Epilogue (part 1)

John Watson sat quietly, an untouched cup of coffee before him, gazing out the kitchen window at the gently swaying limbs and leaves of the aspen. He again glanced at the calender on the wall, recognizing that it was exactly one year since the final divorce decree had been granted and the pain in his eyes was apparent.

John looked inside himself, asking again if he had done the right thing; had he made an error, had he acted too precipitously, could he have at least tried to save his marriage? He should his head wearily, he knew that he would again come to the same conclusion. He had little choice. Every time he began to have doubts about the divorce, all he had to do is recall the scene in that lounge, the scene of Esther and her paramour and he knew that his marriage was over.

He had told her that it would be easier for him to live with regret than with suspicion, but that was such an oversimplification. Neither choice was 'easy.' Suspicion would have eventually destroyed him, but regret was turning him into a cold, bitter, terribly unhappy man. He was between the proverbial rock and a hard place - screwed regardless of choice. That's the true tragedy of it all - if he hadn't loved Esther as deeply as he did, the divorce would not have been as devastating.

Perhaps he didn't love her enough to fight for their marriage, perhaps he was a coward for walking away, or was it that he loved her too much and that was why he could forgive but couldn't forget. John couldn't fool himself; he loved Esther - would probably always love her. He just couldn't forget her betrayal.

Consequently, John went through the motions of life; going to work, performing competently, coming home, dining and then sleep. Blessed, comforting sleep when unconsciousness blanketed the sorrow that was his constant companion. Many times, after a meager dinner, he would leave the house and walk. He would walk, aimlessly, unaware of direction, oblivious of his surroundings.

This became a pattern for his existence, a routine that he embraced, the very repetitiveness of his days allowing him to focus on that routine, a hollow method of forgetting... of sublimating his unhappiness.

Friends called, but conversations with them were brief. The calls soon tapered off... a relief, not having to make excuse after excuse, refusing invitations. Irene called, Woody called. He spoke with them on the phone, but again, made excuses, pleaded with them, told them he needed time alone. They understood, at least they finally backed off, giving him time to himself, time to heal. Heal? Could his psyche ever really heal, could psychological scar tissue form to cover the raw wound in his heart, allowing him to find peace?

John was startled out of his musings by the repeated ringing of the front door bell. The ringing was constant, unceasing, forcing him to stride rapidly through the house to the door, angry at the rude interruption. He pulled the door open, prepared to confront the intruder then paused, a weak smile on his lips.

"Irene... damn it, lay off the damn doorbell. My head is pounding as it is."

Irene Holmes, nee Adler, brushed by him and strode into the living room where she turned and put her hands on her hips. Her eyes were blazing and her anger was evident in her words. "Enough of this shit, John. You've been hibernating, feeling sorry for yourself long enough," she spat.

"Someone has to put a poker up your ass and get you to start jump your life. No, No," she put up a hand, stopping John from retorting angrily. "I don't want to hear it, John. We love you, you idiot. That's why I'm here. Enough with the phone calls, enough with the excuses. We gave you time, shit, enough time to bury yourself, but enough is enough. Wake up, John. Wake up, life is passing you by."

Irene paused, pity and sorrow for her dear friend apparent in her gaze, her voice now soft and pleading. "John, it's been a year since the divorce. You've got to get on with living. You can't keep shutting yourself away forever. Please, John. Try to understand what I'm telling you."

The first flush of anger felt by John had passed. He turned wearily and sank into his easy chair. He motioned to another chair and smiled wryly as Irene sat, cautious now, concerned about what his reaction would be.

"Irene... Renee," he began haltingly. "I know... I know... you're right. My mind accepts what you're saying. It's hard, Renee... It's damned hard. I never thought it would be this hard. I need time... I just need time," he whispered.

"Bullshit, John," Irene retorted, but quietly this time. "That's bullshit and you know it. The only way that you're going to be able to get over the split with Esther is for you to reenter the human race." She saw John flinch, but continued. "Johnny, please. Just come for dinner, that's all. All I'm asking now is that you come for dinner. It's Saturday, John. I know that you don't have any plans. Come for dinner this evening," she pleaded.

John sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Okay, Renee... okay. I'll come for dinner, but why you would want me there is beyond my comprehension. I'm really not very good company."

Irene perked up, now smiling. "Don't worry about that. You know that Woody and are both yakkers, we'll keep the conversation flowing. All you have to do is just sit there, smile and nod your head occasionally. Be there around 5, John. We'll have time to get reacquainted before we eat," she added factiously.

Despite John's reservations, he enjoyed himself that evening and, for awhile, was able to put his sorrow aside and immerse himself in the company of caring and loving friends. He was able to chat with them and even laugh at their attempts at humor. He was able to gaze at Irene's antics and smile, knowing that she had pulled out all the stops. Her impersonations of other members of the faculty at the university were spot on and they elicited laughs from both John and Woody. Irene was the assistant chair of the Drama and Performing Arts department and her talent was evident.

John had glanced at Woody at times and Woody had winked and smiled indulgently. They both knew what Irene was doing - she was bending over backwards trying to get John to climb out of the hole he had dug, an abyss into which he could sink and forget the pain. John was no fool, he knew that his behavior was self destructive, and he found that he now welcomed Irene's attempt to pull him up out of the pit of despair. He again looked at his friend, a person he had known for decades, a person he could trust with his life.

"Okay, okay, Renee," he finally was able to interrupt her interpretation of the strange walk/hop of the Dean of Academic Affairs. "Knock it off or I'll pee in my pants," John chuckled. "You're right, I know you're right. You've made your point, Renee, you win."

Irene and Woody looked at him expectantly. Irene also had a hopeful look in her eyes. John chuckled again. "Renee, Woody, you're both right. I've been thinking all evening. I did need time, but I'm carrying this time thing too far. I can't hide forever. I hurt, but I also know that I'll live, I'll get over it. Thanks to you, I think I can start climbing out of my den of self pity. Jeez, Renee, you really beat yourself up entertaining us tonight," John chuckled again.

Woody looked at his friend affectionately. "I'm glad, John. I'm glad that you've come to that conclusion, albeit with a push from Renee. Just remember, if you need us, we'll be there. Never forget that, John."

That evening at the Holmes' was the kick in the ass that finally got John Watson moving again. Oh, there was no dramatic difference, he still tended to be a bit quiet, a bit withdrawn, but hours spent in lonely introspection lessened and he did seem to be in a better humor when dealing with others.

Weeks turned into months and the sharp, agonizing pain he had been living with dulled into an ache that had moved deep inside. He likened it to losing a limb; the pain had lessened, the wound had formed scar tissue, but he was always aware that an important part of himself was missing. John was learning to live with the pain, recognizing that it would always be there, buried deep inside of him.

His personality had changed a bit also. He was a more quiet, more gentle man. Where before he had been impatient with the incompetence or inconsideration of others, he now was more tolerant, more forgiving. At least he had broken out of the wall that he had erected. He attended more school social functions, had dinner out with friends and, yes, even dated occasionally although never more than once with the same woman. The split with his wife did indeed change him, and in ways that even he didn't realize.

John was at his desk one late afternoon when he looked up and saw Irene standing in the doorway.

"Julia's not at her desk, so I barged in," she smiled at him.

"Always good to see you, Renee. Just a social visit?" he queried

"Yeah, I was walking by your building and thought I'd drop in to see how you were doing. I'm through for the day and wondered if you could tear yourself away for a cup of coffee. C'mon, Johnny, keep me company."

John chuckled, "Okay, Irene. I'll leave a note for Julia. She's running an errand for me."

Minutes later they were strolling out headed for the coffee shop on the campus. Fortunately, it wasn't crowded and they were able to get a table to themselves, ordered coffee and decided to split a pastry.

Irene sat quietly, then taking a sip of her coffee, glanced across at John and quietly said, "You do know that Esther had moved?"

She grimaced as she saw John flinch. She knew that mentioning his ex-wife would not be pleasant for her friend, but she had a purpose. "She moved to Atlanta, John."

