring himself to put the ring on, so Mycroft did. He also added the signet ring with the families crest on his right hand opposite the engraved band Sherlock had made for him. His brother then put Sherlock's ring box in John's breast pocket by his heart. Gregory was crying more than any rational man should, so Mycroft escorted him quietly to his private den on the opposite wing to go have a full bottle of something very damning and piss the night away together.
There were very few who came to the viewing. No one stayed very long. After the designated time, the doors were shut and locked. Through a side hidden panel, two nurses came and took the doctor to Mycroft's wing through back ways in the family estate. They had placed a ballistic dummy of the proper weight in the coffin and sealed it.
Tomorrow, John H. Watson would join Sherlock M. Holmes beside him under the willow tree. How terribly poetic and sentimental Mycroft was becoming these days. He blamed it on John completely. Their mother remained cloistered in her rooms, as to give the appearance of grieving mother. One death right after the other. It was hard on her.
Everyone from the yard and Sarah's facility were there the next day. Even some of his company that was home on leave, a few he had treated in combat as well. Mycroft had everything recorded so that he may watch it later if he wished.
Two days later, on September 29th, Auryn came to move to Sussex with his family.
The deep auburn locks and spirited beard spoke of barely checked fierceness of will, but his eyes, they were a lovely shade of tidal green. They spoke volumes before someone ever heard his voice. He was quick witted yet kind. He took over their cottage and began tucking in for the winter while slowly searching for a good location for a small office.
Yes, Auryn could call this home.