Uh…so here it is after exactly two months of waiting. *ducks under barrage of rotten fruit* I'm sorry! Stop throwing, start reading!



Watson would heal.

He had shown remarkable resilience in the past and Holmes was confident that the Afghan vet would prove once more that he was made of much better materials than the average man with time. He would recover, physically and mentally. Of that, Holmes had no doubt. That he had to at all was what made Holmes' normally composed and orderly mind lash out in fury and rage.

The appreciative wonder in Watson's eyes as he beheld the night sky, like he marveled in his blessing to see it once more cut at Holmes more than it had to see his physical injuries treated, injuries he had sustained apparently at the hand of Jerome, who behind his placid expression possessed a scalding temper. Watson had told Holmes Jerome had the patience of a monk, willing to wait until Watson was fully recovered before he dealt another blow, that way he could go for hours, never tiring and ensuring Watson's optimum suffering.

"You see, Holmes," Watson smiled wearily, "he had not emerged from your confrontation unfazed."

Watson had meant the statement as a form of reassurance and Holmes was forced to consider whether Watson's usual brand of pawky humor had been warped by the weeks of isolation. He said as much to his friend.

"I had not known there were so many hours in the day until I was forced to endure every single one of them with only the prospect of enduring hundreds more, alone there with only my thoughts as company. I was…" Watson stared somewhere between Holmes' carotid artery and his clavicle, unable to meet his eyes, but unwilling to let his gaze stray lest Holmes vanish from sight and discover he was slowly going mad in the confines of his cell. "Jerome and Peter may have intended to keep me for an extended period of time, but I can't say with any amount confidence if I could have lasted."

Holmes knew the confession was only given because Watson was vulnerable, so he allowed it to pass without comment. Any words of remonstration were reserved for his captors, not he.

"But I did know," Watson offered with a more genuine smile, "that as long as you were alive and able, you would be looking for me. I had no doubt that you would pursue an investigation despite what you had been led to believe."

"Of course I would, old boy. It was a thrilling case with multiple points of interest and fraught with criminal intrigue. There was no hope for the Yard."

Watson needed stability and Holmes would give it to him. Besides, Holmes didn't quite want to admit to his friend or anyone else for that matter, that beyond revenge his motives for pursuing this case had been simple: he had wanted to maintain his last connection with Watson for as long as he was able. Accepting your friend was dead and living through the indefinite future without him were two entirely separate things.

"Rest, dear fellow. This case has yet to reach its most assuredly, stunning end."

And with Watson abed, Holmes waited for his grand machinations to unfold.

At 9:22 that morning the beginning of the end began to precipitate, starting with two callers being admitted into Baker Street, three sets of footsteps making their way up the stairs, and two villains entering the sitting room, while Mrs. Hudson reluctantly returned to her rooms. Jerome was immaculately dressed in an iron grey plaited waistcoat with matching pants and a formal black jacket. An onyx tie pin glittered over a perfectly affixed ascot and his walking stick made from Cocobolo wood, a rare and expensive rosewood most likely imported from Mexico. It didn't have the right weight or shape to contain a sword cane, but Holmes could see the minute traces of a small caliber pistol attached to his belt. In comparison, Peter was dressed in, what Holmes deduced was indeed his own Eton uniform of pinstripe pants, traditional tails, and highly starched collar. He could have passed for any other student if not for the age old stain of blood on his left sleeve, hidden by the dark fabric and the fact he was idly flicking a Döbereiner's Lamp. Such things had fallen out of production in favor of matches, seeing as they had the propensity to explode and cause third degree burns to the lighter's handlers. Peter apparently didn't seem to mind and Holmes mentally accounted for yet another random variable to the morning's proceedings.

Holmes was dressed in only his shirtsleeves and trousers, his posture relaxed while he sat in his armchair, though keenly aware of the revolver digging in his back sunk halfway between the cushioned upholstery. He was confident, but he most certainly was not stupid.

"Gentlemen, please take a seat," Holmes said, indicating the furniture with a grand sweep of his hand, like a magician at his premiere performance.

"Oh, no offer of tea?" Peter sneered as he dropped onto the settee and immediately setting out to burn a few of the loose threads along the arm. He was restless, Holmes noted. Less anxious than like a caged animal who had its meal taken away only half finished or still somewhat alive, as it were.

