"Keep it, I suppose," Watson said. He picked up his brandy glass again, and went to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the fire. "Assuming Lestrade doesn't need it for evidence against Moran, that is. I might keep it as a souvenir of one more time I was shot and lived anyway."

That's why he couldn't have thrown himself off the cliff at Reichenbach, no matter his heartbreak. If he were to die violently, it would be by bullet. It was that simple. Bullets sought him out, time and again, and he survived. One day, if he had not died of old age first, one would catch him fatally. He was a soldier at heart, still, and the thought had little horror for him. Ideally, the bullet would not be one of his own.

"Perhaps I'll wear it on my watch chain."