Over the next two days, Holmes appeared to be making a steady recovery, though his shoulder still caused him considerable discomfort. Of course, he would never had admitted that fact to Watson; the good doctor was still very disapproving of his strategy for attracting the attention of Moriarty.

Holmes admitted to himself that Watson was probably right. He had only shot himself in a moment of madness. It had been skilled madness because the police were oblivious to the fact that Holmes had deliberately wielded the weapon but it was madness nonetheless.

He was certain that Moriarty had escaped from Reichenbach Falls; if he had, it only made sense to assume that the criminal mastermind was clever enough to do the same.

Of course, he was fully aware of the fact that Land had been only one of the countless criminals assisted by Moriarty and his gang. That much was clear. Moriarty was protecting Land in exchange for knowledge. It must be knowledge because serial killing with a disease doesn't exactly bring in a large profit. It wasn't exactly Moriarty's normal style of a crime but even he could see the certain elegance in such a crime as this. How could he resist?

It would only be a matter of time before his rival would send someone to deal with him. The police no longer interested either of them; they were clueless to the link and Holmes would much rather that it stayed that way.

He wasn't quite sure just how much Watson knew about the situation. But it was safer that he remain ignorant until Holmes knew more himself.

For the time being, he was confined to quarters with Watson keeping an eye on him like some kind of protective watchdog. Frankly, he hated being in this situation. He'd gotten through so many worse circumstances than this on his own. A man in his scientific position had to expect a few injuries from wayward experiments.

But he knew better than to go against Watson, especially if he hoped to slip away at any time. He was aware of the fact that Watson was merely being kind and that he cared. Somehow, that didn't make the motherly behavior any easier to bear.

On the second morning after he had revived, he was sitting down to breakfast when Watson brought in the post from the foyer. Holmes scanned through the envelopes with little curiosity, knowing full well that there would be nothing that he would consider to be intriguing. He was wrong.

One envelope in particular stuck out to him. He wasn't certain if it was the distinct peculiarities of the handwriting or perhaps the expensive paper or maybe even the unfamiliar stamp in the corner. But something was definitely singular about it and he realized straight away that it deserved his attention. Not here, though. He slipped the envelope into his dressing gown pocket and proceeded to serve himself from the dish in the middle of the table.

Watson observed his newfound eating habits with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "Did that bullet affect your stomach as well as your mind, Holmes?"

"I have no idea what you are referring to, Watson," said Holmes firmly. "I am allowed to eat however much I please, am I not?"

"Naturally. And I am pleased to see that you are taking care of yourself for a change. You might even find that you enjoy the results."

"Of course."

Holmes wasn't exactly about to tell Watson that his eating habits had not changed. He was only eating to throw suspicion off of him. Because if he was correct, the letter in his pocket was an invitation. Since he was already injured, it was probably a good idea to stack the deck in his favor.

He ate fairly quickly, though not quickly enough to arouse suspicion. "I think that I will retire for the time being," he announced to no one in particular.

"Are you feeling all right, Holmes?"

"Of course, Watson. I'm just tired, that's all." Holmes was careful to avoid the cool gaze of the doctor.

Watson just nodded. "I'll clear the breakfast things."

"Thank you,"

The door to the bedroom closed quietly behind him and he allowed himself to exhale, wincing as the sudden change in his diaphragm irritated his aching shoulder. This was a most inconvenient solution to his problem of finding Moriarty. But it had worked.

His eyes scanned the letter quickly, soaking in the information. Then he glanced over at his bed and swallowed hard. His hand reached for his dressing gown tie. It was time to prepare to leave.

A knocking at his door startled him as he removed his dressing gown and his head snapped towards the sound. "Who is it?"

"It's Watson, Holmes. Is there anything that you need? I'm just about to go out,"

"No," Holmes heard himself answering. "I am quite all right. Thank you, Watson,"

He could hear Watson's footsteps receding down the hall and he shook himself mentally. The sentiment that he was feeling was beyond him. And this was because he was all too aware of the sudden realization that he might not survive to return to 221B Baker Street. And he had no idea how to convey that emotion to Watson.

He wanted to call his friend back, to explain to him what was happening and to give him a proper goodbye. But now wasn't the time for that. And he wasn't the man for that. He could only pray that Watson would understand when they found the bodies.

The quiet of the morning was a ruse, a cloud to hide the anxiety of those that inhabited the city. The fog on the riverbanks was a better clue; the average passerby would have been able to sense the unease that trickled down the rotting sides of the abandoned vessels in the old shipyard.

Yorick certainly wouldn't have objected if that same average passerby had continued rapidly on his way. He couldn't shake the feeling that their location had been compromised after Moran had sent the letter to Sherlock Holmes. He didn't care what his employer said. It was an unnecessary risk for what appeared to be very little possible gain.

