Summary: Due to unfortunate genetics, John discovered that he only has a month to live. Knowing full well that the knowledge of his impending death will destroy the consulting detective, he decides that he cannot tell Sherlock of his condition.
A/N: I'm no stranger to angsty stuff, but I plan to add a little bit of humor to this to ease it all out. There will be major character death (John Watson), so if you're a John fan, this'll hurt-but it will be sorta funny/sad. I hope you enjoy this. It's one of my first Sherlock stories and may be the first on I post.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
John slowly leaned back in the chair, only to stop when he realized that he was not at home, in his comfortable little flat, sitting on his comfortable, cushion chair.
No, the chair below him was hard and brittle. Even through his thick winter clothing, he could feel it's cool teeth prickling at the surface of his covered skin, edging its way into his system, and encasing itself around his broken heart.
Literally, his heart was broken.
With a sigh, he brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and pinched away whatever stress he could alleviate.
"So you're telling me that any day now," He began slowly and clearly, leaning inward towards the doctor across from him, whose legs were crossed in a lady like manor, and whose hands lay crisscrossed on her lap, "I can just fall over and die? Is that it?"
"No Dr. Watson, not at all," she said quickly, as if to clear up a major misunderstanding, though with her next clarification, her tone dropped tremendously, and balanced on the rather serious side, "You have slightly longer than that. We're looking at a month to a month and a half. Looking back on your family medical records, I've gathered that your father died around the same age of the same condition."
John nodded.
"So I assume, being a doctor and one dedicate to medicine, you knew about this beforehand?"
With closed eyes, John slowly nodded, and leaned back in the chair, "Yes, i'm very aware of my family's medical history and what it has to do with me. I figured this would happen sooner or later."
That's why I joined the ARMY, he reminded himself as his doctor nodded In a practiced manner, but than again, I hadn't met Sherlock.
The doctor continued, "We can lay out options, hospice care, treatment for the pain-"
"No, no," John silenced the idea with a wave of his hands, and suddenly, he was very aware, "My father managed until his dying day without causing us any worry. I think i'll do the same." He spoke more to himself at the last moment.
The doctor nodded and began to take her stand, "Well, I'm sorry Dr. Watson."
John stood up seconds after her, patting his knees as he did so, "Don't be, I knew it was coming sooner or later...just need to tie some lose ends I suppose."
He extended a hand, and she did the same.
"Oh, and John, refrain from any tedious activity that will accelerate your heart rate any faster. Test reveal that you've a month to live, but any unnecessary stress on that organ will surly quicken the process. Also, no foods high in..."
He nodded as the doctor gave him his own bucket list composed fully of rules and nothing else but rules.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
As a young boy, John had watched his father die as he succumbed to the same condition that was killing the doctor now. His father had been very reluctant to give him advice regarding his illness, and had only done so days before he actually died.
The news had crushed a young John Watson, and the death had nearly destroyed him. But he wasn't the only one who was deeply affected by his father's sudden passing.
Without a father figure, Harry had gone off of the deep end and became a rebel in every sense of the word. Fearing that she was losing control of her own family, his mother had become a drunk that did nothing but lay on the couch and mourned the loss of her dear husband.
Harry and his mother would argue though, they would argue like a married couple. It started when his wayward sister would stumble through the door three hours past midnight. She couldn't even walk straight, let alone stand.
She smelled of beer, and wreaked of sex.
Like a wild, snarling beast, his mother would miraculously spring off of the plush couch that had become her temporary refuge, and pounce on a drunken Harry.
However, Harry was no deer, and if anything, bore as much rage and malice as his mother did.
The two would tangle with one another, would grab and pull at each others long, brown hair. They snarled and scratched at one another like competing lioness...
But for what? What on earth were they competing for? Certainly not a male, because both Harriet and Mrs. Watson had made it a daily task to ignore the youngest Watson ever since the day the eldest Watson had died. Though he was certain that his mother knew not whether to be sad when she looked at John, or angry.
John supposed his uncanny resemblance to his father had something to do with the undeserved hate being spewed his way.
