Anote: Well here we are at the last chapter. Thanks for reading my story.

Chapter 15- Do you remember me?

I believe at this point it would be the pleasure of every narrator to say that little John and Sherlock became best of friends, and lived happily ever after. That would be a good ending, wouldn't it?

Perhaps it would have happened like that if they were not in different schools, which meant they only saw each other on the weekends and when there was a holiday. Maybe if Mycroft was around during that difficult year instead of out touring the country with his school debate team, things would not have ended the way it did. But it certainly didn't help matters at all when Sherlock in a fit of jealously, stood up in the middle of John's sixth birthday party and announced to one and all that John didn't want little Susie Pollard to sit next to him, because she had terrible bad breath.

Yes, Sherlock remembered that John had told him to keep it a secret, but John was his friend. In his mind, he didn't understand why John felt the need to have all these incredibly dull people surrounding him; particularly those with questionable personal hygiene.

However, if you took the time to ask John who was by all reports a deeply compassionate boy and well liked by most of his peers, he would admit in a forlorn little whisper that it was hard for him to agree to being cut off from his large group of admirers.

One would think that a sensible chap like John would know better in that you didn't need a flock of friends; you just needed one. But John was just a little boy, who soaked up tangible displays of affection like a sponge; affection that Sherlock was not in the habit of sharing at all. Poor Sherlock could only look on helplessly at all the "uselessly detritus" that increasingly cluttered up John's life; stealing valuable play time away from them.

So unfortunately, it is with great regret that I must put pen to paper and report that the boys drifted apart, even more so when they entered secondary school.

Sherlock, upset and hurt over the failure of his first foray into friendship, buried himself in his studies, and John eventually forgot all about his first best friend, as the busyness of life took over.

But as we are all aware, that wasn't the end to their story.

December 24th...thirty years in the future; 10pm.

As Sherlock attached some Christmas ribbons to John's hospital bed post, he noticed that his hands were still trembling.

'Damn it!' he muttered making a tight fist; fighting for control. He looked up quickly to see if John had noticed but no, the man was still unconscious. His friend lying in the bed looked so pale, that he almost blended in with the white sheets that he was covered by.

With a quiet exhale, Sherlock abandoned his efforts to decorate the lavish private hospital room that Mycroft had provided.

Decorating wasn't his area, it was John's; it always was.

The slim man collapsed into a comfortable chair and wheeled it closer to the doctor's bed, sadly grasping the small hand that lay limp on the cover.

'What were you thinking, John?' he whispered in a scolding voice, 'I saw the knife coming, I would have blocked it. How could you be so dense?'

Actually, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if he would have been able to block the attack in time as the suspect lunged at him, but now they would never know. John had cried out a warning and without thinking, the doctor had spread his arms wide to protect his friend. By the time the ambulance had arrived, Sherlock's purple shirt was dripping with all the blood that John had lost. After that, John had been in surgery for quite a bit but fortunately was now on the mend. However, Sherlock was much too frightened to leave. There had been so much blood, it seemed impossible that John was still alive.

Sherlock squeezed the man's hand, taking immeasurable comfort from its warmth. Surreptitiously, he checked to make sure he was alone before closing his eyes.

God, this is Sherlock in London currently speaking to you from St. Bart's hospital, Ward 52. Thank you for this...for... for not taking John as yet. This was very good. Well, that is what I wanted to say and, before I forget because I know I will, Happy Christmas etc etc. Amen.

The door behind him creaked open just as he was concluding his prayer, and Sherlock tensed; readying himself for the attack he knew was coming.

'It's you!' the nurse shouted, 'how did you get past security? How many times do I have to tell you, family only!'

'I am family!' Sherlock shouted back as he stood up, 'Can't you see the resemblance?! Do you NEED glasses!'

The detective spun around, spoiling for a good fight but choked back the contemptuous insults he had prepared. He stared up at the other person, who stood just behind John's stern nurse.

'I see the resemblance, ma'am,' Mycroft agreed in serene tones, 'it's the look in the eyes.'

'What?' the nurse snapped irritably as she glanced at John. 'The patient's eyes are closed, sir!'

'And so they are,' Mycroft added in his most vague manner.

Sherlock glared at the man with a hateful look. If Mycroft was at all disturbed that he was increasing their family circle by one, he wasn't showing it; not that Sherlock cared really.

The nurse shook her head, and shrugged in annoyance, 'The administrator said to accommodate the two of you, but I warn you, don't get underfoot.'

'They won't,' John promised; surprising everyone in the room with the unexpected sound of his voice.

