Sherlock Holmes was alive.

That simple phrase had become a mantra; Watson had to repeat it to himself over and over again to remind himself of the fact that this was true.

An hour ago, it had seemed that the detective would not survive. The effects of the poison were too great and his body, weakened by the gunshot wound, was failing. The best efforts of the doctor had seemed to be futile. And Watson had begun to lose hope.

Despair. It was a feeling that he was unfamiliar with.

Being an army doctor, Watson was more accustomed than most to death. He had seen more casualties than he cared to recall. He had experienced his fair share of failure, for no doctor can save everyone. Some patients are simply too far gone. But he had never experienced anything quite as personal as this, not even when he had knelt next to the sickbed of Davey Wiggins.

The fact that it was such a personal matter made wait that much more painful. Pain was something that he was used to dealing with. But it was not pain that kept him bound to the bed. It was more than pain. It was agony.

Before Sherlock Holmes had opened his eyes, he had been almost certain that this was the end. Anguish had morphed into despair.

And then…it was as though Holmes had somehow sensed the pain of his brother. He had opened his eyes, managed to whisper a single word before falling back into the pillow.

Tears of joy began to well in his eyes.

Watson allowed the tears to fall.

Mycroft Holmes had to admit that he wasn't exactly surprised when Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade from Scotland Yard had rung him with news of his brother's latest escapade. Concerned, certainly. But surprised…no.

It wasn't that unusual for his brother to get himself into a situation involving bodily harm. What with the epidemic that had been ravaging London, he'd known that it would only be a matter of time before he received a call. News of the gunshot wound had startled him because it was an unexpected development; he would have expected to hear that Sherlock had contracted cholera while investigating, not get himself shot in the shoulder. But then he had managed to get himself into a worse state.

As he rode in the back of the hansom on his way to 221B Baker Street, he couldn't help but wonder what had happened this time. Inspector Lestrade had sounded quite urgent on the phone and he had responded. Sherlock was his younger brother, the only member of the Holmes family that he still remained in contact with. For all the fact that they didn't get along particularly well, they still cared for one another as only a brother can.

At least he has Dr. Watson looking after him.

Confirmation that Dr. Watson had proved himself to be an even more competent physician than anyone had ever thought was pleasing to Mycroft. He knew that his brother couldn't be in better hands.

Watson glanced up from his position next to the bed when the door opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes. He quickly got to his feet, extending his hand to the older Holmes brother. Mycroft shook it rather distractedly as his eyes traveled to the sleeping form lying on the sheets.

"Is he all right, Dr. Watson?"

"I think that he'll be just fine, Mr. Holmes," said Watson, exhaling heavily as he spoke. "Your brother gave us quite a turn."

Mycroft nodded briefly, suggesting that he had tuned out the doctor's words after being reassured that his brother would live. He sank down in the chair that Watson had previously occupied and took Holmes's hand in his own. Holmes appeared to stir in his sleep, opening his eyes briefly enough to register Mycroft's face. A small smile appeared on the younger brother's face before exhaustion overtook him and his eyes closed again. Mycroft looked over to Watson for an explanation.

"The best thing that we can do for him now is to allow him to rest," said Watson. "He's been through a great deal in the past few hours." He paused, looking from the unconscious form in the bed to the man holding his hand. "Would you like some time alone with him?"

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft. His tone divulged just how thankful he really was. "Thank you for all of your help."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," said Watson softly. "Your brother is my brother as well."

Mary Watson slid her knife through the peapod with a satisfyingly smooth movement, tipping the peas inside into the ceramic bowl that waited on the tabletop. She sat back in the straight backed chair and shook the hair that was escaping from her bun out of her face.

"It's so good of you to help me, Mrs. Watson," said Mrs. Hudson, stirring a steaming pot of broth. "What with everything that's been going on, I don't think that I would have been able to manage alone."

"It's my pleasure, Mrs. Hudson," said Mary, reaching for another peapod. "You've been through a great deal." Her knife slit through the pod with a flashing motion. "Is it true that Mr. Holmes appears to be recovering?"

"Aye, it's true," said Mrs. Hudson. "It was very uncertain for a long time but your husband believes that he will make a full recovery."

Mary exhaled, tipping the peas into the bowl. "I'm very glad. I know how worried John was."

"Your husband deserves a great deal of thanks for all he's done for Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson with conviction. She lifted the spoon to her lips, tasting the broth. "He gave us quite a scare."

"So I've heard," said Mary with a small smile.

Mrs. Hudson frowned at the broth before reaching for a salt shaker. "I could scarcely believe my eyes when the good doctor and the inspector carried him back. All I could think was that he'd gotten into some kind of mischief again. And I was right."

"Agh," Mary grimaced as the knife slid through the peapod and into her thumb. She dropped the knife onto the worn tabletop, thrusting her bleeding thumb into her mouth.

"Are you all right, Mary?"

She looked up to see John in the doorway. The simple fact that he looked a great deal less worn than he had the past few days brought joy to her heart. Mr. Holmes regaining his senses had done him wonders. "Yes, John, I'm all right."

He gently took her thumb in his strong hands, examining the edges of ragged flesh with a practiced eye. "It's not too deep. I'll patch it up for you, darling." John softly pressed the tip of her thumb to his mouth and kissed it.

"Thank you, John, but there's really no need to. I'm fine."

"Doctor's orders, Mary." His eyes appeared to playfully scold her. "I'll get my bag."

Mary watched him leave, a smile creeping over her features as she inserted the injured thumb between her teeth once more.