Mr. Watson had become rather distant towards his family months before he passed, and not to mention, he kept them in the dark for ages. John supposed that things would have been better had his father simply left altogether.
If so, his mother wouldn't be sad when she looked at her son, Harriet never would have turned to drugs and alcohol-
Perhaps it would have been better had his father not died in the first place. But that was impossible, that couldn't happen. His father's death weighed a ton on top of a family composed of nothing but pop-sickle sticks.
John felt the emotional strain draining him of what little life he had left. His own house was no longer a home, rather a lair of blood thirsty vampires who sought to suck the life out of any living occupant that entered through the decaying threshold.
Had John stayed another day in that hell hole, he would have died.
So when he was old enough to provide for himself, he saw himself out of his country life and into the big city. Years of concentration and dedication in school earned him a scholarship, and a yearning to be more than who he was saw him in the military.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
His family had taken the news like a feeble tower of sticks to a bottle of thin glass. His father's passing had destroyed them, and left them in pieces. But John had survived, he had climbed out of his own grave, only to live with one foot in it.
But needless to say, he had recovered somewhat.
Sherlock however was no bottle of thin glass. In fact, he was weaker, much weaker. Sherlock was like a spectacular castle of sand. Beautiful, and ornate on the outside. Carefully crafted and sculpted to glean in the bright sun, to captivate the passersby who viewed such an extravagant fortress...but a gentle kiss from the sea foam slowly eroded his walls, and though undetected by an untrained eye, one who spent as much time with Sherlock as John could tell when tiny things got to the sociopath.
He saw the subtle change in Sherlock's eyes many time. The darkening of the iris, the dilating of the pupils-John had noticed these things in Sherlock. The silence, the violin, the stillness, John had noticed them all.
And though they were small changes, the fact that they were changes meant very much.
"Sherlock, I'm dying," John had rolled the sentence on his tongue for hours, "It's got something to do with my heart, there's really nothing that can be done."
Except, John had projected it vocally for hours to his own reflection.
He knew Sherlock enough to know that the man's response to John's "secret" would be very unpredictable. However, it would not be good, not in the least. The detective had latched onto John-the closest thing to a human being in his life-and for the two to be separated would ruin Sherlock.
John had seen it happen to his own family. And as of now, Sherlock was his family.
So staring at his reflection, which had become slightly gaunt over the years (he really resembled his father now), he pledged to just disappear from Sherlock, to evaporate...
But Sherlock was clingy and he would not stand to let John disappear from his life.
So John made another pledge. He promised to distance himself from Sherlock before their clingy relationship grew into something much more intimate and impossible to break. He promised himself that someway, some how, he'd make Sherlock hate his guts, no matter how impossible it sounded.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
If his father had left him with any valuable, life long information before he suddenly passed, it had to be the discovery of "dragons". Though his death bed hadn't been the only time, or place in which his father had disclosed such information to his two children.
"They're scaly little creatures, they are!" Exclaimed the red faced Watson years ago, "Get into your head, drive you insane. John, Harry, they're always in the way!"
John had wondered if dragons were always in the way, how come he'd never seen them before? They were supposed to be scaly, fire breathing lizard with scary wings and bony bodies.
If they were always in his way, than why hadn't he seen them yet?
However, the older John grew, the more he was able to see the actual dragons. Not surprisingly, they weren't scaly monsters that breathed fire, they weren't hideous creatures that bore eyes of red, nor were they blood thirsty creatures that hungered for gold.
At least not at first glance.
From what John had gathered from his father's description of dragons, and his encounters with his own dragons, he had concluded that the beasts came in many shapes and sizes. They presented themselves in terrible situations, and in terrible people.
His toughest dragon to slay had been his father's death and the hail storm it plastered his family with. And really, he hadn't slayed that dragon at all, he'd just run away from it, like some cowardice knight.
His second toughest dragon, however, was one he could not escape.
An expiration date had been decided for him in the far future, as the same disease of the heart that his father had succumbed to would certainly claim John in the future.
