These characters in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me.

These are not my characters, but if they were, I'd make them dance !

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON

CH. 24

OooOooO

I'm not alone, I look right by my side I find you

You're not alone, you close your eyes and I'm beside you

And I know, there's so much light behind the shadows

Will I be this way forever?

You've changed, I see something new inside you

It's so strange, I no longer hear your echo

You leave me here

To watch you rise above the day and night and sun and sky

Will I be this way forever?

Lyrics from THIS WAY FOREVER – jumeaux

( c ) Jumeaux

OooOooO

Sherlock can't stop kissing John.

He does stop, momentarily, when one of the nurses looks at him from where she is scanning information into the portable workstation she rolls into John's room, and says, "Mr. Holmes, please. If you could please STOP – just for a few minutes – you're skewing the blood pressure results."

So Sherlock reluctantly stops kissing John – and he and John watch the blood pressure cuff inflate, tighten, deflate. Once she records the readings into her computer, she nods, leaves the room, glances back over her shoulder, says, "Carry on, Gentlemen," - and Sherlock goes back to kissing John.

John just laughs.

But it's a small, tired laugh, tinged with something the detective can't quite identify, and Sherlock notes it.

OooOooO

John Watson's hospital room, St. Anne's

"John!"

Sherlock turns from the window and is at the doctor's side in an instant. He leans over to turn on the light behind John's bed, the muted one, then sits in the chair by John's bed and stares into his partner's dark blue eyes, smudged now with pain and exhaustion.

"John – you're awake." "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," he tells himself, as always, utterly ruthless with his own mental processes.

"Sherlock," John whispers, as if it hurts to use his voice. He blinks at the closeness of the detective's face, at his gray eyes, at the coolness of his fingers as they wrap around his wrist.

Sherlock locks his elegant fingers around John's left wrist, avoides the tangles of wire and tubing. He can feel John's pulse – rapid, so rapid. And he can feel the faint tremor that used to plague John's left hand. It's echo lives on now under Sherlock's fingertips.

He frowns at the tremors – and at the nearly overwhelming murderous impulses that burst forth and take up residence in his chest.

Sherlock rings for the nurse, bends over John to reach the call button. As he leans back, he brushes his lips across John's forehead.

At his touch, John shuts his eyes. And breathes.

That is enough for both of them until the nurse comes in. She is pleased that John is awake. She goes right back out again.

OooOooO

John is ordered to remain still for the day and he has no problem with this as he keeps falling asleep for an hour here, forty-five minutes there.

Each time that John sleeps, off and on, during those first eight hours, Sherlock locks his long fingers over John's wrist and holds on for dear life. He watches John sleep, as he has watched him sleep for the past five days, nearly six days. He watches John sleep as if he is afraid John will never wake up again.

He watches John sleep through his own reddened eyes tinged now with sheer fatigue.

Sherlock does not sleep. The one or two hours a day he gets when Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson are in the room fall by the wayside. He refuses to leave John's side now except for the basic necessities of daily living.

The detective is so exhausted, he's nearly hallucinating. But he doesn't sleep. He can't sleep.

A small niggling fear that lives in the back of his mind is steadily growing – fed each time he looks into his partner's haunted eyes. And this fear threatens to eclipse the happiness he feels when John opens his eyes for the first time, there in his room in St. Anne's.

And because Sherlock has not slept, he experiences the first eight hours of John's awakening as a series of vignettes. When he thinks back on this first day, he sees it as segmented, as if the day was a wash of unrelated events, tiny films that play out in his memory, tied together only by the swirling snow outside the window, by the tired, drawn look on John's face – and by the growing desperation and fear in John's eyes.

Echoed now by the same fear and desperation in Sherlock's.

Dr. Merit speaks with him and Mycroft privately while Mrs. Hudson sits with John.

Sherlock comes out of that meeting numb to the bone. Check.

Sherlock sits by John's side and wipes John's forehead with damp cloths and watches the shadows that have taken up residence in John's eyes. Check.

The detective looks at himself in the mirror in the tiny loo in John's room and doesn't recognize himself. He sees wild hair and even wilder eyes. It is as if John's emotional and mental discordance has become part and parcel of Sherlock's' internal hard drive. Check and double check.

And he knows as he looks into his own eyes that he will never – ever – be able to delete these hours or these fears. They have become part of his psyche now, something he will put on every day for the rest of his life, the same way he shrugs into his coat or winds his scarf around his neck.

