"Good morning, Dr. Watson."

Mycroft Holmes was smiling at me when I opened my eyes, but as he stepped back to allow me to rise his features once more took on that sharp analytical expression that he shared with his younger sibling. "You should take care not to go falling asleep in hard chairs, Dr. Watson. It really doesn't do those old war wounds of yours any good."

I frowned at him for a moment, about to ask where the comment came from, and then it dawned on me. "It's because I'm stiff."

Mycroft gave me a quick smile, evidently pleased that I could make such a simple leap of logic, before he turned critical slate grey eyes to the man in the bed. "How is Sherlock, Doctor?"

I looked over at Sherlock as well, trying to see him with an unbiased physician's eye. I will not pretend it was easy; my mind couldn't seem to settle on the evidence before me. One second it seemed the flush on my friend's cheeks was deeper than earlier and I was sure his fever had increased, but when I looked closer, he looked exactly as before.

I sighed, "He is better than I feared, but worse than I hoped."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at me, "Perhaps it would be easier if you started at the beginning. How did this happen?"

I nodded, absently taking up the cloth again to cool my friend's brow. I could feel the elder Holmes' eyes on me as I gently tended my patient, and began my story. "It was a robbery-smuggling case that was 'simple but with one or two points of interest', as Holmes put it."

Mycroft made a sound in the back of his throat at my use of their surname when referring to his brother. Perhaps it was a bit odd considering our friendship, but then Holmes, especially my Holmes, was an odd man. He allowed so few people the close intimacy of using his given name that, though he would never object if I did, I felt that it was a privilege not to be squandered needlessly. Thus, I continued my tale without alteration.

"Inspector Lestrade had been working on the case for almost a month before he came to Baker Street to get Holmes' advice on it. He'd been able to trace where the goods where coming from, and where they were ultimately ending up. But it was the point of arrival in London before be distributed to the various fences around the city, which he wasn't able to trace."

"Scotland Yard's surveillance techniques are completely inadequate."

I smiled, Mycroft's comment was nearly verbatim what his brother had told Lestrade the day he brought us the case. "Be that as it may, the police managed to follow a few of the thieves to a steamboat, the SS Kalypso, where they watched them load their goods. The only problem was the Kalypso only ever travelled as far as Runnymede from her port in Maidenhead."

"Clearly she transferred her cargo to another ship or some other form of transport."

Again, I smiled, "That was the problem. The police followed the ship, and she didn't stop once, nor pass another vessel, until she docked in Runnymede. They immediately boarded her, searched her cargo and the storeroom where she was offloading to, and found none of the stolen goods they'd watched get loaded. Two days later, however those same goods the police couldn't find still managed to make it to the shops of London."

"Interesting," Mycroft said and I spared him a glance.

His grey eyes sparkled with the same excitement that Sherlock had when he found a case appealing. I wondered if the brothers realized just how much alike they really were; as I listened to Mycroft continue my story for me. "Sherlock, of course, deduced the crew must have dumped the goods, without being observed by the police, at some predetermined location in the river for their accomplices to pick up later, and finish transporting."

"He then conducted his own surveillance; probably by insinuating himself amongst the thieves or ship hands with one of those disguises of his, and discovered where the drop was made. Then he followed the trail all the way to where this," Mycroft gestured toward his brother, "happened."

I nodded, "The items changed hands three or four times on any given night depending on the cargo, and several different routes where used, but in each instance it was always brought to one location; a warehouse off Stew Lane. So, once Holmes was satisfied he had all the information he needed, he contacted Lestrade, and the raid was planned for just after ten last night."

"What went wrong?"

Why is it that the simplest questions never had simple answers, I wondered as the night played back in my head. Holmes and I had dinner at the Royal, he telling me about how he had traced the criminals we were after, and I scribbling notes in my book for later. He had been in good spirits, laughing and making plans to see a new play that was to open later this week.

He had crowed his own genius, saying, "A simple problem, as I said, Watson, but no less invigorating for it. You would think the good Inspector would learn, however, to call me in sooner on such things. Lestrade can be quite helpless sometimes."

I had made some reproving statement about Lestrade doing his best, and reminded Holmes that not everyone could be as brilliant as he was all the time. He had laughed at that; Sherlock had the most infectious laugh of anyone I have ever known, and so, even as I tried to look stern, I had ended up laughing as well. He paid our bill, telling me it was his treat, in honour of the upcoming closing of yet another successful case. Then we had gone out together, his arm carelessly linked with mine, to meet the inspector.

At the warehouse, with all his usual showmanship, Sherlock presented the criminals, along with the police, with all of the evidence he had gathered against them. He informed them that the case was as watertight as the oilskin wrapping they had used when dropping the goods in the Thames. There was no possible means of escaping justice; he had seen everything, anticipating the evening down to the minutest detail.

Or so we had all thought. Carter, that had been the man's name, as I recall now, had been the mastermind behind the whole scheme, and once he realized how neatly my friend had drawn the net around him, he panicked. He drew a small revolver from somewhere on his person, and fired it at my friend before any of us realized what was happening.

The feel on strong hands on my shoulders jolted me back to reality, and I once again found myself blinking at Mycroft Holmes' face. I let him guide me back to the chair, and I realized I was shaking. He took a small flask from his waistcoat and pressed it into my hand, "Drink."

I did, and the unexpected burn of scotch down my throat caused me to choke. I squeezed my eyes shut as I took another, smaller, swallow before passing me flask back to its owner. I rasped, "Thank you."

Mycroft made a humming noise in response to my thanks, before he too drank from the flask, and returned it to his pocket. Then he just stood there watching me with those critical eyes of his for a length before asking, "Are you fit to continue?"

I wasn't sure, but nodded anyway. Taking a deep breath, I finally found the answer to Mycroft's earlier question, "We weren't prepared."

I surprised myself with how even my voice sounded, despite the small tremors I still felt running down my body. I did my best to ignore them as I explained, "Holmes hadn't seen any evidence in the robberies, or while he trailed the smugglers that suggested that any of them would be armed. So we didn't see the danger until it was too late. The leader of the gang shot him, the bullet entered his lung, and he was bleeding everywhere. Lestrade and Constable Rance helped me get him here."

"The constable then consented to be used as a blood donor so Dr. Cohen and I gave your brother a transfusion to try to keep him alive while we operated. Thankfully, it worked. We removed the bullet, repaired what damaged tissue we could to stop the bleeding, and stitched the wound closed. Since then, his breathing has improved greatly, but he has developed a fever and, therefore, probably has an infection. He hasn't regained consciousness yet, but I suspect that he won't for several hours at least. Of course, I wouldn't be surprised if it was closer to another day or two."

Mycroft continued to study me as I gave him this last bit of information. His features completely expressionless, and like his younger brother, I had no idea what he was thinking. And so I was caught off guard when he asked, "Have you eaten anything today, Doctor?"

...