Sherlock grinned happily and was about to bound over to his side, when Mycroft wisely put him in a headlock to allow the nurse to check the monitors. The woman frowned at Sherlock as she left; a gesture which of course had no affect in quenching the young man's exuberance.

'Hey,' John said softly, when Sherlock threw off his brother's restraining arm and hurried to kneel at the man's side. Angling his arm as best as he could, John gave the curly head an awkward pat, 'I heard shouting. Are you being bad again, Sherlock?'

'Again?' Sherlock scoffed playfully with a serious expression. 'I have no idea what you are talking about. I am a perfect angel, as per usual. Can't you see the halo over my head?'

John smiled amused, 'yeah, I see it.'

The doctor then sighed in exhaustion, and waved feebly at Mycroft. 'Sherlock, I told you to go home. I'm fine.'

'You said go get some air,' Sherlock hurried to correct him, 'and I did. Look, I went to the market and bought all these decorations.'

Sherlock held up the bill as if to provide evidence that he was trying to be good for a change. Carefully he dragged the string of lights closer to John's reaching fingers, and smiled in genuine satisfaction, when John's eyes brightened as much as the short, twinkling string of multi-coloured lights.

'For me?' John murmured, as he struggled to keep his eyes open. 'You really want to hang out here with me, don't you?'

'Yes,' Sherlock said in a flat , emotionless voice. What a silly question. Where else would he go?

'Okay,' John agreed with a giant sleepy yawn, 'you are such a lunatic.'

'So I've heard.'

'But go for walks and ...and eat something,' John insisted worriedly, as he snuggled down into his covers, 'My'roft...take him...'

And with that, the doctor's exhausted body pulled him under again.

The two stared at the man, whose small contented smile was illuminated by the flickering Christmas lights which he hugged tightly to his chest.

'Come,' Mycroft said eventually in that quiet commanding way of his, 'Let him sleep.'

At first, Sherlock was mildly alarmed that Mycroft was dragging him off to give him a needless lecture about how this was not his fault, and to stop blaming himself.

Of course he knew all of that! He wasn't the one to jump infront of a knife wielding target! When John recovered, Sherlock fully intended to make him apologize for behaving in such a reckless manner, and scaring the beejesus out of him.

The detective was relieved that Mycroft however, just seemed intent on following John's orders as he walked Sherlock up and down the busy corridors, and then pushed a granola bar into his thin hands.

'Eat!'

Sherlock tore off the wrapper and began devouring it in big hungry bites. The resultant sugar rush was just what he needed.

'Thank you,' Sherlock tacked on reluctantly.

Mycroft smiled in mild amusement at the animosity in his little brother's expression, and continued walking. He would never admit this, but Sherlock found the other man's silent steady company quite restful, after the last couple of nerve wracking hours.

Sherlock fought the urge to yawn, as their silent journey meandered around the children's ward, and then looped back in the direction of John's room. He was quite looking forward now to curling up in the spare cot in John's room, and finally getting some rest when a small black and white football came sailing out a half open doorway, smacking Sherlock hard in the face.

Automatically, the men looked up in surprise as a little boy in an overly long white nightgown, tumbled out with a muffled shriek and a giggle to retrieve the article. The young lad sucked in a harsh, scared breath as he tipped his head back, to look up and up at the two giant grown ups.

Oh oh.

Curiously, the brothers glanced through the open door, to spy a whole gaggle of white gowned soccer enthusiasts, who were enjoying an impromptu and clearly non sanctioned game in their ward.

'Sir?' one of them said in a trembling whisper,'please don't tell. We go to bed now.'

A multicolored array of small heads nodded earnestly. They were going to bed now; no need to tell the mean head nurse, with the pinched face that they were having a bit of a frolic when her back was turned.

They need not of worried.

Sherlock, the biggest rule breaker of them all, had no problem with anyone who wished to stick an impudent tongue out at those who said no to fun. With a well timed kick, the detective launched the small ball back into the group.

The boys unanimously cheered and much to Sherlock's surprise, tiny hands started pulling on his Belfast; tugging him into the ward and more importantly, into the midst of the soccer match.

'No, no...' he protested feebly,'you don't want me. Mycroft, help!'

Soon though, Sherlock was dribbling the ball for his life as it quickly turned into a game of 15 against one. This way and that he twisted, laughing breathlessly as the little ones, thoroughly excited to have a grown up play with them, shrieked and giggled with carefree abandon.