On the other hand, Jerome showed his agitation in the tense set of his shoulders as he sat on the basket chair, one leg maneuvering over the other, his whole body taut as a bowstring before the arrow is loosed.

"You foiled our plans." Jerome's expression would have been a grimace if it wasn't suffused with rage.

Holmes studied his once neatly trimmed cuticles, now somewhat scraggly due to weeks of taking his teeth to them. It was a bad habit, one he would reverse once more in the following days. "Yes, I have."

"You found where we were keeping the Doctor, how?"

"Easily," Holmes replied. "You underestimated my abilities. More importantly, you underestimated my ability in choosing whom I associate myself with. Do you really think my long time friend and business partner would be totally foreign to my methods, that we had never formed codes amongst ourselves, or prepared in the event either one of us were captured? You were correct in accurately deducing the importance I attach to Watson's wellbeing, but failed to comprehend his worth. In the spare amount of words we exchanged, Watson provided me with nearly all the information I needed to locate him. Bell chimes, not clock chimes told me he was in hearing range of a church. He was being kept in a room, much like the basement in the private residence we had our meeting in, facing east, all deduced from a seemingly casual remark on his part. Beyond my first inquiry on whether he was well, there is no need to repeat it, so when he mentioned his leg was hurting after I asked if he had been harmed—which is quite ridiculous of a statement at any rate seeing as his leg hurts all the time—he was able to tell me exactly the extent of his restraints and its placement."

Holmes touched the tips of his fingers together, a grin spreading infectiously across his face. "You had of course, anticipated the possibility that I may slip something to the Doctor during our brief moment of contact, but blindly did not consider the reverse. Did you, for one moment, think it was odd that we shook hands after embracing? Watson was able to transfer just enough soil from his window after breaking a small corner of the glass for me to identify the geographical significance of the sample. Quartz, feldspar, mica, and sulfates like gypsum are the most abundant first and secondary minerals found in soil, but specific combinations as well as the different types of mica and silicate clay materials present make it as easily distinguishable as a unique fingerprint. A quick cross-reference in accordance to the various real estate in the area and I knew the Doctor's location within the hour. Consequently, I also know the location of where we conducted our meeting. Blindfolds are manifestly irrelevant to one such as I. This is my city, not yours and this game is over. I bested you. In every way, I have bested your efforts against me."

Holmes' eyes glinted with his triumph. "You took your chance, placed your wager, but here I stand with both Watson once again under my protection and the evidence needed to bring down your entire organization. You're finished."

Peter, in an almost childish show of petulance, threw his archaic lighter device towards Holmes' face in pure spite. Holmes had anticipated the action due to close monitoring of the insane youth's body language and his quick reflexes allowed him coax one of the pillows out from under him in order to catch the thing mid-flight, which promptly ignited, setting the cushion on fire, which Holmes swiftly sent over the grate and into the fireplace, straining to appear impassive, although the episode had been a great cause for worry despite its brevity.

"Next time you won't be so lucky, Holmes! Next time you will hold your dying and mutilated friend in your arms and you yourself with suffer an even worst fate!" Peter shrieked, a fleck of spittle flying from his mouth like that of a mad dog.

Holmes remained unfazed, only staring hard at the adversary before him. "I cannot imagine one. Your imagination must be very great indeed."

"As is yours," Jerome drawled languidly and Holmes was instantly aware of the shift of confidence in the tone of Jerome's retort. "Did you imagine," Jerome continued, uncrossing his legs to lean forward over his steepled fingers, "your miraculous rescue of Dr. Watson did not go unchecked? You made a bold move, to be sure, but do not think for a moment it came without a price. Yes, you can choose to use your evidence to bring us to justice, but know this Mr. Holmes, we will most assuredly ruin you in turn. It will be almost worth the trouble to see you in a jail cell beside us. Perhaps we might even share."

Holmes let out a harsh bark of laughter. "I am flattered, however I must inquire as to what possible digression I could have committed that would place me in league with your own acts of criminality, including murdering a man with the intent to be mistaken as another whom you kidnapped and set fire to an establishment well known for catering to policemen, injuring seven and killing one other? The last time I checked, kidnap, murder, and arson were not a part of my particular repertoire of investigative methods."

