Tara crept down the stairs as quietly as she could, over the thresh hold of 221B, stepped around the still-idling motorcycle on the sidewalk, and back to her alley. She opened the door to her stairwell, closed it up behind her, and settled into her sleeping bag. The wind whipped outside and it was quite cold in here as well yet her cheeks were flushed and her pulse raced.

Tara had never been one for trusting others. Her own family, those who were to keep he safe and feeling loved and special, they had let her down. Later the social services people, although many meant well, also failed to see the wolves in sheep's clothing in their midst.

What she saw in the exchange this evening sent her reeling. Although she didn't know much about the story of John and Sherlock (as she now knew them to be named), she did know that Sherlock had to leave John and John never stopped believing in Sherlock. He even believed that Sherlock would defeat death if he asked him to (which it seems that he did). And Sherlock never left John truly alone. Tara had no idea what these two men were to one another but she knew that it was one of the greatest love stories ever. And she was the only one who got to see it. She felt so honored. Even though they didn't see her, she felt so important. She was important because she was the witness to this amazing moment.

She was coming down from her adrenaline high now and feeling suddenly very tired. She snuggled down into her sleeping bag and shed a few silent tears. She was going to miss them. She was going to miss Baker Street. But she would always have this, even if she never told anyone about it. She would always carry with her that she mattered in the world because she was the witness on this night.

When Tara awoke the next morning she wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. She felt different. She felt like she should do something other than just get by but she had utterly no idea where to start. She did know that she did not want to awkwardly run into John or Sherlock, nor did she want one of them to come knocking on her door and find the conditions she lived in. Tara counted the money she had in her bank. Her "bank" was literally a hole in the wall of the stairwell. There was one loose brick that she kept an envelope hidden behind. She put a little bit aside every week for the months that she was employed by Sherlock. There still wasn't enough for even a month's rent on a small flat but maybe if she packed up and went to a small village in the country? She was daring to dream. Where did that come from? She closed her eyes and felt around inside herself for the reason. She could feel a little spark that whispered "Because you matter." It was scary and beautiful.

She decided to camp for her waking hours at the library with newspapers and the internet and maybe make a plan for herself.

Her second day of self-imposed exile at the library, her pocket started to vibrate. It was the cell phone from Sherlock.

"Meet me at Speedy's in two hours. Might have a job for you."

Tara was there in one hour 15 minutes. She wondered where this next job might take her. She wondered if this time she would say no. She felt that maybe she didn't like being invisible anymore.

Right on time, she heard the door to 221B shut through the thin wall of the cafe, but who rounded the doorway was not Sherlock. It was John. And John looked rested and alive and light. He came right over and sat down. Tara found herself blushing and hoped he didn't notice.

"Thank you for meeting me here. First off, I'm afraid I don't know your name." He said with a scrunched face.

"Tara, Tara Smith." Her name felt awkward in her own mouth, like she didn't own that name anymore.

"Well Tara, Tara Smith, I am Dr. John Watson. Nice to officially make your acquaintance." John warmly smiled and extended his hand over the cafe table. Tara returned the gesture tentatively.

"I'm sorry!" Tara blurted out! "I'm really sorry about, you know, spying on you all this time and..." She was almost on the verge of breaking down in embarrassment.

"Oh! Hey! No, it's fine. Listen, it really is all fine now." He leaned in to tell her this with what must be a version of his "compassionate doctor" voice.

Tara grabbed a napkin to pat her eyes with and composed herself. "The text said something about a job? I appreciate it but I may be trying to get my own place and so that would take me out of London. But, I mean, I don't know if that will work out, so what was the job?"

John drew a piece of paper out of his inside jacket pocket. "This is the address for the clinic I work for. They are about to advertise for new person to do filing, data entry, and to be trained for medical records keeping. I got in touch with the director about how I know this young woman who is very detail-oriented and resourceful, and who definitely can be trusted with confidential information. She was all for making arrangements for an interview but I then found myself at a strange loss when I did not know the name of the young woman I was recommending. But now I know it Tara, Tara Smith. So if you are interested in the position I can get you a meeting set up."

"So what you are saying is that this is about a REAL JOB?" Asked Tara.

"Yes, If you are interested..."John was cut off but receiving a text. Mumbling slightly under his breath he complained as he typed a brief reply. "He knows I'm right downstairs...but I guess he's a bit too preoccupied. His return to the flat has moved certain, umm, deadlines up with the work he is doing. His project was almost sorted anyway but we will be doing some scrambling. But anyway, that job..."