At a glance it seemed a little heartbreaking to observe the group of hospitalized children, some wheeling small poles with IV's behind them, some on crutches, and some with their arms in slings; but if you looked closer you would smile too, to see the excited light in their eyes and the big toothy grins on each face. Yes, they needed medicine, band aids and x-rays and all that, but they needed this too; for the grown ups to just put down their phones and ipads, and come play!

However, despite their best efforts, Sherlock managed a shot at the goal, which consisted of one snow boot and the mop pail.

A loud groan of disappointment went up as the small ball rolled in, but unlike the professional players they idolized, the children gathered around him to hug his long legs in celebration with a sweetness that was charming to behold.

'Err...' Sherlock murmured unsurely, patting their heads awkwardly and trying to gently pry them off.

Off to one side, Mycroft was busy snapping pictures as fast as his mobile would allow. It would be quite nice for a change to send Mummy a happy photo, especially as their younger son had taken to avoiding his parents' house of late.

'Well done,' he teased him with a smile.

Sherlock looked up with an odd wistful expression, 'John would be so surprised that I eventually learned to play this game. Can you imagine his face, if he saw that goal?'

Mycroft nodded absently as he carefully saved the precious photos, before the rest of his brain caught up with what Sherlock's words inferred.

'Oh my giddy aunt! You remember him!' the government agent shouted in shock as he staggered back to collide hard against the wall.

Sherlock, quite calm in contrast to the other man, waved both hands to his little friends who all whined and begged him to stay. However, the detective just continued waving as he backed out; promising to come again with a new friend to play.

'You remember him?' Mycroft repeated impatiently, when Sherlock closed the door to the ward, 'tell me. I can't believe this, Sherlock! I just can't!'

'Remember who?'

'John!'

'Of course I remember him,' Sherlock scoffed as he stared out a large window at the darkness outside, 'he looks exactly the same as he did as a child. Who could forget those ears?!'

Mycroft could only stare at the side of his face in open mouthed horror and shock. All of a sudden everything started to fall into place; Sherlock's protectiveness of the doctor, his immediate acceptance of John into his life, and his insistence that their parents, who would recognize John on sight, keep their distance away from the recovering ex-solider.

'Why didn't you tell me?!' Mycroft cried out. 'I cant believe you let me think you didn't, for all this time!'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at at him, 'I didn't let you think anything. You did that all on your own! Why didn't you say anything if you are so frightful interested?'

'Because you...,' the older man spluttered, feeling a bit silly, 'you hadn't said anything. I just didn't believe you could possibly remember your childhood friend. It was over thirty years ago, Sherlock! I barely remember him!'

Sherlock snorted in disdain, 'And...?'

Mycroft closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. All this time, all these months and Sherlock had never said anything. One of these days, Sherlock's surprises were going to kill him.

'Does John remember?'

Sherlock wished he hadn't said anything now, but almost losing his professional colleague as well as his friend in such a stupid fashion, had pushed many of his emotions to the surface.

'No, I don't think so,' Sherlock eventually revealed in a reluctant manner, 'sometimes he looks at me in a certain way but he hasn't said anything. I don't think he remembers.'

'I concur,' Mycroft agreed, 'I have dropped a few hints and I've gotten nothing. It is not in his nature to hide his emotions for so long.'

Sherlock just continued staring out the window, with his usual blank expression.

'Mrs. Watson had a stroke,' Mycroft continued in a soft voice, 'She is ...'

'I know where she is!' Sherlock snapped, 'I have seen her.'

'Does she remember you?'

Sherlock smiled faintly to himself. He wondered about that too.

Disguised as a gardener, he had snuck into the grounds of the nursing home, not wanting to have to sign in to the visitor's roster and alert John. Due to her illness, Mrs Watson couldn't speak anymore but much to his delight, the dear lady looked strong and well. She had smiled at him offered her a tentative fistful of daises. Periodically he would visit, especially on days when he and John had a flaming row over some "incomprehensible nonsense" as he would complain to her in a low mutter.

She would always insist that he sit on her bench and watch the clouds with her.

'You should have seen my face, when Anthea handed me John's file and I saw his photograph,' Mycroft continued in a murmur, interrupting his thoughts. 'You could have knocked me down with a feather.'

Sherlock swallowed hard as he recalled his first meeting, when he had looked up from pipetting to see John standing there in the lab. Time seemed to stand still as he drank in his former best friend's features; quickly deducing all the pain and loss John had suffered.

Sherlock now gave his brother a malevolent stare.'So, are you ready to tell me exactly why John is here?! I really think it is about time you explain yourself.'