Jerome smiled, the expression cold and terrible on his mundane features. "I warned you about hubris, Mr. Holmes. You are very clever, but that stooge has forever been your blind spot. Did you really think," Jerome said in a slow and mocking imitation of Holmes' earlier retort, "we would not notice that you had paid the Archangels the entire sum of money left to you by your 'dearly departed friend'?"

Holmes kept his face carefully free of expression. "I did nothing of the sort."

"The hiring of mercenaries is illegal, just as kidnap and arson is. By all means, go to Scotland Yard and we will make damn sure the authorities will begin an investigation of their own into your finances and believe me Mr. Holmes, we have friends much higher than your busybody brother. You will have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide."

Holmes paled somewhat, but the muscles in his jaw clenched in grim determination. "And what would you advise?"

"Drop it, take your dear doctor and leave us the fuck alone," Peter growled.

Jerome nodded. "I concur. Drop the case and we will let you and the Doctor go quietly into the night. Burn the documents here and now and we give you our word that we will leave off killing the both of you to a later time."

"I'm afraid," Holmes paused for a second, inclining his head slightly as the sounds of an obvious scuffle somewhere upstairs filtered down into the sitting room, the loud thud of a body hitting the floor and the shrill howl of defeat punctuating his momentary silence, "I am unable to do that as it is far too late to put a stop to what has already been set in motion."

It was Jerome's turn to pale, which he did considerably, worried eyes quickly darting to the sitting room door when footsteps could be heard descending from the third floor, promptly followed by the door swinging open and Sergeant Berkeley, who bore a fair resemblance to the Doctor, strode into the room, wearing Watson's dressing gown and leading someone who would have been a man according to their dress, but whose fiery red hair, small hands, and softer build proved otherwise.

"Get your hands off of me, you uncivilized, idiotic, uncultured buffoon! How dare you touch a lady in this impertinent matter? You great lout!" the woman shouted impetuously, arms straining against the derbies that restrained her hands behind her back.

"Ladies do not pull a knife out to stab poor unsuspecting men in their beds, nor does a proper lady scale the side of building using the drain pipe wearing men's trousers," Sergeant Berkeley drawled, though seemed less intent in mocking her as to simply be rid of her, the reason for which becoming immediately clear when the woman turned and spat directly into his face. Berkeley did not remove his iron grip upon her arms and merely wiped his face across the sleeve of his uniform. "Nor do ladies spit in people's faces."

Jerome's hand immediately flew to his concealed weapon, but the movement was terminated as soon as the door to the water closet opened, revealing Inspector Lestrade and another constable, who had his own gun at the ready, which was followed nearly simultaneously by Gregson emerging from Holmes' bedroom, gun aimed directly at Peter's unprotected back. Peter turned his sullen stare on the Inspector, so that the crosshairs came directly between his eyes. Gregson responded by deliberately pulling the hammer back with a definitive click, his arm never wavering from its target.

"You have underestimated me again, Jerome," Holmes concluded quietly. "Just because I am on the right side of the law does not mean I always intend to play fair. However, it is becoming increasingly apparent that neither were the two of you planning to deal in good faith with this meeting. Trust a scorpion to always act according to its nature." Holmes's gaze flicked momentarily to the still fuming lady. "Never employ a trick more than once, especially once revealed because inevitably the trick becomes worthless. After you had attempted to disguise your second and mislead me with your butler, I suspected a similar tactic with the maid who remained in your presence during our negotiations. It immediately appeared strange to me that you would allow someone outside of your highest sphere of influence to bear witness to the event. After all, you specialize in secrets. As I mentioned before, I harbored a substantial amount of doubt that you would leave your organization so vulnerable as to leave its leadership to an unbalanced number of just two. There had to be a third and 'lo and behold, there was but one other present in the room. Understand, Jerome, that my dislike of women stems from a firm grasp of the treachery and cunning women are capable of. I am not one to dismiss the possibility of a criminal mind just because it is enshrouded behind a fair face. She may very well have just been your personal concubine, but no, her hands spoke differently. Women of that profession do not have hands calloused from long hours holding a pen or practicing with a gun or saber. The light indents on the bridge of her nose indicated she wore reading glasses, most likely when pouring over extensive notes and reports of the organization's dealings. As for how I knew you would go after the Doctor while you monopolized my attention, desperation tends to make one sloppy."

