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Sherlock walked into John's room, all that was left of peter small was the blood on Sherlock's hands,John's clothes, and the patient bed. John was cleaning his hands meticulously. “Any explanation you can give would be helpful, doctor. Who was this Peter Small?” John began slowly but his story rambled on until he was just saying words for the sake of saying words, “... They, they only had one pair of shackles, they had ammunition, guns, sabers, but only one pair of shackles.” “Doctor, calm down.” Holmes stood behind John, patting his back, trying to help him calm down. John burst into tears, “I couldn't save him, I couldn't save him then and now… he died in my arms” John turned to Sherlock and collapsed into his arms, Sherlock petting his back shushing calming tones. “Gin,” Watson hiccupped out his request between sobs. Gently, Holmes lowered John back into his chair and busied himself with John's flask full of gin, pouring out two fingers for John and himself. “I'm here John,” and they both drank their gin.