It wouldn't bother his military work, as long as he quit before he got older...neither would it effect his medical work.
Besides, he would get worse a month before he actually passed.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Avoiding Sherlock was impossible, and at soon as John had walked to the flat, the detectives curiosity had been peaked instantly. And though Sherlock remained in his chair, with John's computer glued to his face, he John could see dark curls of hair bounce as the pale man turn slightly to look at his flat mate.
Strange, he usually ignored John. But than again, he was curious. John wreaked of secrecy and uncertainty. It attracted Sherlock like a shark to blood.
John walked in with a sigh, and made his way to his chair.
"Computer not working?" Taking a seat in his worn out chair, the doctor grabbed an outdated newspaper, plopped down and began to read. He wanted to avert any suspicion directed towards him that Sherlock already harbored.
As usual, the detective ignored the question. "John, what on earth are you doing?" The typing stopped suddenly, and John could feel Sherlock's gaze tearing through his newspaper.
The doctor blinked as he peeled the paper away from his gaze, and a dirty blond eyebrow rose at the question. Had he done something wrong? "Looking for cases, and you?"
"It's outdated," Sherlock spoke in a neutral tone.
John looked up, "Sorry?"
"The newspaper John, it's outdated," retorted the detective, "All possible cases within the text have either been solved, or too boring to consider."
John pressed his lips together in a tight smile, and folded the paper back into its original state, than softly placed it back on the table.
Sherlock's eyes locked onto his for just a second, and than returned to the bright computer screen. He wondered, John, if the detective had just deduced him. He most likely had, and must have gathered information having to do with John's visit to the hospital.
However, John was a doctor, therefore, any other reason for him going to the hospital would be canceled out.
John sighed. It was his biggest mistake.
Sherlock's eyes were on him in a second, in a quick motion, they scanned him like an electronic computer.
"Are you nervous, John?" His voice was monotone, and he bore an unreadable gaze. He was suspicious, very suspicious.
"No, why-"
"You sighed."
"And..."
"A sigh indicated a release of tension, and by the length of your exhale, I take it you're under a great amount of stress. As a doctor, I would have thought you would have been able to pick up on that. Also, your shoulders were slightly hunched when you walked in, your posture was stiff and your movements were forced. I noticed this with your smile, if you could call it one at all " The detective continued to burn John with his calculating gaze, "You are clearly not paying attention to what you're doing, example, the newspaper. Not to mention, I highly doubt you were even reading the context within the paper, as even you would have been able to notice that many of those cases we had already solved or never considered."
John was certainly caught off guard, and Sherlock wasn't done.
"Alongside that, you weren't incredibly upset that I was using your computer. If you'd been your usual self-"
"Sherlock, it's nothing, I'm just tired," he cut off the babbling detective, "Just a bad day at work...that's all."
He stood up with another sigh, as he'd been holding his breath ever since Sherlock had deduced him.
"Joh-"
"Sherlock, enough!" He hadn't meant to instill as much venom into his command as he had, but the fear of Sherlock discovering his sickness towered the fear of hurting Sherlock's feelings. However, he doubted that his tone would effect the stoic man much.
Again, John was wrong. There was a painful silence as John and Sherlock stared deep into each others eyes.
After the longest few seconds of his life, John brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, and squeezed it.
"Sherlock, i'm-"
"If you're tired you should rest," it wasn't a suggestion Sherlock had presented John with, it was an invitation to leave, "You need it."
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
He had shortness of breath the moment his back made contact with the soft surface of his bed. All throughout the night, he felt like a fish gasping for water, but instead was forced to intake a large quantity of air. It burned like nothing he'd ever felt before.
He could feel a heavy weight on his suddenly shallow chest. It shortened his breath, made it quick and unsteady.
His fingers were numb. He could no longer move any of his limbs.
This certainly wasn't his first attack, but it was one of the worse in a long time.
It truly reminded him that he was indeed drying, and in a little more than a month, he would be off of the earth.
