Epilogue:

The air in Sussex was warm, the house cozy and peaceful. Stepping out onto the balcony of the second floor would grant you the view of a vast thicket of lush, green trees, birds chirping and nesting, and just beyond that a small, gentle river. It was so tranquil and pleasant that Holmes and Watson left their windows open at night, listening to the sounds of the forest lulling them to sleep. Mycroft was ever-present but non-intrusive, keeping himself busy with frequent trips to the city center nearby to pick up his correspondence.

Watson's ribs still ached, as did his heart, but Holmes brought him tea and gave him gentle touches that afforded the bone-weary doctor great measures of comfort. Holmes would often hand books or newspapers to him, asking for Watson to read. Watson always complied, stealing glances at Holmes' captivated expression in between paragraphs.

Watson and Holmes' surgeon had come to the conclusion that the aneurysm on Holmes' brain had been the true cause of his undermined senses. Once removed, with enough time elapsed, Holmes inevitably showed signs of improvement. Still not fully recovered, still missing some aspects of his personality that were normally characteristic, Holmes showed more and more potential for a full recovery every day.

Every now and then, more often as time progressed, Watson caught a glimpse of the real Holmes, the old Holmes, in all his arrogant, unendurable glory. Watson rested easily, breathed easily, with the conviction that one day soon, Holmes would be back to himself and the nightmare of losing him would be just that.

Marill: I'm kind of sad to see it end. ;_; But I really enjoyed writing it, and I thank all of you for your comments and encouragement! Thank you!