I'm back! This is the sequel to my previous fanfic A Christmas Miracle, and it takes place a few days after it. Note that I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movie or the books. I am merely an admirer, and I hope those of you who have read ACM find this story just as exciting, as well as you newcomers, though I should warn the newbies that there will be a lot of references to the events in ACM. Well, without further ado...

The letter was thrust into his hands as he made his way through the dark streets of London. He paused and spun around to try and catch a glimpse of his mysterious delivery man, but he had disappeared into the shadows. Who delivers a letter at eleven o'clock at night? It was alright for him, he'd only just left work, after ploughing through the piles of paperwork, but a delivery man? He frowned and turned the letter over in his hands. There was a blood-red wax seal on the back, and he peered at the design on it. There was no image, only three letters, but it was too dark to make out what they were. The parchment was rough on his fingers as he pried open the package and squinted to read its contents. Slowly, his face paled as his eyes moved lower and lower down the text.

Constable Clarke,

Though I have not met you personally, I can assure you I have been studying your methods from afar, and I must say, I am impressed. Not many officers could have the nerve to shoot a man dead from afar. Do not misunderstand me, I am not angry with you for disposing of my man, though I am afraid you have been caught up in something far too great for your worth, and therefore, it is with some regret that I am writing to inform you to expect a little... gift from me within the upcoming weeks. I beg you will not take this personally, for I am a great admirer of the police force, though I must stress that you say your goodbyes... soon.

Yours,

C.E.S

Constable Clarke gripped the letter in shaking hands. Unsure of what to do, he considered turning and returning back to Scotland Yard and telling Lestrade, but he didn't want to waste the Inspector's time if this was just a hoax. But what if it wasn't? And who the devil is C.E.S? He racked his brains for any previous criminals that may have bore a grudge against him, but then he remembered the discussion he had had with a certain consulting detective that night at the church, at the possibility that maybe there was a higher power that had been influencing Samuel Davis' actions. Then it struck him. He knew exactly who he could go to. He glanced along the street and hailed a cab, shouting the address up to the driver and promising a double fare if he got there in ten minutes. Clarky didn't notice the man that walked past him and slip something in his pocket as he climbed in to the waiting vehicle. Nor did he feel the slight prick on his arm as something pierced his skin. Instead, he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, trying to fight the oncoming headache and nauseating feeling in his stomach.

"You call yourself a doctor? I believed in you, and yet you idly sat by and let me die! How could you? I am having a hard time believing you were in the army."

He stared as the young doctor screamed insults at him, shouting about how much he had planned to do, where he was going to go, what he was going to see.

"Patrick," he whispered weakly. "Please. I didn't–" he was interrupted as Collins interrupted him, shouting again.

"Don't you Patrick me! Do you know how much I trusted you? I had just been shot, for crying out loud! I was young, learning and trusted every damn person I met. But you. You betrayed that trust. You as good as killed me." his shouting had turned to a sinister whisper, and he stepped back from the raging doctor.

"I hate you." Collins whispered. "I hate you. I HATE YOU!" Suddenly an explosion muted Collins' screams, as the scene twisted and warped in front of his eyes, and soon the two of them were standing in the desert, screams and cries echoing around them. Bodies lay strewn in the sand, and he watched as Collins took a step towards him, blood suddenly enveloping his chest. Collins raised a hand towards him before his eyes widened and he crumpled to the ground.

"No!" John Watson sat up in his chair, drenched in sweat and panting in the darkness. He closed his eyes in relief as he tried to calm his breathing, and prayed he hadn't woken anyone. He'd had the same nightmare for the past four nights, and they'd gradually become so horrific, he'd been attempting to stop himself from sleeping, hence the reason he had fallen asleep at his desk. The nightmare had re-awoken his fears that the boy's blood was on his hands, and though he knew it wasn't true, he couldn't help but feel guilty.

Slowly, he rose himself from his chair, and tucked it back under the desk. He couldn't stay in his room, not with the temptation of sleep nagging at him. He tip-toed over to the door, and

quietly crept down the stairs, trying to prevent the stairs from creaking. He entered the living room of 221B Baker Street, and softly made his way to the fireplace. The December chill was still around, and though he'd recovered from his cold, the air was not helping his wound rest. Soon the fire was roaring into life, and warmth blossomed through the room. Watson sighed and flopped down on the couch. He was so tired. The doctor inside him was criticising his childish attempts to stop his dreams, but he ignored the pestering. As he fought the irritating voice inside him, he noticed his eyes were drooping. Instantly, he jerked his eyes open and rubbed at them furiously, trying to remove any traces of sleep. Four consecutive nights of barely any sleep wasn't helping to keep his eyes open, and he sought to find something to distract him. His gaze fell upon his friend's Christmas present that he'd bought him. He reached over and picked up A Journey through the Solar System. He opened the first page and began to read the introduction. It had not been two minutes before his eyelids were gradually closing. Again, he forced his eyes open, and unceremoniously threw the book across the room in frustration.

"Seems a little unnecessary." a voice said from across the room.

Watson jumped and snapped his head around to see a yawning Sherlock Holmes exiting his own bedroom, tying the cord around his gown.

"Sorry," Watson muttered, still looking at Holmes. "Were you asleep?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I was merely resting my eyes."

"Right. Did I wake you?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, my dear fellow, I was already awake." Holmes may have been the amazing, ever-observant detective, but Watson knew his friend well enough to know when he was lying.

"Sorry." he said again.

"Having trouble sleeping, Watson?" Holmes asked as he walked out of Watson's line of vision and picked up his violin.

"It's nothing," Watson replied, still trying to fight his exhaustion. "Just a bad dream."

"Hmm," Holmes doubted it was 'just a bad dream'. He knew something had been troubling his friend, and he had an idea as to what it was. He positioned his instrument against his chin and shoulder, and readied his bow. "Well, how about I play you something to help calm you down?" Without waiting for a reply, he stroked his bow over the strings, and a soft melody escaped the violin.

Watson turned his body into the couch, looking for a comfortable spot whilst his eyes drooped again. "You'll wake the neighbours..." he muttered as his eyes finally closed.

Holmes continued to play for another five minutes before finishing the song and setting down the object. He pulled an afghan from behind the couch and gently draped it over his friend. He noticed the dark circles under Watson's eyes, and the slightly paler colour of his skin, and he sighed as he settled in his chair, pipe in hand. The pair of them had been continually stressed throughout the week, anticipating what 'gift' this C.E.S had in store for them. Nothing had come, however, and this evening Watson had forced Holmes to take an early night. At first he had refused, but the look in Watson's eyes soon saw him tucked under the warm blankets and snoring softly. He was aware that Watson had been trying not to sleep, but he could think of nothing that could help his friend. He knew the death of the young doctor had affected Watson greatly, and he suspected this was what Watson dreamt about.

It had been twenty minutes, and Holmes was beginning to feel drowsy also. He was contemplating going back to his room to sleep when a loud pounding thundered around the apartment. Noticing Watson stirring, Holmes cursed as he hurried down the stairs and flung the door open, ready to shout at whoever had woken his friend. He stopped short as he observed the visitor's pale face, his shaking hands, and the slight beads of sweat at the top of his forehead. All this Holmes noticed in a second, and in the next he had his arms out as he caught the crumpling figure of Constable Clarke.

TBC

A/N: You guys know how much I love reviews, and seeing as it's the holidays here, I should be updating pretty regularly. ;)