He hated being sentimental, he hated thinking about things as inevitable as death. But when the pain kept him up at night, he suddenly became aware of just how bad his situation was.
He'd be losing a lot, obviously. Like Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade and Sherlock...
Before he got himself into this detective business, John supposed that he had nothing to lose in death. Harry hadn't talked to him for ages, apparently his mother died of alcohol poisoning...he had nothing.
But now, for the first time in ages, John realized that he had everything. And in a month, he was going to lose it all.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
If possible, Sherlock was more anti-social than usual. Evidently, the tone John had taken with the younger man the night before had bothered the detective greatly. And though his vacant expression and his lax body language said otherwise, John could pick off Sherlock's imperfections just as much as Sherlock could pick off his.
Sat on the chair, arched back, elbows pressed firmly on his thighs, and looking into the distance said a lot about the detective. Vacancy meant absence of emotion, the slouching meant "I know you could care less", and all together, those two distinguishing factors made for a very upset Sherlock.
John sighed, "Morning Sherlock."
Dark eyes suddenly regained their color, and Sherlock turned his gaze towards John in acknowledgment.
John held a cup of tea in his hand, and despite already knowing the answer, decided to ask Sherlock if he wanted some.
"Want some tea? The hot water is still on, I could make you..."
Sherlock had turned away from him, and returned to his distant staring. There was a silence, a long silence.
A painfully long silence.
John sighed once more, and was honestly surprised that Sherlock hadn't thought to analyze him again.
"Sorry about yesterday," muttered the doctor, as he looked away from the detective, "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I wasn't upset," Sherlock replied quietly, "I was just concerned."
John giggled and descended into his own chair, "Concerned? About me?"
The detective raised an eyebrow, "Of course. If anything were to happen to you John, my work load would increase tremendously!" A wry smile made its way onto the detectives mouth.
John felt his own grin growing by the second, "Tremendous work load? Like you would have a problem with that."
"I suppose it wouldn't be too much of a bother. No, but I'd be bored," Sherlock said, in all seriousness, "And I have grown quiet fond of your company."
John smiled a sad smile, and though Sherlock noticed it, he said nothing.
"As have I," distantly, the doctor replied to the detective's compliment, "As have I."
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
While Sherlock slaved away at the flat, looking for a case or keeping himself occupied somehow, John busied himself at the hospital. He'd been booked all the way until lunch time.
He ventured out into the city to catch a quick bite to eat, not that was incredibly hungry.
Unfortunately, food was necessary for survival, no matter how short his was.
So he found himself at a small diner, munching on some dry, salty food.
People came and left, some with family, some with a partner. John looked on, and paid close attention to the moments shared between some of the customers. He observed a particular couple that sat at the table in front of him.
They sat close together, like any loving couple did. He traced his fingers through her curly locks, she leaned into his broad chess.
They laughed.
John looked away. He wanted to tell himself that their love struck actions were sickening and nauseous to him, he wanted to scoff in disgust at the pair in front of him.
But instead, the pit that had been carved into his stomach at the sight of them was filled with a deep sense of guilt, and a boiling jealousy.
What on earth did John have to be guilty about? Was it his sickness, and his refusal to tell Sherlock? Of course not! John refused to hurt Sherlock, and telling the detective would only destroy him.
He would not let Sherlock stand by and watch him die!
And what of the jealousy? What the hell was he jealous about? What? Did he want to run his hands through somebody's dark locks? Did he want to trace his fingers against somebody's stern jawline? Did he want a passionate kiss, did he want love?
Did he want a commitment with Sherlock?
Sherlock? Why on Earth did Sherlock pop into his head?
They were just friends! Sherlock was just a very close friend, nothing else and nothing more.
But he imagined his own fingers fingering those curly, dark locks. He imagined his own lips biting at Sherlock's quivering ones.
He imagined love blossoming between the two of them, and growing like a wildflower in the sun. unpredictable and exciting it would be. A real adventure...
The doctor sighed. He imagined things that couldn't be.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
The following day, they had a case. John was a little rusty that morning, as his heart had been giving him more trouble than usual during the night.