John sat quietly for a few moments, then sighed and forced a small smile to his lips. "I didn't know that, Renee. When did that happen?" Irene didn't notice that the smile never reached his eyes.

Irene didn't answer immediately, then biting her lip, replied. "Almost a year ago. She resigned her position with her firm and moved. It seems that she's now working for an advocacy group that provides legal aid for the poor. You know, fighting eviction notices, legal aid for abused women, child support claims, that kind of stuff. From what I understand, funding for the group comes from donations, various grants as well as support from the local bar association. There are three lawyers there and a bunch of social workers. She's happy, John. She feels that she's doing something truly worthwhile, not just climbing a corporate ladder."

John sat quietly, seemingly lost in thought. He then focused again on Irene and asked, "How do you know this, Irene? Are you staying in touch with Essi... with Esther?"

"Of course, John. That's a silly question. Esther is a dear friend. We talk at least once a week." Irene hesitated a moment then continued. "She doesn't date, John. She hasn't dated anyone since you two divorced. I just thought that you should know that," concluded Irene.

Irene grimaced again when she saw his eyes turn cold. "Enough, Irene. Don't meddle, I won't put up with that. Don't try to become a match maker." John paused a moment, then continued. "Irene, don't presume on our friendship. Accept that I just am not interested in what she's doing."

John then stood abruptly, turned and left, leaving Irene sitting there with her mouth agape. She shook her head slowly and then muttered, "shit."

Irene stood and walked slowly out of the shop. Taking her cell phone she quickly punched in a familiar number. "Woody? I screwed up... maybe badly," and she proceeded to tell her husband the details of her conversation with John.

"Damn it, Renee. You should have known better," Woody sighed with more than a bit of exasperation. "We discussed this... I told you to leave it alone. He's not ready to move off dead center yet. You know him, Irene. I just hope that he's not too pissed at you."

Irene paused, worried that he may be right. "I don't think so, Woody. He'll be angry for awhile, but he'll get over it. We've been friends for too long. John doesn't hold a grudge, he's knows that I just want what's best for him."

"Damn it, Irene. It's that kind of thinking that got you in trouble with him just now. It's not your responsibility to decide what's best for him. That's something for him to decide. Jeez,, Renee. Stay out of his personal life right now or you'll regret it. You can't push him too far," her husband warned her.

Irene sighed, know ing that Woody was right. "Okay, okay, I've learned my lesson. I'll back off, but I'm going to make sure that he doesn't retreat into that hole again. I'll give him a few days to cool off, and then I'll invite him to dinner. He'll come, Woody. You'll see."

John did "cool off" and Irene and Woody were relieved that their friend seemed to have forgotten Irene's little interference. John came to dinner on a frequent basis, but his friends never did bring up the subject of his ex-wife. Many times Irene was tempted, but a warning glance from Woody kept her tongue still. She really didn't need that glance; she knew that John was not ready for any discussion about Esther, and it pained her to also recognize that he may never be ready.

Time passed and John Watson had rejoined the human race. He became as social as he ever was, but again, dating was not high on his list of priorities. He now enjoyed the company of a rather varied group of women, but they were always aware that he wasn't available for anything but pleasant, casual companionship. John wasn't lacking in sexual companionship as well, but again with that caveat.

Strangely, John never ceased his solitary walks after a late dinner. He never consciously chose his route, letting the direction happen haphazardly. He enjoyed these walks. It kept him in fairly decent shape and tired him so that he was able to sleep. He never really took note of where he was, and when he started to slow, he would then retrace his steps and head for home.

It was in the late fall, during one of his walks, that he realized that he had actually strolled not far from his old neighborhood, the neighborhood in which he had been born and raised; the neighborhood of the gangs of which he had once been a member. The familiar surroundings brought a slight smile to his lips. He realized that it had been years since he had visited this part of the city, especially since his mother and step-father had moved south many years ago.

He was startled out of his reverie as he was suddenly yanked into the mouth of an alley and a voice hissed into his ear. "Give me your wallet, muthefucker, or I'll slit you like a fish." John turned slowly, raising his hands.