"That's a fine husband you have there, Mrs. Watson," said Mrs. Hudson, a slight glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "I've always thought so. You be sure to keep him close."

Mary's smile grew. "You're right, Mrs. Hudson. You're absolutely right."

Over the next week, Watson was able to breathe a little easier as Holmes appeared to be on the road to recovery. There had been no need for chiding words, no need to scold the detective for going on such a dangerous mission on his own; both men understood why he had done it. Naturally, Watson felt it difficult to accept that Holmes hadn't consulted him about the meeting beforehand. But years of living with the detective had taught him that Sherlock Holmes does nothing without a reason.

A few days after the incident, Holmes was able to venture out of the bedroom for the first time; the effects of the drug combined with the pain in his injured shoulder had made it nearly impossible to do so before.

Watson wasn't able to hide the fact that he was pleased to see such a leap of progress. Holmes was exhibiting a particularly nonchalant view of the fact that he had gotten out of bed and scorned the fact that Watson was showing such relief.

"I'm all right, Watson," he said firmly as Watson helped him into the chair. "I'm not completely helpless."

"You certainly could have fooled me, Holmes," said Watson, pushing the chair in. "I wouldn't have thought a man in your position would be able to reject such help."

Holmes scowled and Watson couldn't hold back a laugh. "I'm not an invalid."

Watson shook his head, swallowing the laughter that he knew was irritating his friend. "I'm just so relieved to see you all right, Holmes."

Holmes accepted a single hotcake from the tray that Watson held out. He placed it on his plate, gingerly applying a miniscule amount of butter.

"I see that your appetite is back to normal."

"Certainly, Watson. Would you have expected any less from me?"

Watson set the platter down and shook his head. "Of course not, Holmes."

They ate in silence for a long while, both men seemingly engrossed in the newspapers that littered the table. The normalcy that had been steadily returning to 221B Baker Street was enough. Neither man felt a particular urge to speak until Watson came across a startling article in the newspaper.

"I say, Holmes, have you seen this?" He turned the paper around so that Holmes could get a glimpse of the page.

Holmes squinted and read the headline aloud: "True Culprit Behind London Epidemic Apprehended." He looked up at Watson. "And who do they claim is the true culprit they speak of?"

Watson folded the newspaper and set it down on the table. 'I haven't the foggiest idea. Someone named Rupert Bleibner."

Holmes sat back in his chair and chuckled to himself. "It's certainly good to see that the newspaper reporters of London are back in top notch form. What do they say is the motive behind the killing?"

"They say that is was the work of a madman and that Bleibner's capture proves it."

The detective continued to chuckle.

"Do you think it's possible that they will ever trace the murders back to Moran and Moriarty?" asked Watson, scooping up a bite of eggs from his plate.

"Even if Scotland Yard manages to, I doubt that the press will get hold of any details. Newspaper reporters aren't particularly well known for their accuracy."

Watson frowned down at the folded paper. "You may be right but I can't help but be concerned."

"Why is that, Watson?"

"Well, after the…incident, Moran got off scot free. Scotland Yard hasn't been able to find him, despite their best efforts."

Holmes set down his fork, glad for an excuse to stop eating, and laced his fingers. "What is your point?"

"Simply that I don't like the idea that he's wandering around London."

"He's been wandering about London for years now, Watson," Holmes reminded him. "Nothing has changed."

"But the fact that he attacked you and got away with it is bound to increase his self confidence and he's likely to try again." Watson crossed his arms.

"Watson, you do not know the colonel in the same manner that I do." Holmes sighed. "It's simply not in his character to make a second strike so close to the first."

"How can you be certain?"

"I am not certain," said Holmes crossly. He lifted his fork again and pointedly inserted it between his teeth to show Watson that he was not interested. "But I think that we have other, more important things to worry about."

"Such as?" Watson could feel his temper beginning to rise.

Holmes allowed his face to soften and he offered a slow nod in Watson's general direction. "I daresay that you and your wife will be returning home soon now that I am nearly recovered."

Watson and Mary had been staying at 221B Baker Street for the past week so that Watson could keep an eye on Holmes. They had been staying in Watson's old room; it was a bit cramped but Mary had never complained. She knew how much it meant to Watson to be able to care for Holmes himself instead of moving him to a hospital. But it certainly wasn't a permanent solution. They all had real lives to return to.

"Are you so certain that you've recovered enough for us to take our leave?" asked Watson with a small smile.

Holmes smiled. "I certainly hope so, Watson. I expect that Mrs. Watson grows weary of her existence in our flat. She's a lovely woman but a bachelor's residence will never be her idea of a home." He paused for a moment before exhaling. "I am greatly indebted to you both. I trust that you'll tell her so?"

"Why not tell her yourself, Holmes?"

"I don't think that would be advisable." Holmes cleared his throat and put forward a sheepish smile. "You know how I am around women."

"Certainly, I shall inform her, Holmes." Watson shook his head, the grin splitting over his face. The men began to laugh.

Author's Notes:

I wanted to take a moment to recognize a fellow Sherlockian author: Aleine Skyfire. You won't find a better author in this fandom.

Those of you from the RLt will be able to find one of her stories Tales From the Great Hiatus in our WIP archive but she has so much more than that to offer. Her current project Mortality is one of the best Sherlock Holmes stories that I've read in a very long time and I would recommend her without reservation.

You can find her on my favorites list or here: http: / www. fanfiction .net/ u/ 1758544/ Aleine_Skyfire

Thanks to all of my lovely reviewers! We are nearing the end of the story now. Hope you have enjoyed thus far and continue to enjoy!