Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially teriyakikat for the awesome fan art that adorns my wallpaper. I hope, as always, that everyone enjoys this chapter!

I was shot in the back through the Pectoralis minor, and the offending bullet continued its destructive path through the ninth and tenth ribs, just below the scapula. It punctured my diaphragm where it finally lodged next to my spleen. It missed my heart by mere inches. It was the third time a bullet was taken from my body, the first time, however, from my own gun. I was taken to the nearest hospital in Plymouth, of which I have little or no memory: a few second long periods of consciousness in which all I remember are light and intense heat. I later learned this was due to a staphylococcus[1] infection after the operation and a 104 degree fever. After a week that did not exist in my mind, I was transferred against the wishes of the doctors to London's Charring Cross Hospital. This was done at the insistence of Holmes. I know this despite his claims that the physicians declared me well enough to make the 300 km trip.

It is imperative to discuss what happened when at last I had healed enough to remember myself. However, first I will have to tell you what happened to my dear friend while I lay too ill to know him. Despite the fact that I didn't witness these events in person, I learned from firstly Holmes and later from Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, and Josh what happened. By combining their stories I feel I have a good grasp on the reality of it, however painful.

Holmes arrived home to Baker Street late the second evening. He hadn't sent a telegram telling Mrs. Hudson and Josh what had happened, so no doubt they were reduced to a state of uncomfortable ignorance about my condition. Or even my whereabouts. Holmes later confessed to me, in a rare moment of weakness, that had it not been for a doctor asking about next of kin, he may have forgotten to return to London at all.

It was just after ten on a heavy, wet night when the cab clopped up to 221 B. The bustle of crowds had worn considerably, reduced to only the drunks and unfortunates wandering the damp streets. For perhaps this one and only time, my friend did not look out of place among them. After two days, he was dishevelled , unshaven and nearly disembodied. That was how Mrs. Hudson described him anyhow, the second her eyes fell on him.

"I tell you, doctor," she later told me, "never have I've seen him like that. Never could I have imagined him capable of such...horrid fear. For that's what is was, sir. Fear."

Of course I, who had spent the better part of my life with the man, had seen him express fright before, however infrequently. The case of the Baskervilles comes to mind and perhaps the one about the speckled band. I re-call his hand shaking as he snuffed out the light and in the dark of Helen Stoner's room, as we waited for the unknown monster. Yet I trust Mrs. Hudson's cool nerves and eagle eyes. If horrid fear was what she named him that night, that that must be what he showed.

Our landlady was in the kitchen, scouring dishes in her never ending quest for perfect cleanliness. She was already in her nightgown and kerchief. I should think that, although she would not admit it, not knowing where her tenets were was causing her a bit of insomnia.

She screamed when he appeared. This was the second time in as many months that he emerged from nowhere. "Mr. Holmes! Oh, Lord..."

"I am...I will be fine, Mrs. Hudson," said my friend, attempting a re- assuring look. He fell heavily into a chair, ignoring the hand that she offered.

"My word, Mr. Holmes! You are a sight! You look like you could do with some strong coffee."

"No," he replied. "No coffee. It will take something far stronger than that to sustain me through this night."

But the faithful Mrs. Hudson already had a kettle on to percolate. "What has happened to you, Mr. Holmes? You look as though you have seen the Devil himself. And where is the good doctor? His son was nearly prostrate with worry...I do wish he wouldn't run after you like that without some sort of warning. I know how hard it is for him to raise a child alone, but he is all the boy has..."

"He has been shot, Mrs. Hudson. He has been shot! Do stop going on! He has...he was shot." I shot him. He is lying there because of me. I pulled the trigger. That was what was going through his mind. I can nearly see him, sitting there still in suit and tie, trying to be composed, trying to fight the emotion, trying to keep the cold familiarness of safe logic. And I can see him losing that battle.