Part of him. Forever.

OooOooO

But there are good things in those first eight hours. Wonderful things. Things Sherlock thought for a while that he would never, ever be able to do again with a certain Army doctor.

For one thing, Sherlock can't stop kissing John. Which isn't easy to do – the kissing, that is – as John is nearly covered, almost disappears – in a sea of tubes, IV's, bandages, a nasal cannula, an O2 sensor, a portable heart monitor – held on by Velcro straps – that Sherlock keeps accidentally dislodging, which causes a nurse to come in each time to reconnect the stupid thing to the sticky snaps stuck on to various parts of John's anatomy - a blood pressure cuff – you get the idea. There are two stanchions behind John and each one of them holds several bags of various fluids, antibiotics, saline drips, well, you get the idea there, as well.

But the detective does not let any of these hindrances deter him.

He kisses John's fingertips, and when he gets to his right index finger, he gently removes the O2 sensor, kisses the tip of that finger, replaces the O2 sensor, and goes on to the next finger, so as not to skip any.

He kisses John on both wrists, carefully slides John's plastic ID bracelets up so he can reach said wrist, then back down again.

Every time a nurse or doctor comes in to run a test or draw blood or give John medications, they ask John his name and birth date, as an ordinary hospital-dictated, security precaution. Each time, John screws up his eyes, as if he can't – quite – remember this information, which makes Sherlock anxious. But then he grins a tired grin at Sherlock, Sherlock grins back and John gives his name and birth date.

Each time this happens, and each time John can speak for himself, the detective tells John, "Very good. That deserves a reward."

And he finds some new place to kiss John Watson that he hasn't kissed before.

Like the tops of his feet or his elbows or the edge of a collarbone.

Those sorts of places.

But most of the time Sherlock answers for John, as it's difficult for John to speak above a whisper.

Or perhaps he doesn't want to speak.

Sherlock notes this, too.

Sherlock kisses John on the forehead every time he leans over to brush the hair out of John's eyes, on each eyelid when John tries to sleep, at the corners of John's eyes when he's awake, on the top of his dark blonde hair, just because he can, at the corners of his mouth so he can also inhale John, and on the outside shell of John's left ear .. Yes, thatear.

He never goes beyond kissing as John is quite ill, stuck in a hospital bed for God knows how long, and some things just aren't ON.

But this doesn't stop the kissing. Oh no.

OooOooO

John tires easily. Rather, sheer exhaustion covers his skin like a blanket. He listens to everything people say to him. And a short while later, wonders what the hell they said.

Dr. Merit comes in twice that first day to see John. The first time he speaks to them both about John's progress but his eyes don't quite meet the Army doctor's. Merit does, however, look over John's head to stare into Sherlock's eyes.

Merit tells John they will have him sitting up on the side of the bed in one day – but not today as it's the first day he's been awake. Today is for rest.

Merit tells John that the pockets of pneumonia in both lungs are responding to treatment and that, really, they caught it in time before it managed to develop into "a real problem." Sherlock is not certain what the Dr. means by a "real problem" since John is so obviously ill and what constitutes a "real problem" if internal bleeding, necessitating a blood transfusion (two transfusions, actually) isn't a problem?

Merit tells John that the infection in John's thigh is also responding to treatment and Merit is very relieved that he has not developed sepsis. But it was a near thing.

His ribs will heal in time and he is to avoid unnecessary movements for now.

John just nods tiredly. And shuts his eyes. Too tired to care.

The fever is finally gone and John's forehead feels cool to the touch – to test this, Sherlock kisses John frequently on the forehead, just to make sure his skin iscool, of course.

Merit assures both of them, they will soon have John sit up on the side of the bed. Then they will have him walking, little trips around the room to begin. They do not want a re-occurrence of the pneumonia and this is why they must get John up and on his feet. All this will occur the next day, Merit says.

But today – this day – the first day John wakes up there in his room at St. Anne's, this day is for rest, Merit tells John. He has given orders that he be bothered as little as possible. John is to rest.

John is to rest. Right.

Five minutes after Dr. Merit leaves, a nurse comes in to say John must have a chest x-ray. She is followed by the radiologist who wheels in the portable x-ray machine. They ask Sherlock to stand in the corner of the room, away from the machine.

Sherlock watches John's face during this procedure. He hears the quick intake of breath as they move him forward then back again in his bed. He sees John's face as he briefly closes his dark eyes, in pain. But John says nothing and the small ordeal is over relatively quickly.