Mycroft looked blank for a moment.

'Sherlie!' he hissed in sudden understanding, 'that wasn't my doing! I didn't find him and shove him back into your life deliberately. Where do you get these ridiculous notions from?!'

'WHAT WAS I TO THINK?!' Sherlock roared, as he turned to his big brother with clenched fists, 'I had him for a few hours, and then you TOOK him from me!'

Mycroft shrank back, a bit startled by so much raw emotion in his usually quite self contained brother. Sherlock, realising that he was perhaps giving away too much, pulled himself together with great effort.

'I took him, because I had to see what type of man he was now,' Mycroft answered quietly, 'people change.'

'Not John,' Sherlock said with stubborn loyalty, as he resumed staring out the window; all emotion safely tucked away into their respective cubby holes.

No, not John.

Mycroft had been inordinately pleased when John had basically refused his offer to spy on his brother, as well as casually hinting that he could go to hell.

A sudden sadness fell on the older man then, as he reflected back on past Christmases. For the thousandth time he wondered how life could had been if they had kept John close, and not let him wander off.

For one thing, John was always such a vigilant caring person, so it was hardly likely that Sherlock would have had that almost fatal overdose a few years back. And it was with great certainty, that they would have never let John go haring off to Afghanistan to get shot and almost killed. Mycroft would have pulled the army medic's file and grounded him in a mountain of paper work, right there in London. And perhaps with John there to run interference, their sibling relationship would not have failed in such a spectacular fashion of epic proportions.

Mycroft moistened his lips and raised his head, 'Do you think that if...'

Sherlock quickly held up one hand, 'Stop, Mycroft...don't. That path leads to madness, as you very well know.'

Mycroft nodded his head in agreement as Sherlock glanced briefly at the defeated, drawn expression on the man's face.

'You are here now,' Sherlock said with atypical empathy, 'and you are doing a brilliant job of protecting his footstep. Do continue, but from a distance! My patience wears thin regarding this distracting habit you have, of kidnapping him for the day.'

'Are you going to tell John about this?'

Sherlock shrugged, 'does it matter?'

Mycroft fiddled briefly with his mobile and the detective looked down when his phone beeped.

There in his inbox was a scanned photograph of happier times when they were children. It was taken during their one Halloween together, where John in his cowboy outfit struck a dramatic pose for the camera and Sherlock brandished his wooden sword that completed his pirate's costume.

Gently he caressed the photo with his thumb, his heart softened by the memory. After a while he deleted it.

All this time, Mycroft was studying the side of his face, 'So if you thought that I had found John and put him into your life for some sort of mischievous reason; why did you keep him around?'

This time Sherlock didn't answer. As far as he was concerned, he had said too much already.

Mycroft righted himself and fixed his coat, 'One last thing, dear brother.'

Sherlock winced inside, readying himself for a painful parting shot.

'I know you don't believe me,' Mycroft began icily,'when I say that I hadn't arranged this meeting with you and John, but consider if it is true, this means that him re-entering your life was by pure chance.'

Silence.

'You are such a blasted coward, Sherlock,' Mycroft sneered nastily, as he looped his umbrella handle over his arm, 'you would rather believe that it was my Machiavellian doing, than accept that your life has twisted onto itself to give you back something that you lost. Miracles happen to just a few people in this world; what a shame one was wasted on you!'

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his forehead fall gently against the glass, as for a moment his face contorted in pain.

Mycroft was right.

It was far easier to think this was some huge grand plan that the older man had concocted, just to get his rebellious baby brother to toe the line. That he could handle; cold hard facts and schemes, not this! He didn't know how to react to the idea that this reunion hadn't been planned and carefully executed.

What would he do now?

What was he do with this unexpected miracle, as Mycroft so sentimentally described it, which had coming crashing through the ceiling of his existence for the second time in his life? One which now hid vitamins in his sandwiches, switched his evening coffee for camomile tea, and apparently believed Sherlock's life was worth more than his own.

'I suppose that you are expecting some incredible holiday gift in return for letting me know this,' Sherlock choked out in an emotional whisper, as he turned his head away so his brother wouldn't see the single tear that rolled down his angular cheek.

'No, Sherlock,' Mycroft gave him a loving pat on his shoulder, surprised but pleased that the other man was lowering his guard and opening himself to the possibilities of what he had just said. 'When he awakes, give John my best regards, and ...Happy Christmas.'

Mycroft was staggered when for the briefest of moments, Sherlock twisted around to trap him in a one armed hug, 'Happy Christmas'.

The End.