Holmes' expression became as hard as flint. "And in that one area, you overestimated me. I never gamble with other people's lives. The moment I suspected the Doctor to be alive, I left a letter of explanation of my findings and detailed instructions with those I knew I could trust within the Yard and as keen as I was to return Watson to Baker Street, I could wait a little longer to ensure his safety. So you see Jerome, I cannot give you the evidence linking your secret organization to over a dozen serious crimes because they have already been taken to Scotland Yard, probably being catalogued into formal charges as I speak, collected at nearly the exact time I was showing you the copies and even if they did not have that evidence in their possession at the very least you could both be charged on grounds of a confession as heard by three on duty Scotland Yard officers."

"Then you have sealed your fate," Jerome hissed.

Holmes set his chin in his hand, staring lazily up at Jerome as Lestrade confiscated the man's gun and placed cuffs around his wrists. "I don't see how. I have done nothing wrong."

"I had at least twenty people in the house guarding Dr. Watson, all of them armed and with plenty of resources. There is no way you could have infiltrated the compound and rescued the Doctor alone. I know for a fact that you hired mercenaries, Forcas and his band of misfits."

Holmes shrugged. "I deny it. Where is your proof?"

"You will be found out, Mr. Holmes. Don't count on your brother or your friends in the Yard to cover up for your blunder."

"No indeed, my brother Mycroft has been busy with a diplomatic quandary and has actually been absent from the country for several days now and will not return for another several days yet. As for the Yard, I'm sure they would be more than happy to be rid of my eccentric methods and ghastly manners."

Jerome's entire face became red with anger. "Don't try to play coy with me, Holmes! You did it, I know it as surely as the sun rises!"

A whistle sounded from down below in the street and through the window, they could see two police carriages pull up to the pavement beneath the Baker Street apartments.

"Alright, I have had just about enough of criminal intrigue for one day. Gregson, Berkely, if you would please escort our guests out. Mr. Holmes, if you would please come with us. While this Jerome fellow's accusations are sorted out, you can help wrap up the investigation at Scotland Yard."

"Of course, Chief Inspector. Please allow me to gather my things."

No sooner had Holmes collected his waistcoat, jacket, and hat when there was a distinct knocking upon the door. His face brightened considerably and he was nearly out the sitting room door and down the stairs before he had finished his call of, "Come, Inspector!"

He reached the door before even Mrs. Hudson could emerge and opened it to reveal the drawn, though relieved face of Watson.

He smiled. "Ah, Watson. How did you like the accommodations of the Camden house?"

Watson weakly returned the smile. "I can't say that it was all that wonderful considering it was empty, but it was better than the accommodations I have received in the past few weeks and the company was good."

They both turned to give a wave to the retreating back of Elijah, who threw a hand casually over his shoulder, masking his farewell as a hail for a cab, which was being driven by a large man, wearing a suit far too expensive for a simple cabbie and who shared a small shadow of resemblance to his passenger. The cabbie made a minute gesture that could be construed as a nod before he directed his horse and drove off down Baker Street.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I'm very glad to see you, sir!" Hopkins greeted jovially, having come with the Marias at the end of Holmes' carefully laid trap.

"And I, you," Watson replied sincerely.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, in you get. We haven't got all day. Inspector Hopkins can look after the Doctor," Lestrade ordered gruffly.

Watson blinked. "What? What is going on, Holmes?"

"I am being accused of the hiring of mercenaries in order to enact your rescue."

Watson blinked again, but otherwise said nothing.

Holmes patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, old chap. Everything will work out. You will see."

"Is it true then, Mr. Holmes? Were you willing to sacrifice yourself in order to bring down the people who kidnapped Dr. Watson?" Hopkins asked, the small amount of wonder in his voice left undisguised.

"I would like to say that 'It is better that we should both perish rather than that my enemy should live', but as I still assert that I am innocent, I cannot in good conscience use the phrase, though it would be quite the dramatic piece of dialogue for Watson's next story. Good day to you both. I will return in time for dinner, I expect."

Watson nodded, trying not to appear worried, and held the door open for Hopkins to enter. "Please come in, Inspector. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be delighted to make us a fresh cup of tea."

