Hey guys...Please don't hate me...this chapter is a poor, poor offering but it will get better I promise! Once I've gotten through this patch it will get better...I hope...eheh...Review please? (just please don't kill me...) xXxXxXx

The morning sun gleamed through the window of Watson's study, rousing him gently from the unsettled nap he had fallen into. He rolled a little in his seat before blinking awake and pushing himself upright. With sluggish movements, he lifted his open pocket watch to his face and groaned at the time. Four hours sleep. It seemed sleep was not a luxury he was going to enjoy for a long time. He sighed and laid the watch down on the desk once more, his eyes drifting to what else lay there. The two addressed letters were sat in their own small pile beside the box of evidence and the sealed paper delivered to Holmes. Neither of which he could bring himself to open. He'd brought them home from Baker street, placed them on his desk and spent the rest of the day tearing his hair out trying to decide what he was supposed to do. Mary had briefly asked how the meeting with Holmes had gone, but the doctor's rushed and short response of 'fine' was enough to ward her off asking anything more. She hadn't even dared to ask what it was Watson was bringing into their house.

He sighed to himself, a sudden washing of guilt for his treatment of his wife hit him like a ton of bricks. After a quick run of his hand through his hair, he vowed that once he had decided what he was going to do with what was on his desk he would leave the matter of Holmes be. For good. After all it was probably best for both of them. At least now, Holmes wouldn't badger him for company all of the time.

Watson nodded at his forceful decision and sat forward, reaching for the addressed envelopes and lifting them into the light. He wished to help his friend more than anything. His feeble walls of pride had crumbled. The only thing stopping him now was a small niggling fear that Watson himself would be implicated. Surely Holmes would have measures in place for that? Wouldn't he?

Then again, Watson had assumed he had measures in place for if Scotland Yard got wind of him.

The letters dropped to the desk with a frustrated grunt and the doctor fell back against the plush of the chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. And here he had thought moving out of Baker Street would have made things less complicated. After a second, he sat up, decidedly, determined to do something.

The box of evidence was comparatively small, going on how much Holmes had admitted to. It was irrelevant anyway. Evidence that Holmes was guilty was unnecessary, Scotland Yard had already decided on it anyway and Watson didn't want to make the situation any worse. That just left the two envelopes and the sealed paper. The sealed paper was had no return address, simply 'Sherlock Holmes' written across it. The doctors had none of Holmes' deductive skills, but it didn't take a genius for him to work out that these were no doubt communications with his underworld contacts. The envelopes were both going to different places, one was abroad, the other was in London, in one of poorer districts close to the Thames. A part of him had considered going there himself, to find Holmes contact. But then he remembered his close encounter last time he met some of the detective's criminal friends. Without Holmes as protection he would be worse of, the chances were that he would end up dead or in the very least, Holmes would.

Watson shook his head. No, Holmes had told him what to do to save him. His plans had always worked before. Why would this be any different?

With that he pushed the envelopes to one side and focused his attention on the sealed paper. Clearly this person did not know what had happened to Holmes. Else they would not have sent him a message, not to his home address. Watson picked it from the desk and held it gently in his fingers, studying the arching writing in a vain attempt at recognition. None came. He sighed and flipped it over so that the plain wax seal was facing upwards. He ran his fingers over it for a second, telling himself that he was trying to work out its origin. The reality was that he was trying to put off opening it for as long as possible. Part of him wanted to keep himself separate from all of this. Keep himself and Mary safe from anything that might happen because of this.

He swallowed. His friend needed him.

He nodded to himself and slipped his thumb underneath the wax seal, cracking it. He licked his dry lips nervously as he unfolded the paper and scanned his eyes over the writing within.

Good day, Dr. Watson. We've never met, but I assure you, I know enough about you. Mr Holmes used some of my contacts you for a number of days a while back. The reasons are not mine to give but since then I have made sure to keep at least a few eyes on you. A close friend of such a man is not invaluable to know of. It has come to fruition now it seems. Congratulations on your wedding by the way.

Fate of the Great Sherlock Holmes is a tragedy. It is a shame that such a brilliant mind is rotting away Her Majesty's finest prison. You are not the only one who appreciates him, no matter how much he seems to believe otherwise. We cannot let him wilt and die, as it will be inevitable. We both know that. It seems you and I share a goal, my friend. You are not alone in your wish to alleviate your friend from his torment.

He has no doubt already given you instructions to help him, however, I know the criminal underworld a lot better than Mr. Holmes no matter how smart he thinks he is. They will not help him. It is common sense. He has made himself quite the criminal mastermind recently, a fast way to make plenty of powerful enemies. If one's enemy is in danger, the only reason someone like yourself would rescue them is through honour or morals. The men your friend will be relying on have neither.

We should meet. Tomorrow noon.

The letter wasn't signed.

All that was there was the name of a London restaurant that Watson and Holmes had often frequented. Watson slumped back into his chair, letting his head hang over the back of it as he exhaled. Was it never simple? What the message was saying made sense. Holmes must have thought of that. It was a simple thing. Of course he had.

Though this wouldn't have been the first time the great detective had under-estimated how well thought through his plans were. His current situation was evidence enough of that.

The doctor took a deep breath. Why should he trust this person? Why were they trust-worthy when all others weren't? Why were they watching them in the first place? It didn't even bother him that they had been watched this whole time. It was only a small extra on the dangerous and twisted track that Holmes had forced him on. He lifted his head to look at the letters on his desk, his mind torn in conflict. Stifling a yawn, he lifted his pocket watch. Considering the note had been delivered the previous morning, noon was only a couple of hours away.

Watson exhaled in frustration and rubbed his hands over his face. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to decide quickly. When it came down to it, he had two choices, one was to deliver the letters and sit in his study and hope or to meet with this person and at least talk through what would happen. The doctor swallowed, lifting the letters in one hand and staring at them with a creased brow.

"Oh good God Holmes," he muttered to himself, standing to his feet and plucking his coat from the back of the chair, "What the hell have you gotten me into?" he swung the coat around his shoulders and headed for the door, abandoning everything on his desk.