Sorry this took so long, things have been hectic the past couple of weeks and I haven't been able to write. I'm not entirely pleased with this installment, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Holmes:

Stanley reacted quite well to the diagnosis - which I was glad to see, as it proved that his level-headedness held up under duress - but was quiet resistant to the idea of spending the duration of his recovery on the settee - which did not surprise me in the least. I would have none of it, of course, and settled the issue quite soundly with a few choice phrases. With Stanley's protests quelled, Watson busied himself ringing Mrs. Hudson in order to hide a smile. After a moment I remembered why, and I found myself smiling a little as well. He had said some of those exact things to me nearly a decade ago when I'd repeated refused his care.

Mrs. Hudson wasted no time in doting upon our guest with broth and chamomile tea; some combination of his youth, his obviously poor state, and his steadfast courtesy endeared him to her immediately. She also wasted no time in reproaching me for 'letting the poor dear get into such a state'. I'd been riding a tide of relief and concern since we'd found him, but that remark drew out a pang of something else, something I didn't think I liked. It was a gnawing, hot sort of feeling that seemed to enjoy stabbing at my gut whenever I looked at Stanley. I tried to think of a suitable retort, to keep up some semblance of normalcy with our habitual game of wit, but for once the words failed me.

Surprisingly, she let the subject drop, instead turning her attention to the fire. I wondered that I had ever thought her unobservant.

Stanley picked up the spoon and tasted the broth. Once Mrs. Hudson left, he was content to ignore it and settle back with his tea. Concern crossed Watson's expressive features.

"You should eat," said he, "You lost quite a bit of blood today, and you need-" he stopped as Stanley's pallor turned green.

"Mayb- perhaps later, Doctor?" He turned an openly pleading look on Watson. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling up to it right now."

"Of course."

I had the fleeting notion of laughing at this exchange and the speed at which my compassionate and fretful doctor gave in. The little monster growing in my gut gave another stab, directing my attention to Stanley - wounded and pale and fighting not to tremble as he sipped his tea - and killed any bit of joviality I might have entertained. There was nothing funny about Stanley - my son - getting hurt. If only I had just-

My rational mind attempted to step in, assuring me that I could have done nothing to alter this outcome, but it did little to comfort me. I still regretted that I had not been sooner, that I withheld my theories until I was more certain, that I hadn't recognized Stanley's agitation for what it was and kept a closer eye on him. I had no way of knowing, but I should have. As should he. He was a grown man of nearly thirty, he should have known better than to tackle such a man alone and without all the facts. It was his own impulsiveness that got him into this! I ought to-

"You knew the girl," I suddenly found myself saying in a bland voice. It was probably better for his nerves than the tirade that was building up in my mind. I pointedly ignored the warning glance Watson shot toward me.

Stanley's cup paused halfway to his lips. At length he set it down again and said, "Yes. Molly was... an old friend."

"You should have told us that from the start, you know."

"I... I know," said Stanley. "But I'd have been taken off the case. I couldn't..."

His tremulous voice should have stopped me. Instead I pressed the point. He had to understand what he had done wrong if he was to be expected to learn from it! "Better that you had been. It was too personal for you to handle, and you knew it."

"Yes- yes, I-I... but I couldn't let... I had to..."

He lost the battle against his trembling and would have been in great danger of upsetting his cup all over the blanket had Watson not swooped in to relieve him of it. Thus unburdened, he swiped discreetly at his eyes and then pressed his hands against the blankets. "Perhaps," Watson said with a pointed glare my way, "we could not discuss the case until Hopkins' nerves have had a chance to settle."

"Of course. ...I'm sorry, Inspector," I added. He nodded mutely.

Watson, with his terrific bedside manner, set to calming the boy enough that he could return the teacup. Over the doctor's murmurings, silence staged a coup, faltered briefly against the awkwardly loud clink of brandy and water being poured, but once Watson settled into his armchair managed to take over the room and reign for a few terribly long minutes. I was unable to think of anything but the case and the consequences of it, and without an outlet, my mind had quickly regressed to alternately assigning blame to myself and to Stanley. I could feel a black mood rapidly descending.

"Well, Hopkins, while we're here we may as well be friendly. How did you come to be the Yard's youngest Inspector?"

Bless that man. Bless him to the bottom of his immeasurable heart. "Mm, yes, do tell."

"Just lucky, I guess?" Stanley replied with a laugh that warmed the whole room, and with that we set to talking.

Sherlock, Watson, and Stanley do not belong to me.