A/N: Hello, reader, old friend. Here we are. You and me, on the last page.
Well, this is the second-to-last actually, but I'm putting the farewell note here because I don't want to confuse the format of the next one.
So yes, the story's nearly over. Thank you so much for reading thus far, especially you, Captain Xena-Mation. I hope you liked it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. In fact, I've been toying with the idea of doing a series of oneshots featuring John and Charlene and others. What do you think? Please tell me in a review or a PM, I'd love an excuse to write it!
Anyway, on with the story. Time for some Johnlene, methinks. Geronimo!
John stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, then glanced up at her. "Greg let me in," he explained. "To help you. If you want it, of course."
She blinked. "Um, yes. Please. If you don't mind."
"Are you sure?"
"I'd be lost without my brother's blogger," she said lightly.
"Right." There was an awkward pause, then John walked briskly over to the body and kneeled down next to her. "Female, mid-fifties," he said. "No explanation as to how she died yet?"
She kneeled across the body from him. "Nothing yet. It's a complete blank."
"Right," he said thoughtfully. "How much time do we have?"
She checked her watch. "About five minutes."
"What have you got so far?"
She rattled off her findings so far, then stopped abruptly. "Her sock," she said, pointing. "It's pulled down."
John looked. "So it is," he noticed. "Is that significant?"
"The other one's pulled up," Charlene explained. "She wouldn't let her clothing get that messy." She moved down the body to inspect the ankle.
John watched as Charlene put her hands to her temples, thinking hard. Then she suddenly seemed to break out of her thought, standing up and exclaiming, "Oh!"
"What is it?" he asked quickly, still kneeling.
"It's a red herring," she said. "Look. Her clothing and slippers are red. Her hair is red. All the towels, cloths, most of the things in this room are red."
"So it is," he said in amazement. "What does that mean?"
She squatted down to his level. "John, what was the big red herring? The last time we really talked?"
He thought about it. "Timoxy-whatsit."
"Timoxylene barbebutenol, exactly!" she almost shouted. "An abnormal trait of the drug is that it is best injected into the ankle, into the popliteal vein."
He quickly inspected the woman's ankle, to find that yes, there was a small red mark like a pinprick. "So she'd been poisoned using this?"
"Yes, or…" Charlene trailed off. "John, could you take her pulse please?" she asked in a different voice.
He frowned and held the woman's wrist, looking at his watch. "Nothing," he reported.
"You only waited ten seconds. Try a minute."
John frowned again and complied. A minute later, his eyes slowly widened. "There's a pulse!"
Charlene crossed to the door and threw it open to find only Greg standing outside. "She's not dead," she explained quickly. "Her pulse and vital signs have been slowed right down, so she seems dead."
Greg looked nonplussed. "How?"
"Never mind that now, this woman needs medical attention ASAP."
"Right," he said without hesitation, and walked away, speaking into his radio. "We need an ambulance to 13 Calgary Street…"
o0o0o
John and Charlene rode home in silence, and dashed through the pouring rain to 221B. Upstairs, John mumbled something about making tea, and went into the kitchen. Charlene flopped onto the sofa, suddenly exhausted. She sat and watched the rain outside creating patterns on the walls of the living room.
A minute later, John appeared with a cup of tea for her. She took it and put it on the coffee table, then looked up at him. "What the Hell was that about?"
"What do you mean?" he asked guiltily.
"Back there. You haven't spoken to me for a month, not properly. You've been avoiding me, going out all the time. Then you appear out of nowhere, and join me on a case like nothing's happened!"
He closed his eyes and exhaled for a long time. Then he put his mug down also and sat down next to her, close but not too close. "I'm sorry, Charlene. I've been an ass, I know."
"I agree."
He paused. "What?"
"Never mind."
He frowned and went on. "It's just…what you said at the pub…I don't know. I don't have a good reason for my behaviour. I was surprised, and not sure what to say. Then as time went on it became harder and harder to talk, you know? But Charlene, I promise you, I really am sorry for what I did."
Charlene waited a moment, then nodded slowly. "I forgive you."
"You do?"
"Of course," she said, and smiled at him. Then she grew serious. "But do you forgive me for lying to you?"
He exhaled. "Okay, Charlene, I've thought long and hard about the next thing I'm going to say to you. These are prepared words. All right?" She nodded. "Okay. The problems of your past are your business." He paused. "The problems of your future are my privilege."
Charlene's eyes widened. She felt tears welling up. "You mean…"
"I don't care who you were. I care about who you are now. And I'll tell you who you are. You are Charlene Holmes, sister of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. You are brave, and clever, and funny. You're beautiful, Charlene, and I love you more than anybody else I have ever met. And that is why I am certain about what I am going to ask."
Charlene's breath caught in her throat. The tears were running freely now.
John put his hand in his coat pocket and took something small out. "Charlene. Um. I know it hasn't been long…we haven't known each other for a long time…only a few months. But after Sherlock's death…or not, as we know now…meeting you was the best thing that could have happened to me. So, Charlene, if you will…if you…could you? See your way…to, er, to becoming…becoming my…"
By now she was grinning at him through her tears. "Four little words, John. Spit it out."
He looked up at her. This made it easier. "Charlene Holmes. Will you marry me?" He opened the small box in his palm to reveal a silver ring with three small, glittering stones set in it.
"John Watson," Charlene said, taking the beautiful ring and looking into his eyes, "Yes."
John leaned over to Charlene, then drew back. "Mrs Hudson?" he said quietly.
"Out," Charlene replied breathlessly. "There's no cops around this time, either."
"All right then."
This time, when they kissed, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate or needy. There was no fear of being interrupted. The kiss was slow, and sweet, and sensual, and it seemed hours before they pulled away, gasping for breath.
"That," Charlene said, "was amazing."
"Best kiss I've ever had," agreed John.
She smiled at him. "I bet I can beat it," she said, and leaned in again.
A few moments passed.
"Should we tell Mrs Hudson?" Charlene asked her new fiancé.
"Not just yet," he murmured against her neck.
"She'll be pleased, you know. She's been wanting us to get together ever since that dinner for Sherlock."
John pulled back. "You knew that all this time? And you never told me?"
She grinned. "The subject never came up."
He rolled his eyes and went back to kissing her, which she returned.
A couple of minutes later, there was a cough from the open doorway. John and Charlene looked up and sprang apart when they saw the tall man in the doorway, their eyes slowly widening.
The man shook his curly hair and straightened the long coat he was wearing. "John, what the hell are you doing with my sister?" demanded Sherlock Holmes.