Ok so I went to post chapter 20 and realized I was a chapter behind with posting, so it's a surprise double update day! Yay! Read and enjoy, dear Sherlock fans. (Of course, the reminder that I don't own Sherlock. I'm just one of many fanfic writers.) Cheers!

Chapter 19

"Wars are not won by evacuations."
~Winston Churchill

When he once again awoke, it was to the sight of Simza hovering over him and the name of his daughter on his lips.

"She's downstairs with Mrs. Hudson," Simza murmured keeping her voice low. In answer to her unasked question, she said, "She saw nothing."

"Thank God for that," he sighed, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. Though his body craved rest, his thoughts betrayed him and questions with no answers assaulted his weary mind. Choosing one of the most pressing, he asked, "Did I... Did I hurt you?"

"No."

Again, Watson sighed in relief. He could vaguely recall seeing her run into the room when the pain in his head had reached monstrous levels, bringing him to his knees. He feared he'd hurt her again, but thankfully that had not been the case. Still, he was terrified of what he couldn't remember. "Where's Holmes?"

Before Simza could reply, the man himself came stomping into the room, struggling to pull a new shirt on, oblivious as always to society's rules of propriety- including not being in a state of undress before a woman who is not your spouse- while mumbling obscenities about the "wretched woman" and the "damnable cloth". He finally managed to pull the material over his head and get his arms through the right holes, but not before Watson caught a glimpse of the smattering of bruises across his left side and right in the center of his chest. Watson cringed. What in God's name had he done?

"Ah! He awakes," Holmes said with a tight smile as he sloppily shoved his shirt-tale into his trousers.

"So it seems," Watson sighed, attempting to sit upright, but settled for leaning against the pillows instead when he began to feel light headed. He took a deep breath before looking his friend straight in the eye. "Holmes, what happened?"

Holmes pursed his lips in what Watson could only assume was one of the rare times his companion seriously considered his words before speaking them aloud. It only served to further heighten Watson's anxiety.

Simza took his pause as her cue to leave, assuming he and the doctor wished to speak privately.

"Stay, Sim," Watson requested rather suddenly. At her look of confusion, he added, "Please. I- There's much I can't seem to recall, and perhaps you could help."

Simza nodded, reclaiming her seat once more.

Pulling over his own chair, Holmes sat beside Simza and across from Watson with his hands clasped before him, elbows resting on his knees. "I can only tell you what I saw myself. Perhaps, as you say, Simza can help fill in the gaps, as it were. You emerged from the madam's room demanding to know if Moriarty was dead."

"I had told you of Moran's attack, and his," Simza muttered, her throat closing as the memories surfaced yet again, "his threat."

"Yes," Watson scowled. "Yes, I do remember that."

"As to your question, is Moriarty dead? Until a year ago, I believed he was, and upon discovering the truth of who was behind the recent attacks, both here and at the gypsy encampment, you flew into a rage. Highly justifiable in my opinion."

"No, Holmes." Watson shook his head. "The bruises on your chest and neck- yes, I saw them. There's no excuse for what I've done."

"I admit, I cannot say I would not have done the same, had our roles been reversed." Holmes stared down at his hands as he continued, "I must beg your forgiveness, John. All that can be said in my defense is that I did not wish to involve you a second time. Especially because of Mary. Watson, you must know I'd give my life before allowing any harm to come to her. I see now that, in trying to protect everyone, I was only placing you in greater danger. And for that, you have my sincerest apologies."

He was startled by a hand covering his own. He looked up to see Watson give him a small, understanding smile. "I know you were only doing what you thought was best. For all of us. And I know there is nothing you wouldn't do for my daughter. Had I been in my right mind, I never would have reacted the way I did."

They were silent for a moment before Holmes cleared his throat and said, "Yes, well. How do you feel now?"

Watson sighed wearily. "My leg is acting up, which is just brilliant. Exactly what I need."

"I'll wager you're exhausted."

