It took Holmes a few months to return to his normal self. The abduction of his brother had affected him in ways I could never have imagined. He denied every potential client that requested his aid, and the telegrams he received had piled up on the corner table and spilled onto the floor. Mrs. Hudson tried once or twice to organize them, but had long since given up hope. But it wasn't enough for Holmes to cut off communication with the outside world. He wanted nothing to do with it and no longer left the confines of the flat. He simply languished about as though the weight of the world was upon his shoulders and it was slowly crushing him to death. I tried in vain to get him out of doors, but whenever I asked, he would just turn his eyes away from me and settle further into his chair. After a few weeks had passed, I finally decided to give him his space, hoping that he would be able to pull himself out of it. But I was sorely disappointed.

After three long months, I had had enough. I decided that I needed to do something if the Holmes I knew was ever to return. So I formulated a plan, one that was worthy of the sharp mind that Holmes once employed. I had known the man for too long to think that he didn't notice my presence in the flat. When I was married, he would often ask me to join him on a case, and somehow, he would convince me that it was in my best interest to remain at the flat for the duration of a case. It was almost as if he needed my presence in order to function to his best ability. So in this instance, I decided to remove myself from the flat. I would use myself against him, with the hopes that the prospect of my absence would be enough of a shock to remove the depression that preyed upon his mind. As much as it pained me to leave, I knew it was for the best. So I contacted a friend and arranged to stay with him for a few days if Holmes didn't respond to my threat as I anticipated.

Shortly after dinner one day, I packed my things and prepared to put my plan into action. When I approached Holmes with my bags, he was sitting in his armchair with a plate of untouched food beside him. Over the months, his skin had turned a ghastly pale color and every one of his bones had become visible. The sharp gray eyes that I had once taken for granted had glazed over and were now unfocused and unchanging. His hair was disheveled and his clothes were faded and wrinkled, as though he had been wearing them for weeks on end. Upon his face were the beard and moustache that I only saw in extreme situations. I shuddered to think that this once great man had descended to such a low state of being.

"Holmes." He did not so much as stir at the sound of his name. "Holmes, I can't remain here any longer while you're in such a state. I have made arrangements to stay with a friend of mine." As I had hoped, he reacted when he heard my plans. He turned his head and focused his watery eyes upon me. He looked me in the eyes, trying to discern whether I was truly serious or not. After a few moments, a weak smile played on his thin lips.

"Watson, have I sunk so low? I can no longer read you as I once could." He paused and sighed heavily. "As far as I can tell, you really intend to leave me." I felt my heart seize within my chest as whatever life remained in his eyes left him. The very prospect of my absence was crushing him. He continued to address me, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Of course, if you were to leave me, it would break me." He slowly raised his eyes, and my heart leapt when I noticed a tiny spark dancing in his eye. Though it was tired and vague, I recognized the look of realization upon his face. "But you already knew that." He focused his steely eyes upon my own and to my delight, his sharp intelligence had returned, full force. "Watson, you have been my only concrete connection to this world. Without you, I would be entirely at a loss for what to do. You were able to interpret this and use it to your advantage." He rose from his chair and laughed softly, color quickly returning to his complexion. "It seems as though the tide has shifted. It was not I who solved this dilemma, but you; the proverbial son rescuing the father."

"So, does this mean that the Sherlock Holmes of old has returned?"

"It does indeed, although I wish to maintain a low profile." He turned his back to me and lowered his voice. "If I were to receive another blow like the last, I doubt that even you could bring me back to life."

A silence settled over the room as we reflected upon the abduction of his brother and its repercussions. I was the one who finally broke the silence. "Holmes, would you care to join me for a breath of air?"

"I believe that's the second most ingenious thing you've suggested this evening." He moved towards the door with such ease and alacrity that I caught myself chuckling softly. "What seems to be so humorous, Watson?"

"The change in you is so great that a lesser man would not even recognize you. Not more than five minutes ago, you were, please excuse my frankness, lazing about as though your life had no meaning. And now your step has such a newfound lift that one might think you were pardoned from an unforgivable sin."

"Well, I'm not too keen on the whole 'pardon' bit, but I do feel as though I've been redeemed." He waved his hand as if to dismiss the thought. "But enough of that, you suggested that we go for a walk, and that is what we shall do."