John is again ordered to rest.

John is to rest.

Fine.

Ten minutes later, a nurse comes in to take yet more vials of his blood, check his temperature, and to change out bags of antibiotics and inject medication into his IV's.

Sherlock sits and watches her as she performs all of these maneuvers. John takes it all in stride as being part and parcel of being in hospital.

But the nurse does not quite meet John's eyes - or Sherlock's. And Sherlock notes it.

A few minutes after that, a food tray is delivered for John and Sherlock sees how John's eyes widen when he sees the food. He turns his face away.

When they come back to collect the tray, the food hasn't been touched.

John does manage to drink some water. And the first cup of hot tea he has had in nearly two weeks.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock holds John's head while he throws up the tea. And the water.

Sherlock rings for the nurse.

OooOooO

Dr. Merit comes by for the second time. He checks John's vitals, while the nurse stands there. His eyes again meet Sherlock's over John's head. He jerks his head toward the door.

Mrs. Hudson stands at the door and waits for Dr. Merit to finish. Sherlock leaves John with her while he goes out in the hallway to speak with Merit. When he comes back in, Sherlock's eyes are haunted – and he cannot meet John's eyes for at least thirty minutes.

John is too tired to notice.

OooOooO

During those first eight hours, Sherlock sits by John's side and answers texts, nixing any visitors who want to come by to see John, except for Mrs. Hudson. And Mycroft.

He texts Lestrade to tell him the good news that John is awake. Lestrade texts back that is wonderful news and he will spread the word.

He calls John's sister Harry – who refuses to take his call. He leaves a message.

Ditto for Sarah.

Sherlock has the phone to John's room muted. He turns off his own mobile. Their small world becomes smaller as Sherlock works to keep out all those who would come by to say hello, to sap John's fragile strength. To waste their time together.

For this, John is extremely grateful. He barely cognizes what has happened to him. He cannot even think about seeing other people now.

Sherlock is all he wants.

The feeling is entirely mutual.

OooOooO

Mycroft's text comes first – of course it does. Less than three minutes after John wakes up.

Excellent news.

Give him my best.

Will be by later.

MH

Sherlock's eyes narrow. How did he – of course, stupid. Stupid. The agent outside John's door. And of course, Sherlock knows the man is one of Mycroft's people.

He's always known. But he frankly, does not care. In fact, he's relieved that at last someone is taking the still real threat to John's life seriously.

Moriarty is, after all, still out there somewhere.

OooOooO

Each time that John wakes from the little naps he takes during those first eight hours, the first thing he does is open his tired eyes and stare at the ceiling. And flinches.

The first time this happens, Sherlock discounts it because John immediately knows where he is or seems to.

The second time it happens, Sherlock follows John's gaze. He glances up at the ceiling. And frowns. It doesn't take a consulting genius to deduce why John's eyes widen at the sight of the pale green paint.

He watches John's eyes. And when John opens his eyes from these frequent naps and sees the ceiling, his eyes widen, his pupils react, and his fists clench in the sheets.

Each time, Sherlock immediately says, "John," quietly, firmly.

And John's eyes turn to meet his and the desperation in them subsides. For a little while.

Until the next time he wakes up. Then the cycle is repeated. Over and over and over again.

OooOooO

When Sherlock takes his chair by John's side and looks into John's eyes – well, sometimes they hold a faraway look and John frowns, as if he doesn't quite remember what happened to him or why he is there, in St. Anne's hospital.

But most of the time, when John frowns like that, he is remembering most of the events leading up to his illness. He knows quite well, thank you, where he is and why he's there. And what went on to put him there.

It is these looks that cause Sherlock to despair.

This is when Sherlock stops kissing John and just sits and holds his hand.

OooOooO

"Retrograde amnesia, most probably caused by mild anoxia," says Dr. Merit.

Sherlock and Mycroft sit in his office. Mrs. Hudson sits with John and tells him about the tiny goings on in the world while John has been missing.

"But he'll most likely recover his memories soon. So let's stop beating around the bush and talk about what we're most concerned about."

Dr. Merit picks up a folder in front of him, hands it over to Mycroft. Sherlock, who stands directly behind his brother, hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, reads over Mycroft's shoulder. Both men raise an eyebrow. Mycroft closes the folder and hands it back to Dr. Merit.

"Prognosis? Course of treatment?" he asks quietly.