Watson hummed his reply when, without warning, Holmes shot out his hand to feel Watson's brow.

"Holmes, what in God's name are you doing?" he demanded, attempting to pull away, but Holmes put his other hand to the doctor's chest to keep him still.

"Checking your temperature, old boy. Now behave and stop talking."

Holmes pressed the back of his hand to Watson's forehead, and his wrist to each cheek, taking note of the flush of his skin. "Slight fever," he concluded at last. "Easily treatable."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?"

Holmes pulled himself up in a dignified, albeit in his typically over dramatic manner, and answered, "Indeed, Doctor."

Watson's laugh soon turned into a coughing fit. When he pulled his fist away, he sighed in relief. "No blood. Thank God."

Holmes' features darkened. "Just how often have you been coughing up blood, Watson?"

"Weeks, I suppose," he hedged, attempting to shrug off the troubling look of concern in his friend's calculating stare. "It's nothing, Holmes. Just an irritation."

In an instant, Holmes' concern was replaced with a smile. "Of course, Watson. Of course." Rising then to his feet, he said, "I must see to my wife and ensure Nanny has your daughter well in hand. If you'll both excuse me."

Irene met her husband as she was coming up the stairs. He caught her upper arm and pulled her close. "A word, Miss Adler."

Irene drew herself up straighter, her expression darkening. "Then it's true?"

Holmes nodded. "I'm afraid the past has returned to haunt us, my dear."

Her pretty mouth set in a tight line, she gripped his hand and slipped into Watson's nearby room, shutting the door soundly behind them.

Rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, Holmes admitted, "It's worse than I feared."

"What do you mean?"

"Watson's illness. It is no ordinary contagion. It was by design." He began to pace the short distance from the bed to the window. "How could I not have seen it? How could I have been so careless? I was preoccupied in my concern for Mary, I neglected to see he'd given Watson the same strain of tuberculosis he used to infect you."

"Not entirely."

"Pardon?"

"Not entirely the same," she said, placing herself in his path and forcing him to look at her. "Think, Sherlock. John was ill nearly a month ago now, and though his symptoms linger, I was immediately sent to a sanatorium. Whatever he's done to John, it's not the same as what he did to me."

"You're right," Holmes sighed. "Of course, you're right."

Irene placed her hands on either side of her husband's scruffy face. His dark eyes settled on her dear features. "Darling, you're letting your emotions get the best of you. Use that famous brain of yours and think! You're the only one who can help John."

Taking a deep breath, Holmes closed his eyes and began to sift through memories of the past month, searching for anything he may have missed. There were signs. So many symptoms Watson had tried to hide that Holmes saw but did not truly notice, wrapped up as he had been in his concern for and need to protect Mary.

Insomnia. Fatigue. Headaches. Increased pain and weakness in his bad leg. Tremors. And the blood. Dear Lord, the blood! Frequent nosebleeds and the couching had left at least three of the doctor's handkerchiefs stained with a spattering of scarlet.

What had changed? Where had this begun?

The tea?

No. Mrs. Hudson was far too particular. She would notice if her tea had been tampered with. And Moriarty was highly unlikely to use the same methods twice.

A toxin that absorbed through one's skin? Perhaps in the ink?

No. Watson cares too much for his appearance and is altogether too neat to allow for ink to stain his life-saving hands.

Images flashed through his mind's eye more quickly than the average man could find sense in.

Mary's toys. Firewood. Vials of medicine. Newspaper. Brandy...

"Tobacco."

Irene's finely arched eyebrows rose in anticipation of his explanation.

Stepping away from his wife, Holmes went directly to Watson's chest of drawers and picked up the tin of tobacco. "This is not his typical brand of choice. Seven months ago, he brought this home instead. I'm afraid he's been using it ever since."

"The more he smoked, the more poison he ingested. The symptoms don't appear for six months, and by then it's too late."

Holmes's expression grew dark as he clenched a white knuckled fist around the tin box. "No. The game, my dear, is on."