In one fluid motion, he took up his coat, slipped it on, and stepped out the door. I followed suit, although not as gracefully, and as I closed the door behind me, I overheard him mumbling to himself.

"Pure genius. He would hurt me to save me."

I had heard him clearly and I allowed a smile to cross my lips. "What was that Holmes?"

"Ah, nothing. I was just wondering what general direction we would take."

Holmes and I walked around London for hours. Whenever we go out, I am usually the one to speak or else there hangs between us a comfortable silence, one that befits intimate friends. So it was a refreshing change when he was the one to fill the silence. As we walked, he spoke of everything that had been haunting his mind for the past three months. I listened intently, wishing that I could assuage the mental anguish he had put himself through.

At one point in his monologue, I saw him unconsciously rubbing his left elbow. I watched him for a few moments before I interrupted him. "Does it hurt?"

His eyes dropped to his arm and he noticed what he was doing. He sighed. "It doesn't pain me physically, if that's what you're asking. It's a bit of an eccentricity that I've picked up since it happened. Whenever I'm nervous or deep in thought, I massage the scar." He dropped his hand, and continued on with his conversation as though I hadn't interrupted him at all. Within a few minutes, he had begun to rub his elbow again. I took note, but didn't say anything.

We continued on until darkness settled in and the cold began to bite through our coats. When we realized how far we had walked, we decided to take a cab back to the flat, rather than try to walk the remaining distance.

Within a few minutes, a cab approached us and Holmes instructed the driver to take us back to Baker Street. Little did I know that it would be the last cab ride that we would ever take together.

Life at 221B Baker Street was uneventful for the next few days. Holmes had sorted through his telegrams and had decided to follow up on a few that intrigued him. It was a welcome change to see him out and about, but I worried about him. Since Mycroft's abduction, he had changed. It was as though some connection in that great mind of his had come loose and was hanging on by a mere thread. I feared that he would make the mistake of believing that nothing had changed, that he could slip right back into his old life, when I knew that it wouldn't be so easy. The fears that he had confessed to me would still prey upon his mind as he worked, impairing his ability to do what he did best. Some part of me feared for his sanity, and his life, every time he left the flat.

Dusk had settled, five days after our walk, when Holmes came running up the stairs and burst through the door. He was breathing heavily and I feared that his mind had finally snapped.

"Watson! I need you to accompany me this instant!" He shouted with such an urgency that I had no control over my response; it was purely instinct. "Grab your service revolver and meet me outside!" And with that, he dashed down the steps.

I rushed to my room and pocketed my service revolver. I then ran to the door, grabbing my coat as I passed it, and flew down the stairs to meet Holmes. When I found him, he was looking about like a caged animal, fearing an attack from every angle.

"Holmes, what in heaven's name is going on?"

"I seem to have crossed a very fine line, and someone is trying to make me pay for it." Holmes fidgeted and began to rub his elbow as he stood beside me.

I subconsciously fingered the pistol in my pocket, ready to pull it out at a moment's notice. "Holmes, tell me what I'm looking for."

"Some men followed me here, to the flat, and I knew that neither you nor I would be safe here. So I asked you to grab your service revolver as a feeble means of protection. But I have no further plans at this moment. I have nowhere to go. I only know that wherever I go, you must accompany me, for if they can't get to me, they will go through you. And as long as you're by my side, I can safeguard you."

Holmes looked at me with eyes that sent a shiver down my spine. His gray eyes were hidden behind pupils dilated with such fear that it was a miracle that this man was still capable of coherent thought. Sweat beaded on his brow as he looked about furiously. He had always been the one in control, and it frightened me to see him in such a state.

With a sudden start he fell into a full sprint. "Watson!" I followed suit, running as fast as my legs would allow. I had no idea where we were going; I just knew that I needed to go.

I followed Holmes through streets and alleyways until we came to a darkened park. I stood beside him, trying desperately to catch my breath. As my pulse slowed, I cast a glance at my companion. He had thrown off his coat and with one hand supported himself against a tree. His hair was matted to his head and he was drenched with sweat. The air had cooled sufficiently and his breath was white against the pale street light that stood a ways off. The scene was surreal, his breath appearing to be the very manifestation of his soul as it escaped him.

I shook my head in an attempt to come to my senses. "Holmes, what are we to do now?"

