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In the fraction of a second the confrontation had gone terribly wrong. One moment Holmes and Watson had the criminal cornered as he was half way into the trap door, and the next there was a loud bang and Watson fell to the floor, bleeding. Holmes sprung forward to disarm the man, hitting him with the grip of his gun before turning back to Watson. He was lying there, ashen faced and apparently insensate. When he saw him Holmes felt a cold terror freeze his arteries in a way he had never felt before as clambered to kneel beside his dear friend with none of his usual grace.
“You are not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt?” he pleaded, but even as he spoke he knew that it was no use. Blood was seeping through Watson’s shirt and waistcoat. Recalling that Watson had always applied pressure to his bullet wounds Holmes frantically did the same to him and covered the red expanse that was quickly spreading across his beloved friend’s chest and leant down on them, applying pressure. This did little other than covering Holmes’ hands and seeping up his sleeves and Watson knew it better than Holmes.
“No use… “ Watson spoke, though his voice was little more than a whisper.
“Do not say that.” Commanded Holmes in return, half mad with desperation. “Never say that. You must live, Watson. You cannot leave me.”
“Holmes, please… just hold me.” Holmes listened this time, and gathered Watson into his arms and held him not tightly, but strongly, as if he could hold Watson together by virtue of his strength alone. For his part, Watson relaxed into his embrace, and sighed. “ ‘M sorry Holmes…” Watson said, and he spoke no more. Holmes tried to find his pulse, but there was none to find.
Then Sherlock Holmes turned his flint-like gaze onto Watson’s murderer. His embrace with Watson had had a calming effect on him, and there was no madness in those terrifying eyes of his, no desperation. There was only fury, which was all the more terrifying for how tightly that it was under control.
Killer Evans trembled.
The man had not moved at all during that last exchange between Holmes and Watson. He was still dazed by the hit Holmes struck to his temple for a start, and he had also been wary of attempting to sneak past a man with a gun in his hand. Having experienced Holmes’ cat like reflexes once he did not want to draw his attention again. Nevertheless when Holmes slowly advanced upon him he wished that he had run when he even a hope of a chance. Instead, he attempted to clamber down into the trap-door just to get away from him but he was too slow. Holmes grabbed him under his arms and hurled him up out of the trap door and across the room with alarming strength. Killer Evans clambered to his feet as Holmes advanced upon him again. This time when he met his eyes he realised that there was madness in them after all. It was just a different, more terrifying madness. It was the look of a man who was perfectly in control of his faculties and only wanted one thing and did
not care at all for the consequences.
This time Holmes punched him, once breaking his nose, then again in his stomach, forcing him to double over groaning. Then, Killer Evans was grabbed by the throat and he realised – in much the same way that Watson had – that it was all over. Still he tried to resist. He tried flailing his arms, grabbing and scratching, and he tried kicking. But Holmes seemed unaware of it; his desperate terror was completely ineffectual in the face of Holmes’ anger and after a few moments, Killer Evans grew limp.
Then, for the second time that night Holmes checked for a pulse and found none.
He let the man in his arms fall to the floor and all the anger that had been driving him vanished. He stumbled over to Watson’s dead body and gathered it into his arms. It was some time later that he saw that Watson’s cold impassive face was being hit by drops of liquid. Holmes raised his hands to his own cheeks and found that they were wet.
--+--
It was some hours later that Holmes heard steps outside the door. Mindful that Mr Garrideb was not due back until later in the morning Holmes surmised that it was the caretaker, Mrs Saunders. He hastened to the door and opened it from the inside, mindful that the door was only open halfway, and that it and his own body should hide the dead ones still lying on the floor. He knew that he had made the right decision when he saw that the sight of him alone was enough to make her gasp and shake. She gathered herself however, with a level of aplomb that would have been worthy of Mrs Hudson and she opened her mouth as if to prepare to speak.
“I would advise that you do not come in, Mrs Saunders.” He cut her off with something that approached the usual short, businesslike yet queerly considerate manner that he habitually reserved for the fairer sex. “I am afraid we have made quite the mess of Mr Garrideb’s rooms.” Mrs Saunders bristled, and would normally have pointed out that regardless of how untidy the rooms got, it was her responsibility to tidy them up again. Besides, she was not the sort of faint hearted woman that would faint at the mere sight of an untidy room.
But it is usually unwise to argue with tall men who have dried blood on their hands and sleeves reaching halfway up their forearms, scratches on their faces and necks, tear tracks down their cheeks and hard grey eyes that brook no argument. So she asked:
“What would you have me do instead?”
“Send for Scotland yard. Tell them to bring two stretchers and a pair of handcuffs.” Here he dithered for a moment, quite uncharacteristically. Finally, he continued. “And send for Lestrade, would you, please?”
