The sun rose slowly, but failed to cut through the low-hanging cloud entirely. Nobody felt much like breakfast, but there was hot coffee in abundance throughout the morning. Holmes pulled an armchair up near the couch, and did not move from that spot for most of the day.
Minutes stretched out into hours; hours stretched the day into night and back to day again. Holmes did not leave the chair, but dozed fitfully, as the other members of the household drifted around him. Eventually, Holmes snapped awake, suddenly, every sense alert, though uncertain what had awoken him. And then he realised, and he smiled.
"Ah," he said, softly, leaning forwards in the chair, "it is good to see you awake."
"Holmes," Watson whispered, hoarsely, "I am so sorry… he… he got away…"
Holmes frowned slightly; "Watson. You need to rest. You were injured… but I am afraid I must ask you this. Did you see who attacked you?"
"Yes."
"Can you describe him?"
"He looked… like Jack Stapleton. But… it wasn't him…"
"What do you mean?"
"Your methods… his face… wrong shape. He… he disguised himself… to look more like… Stapleton…"
Holmes leaned back in the chair, as Watson broke off with a groan, shivering slightly under the blankets. Holmes's great mind began to turn over the problem, and, slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place…
~*~