In fact, Mrs. Hudson was so delighted she rushed to the kitchen, crying all the way. Both Inspector Hopkins and Watson were wary as to whether the tea would bear a salty aftertaste.

"I almost cannot believe it," Hopkins said, watching as Holmes was led away from Baker Street with Inspector Gregson and Lestrade through one of the sitting room windows.

Watson watched also, some unidentifiable emotion upon his face. "Though it was not their only mistake, it was certainly all that was required to bring about their downfall. It does not pay to underestimate Sherlock Holmes."

"But what he did…" Hopkins trailed off.

Watson smiled, his eyes fastened on the figure of his friend below. "You honestly did not think him capable of it, Inspector Hopkins?"

Hopkins shook his head. "No, not really."

"I will not complain. I am the one who benefited most, after all. I will always be grateful. I am not much of a church man, but I have lived an honest life even if my prayers have been confined to the welfare of my patients rather than thanks," Watson paused slightly, pensive. "Though for the life of me I cannot fathom what I have done to deserve such a profound friendship as the one I had been granted with Holmes. I am either blessed or uncommonly lucky."

Hopkins was surprised by the openness in which Watson spoke. Then again, the two of them had gone through Hell and back in the past month or so.

Just before he was shuffled into the cab Holmes looked up towards the sitting room window and smiled. It was something like triumph and nothing at all like regret.

"Still it's hard to believe."

Watson chuckled at that. "What is harder to believe, that Holmes rescued me single handedly or that he paid an exorbitant sum to have a gang of mercenaries do it for him?"

Hopkins suppressed his smile. "I honestly cannot say."

"Neither can I. It would be rude for the assistant to reveal the master's secrets, after all," Watson replied, sitting down to drink his sodium enhanced tea.

And if the Doctor's response appeared cryptic, Hopkins decidedly ignored it.


Several hours later, night already having crept upon the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes made his way back into Baker Street and the silent rooms were the only ones to bear witness to the radiant expression that adorned Holmes' face when he entered the sitting room to find his dear friend and colleague snoring, sprawled out upon the settee.

Reverently performing an act he thought he would never have the opportunity to do again, Holmes moved to tuck in the blanket more firmly about his sleeping friend, his hand lingering perhaps a fraction longer than strictly necessary in order to feel the warmth of a person he had been informed was dead a little over a month ago.

Holmes then bathed and changed into his nightshirt and dressing gown, entering the sitting room once more to rouse his friend enough to get him towards his room and a proper bed, but something of his own exhaustion began to creep up on him and he collapsed heavily into his armchair, blinking furiously. Dazedly, he counted up the number of hours he had slept in the past week and realized he needed no additional hands than the two he already possessed to do so.

Thus, Holmes slept there, curled up in his armchair and the two were undoubtedly better for it. It was hardly peaceful, but at least in the intervals whenever either of the two of them would be frightened into wakefulness—Holmes because he expected to wake up with the cinders of ash in place of his friend and Watson because he was sure he was having yet another mad hallucination, dehydrated in his cell—they invariably woke up to the blessed assurance that the other was near and that the better parts of their dreams would not dissolve away to a nightmarish reality and if they found flimsy if serviceable reasons to continue these sleeping arrangements for the next week—Watson was still injured and Holmes had spilt acid on his bed sheets—so be it.

These rooms kept many secrets and the two could bear their hearts as much as they pleased in the privacy of their home. The rooms they shared, as much as a set of rooms are able, rejoiced.


"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Did you have your brother cover up your finances?"

"No and the two reasons why he did not are one in the same. Firstly, after nearly two weeks working as Nightside's unofficial accountant and personal clerk would have adequately prepared me enough to launder the money in my bank accounts personally and secondly, as I was Nightside's unofficial accountant and personal clerk it was not all that difficult to create a separate account where I siphoned all the various amounts of money due to accounting errors into. Nightside won't mind, the entire gang has since been rounded up."

"But why the exact amount? It was no immeasurable treasure, but it was quite a tidy sum nonetheless."

"If I did pay the exact amount, Peter and Jerome would not have felt secure enough to risk coming out in the open to meet me. Why go into hiding when they still had a good chance at both success and revenge?"