Dr. Merit shakes his head and begins to talk. Behind his brother, Sherlock stares at John's doctor; the muted roaring sound in his head becomes more strident and threatens to drown out Merit's words.

They leave. Mycroft goes home, white-faced. Sherlock goes back to John's room to sit with him and hold his hand.

OooOooO

Much later that night, actually very early the following morning, John Watson lies there in his hospital bed, holds Sherlock's hand and talks quietly with the detective. He tries to remember.

Sherlock lets him talk.

"Retrograde amnesia," Dr. Merit had said. Sherlock frowns.

All of which means that when John Watson finally tiredly blinks the world into existence again – and wonders what the hell he is doing in a hospital bed – and Sherlock proceeds to try to tell him what he is doing in a hospital bed – John cannot remember certainevents.

He remembers confronting Moriarty in the clinic and thatsomething happened.

He remembers the injections and someof the subsequent deliriums.

He remembers the pain and confusion – it is nearly the same pain and confusion he is currently experiencing. Except he is safe now. Safe with Sherlock. He tells himself this, over and over again. He is safe now. Safe with Sherlock.

He remembers sitting in the hallway outside that hateful room, leaning against the wall, knowing he was about to die.

He remembers Lori Hansen and her arm around his waist, helping keep him on his feet.

And when he really, really tries, he remembers the little nurse begging him with tears in her eyes, to kill her so that Sebastian Moran – at this point, John's memories break off.

And he deliberately stops remembering.

John's memories are scattered. Sherlock does not push him.

Sherlock has read Lori's report. She told Lestrade all about Moran's attentions to her, about her finding John's gun, about how she and John escaped into the outer hall, about the fact that she thought she and John Watson were about to die…but she never mentions the events that took place immediately after, just before Sherlock found them there.

She never tells a living soul that she asked John Watson to fire a bullet into her brain so she would not be captured and tortured again – and killed – by Sebastian Moran.

And although John Watson does remember this event, he never brings it up to anyone. Not even Sherlock.

Some things just aren't said. Or repeated.

John stops remembering and goes quiet, content to have his wrist held in Sherlock's strong fingers.

He concentrates on the feel of Sherlock's fingers against his wrist, on the soft brush of Sherlock's lips across his forehead. On Sherlock.

It's enough for him that he is no longer captive in that room. It's enough for him that he is back in the land of the living and back with Sherlock.

It's enough. Nearly.

He barely remembers some of the dreams he had while under the influence of Moriarty's drug. Those he does remember, he never repeats to a living soul. Not even to the detective. Especially not to the detective.

And eventually, they fade, as most dreams do. Except for one. The one.

John keeps this memory to himself. And when he lies there in that bed in the following days, in despair, eyes closed, but still wide awake, he allows the memories of that dream to play in his tired mind.

And for those few minutes, he allows himself to remember innocence.

Whenever he remembers thatdream, after it plays out, he opens his eyes and blinks rapidly, his eyes full.

Each time, he looks away from Sherlock.

OooOooO

They talk on into the early morning hours. John is awake for longer periods of time now. And growing desperate.

"Moran," he says in that exhausted, croaking voice. Sherlock thinks of it now as John's default voice. He is asking the question. And this time, Sherlock can give him a satisfactory answer.

"Dead," he says to John. "Dead and buried by now. He can't hurt us again John."

And because the detective knows that soldier John will relish the information, he adds, "Brains blown to hell and back."

And grins at John.

John grins back tiredly. His eyes narrow and he stares at the ceiling. Sherlock sees the pupils react to the news.

"So … very, very dead," he says softly.

"Yes, John. Very, very dead. I promise you."

Sherlock does not tell John that he - John - is the one who killed Moran – with a little help from Lestrade. It's obvious that John does not remember his own actions there in the hallway in the Wellington Art Museum.

And Sherlock knows instinctively not to push him. Not on this memory. Not now.

John eventually turns his head to look at the detective.

"Moriarty? "

A moment's pause. The detective cannot lie to him. Not about this.

"Escaped," Sherlock says tiredly. "Lestrade's people are tracking him. And Mycroft's."

John absorbs this information and hardness narrows his eyes. Sherlock finally – oh God, finally – sees John Watson in those eyes. He shuts his own eyes, momentarily, in relief.

"All is not lost", he thinks. "John's still in there, somewhere."

"So," John says. 'One down –"

"And one to go," answers Sherlock. John nods thoughtfully.

Sherlock never mentions Marcus Franks to John. And John never brings him up. Sherlock is not even certain John remembers Franks.