Mrs Saunders nodded, and withdrew, leaving Holmes to take up his earlier position.
--+--
Detective Inspector Lestrade had been settled at his desk for just under five minutes when there was a knock on his door.
“Come in,” he said, suppressing a sigh. He had a lot of paper work to get through and he really wanted to get it through early. Then the door opened to reveal a woman with the matronly and efficient manner that he had come to associate with landladies and housemaids. “State your name and business.”
“I am Mrs Saunders,” the woman said, “and I am here because Mr Holmes sent me.” ‘That explains it.’ Lestrade thought, because in addition to being matronly and efficient, she had the flustered and shaken manner which he had come to associate with landladies and housemaids who had recently been in contact with Mr Holmes. Though he thought that she seemed a little more shaken than the norm.
“What does he want?” He asked, making a show of working on his paperwork. He had long since given up denying that he was at Holmes’ beck and call, but that did not mean that he had to be happy about it.
“He said that you should bring two stretchers and a pair of handcuffs.” Lestrade looked up and let his pen drop to the desk.
“That’ll be two for the morgue and one for the cells then. Do you have any idea what has happened?” he asked.
“No Inspector, he did not tell me anything, nor did he let me inside.”
“Did you see Dr Watson there?”
“No, but he was there when I left them yesterday evening.” Lestrade was standing at this point and was reaching for his overcoat and when he heard this he attempted to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest.
“What is the address?” Mrs Saunders gave it to him, then Lestrade spoke once more.
“Find yourself a café somewhere, in fact there is a nice one just around the corner. Holmes had the right idea at any rate, anything that requires two stretchers and a pair of handcuffs is not for the eyes of a lady.” But Mrs Saunders seemed reluctant to leave.
“I don’t know if it is proper of me to say, but Mr Holmes was in quite a state. There was blood on him, sir, on his hands and sleeves and it didn’t look to be his own. Also, it looked as if he had been crying.”
With that, Mrs Saunders left Scotland Yard and Lestrade followed soon after with the stretchers and the men and a coach, having already checked that his handcuffs were in his pocket. All the way to the address given my Mrs Saunders Lestrade attempted to convince himself that it was ironic that Mr Holmes had always criticised him for having a limited imagination
when it was certainly very creative with the images of what he might find when he got there.
--+--
Once Lestrade came to the house and opened the door, he knew that his worst fears had been true. He stood in the doorway as if in a dream, looking at Holmes. He saw how Watson’s head was in his lap, and how Holmes seemed slumped over it as if his spine hardly had the will to keep him sitting upright. This posture was wrong, Lestrade knew. Even in the most unorthodox sitting positions Holmes favoured the man always had an upright posture.
“Holmes, what happened here?” Lestrade spoke as if he was speaking to a spooked animal. It was only then that Holmes turned to face him.
“He killed Watson, Lestrade.” This answer, and the manner in which it was delivered shook Lestrade to the core. It was true what the housekeeper said, he did have a fearful appearance, with the tear tracks that stained his cheeks, and the blood on his sleaves. But this was nothing compared to the way his eyes seemed at once too empty and far too full at the same time. Even that was not as worrying as the fact that Holmes had missed an opportunity to belittle him for asking question that ought to have an obvious answer.
“That was a silly question, Holmes, you should be berating me…” He muttered, forgetting that even though Holmes distraught he was still in possession of his impeccable hearing.
Holmes laid down Watson’s head with the utmost care, then stood up and turned on Lestrade in one fluid movement.
“I had no idea you were such a glutton for criticism, Lestrade,” Holmes sneered, sharp and cruel. “Perhaps you wanted me to point out that if you bothered to look, you would find that the bullet in Watson’s chest fits the make and calibre of the gun over there which belonged to the late Killer Evans. The blood on my sleeves is Watson’s from when I tried desperately to save his life while he died in my arms.” Here he paused. “And you will find that my fingers match the bruises on Killer Evans’ neck. It’s all rather awkward for you, isn’t it Lestrade? A consulting detective, present for such a large number of the Yard’s most important cases turned murderer, the press will have a field day with this. I wonder, what shall you do about it?”
Holmes was testing him, Lestrade realised. It was familiar in a way that his bitter criticism hadn’t been.
“You were the one who asked for the handcuffs.” Lestrade said as he pulled them out. He then fastened them to Holmes’ wrists behind his back and he felt some of the tension in Holmes’ back and shoulders drain away.
“Yes, I did.”
Then finally, Lestrade called the rest of his men and the stretchers into the house. They saw Holmes, but they saw the handcuffs as well and they did not address him as they went about their business. Only Lestrade saw the look of tenderness and grief on Holmes’ face as they loaded Watson’s body onto the stretcher and despair as they took him away.