"Shot? Whatever do you mean...oh, no. No, surely, sir, he is not..." Mrs. Hudson herself collapsed into a chair then, her face one of horror herself as she stared at her tenet with a hand to her mouth. The very worst tenet in London, and yet, I know that deep within that stubborn Scottish temperament, she cared for the both of us deeply. It is expressed in the little ways: hot water, good food, caring for my child, and of course, as much emotion as a woman is allowed to express when one she knows and cares for could no longer be there.

"No, Mrs. Hudson...he is not dead," said Holmes in a monotone. "I am sorry I didn't telegram you...I just...I was busy, you see...now, if you'll excuse me, I feel I need a bath and change of clothes."

"But, Mr. Holmes!" Our landlady exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "What of the doctor? Oh, and what of that poor little child? Already lost his mother, the little lamb, and now his father..."

"Mrs. Hudson, he has not lost his father, damn it!"

I guess I can say that very statement is one of the best testaments to my friend's nerves. He became angry with our landlady in the past, and indeed at women in general, but this anger was nearly always bottled-up inside, or expressed only to me. It is not proper for gentlemen to yell at a lady, of course, and especially to swear. But I dare think that right then, if Mrs. Hudson had gone on, Holmes may have done even more than yell. To think of my son...

"I...I only meant, Mr. Holmes, that it will pain Josh to have to hear this," Mrs. Hudson explained, not entirely sure who she was explaining to. "I didn't mean...I know that this must be ever so hard for you, sir...you and the doctor are quite close, of course."

Holmes' eyes became round with fear and his jaw clinched. Shakily, he reached for the banister to assist him on the way to the sitting room. "Do not concern yourself...I will tell the boy. And as for Watson..." He shook his head. How in the world could he possibly explain? "Good-night, Mrs. Hudson." He settled on, and took the stairs as fast as his exhausted body was capable of.

I have often, throughout my years of chronicling Sherlock Holmes, bestowed him with many mental abilities that ordinary human beings seemingly do not possess. One of these abilities is that of anticipation. He would no doubt argue the matter with me, claiming that it was reasoning, logic: that by building a chain link by link you will inevitably end up at the conclusion. However, I must disagree. All truly great detectives must be able to anticipate when the crime is going down. Holmes has this ability. And he is not the only soul at 221B who does. My son possesses it as well. It was for him something that strengthened over his life to practically a sixth-sense. It worked for him that night. Perhaps especially that night. But I digress.

After a scouring hot bath that did little to cleanse himself to satisfaction, Holmes had poured himself a liberal glass of brandy (at least he claimed brandy, I am more inclined to believe it was whiskey) and was seated in his well-worn armchair, staring into the red ambers of a dwindling fire. He enjoyed alcohol, port wine or something Italian, but he never drank to simply drink. I have never known him to use alcohol to escape before, but perhaps the events of that night (and the ones shortly to come) were more emotion than even his mind could fence in. I know they were. What really clinches it is that, for once, he was not smoking. He was doing nothing but sitting, staring, and occasionally swallowing more courage.

"Uncle?"

Holmes squinted up to see our namesake standing next to his chair, holding his stuffed dog and looking very much like three years-old for once. I can safely say that this was not a moment my friend was looking forward to.

"What are you doing out of bed? Have you any idea as to the time?" Anger was always a useful shield.

"The big hand is on the 3," Josh remarked, "and the small hand is on the eleven. That means it's...um..."

"Past the time that you should be asleep."

"But Uncle...there is something wrong with you. I want to know what it is. You an' Papa were gone for two entire whole days without telling me why. And now you look sick. There must be something wrong."

Holmes stared off into the now empty glass reflecting the fire in the clear crystal. "If sickness is sorrow, than all the drugs in the world could not kill the disease. 'It is sorrow that makes us all children again, destroys all intellect. The wisest know nothing.'[2] That is the hardest part, John Sherlock. That is the hardest part."