He asks once about Lori Hansen. Sherlock assures him she is healing and has been by to see him several times. That she will return in a day or two.

John thinks about the things Sherlock tells him – about the fact that he was held prisoner in the lower levels of the Wellington – and this fact, nearly, makes him giggle.

"An art museum, Sherlock? Really?" His voice is a little stronger and Sherlock smiles at him.

"Yes, John, really. Took me a while to figure it out but—"

"You got there in the end, that's all that matters," says John.

Sherlock is quiet after this. He says nothing else about the Wellington. Not on this day.

OooOooO

IT happens for the first time, during the next eight hours. They are alone together. John sleeps. Sherlock keeps watch.

Mrs. Hudson has left, hours earlier. While she is there, Mycroft delivers two huge baskets from Fortnum and Masons, looks in on John and Sherlock, sits through the meeting with Dr. Merit and his brother, while Mrs. H sits with John, and leaves afterward, white-faced and visibly shaken by Dr. Merit's diagnosis of John Watson's condition.

Sherlock immediately gives the baskets to the head nurse and asks her to distribute them to all of John's nurses. This gesture goes a long way to alleviate some of the – irritation, for want of a better term – that Sherlock's previous behavior causes amongst the nursing staff.

They almost like him now.

Sherlock couldn't care less. He has other things to worry about.

The early morning hours are dark, although outside their window, snow swirls. John wakes up from another one of those small blessed naps. Sherlock, who has been keeping watch, checks the time. Another thirty minutes until John's next pain medication.

John turns his head to look at Sherlock, frowns, and then suddenly the doctor's body tenses, his grip on Sherlock's hand hardens – and he shuts his eyes and groans. The spasm grips his spine, bows his back. His breath comes in short gasps.

Sherlock's eyes widen. He releases John's hand and tears out of his room, past Mycroft's agent, who stares at him. He shouts down the hallway for a nurse, a fucking Doctor – anyone for Christ sakes!

He rushes back in to see John's eyes stare upward, wide in fear and panic.

Outside in the hall, Mycroft's man pulls out his phone and sends a text.

Sherlock leans over him, "It's all right, John. They're coming. It's going to be all right."

Nonsense words that the detective doesn't believe even as he is saying them. He runs his hand through the doctor's hair, over and over again.

John Watson gasps. Cold sweat dots his forehead, soaks into his hairline. He narrows his eyes and grits his teeth. He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes at first. He can't.

"Sherlock – Sherlock!" He grips the detective's hand, turns his head to stare at him now, wide-eyed in panic. "I need – please, God, Please Sherlock! Tell them – tell them…I can't!"

John's eyes close and he groans.

And Sherlock Holmes is reintroduced to Hell. He recognizes it immediately. He used to live there himself.

OooOooO

When the nurse rushes in, Sherlock looks up at her, desperate.

"Something for pain – Now," he demands.

The nurse starts to argue. He cuts her off, furious.

"For Gods' sakes, Look at him! Will you just look at him!"

She hurries to John's side, her eyes widen and she turns and rushes from the room.

Sherlock holds John's hand. John's eyes are shut now. His breath comes in small gasps, as if he's just run a race – and lost.

"John, tell me," urges the detective.

John just shakes his head, refuses to open his eyes. The small tremors run through his entire body now and he groans. Finally, he opens his eyes to stare up at the ceiling.

"I can't…I just can't," he says desperately. He doesn't turn his head to look at the other man. But he doesn't let go of his hand either.

"Please, Sherlock, just ask them—" John's voice breaks off. His heart pounds in his chest. His stomach muscles cramp and he bends to the side, as if he's going to be sick. But there's nothing left in his stomach to come up.

When Sherlock realizes what John is asking, his eyes first widen, then narrow. He stares at John's face, at the lines of pain, at the cold sweat. He grabs the cloth from the small table where it rests and runs it over the doctor's forehead.

"No, John," he says firmly. "No. But they'll bring some pain medication shortly. Just hold on."

John shakes his head. "Please, Sherlock – ask them…just fuckin' ask them..…you have to ask them…" his voice fades and he shuts his eyes, in too much pain now to keep them open.

Sherlock looks at John. And wishes to God there was someone left he could kill.

OooOooO

The nurse comes back almost immediately with a hypo. Dr. Merit has left orders. She injects it directly into John's IV. Sherlock watches as the lines fade from John's face and he perceptibly calms down.

