A/N: This was so completely NOT planned out in any way. I even spent four days arguing with Watson over where the frig he thought he was going with this blasted story. So, of course, when I come to the end, he decides to punish me by bringing my attention back to something I thought already finished...at least in my mind. Well, I hope this works. Enjoy!

And a special shout out and great big *HUGS* to Lemon Zinger for being such an awesome encouragement and distraction these last couple of days.

As always a great big THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has taken the time to read and review. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.

Epilogue

Four years later Watson found himself digging through his little writing desk once more in search of a pencil for his latest sketch when his hands fell upon a personal journal he had all but forgotten. As he drew out the badly ink-stained brown leather journal, he wondered how it was this had managed to get shoved so very far back into this little drawer. When he opened it curiously a few seconds later he all but fell into his chair with a surprised thump, his face an amazing shade of red.

A Study in Scarlet

The little project he had started all those years ago, it seemed now. He had completely forgotten it in the events that followed. For that matter, the depression that had come behind the wave of activity as he continued to improve in only the slightest increments had left him acting more like Holmes in one of his black fits than he cared to remember. He still felt somewhat ashamed the the reversal of roles as Holmes continued to prod him in various directions until they could both see a marked improvement in his vision. For a time, all Watson could remember was despairing of ever seeing again and the loss of his profession.

Briefly he toyed with the idea of adding this journal to the rubbish bin beside his desk. But, as he recalled Holmes having once given his approval, another thought crossed his mind. It would likely be months, but maybe...

Hiding the journal in a place he would be able to lay hands on it again easily, he found himself smiling at more than the sketches he was working on this afternoon as his mind began to carefully plan out the first in what he hoped to be a series of adventures he'd had the honor of sharing with the great Sherlock Holmes.

~o~o~o~

Holmes paced the sitting room. Limping painfully, he used the pain as a focal point. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep, it seemed. His restless movement now was a cross somewhere between anxious worry and frustrated anger. The vicious, icy rain of the late-November evening outside their sitting room seemed to want to pound its way in through those windows. Watson's restless, nocturnal activities of the last few days combined with his aching, badly twisted ankle had kept him up for some time. And, now, it was all he could do to keep from chasing his friend out into that weather.

Watson was nearly an hour overdue.

Though it was not unlike Watson to disappear from time to time without telling his friend and partner where he was going or what he was doing, it was unusual for him to set a specific time and not meet it without at least sending word. More importantly, Holmes' instincts for danger had been aroused when Watson had been so outright evasive of his current activities. It was not out of the ordinary at all for him to withhold details until he had a chance to rest and recover for himself after a long string of ill or injured patients. However, there was something different about this. Watson seemed almost...concerned, for Holmes. It was as if he really didn't want Holmes involved, and the best way he could find to keep his partner out of his activities was to simply not discuss it at all.

Holmes frowned darkly as he swung around to face the fire, yet again. He was certain Watson knew better by now. Not telling Holmes while giving every other indication of having been up to something was enough to drive them both to distraction. Granted, Holmes had little else to do with his time than pester Watson about his errands and activities that Watson deemed he was fit enough in which to participate. Yet, Watson had not displayed any outward signs of annoyance at Holmes' participation or continued meddling.

Heaving a sigh, he tried to force some semblance of calm. Looking up at the clock for perhaps the hundredth time, Holmes attempted to stifle his growing sense of something being very, very wrong. He did not even know where to begin. As much as he would love to go out and find his friend, if only for his own reassurance, he did not know where to even start looking for the infuriating man. He had found nothing to indicate what Watson was working on or where he could have gone. He had only the man's word that he would be back by eight o'clock.

Holmes continued pacing.

Grumbling something less than complementary about Watson to himself, Holmes continued to use the pain and constant motion as a motivation. At this point, nearly two hours late, he was certainly going to give the doctor a piece of his mind. When Watson showed up he was going to—

Suddenly, the sound of the downstairs door being thrown open rather violently arrested his attention. Knowing this would be Watson, and it did not sound good, he threw open the sitting room door. Watson was frantically launching himself up the first flight of stairs when Holmes met him on the landing. Both Watson and the package in his arms were soaked through. Watson, shivering violently, met Holmes' eyes with something akin to deep worry. To anyone else, his face would have been a mask of surprise. To his closest companion, he appeared plagued by guilt.

Immediately Holmes satisfied himself to Watson's condition in that brief glance. Turning his attention to the package in his friend's arms, he noted the unnatural amount of protective wrapping the the careful way Watson had very deliberately held it to keep it out of the rain. Before he had a chance to ask, Watson dashed forward, practically shoving the package into his hands.

"It's an early Christmas present," Watson said quickly. "Go open it in the sitting room. I'm going to change into something dry."

Watson's face had been a mask of absolute terror as he turned and dashed up the stairs without waiting for so much as a response from his friend. Both confused and concerned, Holmes put aside at least some of his combined anger and frustration at hearing the man rummaging around upstairs. Curiosity taking over, Holmes returned to the settee in the sitting room. Though the box was rather large, it was exceedingly light. Forgoing the usual inspection and string of deductions, he quickly cut the ribbon and tore off the brown paper.

What he found next had him cringing mentally in horror. In those few seconds all of Watson's evasiveness and attempts at secrecy of the last several weeks came crashing back into his mind in a flood of revelation. Holding the offensive item before himself he very nearly flung it into the fire.

But it was already too late. If Watson had this...

As the more slowly, painfully limping steps descended the stairs, Holmes also recalled having given his approval. After all these years he had thought the man had forgotten. Why now of all things, he could not imagine. Quickly he schooled his features to an impassive mask once more as he opened the horribly titled cover and began to peruse the pages. Watson's shuffling, nervous steps behind him alerted him to the doctor's discomfort and what possible reception he would receive.

"Don't act so frightened, Watson," Holmes chided gently. "I'm not going to expire from the shock. Though this is certainly quite the surprise."

"I finally managed to surprise you?" Watson said with mock seriousness. "Perhaps I should record this event."

His friend's display of humor easing the tension, Holmes finally glanced up from the pages to meet his friend's desperately hopeful expression.

"Hmm..." he mused, "perhaps you should. I find myself rather doubting after this that anything you do would surprise me."

Watson nodded, still fidgeting and nervous as he paced toward the fireplace and back again a couple of times as if uncertain what to do with himself. Finally he took a deep breath that was so reminiscent of the last encounter they had shared over the same subject and sat himself into his writing desk chair.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

Holmes frowned down at the item in his hands that still made his mind crawl unpleasantly. Looking up, he caught sight of Watson trying to school his features into something less than heartbroken disappointment.

"Do you really think people will read such a thing?"

Watson thought about this for all of maybe a second before realizing this was Holmes quieter way of voicing approval once more. Carefully, he flashed a half a grin before shrugging. "I suppose we will have to wait and see."

Not for the first time, Holmes cursed himself for his weakness. Had it been anyone else splattering his name all over the pages of some grossly exaggerated, romanticized version of his cases he would not be having this conversation. He knew his friend meant well, and he still could not bring himself to so thoroughly crush the hope he saw in those green eyes.

"Agreed," Holmes stated, glad to have the excuse to remove the offending object from his grasp as Mrs. Hudson had arrived with the tea.

Secretly, he warred with himself somewhere between praying Watson was wrong in anyone wanting to read it, and his own desire to locate and burn every copy personally. Perhaps the only thing that stopped this second action was the renewed warmth he found sparkling back at him in those green eyes as Watson hid his smile behind his cup moments later. Again he wondered what he had ever done to deserve such trust from his friend, and official Boswell.