He responded between gasping breaths. "We wait, Watson. There's not much else we can do."

Within a few minutes, a darkened cab slowly approached the park where we waited. It stopped within twenty meters of where we stood, and two men stepped out, hidden in the shadow of the cab.

Beside me, Holmes straightened and held his breath. Within a few moments, he had begun to worry at his elbow again. I was still unsure of who these men were or what was happening, but I trusted my companion and held my ground.

"Now why would you go off running like that? We just wanted to have a friendly chat, maybe share an insight or two with you." The two men approached us slowly as they spoke, and I could see that the voice came from the taller of the two shadowed men.

"In other words, you wanted to teach me a lesson." Holmes' breathing had slowed, and he did his best to appear strong, but his voice betrayed him. It was full of fear.

"Well, if you must put it that way, Mister Holmes, yes, we wanted to teach you a lesson. You killed our brother."

Holmes' voice seemed to weaken, but he still feigned courage, a fighter to the last. "If I'm not mistaken, your brother was guilty of three accounts of murder. I only guided the authorities in their apprehension of a dangerous criminal. Once he was in their hands, I had no more to do with it."

The smaller man spoke up. "You seem to be missing the point, Mister Holmes. He wouldn't have been arrested and hanged if it wasn't for your meddling." The pieces began to fall into place, and I did not like the image being created. Apparently, Holmes had been directly responsible for the arrest and subsequent execution of the brother of these two men. And they were after revenge.

"If you kill one of ours, we kill one of yours." As the taller one spoke, he pulled out a pistol. The metal object gleamed in the light, as though it was mocking us. He first aimed the weapon at Holmes and held it there momentarily before shifting the firearm toward myself.

Time slowed as I reached for my revolver, but I was too late. The man fired before I even laid a hand on my own weapon. I watched in horror as flame and smoke erupted from the offending pistol. Every muscle in my body froze with fear as the bullet come directly towards my chest. I was helpless to do anything.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes begin to stir. I watched as he pushed off the tree, using his momentum to force me out of harm's way. I felt nothing as his body crashed into mine. Only when we tumbled to the ground did time return to normal.

Shock washed over my body as I fully comprehended what had just happened. Holmes' body held me pinned to the ground as I watched the men climb back into their cab and head off as though nothing had happened.

"Holmes! They're getting away!" I pushed him aside rather roughly and leapt to my feet, trying to stop the cab. But it was to no avail. The cab had disappeared into the night before I had gone five meters. I had no choice but to let them go.

I glanced around quickly, fully expecting Holmes to be by my side, but he wasn't. He was lying motionless on the ground where I had left him. As I rushed to his side, the pool of blood forming around him glistened in the light. I stopped short, and leaned against the tree as I vomited. I had seen blood many times before in my career as a surgeon, but the sight of one whom I thought to be untouchable, lying in a pool of his own precious lifeblood, was too much for even my nerves.

Holmes was lying on his side with his back facing me. I fell to the ground beside him, rolling him gently onto his back so that I could look into his face. "Holmes. Come on Holmes, answer me." Tears fell from my eyes as I pulled him close. "Don't leave me now, Holmes." He had been shot through the chest and was bleeding heavily. He had taken my bullet. He had taken my wound, my pain, mydeath.

He coughed slightly, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. I watched as his eyelids trembled, and finally opened. "Watson." His voice was so soft that I had to lean in toward him in order to understand his words. "Watson, I need you to take care of Mrs. Hudson—"

I tried hard to be brave for him, tears streaming down my face. "No Holmes, you're going to make it. You can take care of Mrs. Hudson yourself."

"Watson, listen to me." His breathing became shallow and his voice became even softer. "I don't have much longer. I need you to take care of Mrs. Hudson. Make sure she always has something to do or clean." Even in his last hour, he was making light of the situation. "And Watson…" His eyes closed and his voice faded off, and I feared that I had lost him.

"Yes Holmes?" I shook as sobs racked my body.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at me, smiling weakly. "Watson, thank you for everything. You were there for me when I needed you most. I'm just glad I could repay the favor." With that, he closed his eyes and breathed his last, his lean torso falling limp in my arms.

I wept over his body until there were no more tears to be shed. My companion gave everything he could for me. The great Sherlock Holmes had sacrificed his very life for me.