I apologize for the delay. Once again life has come and interrupted fiction just when fiction was beginning to get interesting.

Thank you to Tristan, tyko, mrspencil, lovewatson, and James Birdsong for their kind reviews!

Having cleaned and bandaged Holmes' wounds as best I could, given my limited materials, I asked for Mycroft's assistance and began half-supporting, half-dragging Holmes back towards the cab. It took a good twenty minutes before we reached the road. The forest was dark and the low roots and rocks made the going treacherous for one healthy person on his own. Aiding Holmes made the situation all the more difficult, especially since he seemed to decide after five minutes of laboriously trudging through the woods that he didn't need our help. He kept attempting to walk on his own, the result of which was more cries of pain from my dear friend than I had the stomach for and even more offers to help from his brother and I-all of which were quickly rebuffed. As brilliant as Sherlock Holmes is, he has very little intelligence regarding his own health. His continual use of cocaine had already given me an inkling of this, and his trek through the woods only cemented this in my mind. His recovery time must have doubled for all his efforts at pretending to be well.

Thus it was with some feelings of frustration and an almost palpable air of concern that we finally reached the cab. The cabbie didn't know what to think of his third unexpected passenger, and I have no doubt he would have begun to ask questions had not Mycroft slipped him a fiver and taken him aside for a little talk. As he did so, I attempted to get Holmes to situate himself in the cab so that he might not further injure himself.

"Watson, I am perfectly fine," Holmes said as he pulled himself into the cab, his usual cat-like grace on his feet replaced by a sort of ape-like dexterity with his arms. He had managed to pull himself the two feet into the air by jumping up and availing himself of the bar around the top of the Growler.

"You are not… Careful!" I cried as he swung himself into the cab. I glowered at him as he situated himself on the furthest end of the passenger's seat. "You are not," I repeated. "'Perfectly fine.' You forget, Holmes, I was the one who examined you! Your ankle is badly sprained and you should not be so careless with it, nor should you be so flippant about the grazes on your arms. Should the bandages come off…"

"My dear Watson," said he from the inside of the cab. "You worry far too much. I have seen worse injuries in my time, as you well know."

"Yes, but there I could tend to you at Baker Street," I replied. "Where there is a proper medical kit and an obliging housekeeper to make sure that nothing worse comes of your injuries. Infection is no joke, Holmes! I should think that with all our years of living together that little piece of…"

"Mycroft!" Holmes exclaimed, gazing over my shoulder.

I turned to see Holmes' brother making his way back towards us and the cabbie climbing up the side of the vehicle and onto the driver's seat.

"I presume the cabbie has been paid off?"

"Yes," said Mycroft. "Though I scarcely think you should presume as much. One of these days I'm going to stop bribing cabmen to keep their mouths shut and you're going to have to face the social consequences on your own."

Holmes gave a brief smile and began looking out the window opposite. Mycroft shook his head.

"After you, doctor," said he. "I assume you will want to be close to the patient should the Growler* live up to its name."

I nodded, glad for this little consideration.

"You're no doubt wondering, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, turning the subject away from my quarrel with Holmes and the sheer awkwardness of the situation. "How I knew exactly where to find him, hm?"

"I must say I am astonished," said I as I got into the cab next to Holmes. I was truly wondering how he could have located his brother so quickly. The path must have been about two miles in length and that Mycroft should know the exact spot where his brother had fallen bordered on the supernatural.

Mycroft smirked and got into the cab as well, taking up what little room was left. Once he had settled himself among the reorganized luggage he began, "There was a particular spot… Oh, Sherlock, this isn't half as embarrassing as some of the tales father would tell were he here," he said in response to a look from Holmes. My friend pursed his lips and turned to look out the window again. Mycroft shifted his gaze back to me with a little shake of his head. "There was a spot," He began again. "Even before the path had come to be as overgrown as you saw it this evening, where an especially large root had grown across the way. Sherlock, in his younger days, very often fell over that root when he was explaining some new theorem or curiosity to me, so much so that I began to call it 'Sherlock's root'. So," he said, turning to Holmes. "Knowing that you had run off in a distracted mood it was only logical to assume that you would misstep, especially given that the path has not been used for a decade. And what other spot than?"

"Sherlock's root," Holmes replied sourly.

"Precisely."

"Remarkable!" I exclaimed.

"You see now, Mycroft," Holmes said. "Why I value Watson so dearly as a companion. He has an ever flowing sense of wonder which makes even the merest of trifles seem extraordinary."

*The Growler is a type of cab that is bigger than the famous hansom cab-as well as more common. It has four wheels versus the hansom's two, which gave it the additional name "four-wheeler." (Incidentally, if memory serves, Arthur Conan Doyle mentions this type of cab under the name of "four-wheeler.") It's somewhat sinister nickname came from the sound that it made whilst going over cobblestones. I can only imagine what sort of noise it would make on country roads and how bumpy the ride would be.

A bit of a back-handed compliment from Holmes.

Reviews appreciated as always!