Five

"This hospital tea is dreadful!"

"Well, that was to be expected."

John Watson and Mycroft Holmes sat on opposite sides of the hospital bed, and their manners and moods were very much reflected in their opposite positions.

John Watson was quiet, a little pale, and his hands shook with a slight, barely-noticeable tremor.

Mycroft Holmes was jolly, or as jolly as a man such as himself could be, and he drank his tea with hearty sips, despite his previous comment about its questionable taste.

But these two men were not alone, no – between them lay Sherlock Holmes, heavily bandaged, but well on his way to good health. He would recover in due time, but for now, he resided in his hospital bed.

But even in his weakened state, Holmes still saw – for he saw everything – and he noticed the shake of Watson's hands, the nervousness in his glances at Mycroft, and Mycroft's oblivious nature to the man seated across from him.

"I am glad you're going to be right and well again, Sherlock," commented Mycroft, "To who else would I send the strange cases that come my way?" He gave a little chuckle.

John Watson said nothing – and his silence brought upon the very thing he dreaded the most at this present moment, and his face turned a shade whiter as Mycroft spoke.

"But, Sherlock, you know that damn Yard – and they told me nothing of what had happened on the night of your misfortune. Though I am lazy, Sherlock, as you know – I promise I will find this person who did this to you, the bastard!"

Watson set his tea down and gave Holmes an anxious look.

"Whoever was it, Sherlock?" Mycroft continued. "Of all people, surely you know the identity of the rat who shot you."

Holmes, ignoring Watson's panicked glance, did not waste any time answering his brother's inquiry. "Ah, brother Mycroft, don't bother – it does not really matter now, for I shall be all right in the end, but alas, there is nothing for you to do. The man who brought such a terrible wound upon me was –"

Watson caught his breath.

" –Thomas Hart, none other than the criminal we were hunting down that night."

Watson exhaled and carefully watched Mycroft's face as Holmes continued.

"We had him cornered, and he got jumpy and pulled his revolver before I had even the time to leap from harm's way. But, as I said, it is no matter now, for Hart is in jail, and I doubt that he will ever be leaving. I do thank you for your concern, however."

With that, Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and remained expressionless.

"Well, what a shame," said Mycroft with a furrowed brow as he sipped his tea, too busy with his own thoughts to notice the wary Watson across from him.

"But now," said Holmes blandly, "I must ask the two of you to depart, for I am very tired and I have got a lot of healing to do. Your visits were most enjoyable, and I am sure I shall see you again soon in the future."

Mycroft nodded approvingly and stood, taking his hat and jacket, and Watson did the same, nodding a little good-bye to his friend before following Mycroft's footsteps out of the door.

And the two men left, one walking with his same jolly footsteps, and the other's steps very much lifted with relief and liberation.

Four months later.

"Look, Watson!"

It was a beautiful day, the air crisp and chilled, and the faint scent of baking bread was drifting over the wind. The air was just beginning to ring with birdsong, and only small patches of snow were left to slowly expire upon the ground.

At present, Holmes and I were out on a little walk through a more rural part of London – a park, just coming back to life from its yearly demise of cold and snow.

Four months had passed since his surgery, and the sharp, inquisitive glint was back in Holmes' gray eyes. It always made me happy when I saw it, especially now, considering what we had been through.

"Here, over here!"

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked with a little smile as I watched Holmes peering at the ground, crouched like some strange animal.

"It is a Thymelicus lineola," said he, "Or, as it is more commonly known – an Essex Skipper!"

He smiled down at the little butterfly.

I gave him a strange look. "Butterflies, old boy? I didn't know you were so knowledgeable on the subject."

"Quite the contrary," Holmes replied, "In fact, this is the only species I know the scientific name of. I happened across it in a book I was inclined to read."

I gave a cheerful laugh. "Oh, Holmes, you never cease to surprise me."

"The same to you, dear friend."

I stopped and stood, watching the little butterfly flick its delicate wings.

"You know, Holmes, I'm not sure what I would have done if you had not made it out alive from that dreaded surgery."

He stood and gave me a tired look.

"Please, old boy, don't beat yourself up over that – it is in the past, four months and counting. It is all over now, and I am alive and well. And pray keep in mind that it was you who saved my life, to which I am forever grateful."

I smiled. "I am very glad you're alive, Holmes. You've no idea how frightened I was for you that night. I wasn't sure if… you were going to make it."

Holmes came over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Dearest Watson," said he, "I am sure you have seen many deaths in your time, my friend, and so I ask you: why, then, do you fret so often over the one that you have most successfully saved?"

I glanced at the ground. "I'm not sure," I said. "I guess that I have yet to completely wash the guilt from my conscience. After all, it was I that gave you that terrible wound."

Holmes removed his hand from my shoulder and began to walk. "Come with me, Watson," said he, "For I have something to show you back at Baker Street."

"Tea, Mrs. Hudson," called my friend as we arrived back at our living quarters. "And some toast for Watson, if you will."

He headed up the stairs to the sitting-room, I close on his heels, and we stepped into the comfy room as Holmes removed his jacket.

"Holmes," said I, my tone flat and annoyed, yet still a little playful. "Is that my green waistcoat you're wearing?"

"Barter system, dear friend. Now, let us clear this table… ah, there we are. And, just in time, the tea and toast."

He motioned for me to take a seat in my old arm-chair and poured me a cup of tea.

"Cigarette?"

"Yes, please."

We sat in silence for some moments.

Eventually, Holmes and I had both finished our tea and my cigarette had been long snuffed, so Holmes rose and told me to wait for a minute.

"I shall be back momentarily," he said, "And I think you'll be interested to see what it is I have to show you."

He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with what appeared to be nothing, his arms behind his back.

"Holmes," I asked, furrowing my brow. "What-"

"Hush, Watson," said he. "Close your eyes and open your palm."

I gave him a strange look, but he insisted, so I did as I was told.

I felt him take my hand and drop something small and cold into it.

"Look, Watson."

I opened my eyes and gave a little gasp as I gazed down at the object resting in my palm.

"Why," I cried, "Is this…?"

"Yes," said my friend, "It is the very bullet you pulled from my chest – the very bullet which endangered my life, and the very bullet which you retrieved that set me back on track. This is why I nearly died, and why I live, dear boy. Without you, I would not be standing here to-day. This is what I want you to remember."

He sat across from me.

"Do not remember the terror or fear or whatever else you have been complaining about; only remember that it was you who banished these thoughts and revived my body with the removal of this tiny, dangerous object."

I stared at my friend.

"I though that they had thrown it away," I said. "I wasn't aware they had given it to you."

"Yes, I had specifically told them not to inform you of the matter, in case something like this arose. As it turns out, I was entirely correct in thinking you would still fret over this matter, even months later. So, I give this to you, dear Watson, in the hopes that it tells you not to worry – I am all right, old boy."

He gave me strange smile.

"But, Holmes, you cannot expect me to keep this, it is yours!"

"No, Watson," Holmes said sternly, "It is for you. Remember what I have told you, because it is very important."

He closed my hand over the bullet and held it steady.

"For someone who is so detached from society, you're quite the forgiving man, Holmes." I said quietly.

"Only to my dearest of friends, Watson."

Gazing at the little bullet in my hand, I murmured quietly, "So small. It's so small. Just a piece of metal."

Holmes lit his pipe and gazed out of the window.

"That it is, dearest Watson," said he. "That it is."

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please let me know in a review! :) I appreciate any and all support!

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