"How could you not have told me?" Holmes was outraged. He was standing, leaning halfway over the desk separating him from his brother who had also stood up.

"It would have been too disctracting for you! We could not risk you abandoning a mission vital for England and quite possibly vital for the future of the world!" Mycroft's voice was resonating in the office.

Holmes was feeling a mixture of unaccustomed fear, helplessness and rage. He repeated himself, "How could you not have told me? Have you told him that I was well and unharmed when I asked you to? Or have you kept that information from him as you did in 1891?" Did you lie to me again…?

The man in question sat back down into his chair, watery eyes hinting at the irritation he felt. Mycroft was well aware of what he owed Dr. Watson in terms of courtesy after everything the man had done for Sherlock. His brother had been very vocal about this matter after he had neglected to inform the doctor of Holmes's survival after Reichenbach.

But he had also told Sherlock that he was prepared to repeat this, if it was for the benefit of the Empire. Dr. Watson was a former soldier and would certainly agree that the welfare of the many was more important than an individal fate, no matter how tragic. He was convinced of this. But his brother was no soldier. In hindsight, this confrontation had been unavoidable.

"I have told him what he needed to know. That you lived," he sighed. Holmes's nostrils flared, "You did not tell him when I would return," he stated.

"No," Mycroft agreed.

Holmes also sat back into his chair, rubbing his aching eyes. He had not slept much during the journey to home.

He had to see Watson. See for himself just how far the illness had progressed. Fate seemed to mock him, separating them when Watson needed him the most. Fate and his confounded brother. The mission was vital for England, he agreed and it would soon be complete. But at what cost?

"Where is he? In what hospital is he? How is he," Holmes demanded.

Mycroft knew that any attempt to steer the 'conversation' back towards discussing the mission would be futile.

"Dr. Watson is as well as can be expected. You will apprehend Von Bork tomorrow. One of our best spies, using the alias "Martha", has prepared everything. Since it is late, you should rest yourself to avoid any…mishaps in the conclusion of this mission. After you have done so, you are free to do as you like," he pointed a rather podgy finger at his brother, "But not until then, I am warning you, brother."

He watched as Sherlock stormed out of the door. Then he rang for a cup of strong tea.

3rd August, 1914

The sanatorium resembled a very, very large cottage. It was a place for those who were ill for an abnormal amount of time and those fated to leave this world and go on to the next.
It was not a sanatorium for the poor which were little better than prisions. This one was clean and the interiors sunlit.

As Holmes approached the entrance, he was lost in thought. Von Bork's apprehension had been as easy as child's play. One of Mycroft's agents had aided him, but he had sorely missed his Boswell. He would never trust anyone as much as he trusted his friend.

The stay in the sanatorium must have been costly, but - as Holmes knew - Watson had made a handsome sum of money from his fee as a writer and his last and very successful practice. He assumed that the practice had been sold for a large sum, as Watson would of course have been unable to continue caring for his patients.

The doctor in charge of his friend's treatment was opposed to his visit, citing the risk for infection, strain on the patient and a myriad of other reasons that were valid but unimportant to Holmes.
He simply did not care about the risk to his own person. At last the doctor gave up and left.

Holmes opened the door to find Watson reading. He was sitting proped up in his bed, the bankets drawn up around his lap, clad in one of those new-fashioned pyjamas and a dressing gown.

He looked terribly strained, tired and thin. Watson's laboured breathing was clearly audible in the small room. Holmes's heart sank when he saw his friend. He had been expecting this, knowing what he did of the wretched disease but being confronted with the mortality of a man who had always been steadfast and strong was…more terrible than he could have imagined.

Had Watson felt this way when he had feigned a deadly ailment in the Culverton Smith case?

Watson looked up, his eyes doubling in size in a split second, mouth opening slightly. He did not stand up, could not. For a moment Holmes feared the scene that had taken place in Watson's practice in Kensington would repeat itself (at least this time Watson was already half lying down and could not crack his head hitting a wall). It did not.