Unfortunately, the condition of the moldy room in which their latest victim lay mutilated did not help his breathing.
He looked at Sherlock, who had fallen to his knees and proceeded loomed over the carcass. He began his poignant deduction, speaking fast and without pause. Lestrade would interrupt Sherlock every so often in order to question his credibility as he did always. Sherlock would wave him off with a seemingly simple answer, and return to his deduction of the body.
The smells were getting to John now, more than usual. The wet, moldy odor hung heavy in the dim room. The scent of rotting wood didn't sit too well in John's stomach.
The dark wooden room, flooded with the blood of an unfortunate victim, suddenly sent John an unexplainable migraine. It was painful. And if things couldn't get any worse, he felt a pinch in his heart. The "thump" "thump" echoed within the hollowness of his murky brain, and he felt himself slipping away.
"...examine...now..."
Was that Lestrade? Why did he sound so far away?
"...are...okay?"
What was he saying? Why was he speaking? Damn, John's head was starting to hurt even worse than before.
"John!" The voice which broke his concentration bounced within the walls of his head like a rock to a glass box. He stumbled back, and raked his glove fingers through his sandy hair.
His heart wasn't working right. The lack of oxygen to his brain was taking his toll.
"Dammit" he managed to choke out, before he nearly toppled over.
"John!" This was Sherlock's voice. This was Sherlock, who immediately was upon John.
"John, what's wrong?" The detective sounded worried, gravely worried. And it was exactly at this time that John's heart decided to resume its regular beating pattern.
The oxygen filled his lungs as his heart began to pump. The aching headache was immediately alleviated.
Sherlock held John by his arms in order to keep him from falling, as John's legs had become incredibly weak during his small episode.
He hadn't even realized it until he came back around, but his head had made its way onto Sherlock's chest in the midst of his attack.
Beat red and disoriented, John pushed off of Sherlock and attempted to steady himself.
"John, what's wrong?" Again, Sherlock sounded worried.
"It's nothing, just tired," the doctor nearly slurred his words, " I just need to-I just need to get out of here, get some fresh air."
His face was on fire, being this close to Sherlock was intoxicating, and he feared that the adrenaline rush would overwork his heart again.
He pushed away from the taller man, and searched for the exit. For a split second, Sherlock's iron grip latched around John's upper arm, but the doctor yanked it away.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
With closed eyes, John inhaled the cool, outside air. It was crisps and fresh inside of his lungs. Part of him was grateful that Sherlock nor Lestrade had followed him out of the house. Another part of him felt guilty for being so bland and secretive with Sherlock.
Not to mention, he was certain that Sherlock had been offended after he roughly yanked his arm away from the detective's grasp.
But the moment John began to blush was the moment that he knew he needed to get away.
Why on earth did he feel some sort of inappropriate for Sherlock now? When did his relationship with the man progress from a close bond to something more?
It was fall. The leaves were losing their vibrant green, and fluttering to the dying grass. In fact, just outside of the rotting house was a concrete driveway covered in leaves. On it was a car that was just outside of the garage. It too was covered in leaves.
John had leaned against the rusting metal, and as the weight of his situations bore down upon him, he slid down onto the concrete.
He was in love with Sherlock and dying. He was fucking dying and in love with Sherlock Holmes.
"...not love," John spoke aloud, to no on particular, "It is not love!" He stood up, and began to pace around the driveway.
With each step he made, the leaves beneath him crunched under his shoes. The sound distracted him for a moment, but unfortunately, the moment did not last long enough.
The blushing replayed itself in his head, the close proximity between he and Sherlock moments ago seemed too real, too suffocating.
"I'm not in love with Sherlock," he spoke quietly, at fist, yet as his pacing began, the volume of his mantra did as well, "I am not in love with Sherlock Holmes!"
The deceleration of self denial seemed to pause time itself. Silence ensued as the doctor returned to his spot by the car, and slid to the ground.
"Freak got tired of keeping you around?" A shuffle through the leaves gained John's attention, and suddenly, the stuck up Sally Donovan was standing before him. As usual, her hands were glued to her hips, and her smug expression clearly said, 'I told you so'.
