I know, I know. This chapter took forever to upload. I am sorry for making you all wait so long for the ending. Life can get pretty hectic you know. But it's here now so I hope you can forgive me.

You've waited long enough. Read on.

_._._._._._

Epilouge:

"How are you feeling, Holmes?" Doctor Watson asked for the umpteenth time, lowering his newspaper so that he could see his friend.

Sherlock Holmes lounged lazily in his favorite armchair, his pipe in his mouth and his violin leaning up against the upholstery in preparation for use.

Holmes opened his eyes with annoyance. "The more times you ask won't change my condition, Mother Hen," Holmes answered with a sigh of exasperation as he closed his eyes once more.

Watson's eyes flickered down to Holmes' torso where the doctor had carefully wrapped bags of covered ice around the detective's ribcage. The ice would ease the swelling, numb the pain, and slow the blood circulation to allow the damaged vessels to heal and the bruises to fade. His wrist was still supported by a splint and a new splint had been fastened around his left ankle.

Feeling that Watson was still watching him, Holmes opened his eyes. The irritation disappeared from his expression as his eyes softened.

"And how are you holding up, Old Boy?" Holmes asked, staring pointedly at Watson's arms.

Watson followed the detective's gaze and put down the paper to examine his own injuries. His arms had likewise been bandaged with covered ice and it looked as if he wore casts. The wound given to him by Ms. Merrimirt was healing beautifully and only a fading scab remained where he had been struck.

"The same as the last time you asked," Watson replied snidely with a condescending smile at Holmes hypocrisy.

Despite the detective's irritation with Watson's repeated question, Holmes likewise checked up on Watson periodically.

Holmes nodded approvingly and replaced his pipe in his mouth. He moved into a more comfortable position in his chair causing the ice to crunch audibly.

Due to the sound, the doctor and detective were unable to hear the approaching footsteps creaking up the stairs. By the time Holmes had settled comfortably and the ice quieted, there was a knock at the door.

"Would you mind getting that, Watson?" Holmes asked piteously. "My body does not feel like complying to my orders at the moment."

Watson chuckled, knowing full well that Holmes was extremely sore from his fight with Jones. It had taken all of the detective's strong will and strength just to leave his bed and sit in his chair. Or rather, his strong stubbornness.

Watson folded the paper and placed it aside. He stood with ease; his arms hanging heavily at his sides. He turned away from Holmes to walk towards the door but he knew that those dark eyes were watching him.

It took a moment for Watson to get his numbed fingers to grasp the doorknob but he managed to turn it after a minute of struggling. He opened the door and put on a smile to greet his guest.

The gesture was wiped from his lips as his greeting died on his tongue. He took a step back involuntarily as his heart fell to his feet.

Mr. Robert Jones stood before him.

A flurry of movement sounded behind Watson and suddenly Holmes was standing beside him, his hand resting gently on Watson's shoulder to offer encouragement and strength. Foil to Watson's startled expression, Holmes glared at Jones with heated warning.

"I did not come for another fight," Jones explained with a subdued tone. His gaze remained focused on his feet. "I only came to apologize."

With a deep breath for courage, Jones lifted his face to meet the eyes of the men he had fought only a day ago.

Watson felt his arms quiver at the thought as his mind flashed with the memories of Jones and Holmes fighting, the two falling down the stairs, Jones hitting Watson, Jones strangling Holmes. But the memories faded from priority as Watson glanced down to examine the state of Jones.

The taller man was dressed in loose clothes so as to not agitate his injuries. His right arm hung at his chest in a sling while his other hand was wrapped lightly in a splint. His strength seemed to have diminished slightly as his posture was weaker than the first time Watson had seen him: his head dipped forward slightly and his back hunched.

Watson offered a quick sidelong glance to his friend and saw that Holmes had seen all that he had. Now the detective was searching the eyes of his former adversary for the truth that he sought.

At last, Holmes slipped his arm around Watson's shoulder and pulled the doctor back and out of the way of the door.

"I'm pleased to hear it," he said, his tone lighter and cordial. "Please come in. Like us, I imagine that standing is a bit of a discomfort."

Jones smiled briefly with gratitude as he limped through the door and into the room. Holmes closed the door behind him but kept his arm slung over Watson's shoulders.