Moran continued to regale him with stories of how much of a threat Sherlock Holmes posed to their entire operation. He had puffed his chest out proudly as he told of how he had finished the job that Moriarty had begun at Reichenbach Falls. Somehow, he didn't seem to appreciate it when Yorick reminded him that Moran's assassination attempt hadn't been any more successful than his chief.

Yorick continued to pace back and forth in front of the entrance to their base. He had been doing so for the past hour at least, waiting apprehensively for the arrival of Sherlock Holmes.

Even Yorick knew that Holmes wouldn't be able to resist such an invitation to confrontation. He'd had very little in the way of personal dealings with the detective but word got around when it came to the criminal classes. The only real question was what he would do once he arrived.

He glanced up as Moran came up behind him, his arms folded and his eyes narrow. "Any sign of him yet?"

Yorick shook his head. "Nothing yet, sir."

Moran exhaled slowly and seemed to bite the inside of his cheek. His rugged face betrayed his impatience.

"Is it possible that he will ignore the letter?" Yorick tentatively asked. "I mean, you gave no real reason why he should come to us. He might not see the point in coming to meet with us."

"No, Yorick. He will be here."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Holmes," said Moran evenly. "He knows as well as I do that a meeting between the two of us is long overdue."

"Do you think he knows that you intend to kill him?" Yorick could not feel the weight of those words on his chest.

"I'm sure that he does. And I'm sure that he will come up with some kind of counter attack, though little good it will do him."

"I hope that you know what you're doing," muttered Yorick. "I still say that this is an unnecessary risk."

"Your concerns have already been noted, Yorick, and I'll thank you to keep them to yourself from now on. I have no time for sentiment." Moran waved his hand carelessly in the air, examining a knife blade that he had removed from his belt.

"Sentiment?" Yorick couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Get below, Yorick. I'll need you to inform the professor in case something…unexpected happens."

"Unexpected," echoed Yorick. He shook his head. "Well, then you've got it, chief." He turned to head back into their base.

"Yorick,"

He turned at the sound of his name to see Moran looking dangerously at him. "Yes?"

"No matter what happens, don't interfere. Holmes is my kill. My kill, do you understand?" Moran looked like he meant it too. His dark hair was standing up around his head like a mane and his blackened teeth stood out in contrast to his pale skin as he spoke. Yorick shivered.

"Oh I understand, chief." And he did. He understood all too well. Yorick was frankly looking forward to getting out of this situation. He had no desire to get between a dramatic confrontation between detective and criminal. It all sounded a bit too cliché for him.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson!"

Watson glanced up at the sound of his name to see that Inspector Lestrade was making his way across the overly crowded pub to join him at the counter. He offered a smile and a nod in return as the other man took a seat on the stool next to him. "Inspector,"

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be out and about?" Lestrade asked, good naturedly, signaling for the barman to bring him a drink.

"I think that I could say the same for you, inspector."

Lestrade chuckled. "A bit of a celebratory drink. Won't you join me?"

"Please," Watson gratefully accepted the glass that the bartender pushed his way. "What are we celebrating?"

"The conviction of our serial killer. The case against him was so strong that they've already set the date for his hanging." Lestrade took a long draught from his glass and set it down on the counter, smacking his lips with satisfaction.

"I'm so relieved that the killings are over," Watson said evenly, not quite as willing as the inspector to celebrate the death of this man, no matter how many people he had killed.

"Don't worry, doctor." Lestrade's voice had gone a bit softer and he nodded slowly. "I feel the same way as you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said grimly.

"Well you could have had me fooled for a moment there."

"I know," Lestrade sighed. "I keep trying to tell myself that it's a good thing that he won't be able to terrorize the population anymore. But if you get a good look at him, he seems to be so harmless. Not fully in control of his own actions."

"He did murder dozens of people for the sake of his own curiosity," Watson reminded him gently.

Lestrade shook his head. "That's just it. I can't wrap my brain around the fact that that seems to be the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it takes a truly diseased mind to do something like this. And this man just doesn't strike me as having the brains for this kind of experiment."

Watson frowned. "So you think that someone put him up to this?"

"I don't know what I think," admitted Lestrade. "All I know is that something is definitely wrong. Land committed those murders, we know that for sure. We caught him actually poisoning a well. But I just think that there's something more behind it all."

"Oh, I agree."

"What does Holmes think about all this?" asked Lestrade. "And how's he doing? I haven't heard from him at all in the last couple of days, which is pretty unusual for him."

"He's recovering steadily. His shoulder is giving him a great deal of grief, but that's to be expected," said Watson. "You don't just get up and walk away from an injury like that."

"Not that that would stop him from trying," Lestrade chuckled to himself. "How about you and I go and visit him after we've had our drink? I think that he would enjoy the company."

"I think that you're right, inspector. A visit from a friend might be just what he needs."

Lestrade took another draught from his glass and then glanced over at Watson, who had yet to touch his own drink. "How about we drink to the full recovery of our friend Sherlock Holmes instead?"

Watson smiled. "Yes. I do think that I will drink to that."