Josh gripped Blackie tightly against his small body. "I could go and get Papa for you. He is the best doctor in London. I think you need some medicine."

"No, John back," Holmes called as the boy headed toward the door. "Your father is not here. And while I intended not to have to explain so late, it is probably better now."

"Should I use adduction to figure out what it is?"

I really think that both statement both pained and humoured my dear Holmes at the same time. Josh, at moments such as these, did try ever so hard to emulate the great master. "No, I think not. You had better let me...I had better just explain it to you."

"Okay," the boy replied, climbing onto his lap as if expecting some marvellous story to be told. And once again, although physically I was absent, I saw Holmes searching for the right words to explain something emotional. Something he had tried so hard to fight for so many years.

"My dear boy," Holmes said. "Despite the rare powers with which you have been endowed; powers, that mind, I shall not allow to go undeveloped, I find that I do not know how to explain..." He couldn't stop looking at Josh's eyes. They always did have a special glow in the man's presence.

"You see, it is hard to know just how to say such things..." Especially when it is I who has done it.

"There is a reason that Wat...your father and I have been gone..." Yes, a very good reason. I shot him with his own gun. And now he lies fighting for his life.

"Damnit..." He swore softly through clinched teeth. He couldn't say it. He couldn't bear to hurt my son. After everything, for the first time, I saw the makings of paternal feelings in the man. It would not be the last time, though, of this I can assure you.

"Uncle," said Josh in a small voice. "Did something happen to Papa?"

"I...yes. Yes, my boy. Something did. You see, on my last case...the man that we were after...he was not, frankly, sane. Your father...

Bang!

God, what do I do? John...

Why on Earth did he step in front of me? What would possess him to do it?


"Your father saved my life, John Sherlock. This man, he had a gun. He would have shot me. However, at the last second Watson stepped in front of me. He took the bullet..."

Liar! Why are you lying to the child? Are you ashamed to admit the truth? Is it logical to spare his feelings?

Holmes took in a deep breath of alcohol-tinged air. His logical, normally cold mind was rebelling, and for once, he could not handle it. Too much had happened. And he knew that too much was going to.

"Is he going to come back?"

"What?" asked Holmes, taken off-guard.

"Papa. Is he going to come back? Or did he go to Heaven like Mummy?" The boy's voice was barely audible.

"Of course he is going to come back. I have known your father for years, and never have a known a little thing like a bullet wound to put a stopper in his fortitude. You can rest you mind to that, boy...no, he will back. I am certain. He...he must. Yes. I am sure..."

"Are you alright, Uncle? You look...I wish Papa...I..." Tears began to well up in his eyes and his face flushed pink. "It isn't fair!" he cried, and like any small child would do, threw his arms around the nearest thing of comfort. His dear 'uncle.' I could nearly feel that pain. The poor child had just lost his mother and now nearly his father as well. I would have given all that I owned, all that I ever owned, to be there at that moment to comfort him, to reassure him. It pained the wound in my body when later I learned of this moment. I think it is the curse of every parent that even to this day I feel a slight twinge whenever I learn of pain within my child.

But it was left to Holmes, who just months ago never would have imagined that he would have to comfort a crying three year-old, was sitting there fighting for control himself, at first not sure what to do. Finally, after the stiffness of surprise wore off, he pressed one long shaking hand on to the boy's back. Whatever doubt remained that he would be able to control this new emotion within him was swallowed up right then, and he knew. He knew that from that moment on, the great mind was going to be forced to house two attics. One of knowledge, fact and cold logic, and one of that abhorrent sentiment previously hiding only in the shadowy recesses of the brain: that of love.

Holmes confessed to me later that he could think of nothing to say. The man who had solved the most obscure cryptogram, who had met several houses of royalty including our own; the man so well-read he could quote extensively from the Bible to Carlyle, from Darwin to Poe, could not, now, think of a single word of comfort to a shattered child. He simply sat, frozen in motion holding my child against him. It could have been then that truly he realized there was no conceivable way his life could stay the same.