"Are you sure you haven't yet given up your profession as a consulting detective to foray into a lucrative career as a criminal? I hear tell that there is a very large opening now that Chairo Edwards and Gregory Peterson have been convicted as leaders of an underground syndicate of informants."

Holmes snorted, wisps of smoke exiting his nostrils from his pipe. "For that, I would need an accomplice. Do you know anyone who would fit the bill?" Holmes asked, staring pointedly at him from where he sat at his desk.

Watson gave a rueful shake of his head. "No, I regret to say I do not."

Holmes sniffed. "A pity."

"But seriously, Holmes. You were certainly playing a little close to the chest during this entire affair," Watson said, more imploring than accusatory.

Holmes shook out his pipe. "Not necessarily, the Archangel brothers have decided to turn from mercenary work in order to create a private firm to extract victims of kidnappings and although I may have crippled Bryce, I did not kill him. Besides, the stakes were very high."

"I would not want everything you have worked so hard to become be destroyed because of my death."

"Who I am today has largely been built in part by my associations with you, Watson. If you die, logically, it would only follow that I would emerge changed."

"I would be flattered if I were not so worried."

"And you would not be the John Watson I know if you did not worry. But there is something I have been meaning to ask you. Why," Holmes pressed past the echo of pain that inexplicably shot through his chest, "would you not write me a letter when you had prepared concessions for everything else?"

Watson dropped his gaze, avoiding the pain he could see so uncharacteristically plain upon his friend's face, a pain he knew he had caused. "I know it sounds silly now, but while writing up my will had been a practical measure, writing a letter as a last goodbye seemed so…depressing that I simply could not manage it. I apologize for any additional grief it may have caused you. In fact, I shall write one today, if you like. Only…"

"Yes?" Holmes inquired, somewhat curiously.

"You must write one also. Now. Today. If this experience has taught us anything, it is that we have to face the fact we may not have the time to say everything we wish to." Watson met Holmes' gaze at last, hazel meeting grey. "Is that agreeable?"

Holmes grumbled somewhat, but agreed. Thus, the two of them sat down, Watson at his desk and Holmes at the least cluttered portion of his chemistry table and began writing.

"Oh and just so you don't receive any other nasty surprises, I have you listed as my next of kin in case I am ever grievously injured and the hospital needs to contact someone," Watson announced, while continuing his writing with ease.

Holmes was not having so smooth a time and became agitated at the interruption, stabbing his pen irately into the ink well. "Yes, fine, fine. I will have Mycroft send someone to help me draw up my own will and I will change the lease on Baker Street to include your name as well."

"Tomorrow I am going to visit a new club I have been invited to join. I think some of the Yard will be there as guests to celebrate my not actually being dead."

"For once, a legitimate cause for celebration. What time will you be leaving? I'll join you," Holmes responded absently as he scribbled a few lines before crossing them out and then going back to circle two or three of the words.

Watson ceased his writing and turned to peer at his friend. "Holmes, I know that we should more carefully consider the possibility of each other's deaths, but there is no need for you to change your habits entirely. The Highgate fire was an isolated event. It isn't likely to happen again and even if it did, there's very little you could have done to stop it."

"That isn't the reason I wish to accompany you." Holmes set down his pen, looking somewhat relieved from the distraction. "When faced with the possibility of never spending time with you again, now that I have been granted the opportunity to do so once more, it is a gift, a gift to my friendship with you, that I am unwilling to squander. Do not expect me accompany you to some ridiculous masked ball, however. Drinking to your health and existence I can stand, but other such frivolous activities are just as repugnant to me before you turned up as a bullet and two stones worth of charred flesh bone."

Holmes did not have to look up from his draft to know Watson was bestowing him a warm smile. Holmes scowled down at what little he did have written down or at least that which was still legible before crumpling up the paper and reaching for a new sheet of foolscap, which he also glared at.

Watson took pity on his friend, whose writing abilities typically spanned from code breaking to monographs on coffee grounds. "Perhaps we can take a break. I have longed to hear you play your violin again, Holmes."

Holmes raised his brow at the rather blatant tactic, but could not deny the sincerity in his friend's request and soon, but not too hastily, left his chemistry table to retrieve the case of his Stradivarius. There was a fine layer of dust now coating the top of it and he took great care in removing it before opening the lid.

Watson noticed this with a frown. "Did you not play at all while I was missing?"