John sighs. He begins to relax. He rests for a while. And tries to remember more events from his week at the Wellington.

But it's all a blank now. He can't. He just can't.

Both of them are so nearly at the end of their rope, there's precious little left to cling to – except each other.

"How long?" asks John. He cannot - quite - meet the detective's eyes after the attack.

"A little more than six days with Moriarty; nearly seven days here, John. You slept for five of those," Sherlock answers tiredly. He gives John some water, which the doctor gratefully accepts.

John thinks. He's so tired now. The medication Dr. Merit has prescribed for him doubles as a sleeping draught and he is nearly out.

He tries but cannot add up the days.

"Date?" he asks tiredly.

Sherlock glances at his watch, slightly startled. He looks at John.

"Happy Christmas, John," he says with a little grin.

John's eyes widen and he looks at Sherlock. "Christmas," he says slowly.

With effort, he turns his head to look – again – at the tiny sparkling tree that Mrs. Hudson left in their window.

"Sherlock," John's voice is a tired, small whisper, rough and jagged, as if the very act of speaking somehow hurts.

When did John's voice become so small?

"Sherlock, I – I can't ... . " He sounds a little desperate now and Sherlock places one elegant, cool finger against the dry lips.

"Shh…it's okay, John. Really. You don't have to remember it all right now."

He brushes the dark blonde spikes back from John's forehead – still blessedly cool and fever-free - and smiles into his partner's troubled eyes.

"It's all right. Everything's all right – now. All you have to donow is rest. Just - rest."

John nods slightly, a movement so imperceptible Sherlock nearly misses it.

John wearily shuts his eyes and Sherlock feels a momentary pang when they close.

Afraid. Always afraid.

The detective studies the dark bruising around John Watson's eyes, the way his skin stretches tightly over his skull, the new lines of pain that have been etched into the beloved forehead.

John breathes slowly, quietly and Sherlock avidly watches the slow rise and fall of his friend's chest, as if by his looking away, the movement might somehow stop.

Sherlock pushes that thought away and settles back to watch John sleep, his long fingers leave cool tracings along the inside of John's wrist, one of the few places not covered or tracked by tubes, wires, bandages. He can feel John Watson's steady pulse now against his fingertips and he's loathe to move his hand.

Outside their window, just beyond Mrs. Hudson's tiny Christmas tree, the world rapidly turns to white. Sherlock can almost feel the silence of a snow-covered world settle in around the two of them…as if the snow has muted all the wild, discordant sounds of everyday life and replaced them with the softness of the cocoon, the gentle whisper of soft worn cotton against tired, aching skin.

He lowers his exhausted head onto the small pillow he places on John's bed – right up against John's hand – shuts his eyes - and sleeps at last.

Sometime later, John Watson's restless fingers find their way into the silken mass – and he falls asleep again stroking the untamed curls.

That is how Mycroft finds them, later that morning. Both of them drowned in sleep, John's steady hand resting on Sherlock's dark head.

A pang shoots through him and he stands quietly in the doorway and stares – his chest swelling with love for these two men. He blinks eyes that suddenly ache.

Mycroft silently pulls their door closed, nods at his agent outside their door, and leaves to go sit in the waiting room – and wait. He props his aching leg with its new line of stitches – itching madly now, which indicates it's healing nicely - up on a chair and settles in with his Blackberry and a novel he has been meaning to get to.

The British Government settles in and prepares to wait as long as it takes.

Outside, the snow deepens. London is having a white Christmas.

OooOooO

The End – THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, Book One. THIS IS A TRILOGY.

There will be a short hiatus (I promise…just a short one!) while one tired but satisfied author spends Christmas with her family, including our newest tiny addition, our precious grandson, newly adopted from Ethiopia. Ethiopia – land of six million orphans – minus one.

If you have not already done so, please Author Alert so you will receive notice when THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET posts. Beginning with THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET, I will list links to other author's works here on this wonderful site.

( And yes, if you have followed this story and not had time to Review, PLEASE do so now. I would love to hear your comments. Every word is written for YOU, you know, and for the Love of Sherlock and John. Please don't make me beg! LOL.. )

Thank you for coming along with me on this incredible adventure.

In just a few days, Sherlock and John's most difficult journey together begins.

And I would dearly love it if you decide to come along with the three of us.

There's always room for one more at 221B. Mrs. Hudson will put the kettle on.

All of my Best Wishes to all of you. And Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays from Baker Street.

" skyfullofstars "

OooOooO