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"That's easy for you to say, Holmes," Watson says, though he hands over his stick all the same. "It's not your life we're playing with." He leans against the door; he does a fine job of making his need for support pass for casual nonchalance.
"Indeed." Holmes settles more comfortably in the chair, taking care to ensure that his pistol is properly concealed. "It's my reputation, which is infinitely more valuable."
Watson, as he has from the first, favours him only with a look of mild exasperation, mouth turned down, eyebrows slightly raised. He is one of the few people not routinely offended by Holmes, and Holmes is alternately remarkably pleased and tremendously annoyed by it.
"Do take care that my effects are disposed of correctly," Watson says. "In the event that your reputation is ill-deserved."
"I will burn them all at the very first opportunity," Holmes tells him. "For your faithlessness. Now, hush. I expect our visitor will be with us shortly."
From the way Watson's eye twitches, Holmes knows he's got doubts on that score, too. But Holmes is sure, would not have proposed Watson go on standing there without his stick for an unlimited amount of time. Holmes doesn't gamble, whatever Watson might say. Gambling is Watson's thrill, as though the possibility of losing is as much pleasure as the possibility of triumph. It's a fool's game, the possibility of failure ineluctably transforming to the reality of it, and Homes has no time for it. His joy is in certainty; his triumph in knowing he's right long before anyone else does.
He knows, for example, that Lady Woodsmith's manservant took her jewellery and hid it in her own drawing room. He knows that same servant will come for it before the hour is up, that his temperament will lead him to violence when surprised by the two men waiting for him. And when that happens, Holmes knows the fool will draw on Watson first, because Holmes has made it inevitable that it be so. Better let Holmes seem harmless, let Watson, with his bad leg, take his attention so Holmes can take him down.
He knows all this. It is as it should be, and yet, when the moment comes, he does not know that he will be set upon by fear, an inexplicable terror for this man, who was only supposed to pay the rent and patch Holmes's wounds. It is not expected. It is not right. And the not-knowing is almost as terrifying as the pistol at Watson's head.
It nearly freezes him cold--one more revelation that should not be--and then he is moving, sure of himself again, because he has no other choice. Their assailant is weak, anyway, made strong only by a weapon that Holmes easily disabuses him of. It is nothing, after that, to let the police have him, to have another success put against his own name. An easy case, maybe, nothing especially memorable about it. Except for that moment of fear, the relief that still persists whenever Holmes chances to look at Watson. Except for the way he cannot now stop looking at Watson, all his surety fleeing him whenever he does. If there is consolation, it is only that Watson does not seem to have noticed, probably because he is busy making himself indispensable by dealing with the post-case details that, until now, Holmes has always had to be responsible for, and has always hated.
"It was still a bloody awful plan," Watson says, later, when they are back outside. He's smiling, though, perfect and unlikely as a pile of gold on a filthy street. Holmes wants to reach out and mould his fingers to the solid, steady warmth of him, take him home and read him like a treatise, learn to dismantle and assemble him with his eyes closed, until this puzzle can be put away with every other mystery that wouldn't let Holmes sleep until it was solved.
Except he does not know for sure anymore that he'd want to be done with it, that he even could be.
So he says, "Should never have doubted me, Watson," and he puts his hands in the pockets of his coat. He does not allow himself to think of how it's Watson's coat, of how like him it smells.
"I shall take care not to do it again, sir," Watson says, mockery and promise mingled together as only Watson can.
Then he flags down a cab,and Holmes follows him inside. They make their way home together through the darkness; Holmes is careful not to lean into Watson as the cab bumps and jostles them along the road. He is well-practiced at appearing not what he is, and this will be no different. He is very nearly certain of it.