When at last Josh stopped crying, he didn't move from my friend's lap, but rather lay limp as a rag doll, exhausted from what had happened. Holmes could not have moved if he wanted to.

"I'm not a perfect person, John Sherlock," he said in a strange, soothing voice. "It is harder for me then for most men to come to terms with that because there are expectations put on me. Some I have Dr. John Watson, my own biographer to thank for." He paused to rest his eyes with a languid smile.

"It isn't as though I blame him, however. But when you are described as devoid of human emotion, and thousands of people read it, then that is what they expect of you. God above knows that I would give all to have that mind. There are times I think I can almost obtain it. But in the end, I know it is a fleeting wish. I know it every time I...every time, well, you needn't hear this."

"Uncle?" Josh asked sleepily. "Are you glad that Papa and I are here with you?"

"Certainly I am...why shouldn't I be?"

"I don't know...when will Papa be home?" "Soon, I should think. Very soon."

"Should I make him a card?"

"I'm sure he would like that. And now, I think that you had better go back to your room. It's late."

"Please," said Josh, taking his hand. "Can't I stay here with you? Just tonight. I don't want to be alone way up there by myself."

Holmes was too tired to argue. Normally, when he things to occupy his mind, he would never allow himself the luxury of sleep. Sleep was saved as a filler for the long days of lethargy, when his body and mind were spent, and he cared not for the bleak existence of life. But now, after sitting in a hospital for 48 hours practically catatonic, he found that he needed more than anything a few hours to forget the present. Picking up the boy, he placed him on the wicker love seat and covered him with an afghan. He would sleep in his chair tonight, by the fire in a position that most people would find painful. But it was in the sitting room that both he and I found the most comfortable.

"Uncle?"

"Oh, do go to sleep, Josh..." Holmes said with a sigh.

"Can I just ask you one last question?"

"As if I could refuse you..."

"You like me'n Papa a lot, don't you?"

"Yes...of course I do. Now, to sleep." " But...do you love us?"

Holmes' eyes flashed over to him. "Why would you ask such a thing?" His voice was much higher than usual.

But Josh was far too young to see the hidden meaning of this innocent question. "Because we love you."

"John Sherlock...there is something that you must understand," said Holmes, suddenly feeling helplessly awake. "It is not considered appropriate in our society for a man to express love. Alright, exceptions can be made. Men are allowed to love their wives, children, their mothers...but for a man to tell another man...well, whether he does or not, he isn't supposed to..."

"Uncle?"

"Yes?"

"Never mind. I'm going to sleep. Good-night." He put Blackie under his head and stuffed several fingers in his mouth.

Holmes reached for his decanter and poured himself another swallow. As it burned its way down, he laid his head against the back of the chair and stared at Reichenbach above him on the hearth. "Yes...good-night. For it is only at night that I should sit and think on nothing and everything at all. Love. Some would call it naught and some would call it all. But in the end... 'If this be love, to live a living death, then do I love and draw this weary breath.'[3]

Holmes later told me of that night with Josh when I came home from the hospital. That, added to what Josh and Mrs. Hudson said, gave me what I have just described. For years, I knew little else about the two weeks I lay comatose to the world. It was years later that I learned of another conversation with Holmes. This one, however, was with a much different recipient: his brother Mycroft.

The Holmes' brothers always appeared as singularly odd characters to me in that the lived mere miles from each other, yet saw each other so infrequently that I had known Holmes 5 years[4] before ever I even learned of the man's existence.