"Okay, easy now. Let me get my wallet, okay?" he replied quietly, looking at his assailant who seemed to be of average height, thin and wiry, and brandishing a lethal looking blade. John frowned as he saw how young this punk was - no more than 17 or 18.

"Quick, don't fuck with me. Get it now,"

Seconds later the punk was on the ground, groaning and holding an arm that was probably broken. John stood over him, shaking his head in disgust, muttering, "dumb schmuck."

"FREEZE. POLICE" The voice was authoritative, loud and female. "Put your hands on the back of your head - slowly. NOW!

"Now back up, slowly, move toward my voice - slowly. Stop," the voice commanded.

John felt a hand grab his and pull it down and around to the small of his back. The naked feel of metal encircled his wrist and the same maneuver was repeated with his other hand. Now restrained by the handcuffs, the voice ordered him to turn around.

John blinked in surprise as he found himself looking at a woman, dressed in a dark skirt, white blouse and a light gray jacket. She appeared to be around 35 or so, auburn air and nicely built and very attractive. She was holding up a badge. "I'm a lieutenant of detectives in this precinct and was walking by. Now, how about telling me what happened and why that ball of slime is lying there."

John blinked again, then regaining his wits, related the events of the last few moments. He noticed the woman peering at him closely. "Do you have any ID on you?" she asked.

When John nodded, she moved behind him and extracted a wallet from his rear pocket. After a few moments he heard her chuckle softly, "I'll be damned..."

Moving back to face him, she peered intently at his face. A crooked grin crossed her face as she said, "Johnny Watson, it really is you. Don't remember me, do you. Well, after all, it's been... what?... 25 or 30 years? Wait, let me take those cuffs off."

John breathed a sigh of relief as he was freed, but was truly puzzled. Who was this woman, this city detective who seemed to know him? He rubbed his wrists and again looked at her closely. Shaking his head, he finally said, "You seem to have me at an disadvantage, ma'am. I just don't recognize you."

She laughed softly. "I don't imagine you should, Johnny. It has been a long time." She paused, smiling mischievously. "Patty, John. Patty O'Hara, Tim's kid sister." She now laughed aloud at his astonished expression and before he could reply, she held up a hand.

"Let me get this mess cleaned up, Johnny, and then we can talk." She then proceeded to call in the incident and before long an ambulance and squad car had arrived. Patty, taking charge, filed a brief, preliminary report and the perp was carted off. Approximately 30 minutes or so later, they were alone and John was bursting with questions. Patty now took his arm and led him down the block to an old fashioned saloon which looked like it had been there for ages.

Passing the bar, Patty turned to the bartender and who John later discovered was also the owner. "Sammy, bring us a pot of coffee, ok?" Seeing him nod, she steered John to a corner booth. Sitting across from him she smiled again. "Okay, Johnny. Let's talk. Jeepers, it has been a long time."

"Jeepers? Jeepers?" John exclaimed, his amusement evident "Patty, you haven't changed one bit. Wait, I take that back. Boy, have you changed. You're lovely. You've turned into a beautiful woman," he exclaimed. "Wait, wait a minute. You have to be what... damn, you're around 42? I can't believe it... you don't look anywhere near your age."

Patty, her eyes sparkling, laughed softly. "Damn, can't lie about my age with someone who knew me back when."

John sat back, a look of genuine puzzlement on his face. "Patty, you're a cop, a detective? When did all of this happen? Tim... jeez, I forgot. Your brother... how is Tim. Damn, I haven't seen him since we were kids."

He noticed her eyes cloud up and paused. Patty put up a hand to stop his barrage of questions. "Wait, Johnny... too much... too soon. I'll fill you in, just take it easy." She sat for a moment, then sighed and continued.

"First of all... Tim is dead, Johnny. He died almost 25 years ago, during a hold-up. He and two of his "friends" tried holding up a jewelry store. The owner pulled a gun and fatally shot Tim and wounded the other two, one seriously. It almost killed my folks. They've never been the same and now they're both gone."