I took some flak from reviewers for leaving you with yet another cliff-hanger. Don't worry, all will be resolved in this, the final chapter.

To the Guest reviewer who asked if I was actually British instead of American as I claim, thank you. I'm flattered. I just watch a lot of British TV. And it helps to have a degree in linguistics. :-)

And for RockingtheRedhead, who wondered why Donovan was an emergency contact for John: she filled out the paperwork herself (Remember? Back in chapter 3) and added her own name in the emergency contact spot.

Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler

Ch 10: Act casual

I could barely breathe. My heart was in my throat, thumping madly, blocking my airway. "Yes? Is he. . ." dead? Oh, God, please don't say he's dead. I tightened my grip on Holmes' hand. I couldn't meet his eye, although I knew he was watching me closely, looking for any sign.

"Dr. Watson is regaining consciousness. He is asking for . . . Sherlock? That's his next of kin, correct? We've been trying to contact him but he hasn't answered his phone."

Suddenly the fist that had been clenching my trachea released, and I could breathe again. "Yes, Sherlock. He's right here." Now I finally met Holmes' eye, and I couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth. Holmes' bruised face lit up with hope. "Tell John he'll be right down."

As soon as I had hung up the phone, I was struck by a sudden fear: Was Holmes in trouble? He had just held a man at gunpoint and threatened to kill him. I looked around quickly. A sergeant was searching the desk in the office of the autoshop, while a couple of uniforms stomped around trampling evidence. Lestrade was nowhere in sight. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to us.

Holmes was on his feet in one smooth motion, and then I saw his hand, held out to me. I gawped up at him in surprise.

"Coming?" He said with that half-smile.

"You want me to?"

The smile widened. "Of course. You're my ride."

Yeah, that sounded more like it. I put my hand in his and let him haul me to my feet, and we casually strolled out. None of my fellow officers even glanced at us. Clever bunch.

Holmes could move quickly when he wanted to, and I was hard-pressed to keep up with him through the halls of St Barts. Just outside the door to John's room, I caught up with him, grabbed his wrist and squeezed, not hard enough to hurt; just enough to get his attention. When he half-turned in surprise and took a step backward. I stepped in, trapping him against the doorframe, invading his personal space. Tipping my head up I said quietly into his ear, "Don't think I've forgotten that you lied to me."

His eyes widened a fraction and his breath caught. Deer in the headlights.

"But we can talk about that later." I released his wrist. He let out the breath he had been holding when I stepped back and let him go ahead of me into the room.

Once he was past the threshhold, I felt a sudden pang of anxiety. I didn't belong in John's hospital room, not now that he was awake. Holmes certainly didn't want me there. Probably John wouldn't either. I hesitated outside the door, and finally backed away, hand groping in my pocket for my phone, my security blanket.

A second later, Holmes stuck his head out. "Come on!" he said impatiently. Again I stared at him open-mouthed. "Oh, stop gaping and come in already."

Really? Ok, then.

John was still looking pale and exhausted, but at least the tube in his throat had been replaced by a cannula in his nose, some of the wires were gone, and his eyes were open, eyes which lit up as soon as he saw Holmes.

"Sherlock," he croaked, reaching out for Holmes' hand. "All right?"

"Yeah." Holmes' voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, I'm good." He latched onto John's searching hand and held it tightly.

"Thought they were. . . gonna kill you."

"It'd take more than a few kicks to do me in." Although Holmes' back was to me, I could hear the smile in his voice. John's eyes were full of tears, but he was grinning back weakly.

Even though Holmes had invited me in, I decided this moment was a bit too intimate for me. I had never done well with emotional scenes. Quietly I backed out the door and retreated to the hall to give them some privacy, and to give myself time to text Lestrade about John.

John's awake. We're at Barts.

Lestrade's response came quickly: a photo of a vintage Corvette and two other high-end sports cars in various stages of disassembly. The caption read, Tell Holmes he was right.

About five minutes later, an abashed-looking Holmes came out rubbing the back of his neck.

"He'd—um—he'd like to talk to you."

I stuffed my phone into my pocket and hauled myself off the wall where I had been leaning. "He would?"

"Yeah. Don't ask me why."

I narrowed my eyes at him but he just gazed back at me innocently. Why would John want to talk to me? What had Holmes told him? Still suspicious, I took a step toward the door, when I felt Holmes' hand on my arm.

"Donovan."

"What?"

"Thank you."

Huh? "For what?"

"For—for taking me home. For fixing me breakfast. For not—for not killing me with your bare hands, I suppose."

I gave him a confused look. He was actually grateful for all that? I had been under the impression that I was annoying him with my feeble attempts to take care of him. "Oh. Well, then, you're welcome."

He released my arm with a nod. "Go on." And then his hand was on my back, pushing me into John's room, the same way I had pushed him toward John earlier that morning. I wondered if he were conscious of the similarity. Probably.

I entered John's room cautiously, noticing that Holmes didn't follow me in. What was up? Shit, he hadn't told John about John-John, had he? He wouldn't! He promised! Oh, God, this was going to be hard to explain.

John's bed had been propped up a bit, and there was now a cup of water, with a straw sticking jauntily out of the top, on the tray next to his bed. So Sherlock had been taking care of him, obviously. The man was full of surprises. John's face was still a little swollen, especially around the jaw, but at least he didn't look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man anymore. It made me grin to see him looking so much better.

He grinned back. "Hey, Sally," he rasped.

"Hey yourself. You gave us a bit of a scare."

"Sorry 'bout that."

"Holmes said you . . . wanted to see me?"

"I wanted to say thanks, because he probably won't."

"Oh, er, actually. . .he already did." I looked around, mainly to avoid making eye contact. I silently rehearsed my rebuttal: The hedgehog's name is John-John. I didn't name it after you, exactly. Well, I did, but. . .Hey! My eyes lit on the origami I had made for Holmes earlier, lined up on the little table next to John's bed.

John saw me looking. "Sherlock brought those to me. He seems to think the hedgehog. . . looks like me." John paused to cough, and fumbled for the cup of water on the tray. I held the straw up to his lips while he took a drink. "He says you made them for him," he continued once he had swallowed.

"Oh, uh, yeah."

"They're pretty good."

"Um, thanks. Did he. . . tell you anything else?"

"That you made him breakfast. And drove him around. Thank you, really. I know what a. . . pain in the arse he can be, especially when he's hurting."

"Not a problem, mate." I was starting to feel something that might have been relief. Holmes really hadn't told my secret. Was it possible I could trust him after all?

For the next week, I had the same nightmare every night. John continued to die, even though he was getting better every day and would probably be released from the hospital soon. The man with the long stringy hair always read out the will in exactly the same way, and it always ended with me holding little Holmes at arms' length, with no idea of what to do with him.

Finally, on the seventh night of having the dream, I made my decision. This time, instead of letting the boy dangle, I pulled him in and sat him on my hip. His skinny arms went around my neck and his head rested on my shoulder, his wet face against my skin. Then I walked off with him.

I still have the dream occasionally. But now I just go grab the boy off the chair and walk out with him before the man can even read out the will. I know how it's going to end, anyway. Might as well cut the crap and get to it. I guess I'm resigned to my fate as Freak-Wrangler.

Did you like the ending? I considered (briefly) killing John, but I decided I liked him too much to let him die. :-)

If you liked it (or even if you didn't), I'd love to read your review!