The brother's were alike in several key ways: both lived fairly isolated lives, had few friends, no interest in the fair sex (or so I assume) and both were extremely logic-minded. The differences between them I can name in two: Sherlock had the perspicacity and vigour to put to use that God- given logic, and he had also, somewhere along our long acquaintance, developed a need that Mycroft did not possess. The need to not be alone. Sometime in their lives Mycroft and Sherlock must have decided that never would they share their lives with anyone. What lonely or disastrous event in their youth propelled them to this end, at the time I wasn't sure, but in all that I knew of their relationship, it seemed odd that Sherlock would chose Mycroft as his confessor. However, after retrospect, I realized why he did. He had no one else.

Mycroft Holmes, as you may recall is one of the most important men in government, a man with such a brain for fact that he could become the very voice for government when disputes erupted. He was a huge man, that did not look much like his brother until you came to the eyes. Penetrating grey that seemed to have the ability to pear into one's very essence. He could have become a detective of even greater reputation than his younger brother had he desired it, but as Sherlock told me, he had no ambition in that matter. He walked every day from his rooms to Whitehall, and then to his club, taking no other exercise, and spent his days reading newspapers, absorbing facts, eating rich foods and sleeping, pretending that society as a whole did not exist until he required it to. The brothers were not, as you would say it, close, and indeed they seemed to occupy two different Londons; perhaps even two different worlds. But they understood each other. Mycroft understood Sherlock in a way I never could, and vise versa. But that was the extent of their relationship.

Mycroft lodged in Pall Mall, but when not at Whitehall he spent the majority of his time at the club he helped found: the queerest club in London-the Diogenes Club. Anyone who is familiar with the story I entitled "The Greek Interpreter" is no doubt already familiar with both Mycroft Holmes and the lonely, isolated Diogenes Club in which it's member's speak not a word, so I will forego a didactic description.

Sherlock had sent his brother a telegram early that next morning, as he sat over his customary breakfast of heavy pipe tobacco, keeping a watchful eye on the still sleeping curled ball of Josh on the loveseat. Later, as he did every day during my recovery, he would make the three-hour train journey to Plymouth where he would simply sit, smoke, and stare at me from my bed. He was not one to admit this, but I know he was there. For the first time in many a year he neglected all mention of cases or cocaine.

Mycroft was waiting in the Stranger's Room, the only room were talking was permitted.

The club was virtually deserted as it was a Sunday morning, but then again, I dare say that was no accident. "Ah, brother," declared the elder Holmes when Sherlock appeared. "I hope you will indulge me, but I can't contemplate over one of your little problems on so early a morning without some sustenance." He motioned to a spread of sterling silver warming trays and a large polished coffee pot. Mycroft glanced up at his brother as he poured two cups of the steaming hot beverage. "Yet, alternatively, I perceive that it must not be a case you are here on."

Sherlock nodded, and placed himself carefully into one of the club's many easy chairs. "That is obvious. You know I most likely chose Sunday morning to consult with you because..."

"Most men are at chapel or with their families, yes, and the club would be empty. And the telegram you sent was..."

"Rather vague, of course," Sherlock said with a tight smile. "And no doubt my attitude..."

"Suggests something personal is attacking the famed detective of Baker Street."

"Yes...I admit it."

"Ha!" Mycroft exclaimed with a clap of his hands before reaching for a dish of curried fowl. "My brother is a human being after all."

"You are hardly one to talk, brother mine," said Sherlock, eying in disgust as his corpulent sibling piled kippers next to his fowl. He then reached for a smaller tray, lifted the lid, and gave a slight sigh of contentment as he revealed a rather large treacle tart.

"Are you sure you won't have something? It would be a crime indeed for any of this specially prepared spread to go to waste."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigarette. He had lived on a steady diet for the previous 48 hours: tobacco and alcohol. His body was shut down toward food for the time being. So I suppose I made a slip up early. There were at least three ways the brothers were very different. "Oh, I wouldn't worry if it goes to waste. Unless it is your waist, of course." He motioned toward his brother's bulging stomach, just barely kept in his waist coat.