"So what is it, doctor? Did he get tired of keeping you around, or did you get tired of him?"
Why was she even out here? The entire team was inside working on the body and scraping the house for evidence. There was none of that out here. Sally should have been inside with her team.
"What in God's name do you want?" His words were harsher than he intended for them to be, and at the sight of Sally's expression, he could tell that the young officer didn't expect that kind of tone.
She was taken aback, but as usual, her facade melted back into her smug expression.
"Just asking a question, that's all," she sounded slightly hurt, and for some odd reason, John felt slightly guilty.
"Sorry" He said quickly with a lighter tone, "My day hasn't been all that well."
"I don't blame you. Working with the Freak-"
"Sherlock."
Sally raised an eyebrow, and crossed her arms over her chest, "Excuse me?"
"If we're going to talk rubbish about Sherlock, than why not use his name. But, he's not here, there's no reason for you to put up a mask to disappoint him. Not that it upsets him either way, but you're wasting your breath calling him a 'freak'."
Now the look of surprise was permanently attached to Sally's face.
"Defending him, are we? What should I expect, everyone loves to do it," She chuckled dryly, and she herself began to furiously kick at the leaves, "You're his lap dog anyway."
John squinted his eyes in disbelief, and gasped, "I'm no one's lap dog Sally. I'm his friend, if you can't tell difference than that's too bad for you."
"Because befriending some psychopath who happens to be the world's biggest prick, ugh, why am I even talking to you about this," Donovan turned on her heels, and began to walk back into the dying house.
John grunted, "Sally, it's not that, it's just that underneath all that...
"Prickness? Jerkiness? Assholeness? Take your pick Watson," supplied the detective.
"Yeah, underneath all of that, he's an actual caring person," John stated.
Sally almost laughed.
"Really, the Freak is a caring person?"
"Yes. Yes Sally, Sherlock is," He replied all the more proudly.
"I don't believe you," she retorted calmly, "It's not possible."
"Oh believe me, it is very possible," John's mind fluttered back to moments ago, when his head was resting against Sherlock's chest. Come to think about it, the consulting detective's heart was beating faster than normal, his body was stiffer and solid, as if he wanted to keep John from falling through him.
"Hey, what's with that look on your face?" Donovan suddenly asked, "You look all...cheery."
John hadn't even realized that the blush had made its way back to his face.
"I'm not cheery, just hot, yes, that's it, hot," John lied, and instantly regretted it.
"It's fall and you're hot?" Questioned Sally, "You sick or something?"
When Sally wasn't taking shots at Sherlock, she could be very nice company.
John chucked."You have no idea."
"Wanna talk about it?" She tried with a rather sympathetic approach.
"Nope." He said, "Not at all."
Sally nodded and again, kicked at the leaves, though her force wasn't nearly as vigorous as it had been before, "Well, I'll be off than."
The blush didn't drain from his face as she began to take her leave, in fact, without her distracting John's thoughts, he felt like he was being absorbed by Sherlock.
This wasn't good. This was not good.
If he fell in love with Sherlock and left than what would that do to the detective? Worse, was Sherlock starting to fall for him?
John stood up quickly, and the shuffling was loud enough to gain Sally's attention.
"S-Sally..."
He was afraid of what he was about to do. Afraid of the repercussions his actions would cause long after he was gone.
"What is it, Watson?"
Sally was like Sherlock's nemesis. If John confided in her, it may well drive Sherlock away from him.
As painful as it was, as stupid as it was, John knew what he needed to do.
"I...uh, I need to tell you something."
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
And there goes the first chapter for my first Sherlock story. If I get good feedback, i'll most defiantly continue. If not, i'll go hide in a hole. This should be no more than three chapters, four if i'm pushing it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and since this is my first Sherlock story, critique would be most appreciated! Please tell me how you think I did. By the way, i've always loved Sally, so this is why i've added her. Anyway, have a wonderful weekend, and God bless!