"I hate to be a bother, Watson," Holmes began ruefully, "but could you kindly escort me back to my seat. It appears that I'm having trouble standing."

Watson straightened to better bear the sudden weight placed upon him and staggered towards the armchair; dragging Holmes along with him.

"Please take a seat there in the basket chair," Holmes said invitingly as Watson maneuvered him past Jones. Jones nodded and limped after them.

Watson made it to the chair and carefully lowered his friend into it. Holmes settled with a heavy sigh and shifted into a more comfortably position with his feet spread out before him.

"Thank you, my dear Watson."

Watson nodded his acknowledgment and moved to return to his own chair as Jones sat in the chair closest to the fire.

"I see you've been to the doctor," Holmes pointed out before an awkward silence could consume the trio.

"Yes," Jones relied curtly, his eyes shifting around the room uneasily.

"Dr. Clyde Rainsferd, I presume," Holmes commented.

Jones' eyes instantly locked onto the detective.

"How could you have –"

"Quite simply actually," Holmes interrupted casually. "The sling around your neck is made with a cotton dyed in a rather peculiar green. Dr. Rainsferd is the only doctor within 10 miles who uses such a color. Also, your splint is criss-crossed with rounded supports. Rainsferd is renowned for such a technique. Dr. Watson here uses a circular wrapping with flat supports. You see?" Holmes asked as he lifted his wrapped hand for Jones to see.

"Y-yes," Jones answer, unsure of what else to say.

"And I dare say that Watson's technique is by far the better," Holmes added. The compliment came out carelessly but Watson felt the warmth of pride swell in his chest at hearing such an opinion.

"And is the lady well?" Holmes asked.

Watson winced and even Jones gave a start. To think that Holmes would bring up such a sensitive subject while in the presence of the very man who had grown enraged at the fact that Holmes even knew his wife.

Actually, considering that Holmes was the one to say it, it wasn't too surprising.

"Yes, she is well," Jones offered stiffly but upon noticing Holmes indifference to the subject, he too relaxed. "She still talks about it. Seems to be rather surprised that I can hold out in such a battle."

"Well, you did fight admirably. As strong as some in the ring even," Holmes replied with respect.

Jones straightened proudly with the compliment and within that very second, all soreness between the two men had disappeared. Respect was gained by both parties and an admiration for the strength and determination the other possessed.

Watson was astounded. For such a problem to be resolved with such ease. Only Sherlock Holmes was capable of such a feat.

The men stared at each other with reverence until Jones broke the spell and fished a pocketwatch from his coat pocket.

"Well, it seems my visit must come to an end. My wife is expecting me," Jones said as he replaced the watch.

He pushed himself to his feet and limped towards Holmes. The detective straightened in his seat and with a grunt, rose to his feet. He swayed slightly where he stood but remained standing.

Jones stopped before the great detective and expert fight and held out his splinted hand.

"I do apologize for my reaction against you," Jones said with the upmost sincerity and respect.

Holmes gripped the offered hand within his own and shook it. "Apology accepted, my good man."

Jones broke the handshake and turned away from Holmes as the detective plopped heavily back into his seat.

Jones moved towards the door but stopped and hesitated in front of Watson. Then he turned to face the doctor and held out his hand.

"And I apologize for my foul treatment of you," he said. "I was not myself and regret the injuries you sustained because of it."

Watson swiftly rose to his feet and threw his hand into Jones'. "Apology accepted."

Jones nodded gratefully and continued for the door. He opened it and stepped through. With a last bow, he closed the door behind him and his disoriented footsteps echoed down the steps and the front door was audibly closed.

Watson turned away from the closed door and faced Holmes with amazement stark on his face.

"A fine gentleman that one is," Holmes said aloud before slouching in his chair and retrieving his violin from the floor.

"You, my dear Holmes, are the luckiest man I have ever known," Watson said incredulously.

"Well, I cannot argue with your logic," Holmes said nonchalantly. Watson chuckled with a shake of his head as he reopened the paper to read the article about the solved case of the missing jewel of Mrs. Katherine Jones.

As Watson read, the chilling and beautiful lull of the violin sounded and soon only its haunting melody was heard in the room.

_._._._._._

And there it is

THE END

I probably have a few new readers by now so I hope you liked it too.

Thank you all for reading and for all of your wonderful comments. I'll see ya next time.

Hobey-Ho!