Watson blinked before he found his voice, "What the blazed are you doing back in England? When did you return?"
Compared to his general state of failing health, Holmes was surprised to hear that his Watson's voice was as strong and clear as he remembered.

He found that his own voice failed him. His joy of finally seeing his dear friend coupled with the terrorr he felt at having to lose him to this deadly illness left him speechless for a moment.

Watson did not wait patiently for an answer, "What do you think you are doing in here? I don't want to risk infecting you! I cannot believe the doctor let you in here," he was positively ranting. The rant was out of character, but the concern oh so familiar.

His unexpected return had shocked his friend - again. Maybe he should have sent a message before barging into Watson's sickroom. He had contemplated doing so, but the desire to see Watson as soon as possible had won.

Holmes approached him, but Watson obvioulsy disagreed with that move. He did not want to risk Holmes's health. How and why he returned, how the mission had turned out – all of these questions were secondary.

"What do you think you are doing? Your brother informed you of my disease. Stay away, the risk-", he was cut off when Holmes lost the feeble grip on his temper, still strained by his confrontation with Mycroft two days ago.

"I do not care and Mycroft has told me nothing of this," Holmes seethed.

Watson sighed. Secretly, he had suspected that Mycroft Holmes would not inform his friend. Finding out must have been more than just a shock.

"It would have distracted you-" he was cut off again.

"Do you think me so uncaring? I demanded information, no matter how bad or distracting. It was one of the conditions we had agreed upon when I agreed to take on this mission. I would have wanted to know, I-" Holmes was rambling as much as Watson had been. He could not continue. He walked further into the room instead.

"Holmes, don't-" Watson gave up reasoning with his friend. He was glad that Holmes was back, he had doubted whether they would have ever seen each other again. He thanked God for this small gift in the midst of the doom that had befallen him.

Holmes sat himself on a stool near the bed but not too near, aquiescenting in his own way with Watson's plea, not wanting to upset him further even as he wished to shake his friend's had in greeting, squeeze his shoulder, any contact at all. At the same time he was afraid because touching his frail Boswell would make this situation all the more real.

They studied each other for a long moment.

Holmes broke the silence first.
"Are you in pain?" He hoped his Watson would get the best care available. If he found that he did not, he would see to it that he did. That much he could do at least.

"Not much," said Watson. Holmes knew him well enough to see that this was not the entire truth. Holmes's thirst for knowledge was driving him to ask more questions.

"How long have you been ill?" How much time have you left?

Watson did not answer that question directly, knowing what Holmes really meant.
"For a while," his smile was sad.
It tugged at something inside of Holmes's chest. It hurt. Despite being so very ill and tired, Watson also seemed to be very much alive, sunlight highlighting the grey in his otherwise still rather reddish brown hair. Holmes was only too aware how short-lived the time with his dearest friend was.

"I might have been infected years ago," Watson continued, "It could have lain dormant. Transmission, unfortunately, is very easy. So you should take care," another stern look followed.

But the former detective still wanted a precise answer.

"How long have you been ill, doctor," Holmes could be stern as well. Being called a doctor eliced another smile. It felt bitter on Watson's lips.

"It started a couple of months after you left. I thought it was pneumonia. I was wrong."

Nearly two years already. Most did not live nearly that long and Watson had suffered major strains on his health when he had been a young man.

And now this. Again he had been alone in his time of need. Watson picked up on his line of thought as he had done so often in the past.

"I choose to heal people, to serve my country this way. You serve England differently. But with no less danger," Watson said these words, trying to convince Holmes that he did not blame him. He reached over, hesitantly, his medical instincts screaming at him to keep the distance, not sure if he could dare to touch Holmes who appeared to be deep in thought.

Holmes decided for him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, rare tears in his eyes. Watson's smile, genuine this time, almost broke him.

"We're both still here, Holmes."

Holmes nodded. Watson's smile turned into a rather impish grin.

"So…tell me of your adventures, old fellow. And please, before you visit me again…get rid of this abomination of a beard."

Holmes was surprised when he found himself laughing.

Fin.