"We all have our little idiosyncrasies, Sherlock. Our little trifles that make life worth living. For me, it is good food, vintage wine, long naps and the knowledge that I am of some use to my Queen and country. I ask for nothing else, and expect nothing else. But, unless I am much mistaken, I dare say one of life's necessities is why you are here on an otherwise no doubt client-filled day."

Even Sherlock Holmes, usually the purveyor of such fascinating deductions, was at last the recipient of one. "However did you know?"

"It is quite simple. Yesterday morning, I received a telegram at Whitehall from your housekeeper...."

"Mrs. Hudson sent you a telegram?" Holmes asked incredulously.

"Oh, yes...a charming woman, to be sure. But a bit uninformed. She thought that I may know of your whereabouts, as she hadn't heard from either you or Dr. Watson in 24 hours. Obviously, I hadn't the first damned clue. I immediately thought of Genesis. 'Am I my brother's keeper?' I didn't tell her that, of course. Rather I assured her that you would show up sooner instead of later, or I did not know my brother. It seems I was right. However, I started to think...and I was led to the conclusion that while you are a bit slapdash when it comes to informing people who may be concerned as to your whereabouts, everything I know of the doctor suggests that he is not."

"No, he is not," said Sherlock quietly.

"Ah! Well, then, if he had not assuaged the worries of his young child, then it is reasonable something...has happened to him...yes, I see that is what is going on." Mycroft laid down his cup and poured more coffee in it as he watched his brother flick his cigarette butt into the fire between them, and with a shaking hand, pulled out another. It took three matches for him to finally light it. As he smoked it, he explained to his brother about the case of Black Bishop. He stopped when he got to the part of confronting Richard Bishop by the lake. "He saved my life, Mycroft. Why...I wish only that it had been I that had taken the bullet. I suppose...well, it is a fact that had that occurred, all of my problems would be solved."

Mycroft, who had been eying a second helping of treacle tart, immediately threw down his fork and glared at his brother with every bit of authority he was capable of portraying with those heavy watery grey eyes. "Don't talk that way, brother," he said in an unnaturally deep voice. "It is neither logical nor appropriate. Our parents may not have had any control over you, and we may not be as close as some siblings, but I'll be damned if I will allow my only brother to speak in such a irreverent way."

"The truth is irreverent then, brother?" said Sherlock, jumping to his feet. "You know...you alone know why I really chose to leave England three years ago. I thought...maybe now that he was alone again...but I find that I am faced with the same chose I was then. Suffer while living, not being able to truly use my powers to the full extent because I am distracted, or leave again, and not being able to stand the...being without..."

"Sherlock, "Mycroft said. "You know the only way to relieve yourself of this is to tell the doctor."

What an auspicious moment. After all these years of hiding, being afraid that his honour and name would be ruined, never being able to admit what was in his heart (because it was not the organ he was used to listening to) even to himself. In the end, it was his brother, the only family he had left, and the only person who could worry about the connection they had, who had said what he could not.

"Don't look so surprised, Sherlock. I know that at times you live under the illusion of being unique in this world of ours. But you will remember that despite your recognized inimitability, the same blood flows in both our veins."

"I never claimed any inimitability, brother mine. And I fully recognize that your mind is as the oracle of Delphi. But still, I have never told anyone my....feelings in regard to what you apparently already realize."

"I have known of your proclivities for many a long year, Sherlock. However, I think that your conscious would be greatly lightened if your were to say it yourself." My friend's beautiful grey eyes flashed toward him, like a sudden onslaught of lightening. I can only guess at what he was feeling. Fear, no doubt. Fear and uncertainty. To admit what he was, was no less the equivalent of a confession of a serious crime. Mycroft, however, did not treat it as such. "Prey resume your seat, brother. Have a seat and clear your mind. And then speak."