Holmes ran through a basic G scale along with its corresponding arpeggio before answering, flexing his fingers while making a small adjustment to his E string. "I cannot answer a question that is fundamentally incorrect. You were not missing at the time. You were dead. There is a sizable difference and I was busy."

"You are always busy during cases, but you always find time to practice even if it is that atrocious bowing you do when you are thinking. You could not have considered ending your playing indefinitely!" Watson fairly exclaimed. He was far too surprised and horrified that his friend had forgone something so beautiful and so innately a part of what made Sherlock Holmes, Holmes that he found himself unable to censor himself.

Holmes turned away and began spreading rosin along the length of his bow. "Don't be ridiculous, Watson. I would have played at your funeral."

Watson was suddenly struck with an unfamiliar emotion when confronted with evidence of the profound friendship he shared with Holmes. That he was overjoyed to have it and amazed by it at times was a given. That he felt lucky was another, but he had never before felt humbled by it. Not in the sense that he was humbled that a genius like Holmes would deign to be his friend, but that the magnitude of Holmes' friendship was at least equal to his own. Before, Watson had always assumed that if he were to suddenly die or leave, Holmes would eventually move on, but in the past few days and others that Watson had not born witness to, Holmes had proven that Watson's assumption could not have been further from the truth.

And it humbled him to know that.

Watson moved forward while Holmes continued to pluck at his strings at an attempt to tune and gently laid his hand against the back of his friend's neck, so that his fingertips brushed over the top of his collar. He said nothing, only stood there at a near enough proximity that he could see the darkness that had briefly clouded the normally bright gaze had vanished.

Inexplicably, Watson felt that together there was no wound that the other could not heal, that together there could be no chance of pain or damage.

Their friendship was as enduring as it was unique and in equal parts he and Holmes maintained it with evenly matched strength.

Watson's eyes twinkled for a moment. "Correspondingly, does that mean you would play at my wedding?"

Holmes tucked his violin beneath his chin and positioned his bow across the strings. "We only have a limited amount of miracles allotted to us, Watson. I would not waste your prayers on that. Now sit there and enjoy."

Miracles—a very strange, yet befitting thought.

The music was sweet and lyrical. Watson suspected it was one of Holmes' originals. It had a certain life to it, a pace as familiar as his own life beat. Certainly that wondrous sound must be a miracle and this time as well as many other times that the two of them had been spared from certain death and it seemed to him very many extras had already been granted to the two of them over time. Holmes once said that it is only goodness which gives extras and so we have much to hope from flowers. For a brief moment Watson despaired, for any flower will wilt in time, but perhaps…

Perhaps if Watson placed his faith in their friendship rather than in their mortal selves, there was hope to be had that their stash of miracles would not cease to grant them extras.


Story Notes:

(1) When Holmes says, "Trust a scorpion to always act according to its nature" he is referring to the well known fable of the 'Scorpion and the Frog' where the scorpion convinces the frog to swim them across the river, but stings the frog halfway thereby drowning them both and his reason being that it was simply his nature. However, in another retelling of the story where it's a fox that the scorpion has cross the river, the scorpion's reason for stinging was "It is better that we should both perish rather than that my enemy should live", which Holmes says to Hopkins as a reference to his previous reference to Jerome.

(2) 'Chairo' is the Spanish equivalent of the name Jerome (which originally derives from Greek) and Gregory Peterson was just a play-on-words or a reference to 'Peter's son', which would account for why Peter says, "I hate Peter" in chapter 5.

(3) "That what gives extra…" quote taken from ACD's 'The Naval Treaty'

Author's Notes:

I would like to take this time to thank all you lovely reviewers for granting me 93 reviews all for six measly chapters and the worst update schedule ever conceived. Better late than never, right? But seriously, this the first full scale story I have every finished. Just look on my profile. None of my other larger works have ever been completed. The difference this time? All of you and the massive fanbase of the Sherlock Holmes community who have offered support and given me the boost I needed to be compelled to finish this bad boy. Without you guys pretty much guilt tripping me every step of the way with your compliments, praise, and demands for more, this thing would have never gotten done. So thanks.

And as a reward, if you just direct yourself to the bottom right of the screen there should be a button that will bring you to a little miracle extra of your own. Cheers! Now go clickety!