"I was, yes. I was close to death; if I hadn't been recovered, Moran's assumption would've come to fruition." He watches Watson find the remnants of where Moran toyed with the idea of killing Holmes with a kind of surprise; he'd nearly forgotten them, as they'd simply been incorporated into his body. He runs his fingers through Watson's hair again, his touch light.

"He never stopped saying that maybe today would be the day he'd give in, break his word, and actually kill me," he explains, and he touches one of the new scars. "He said he'd keep putting obstacles in my way until I did it to myself. Maybe when he shot through the window of my room, I'd choose to sit back from my chair at that instant and put myself in the way of his bullet. Sometimes he was more personal in his threats, as you see."

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, laying his head back against the couch.

"It was easier to deal with his... madness, with my guilt, with everything, if I could blame some of my instability on the fact that I was consuming increasingly larger amounts of substances. He's gone now, though," he says, with some conviction. "In the system, at least. That's all that's necessary. If the law fails to keep him out of my way, then the government, by way of my brother, will intervene. It's one of the few things Mycroft has been eager about in his life."

He draws Watson closer to him and wraps him in a firm hold, and he moves his legs until he traps Watson in against his own.

"I want to hear about your three years. You have a practice, and a godchild, and a new tailor. Tell me more."