"Yes! Yes, I'll take it" exclaimed Tara as she took the slip of paper and held it with reverence like her very own golden ticket.

"Splendid!" Smiled John. "And there is one more thing." He reached into his pocket again and drew out a key. He slid it across the table to rest in front of Tara. She saw the little label on it marked "221C".

"Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, who is just absolutely lovely, has been having a hard time finding a renter for the little basement flat. It is unfurnished save for a cot and a few other little things from storage. Oh, and there is currently Sherlock's motorcycle parked in the living room. But anyway, Mrs. Hudson has been so kind as to lower the rent considerably and it turns out someone has paid the first 2 months rent in full. I don't know if you have made other arrangements already, but if you want it, it's yours."

Tara felt her eyes welling up. She took up the key and clutched it too chest. It was still warm from being in John's pocket. "Thank you. But why are you doing this? Why are you doing this for me?"

John smiled. "Well I guess I, we, owe you don't we? And besides you seemed to fit in so well here on Baker Street. Would hate to lose such a good neighbor. But you should be warned, being our neighbor, could be dangerous."

For the first time in what seemed like years, a full-on smile broke across Tara's face.

Just the the door to Speedy's was flung open rather dramatically. It was Sherlock, now sporting a long black coat and an impatient look.

"John! Work to do!" He proclaimed simply and held the door open for his friend expectantly.

"Right! Coming!" Replied John, getting up to leave. "So we'll see you around then?"

Tara could muster only a dumb-founded nod.

As John exited with Sherlock the taller man met her eyes meaningfully and gave her a slight bow with his head, which she returned. Then the pair were off running.

JWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSH

A few weeks later Tara was still getting her bearings at the clinic. She was daring to look up at her co-workers from her computer more. Once or twice a week she arrived to work with a chocolate-filled croissant in a crisp white bag. Today she cut it in half and offered some to one of the young nurse's aids who often ran files to her. They made nice small talk while sharing the treat and brushing off crumbs.

"So where do you live, love?" Asked the aid.

"Baker Street."

Fin.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

Author's Notes:

Thanks to all who read and followed and reviewed my story. Words cannot express my gratitude.

This started out as a way for me to write original characters and it kind of took on a lovely life of its own.

But because of the constraints of this format of telling the tale only from what could be observed from the outside by the OC characters, I couldn't delve into some of the motivation I felt was happening with our John. Sherlock is brilliant but John is my hero. I had some great email exchanges with one reader who felt that I was making John grieve too much for too long. I so appreciated her input and perspective because it made me really examine things more. In the end we agreed to disagree, and she gave me the okay to post some of my reply to her here in the author's notes. This was my take on John's process leading up to that night:

With Tara I tried to dig more into the fact that John was carrying on pretty well mostly...he had a girlfriend for at least a while, he still enjoyed a warm relationship with Mrs. Hudson, and still kept in touch with Lestrade, even sometimes consulting on cases that Greg was stuck on.

But back to the ending in question. It all starts with Sherlock's "mourning" in a way. Sherlock had to disappear. Sherlock is of course brilliant but he did work better with his "Conductor of light" and friend, John. Sherlock missed him. As he said to one of those he hired to watch John, he knew he could take care of himself. Having people watch John may have been partially motivated by making sure no one harmed him, or seeing how he was doing in the wake of Sherlock's traumatic "death", but it was also strongly motivated by Sherlock's desire to just know how he was doing. He missed his friend. Back in the Paul chapter I tried to tip this off when he texted Paul "Need more detail today". But Sherlock has the advantage of still being very stimulated by the sorting out of all of Moriarty's webs, and of course he knows that John is still out there and getting on with his life with work and dates and friends and he is safe.

t is the presence of Sherlock's spies, paired with the situation of John's plea to Sherlock for the miracle, that set up the real blockage for John. He couldn't move on truly because there was a constant struggle inside of him - the logical part that told him that Sherlock was dead and he should just accept that, and the part that was still hoping for a miracle (because all things ARE possible with Sherlock). The hope portion kept getting fanned by the appearance of the spies. If it had been told from John's perspective, and not from that of the OC's, the reader would have probably been wondering right along with John if he was just imagining it all. So that is what he was stuck with.

In my head, John didn't consider suicide until he sat down that night and loaded his gun with the shot that Tara was meant to hear and report about. There was only one other bullet in the gun. I don't think John is a weak man, but imagine the weight of that moment...knowing that soon you will either find out if you are right or find out that you are "crazy", and then finding that you prefer to keep on being delusional than to give up on the miracle. So he impulsively loaded a second shot.