My friend seated himself opposite the elder, wiser Holmes, and let another cigarette to steady his shattered nerves. The two sets of grey, both watery and shining, glistened in the dim, fading light of the visitor room. Although I was not present, in my mind's eyes I can see the two of them, the two men in front of the fire, clouds of heavy smoke casting a veil over their shapes, casually as if they were discussing the weather or politics. And yet, my friend was about to admit something that could cost him so much. "You must say it, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "If you cannot even admit to me, you shall never be able to admit it to the doctor."

"I...alright, I care a great deal for him."

Mycroft snorted. "Care for him? You will have to do better than that."

"How can I?" Sherlock said, his hand shaking. "How can I, brother?" Even I felt the vibration of the wall he slammed his fist into. "How can I admit that after all these years, I have been living a lie around him? That my feelings are not purely professional, or even friendly, brotherly? That in truth, he has my entire heart. That..." he paused to swallow, and suck in some more tobacco smoke. "That I love him."

Mycroft Holmes sat forward in his armchair, no doubt as attentive as he had ever been, hands clasped in concentration, a familial trait. His eyes washed over his younger brother, taking in the calf-skin leather boots, perfectly tailored silk-lined suit, starched white shirt, slicked back hair, pale flushed face, hawk-like profile, and shaking body. He nodded, the first person to accept what he saw, what he really saw. "You just did it, brother. You just did." Raising his massive bulk to his feet, he strolled over toward the opposite picture window, pausing just long enough to pat his younger brother reassuringly on the shoulder.

Sherlock didn't move. The cigarette hung like an extra appendage from between two long fingers, but he forgot to smoke it. He was lost in the world of his own creation, the world that for the first time, he had let another into. Yes, he had admitted at last his true nature, but it had been to his brother. His brother who shared many of his own traits: his humour, his eccentric lifestyle, his rapid intelligence, and most importantly of all, his past. He understood as no one else could why he was this way. How could anyone else, even myself, not knowing and sharing all of this? "So at last you know," he said to Mycroft. "I have admitted it to the only family I have left. The only family who would have understood."

Mycroft snorted, his hands folded behind his back, studying the whole of London from his perch at the window. "I can think of at least one other in our family who would have understood. Can you not?"

"We shan't talk about her, brother."

"If you insist."

"You have yet to tell me," said Mycroft. "How extensive Watson's injuries are."

"You are right. I have not."

Mycroft shook his head slightly, and turned back to the window. But he understood. The window was the very one that several years ago, when first I learned of the elder Holmes' existence, I had been informed that if ever I wanted to study mankind, this was the very spot to do it. However at that day, I should think that it was inside the window that made a far more interesting study of mankind.

"What will you do if he dies?"

Sherlock glanced at him briefly sideways, the same look of disappointment that I had received myself on more than one occasion. But it was an honest question. Perhaps even a concerned question. Yet one that both men knew was going to produce no answer. "I must leave, brother," said Sherlock. "But I appreciate...everything."

"Sherlock," his brother called, stopping him before he reached the door. "I hope you will keep in mind my advice. And as you have in the past, you will apply logic to the situation. And not rash...fear."

Holmes smiled his whippish grin at him, before opening the door. "I am sure, Mycroft, that I don't know what you mean."

But he did. In his mind, as he put on his topper and gripped his stick, walking back into the bustling civilization that is London, he had only one...or rather two thoughts on his mind. The first was of my death, my dying and he never confessing anything to me about what was in his heart. And the second thought...well, I can only guess that it was a syringe. But not a needle of seven percent cocaine. A syringe filled with the air that would make that damned heart stop controlling him. ----------------------- [1] Staphylococcus infections were not commonly shortened to simply 'staph' infections until the early thirties. [2] From Ralph Waldo Emerson-1842, written a few days after the death of his son. [3] From a poem by Samuel Daniel. 'If this be Love, to Draw a Weary Breath.' Look for it, for it will appear again. [4] Because "The Greek Interpreter" is undated, I don't have any idea how long Watson knew Holmes before he learned of Mycroft. 5 years is just a guess.