Written for the LiveJournal community Watsons_Woes for their July Writing Prompts challenge. The prompt for day 20 was: Rabbit Season: Either choose an old challenge from Watson's Woes and write an 'entry' for that challenge, or get inspiration from the plot bunny thread. (Note: you don't have to actually pick up a whole plot bunny, but simply be inspired by something in that thread.)

I went with the watsons_woes challenge 006: So your challenge is to write a story using a villain of some sort who they know is after Watson, not Holmes. It doesn't have to be a criminal; it could be from his childhood, the Afghan War, a madman, or anything you like, but he has to be after Watson rather than Holmes.

Part of my Spencer-verse (primarily canon with a few details borrowed from the Granada TV series-in this case, I've borrowed the fact that Watson worked with the police while Holmes was away).

_Unpleasant Discovery_

The battered tin dispatch-box first came to my attention when it clattered to the floor in the vicinity of Watson's desk. I looked over to see Spencer jumping down from the desk, then heard rustling and the sound of the box being pushed across the floor.

Since Watson was not present to retrieve his belongings, being at his club for dinner with old Army compatriots, I rose and rescued the papers before Spencer could begin shredding them. There were bundles of envelopes tied with string, and a few loose letters as well.

The box had been with Watson during his Army tenure, but was new to me so he'd had it packed away with his other belongings until recently. The postmarks on the envelopes indicated his collection had begun before my absence and continued through those three years, with the most recent postmark from earlier in the week. The envelopes had been addressed with a variety of hands and pens and were of varying quality of paper, and the postmarks were from all over the country.

Spencer began playing with one of the loose letters, biting the corner. I persuaded him to let go, then skimmed the letter's contents. Some of the words brought me to a complete standstill and I read the message again, very carefully.

After reading the three loose letters, I had to read the rest, bundles or no. And every single last one of them was a threat to Watson. Some of them were a result of his participation in my cases, but some of them were of unknown origin and almost all of these dated from the period of my absence.

One particular group of letters concerned me greatly, for the author had written multiple messages of varying ferocity, promising to track Watson down and kill him for helping put the author's brother in jail. Even as I shook my head at the man's ignorance of our location-evidently he never read Watson's stories, for our address was plainly given-I hoped Watson was taking precautions. Surely he realized this scoundrel meant him serious harm.

I spent the time until Watson's return pondering why he had not told me of this danger.

.

Watson returned in good spirits and slightly affected by drink. "There have been threats against your life," I said while he hung up his coat.

"Oh? What's happened, then?" he asked, altogether too casual about the idea for my liking.

"I expect you will have to tell me that. They're your letters." I gestured toward his desk and the dispatch-box safely placed in the middle.

"Ah, those." He settled into his armchair and patted his leg to summon Spencer. When the cat was ensconced in his lap, he looked at me. "What do you want to know? I would've expected you to deduce all of their situations by now."

I was not amused. "You have no less than eight letters from one individual, all detailing how he would like to have his vengeance on you, preferably ending in your death. He is quite explicit on that point. But he has no connection to any of my cases, so what brought you into his path?"

"Henry, yes, I've been hearing from him regularly. I, well, I worked with Lestrade in a medical capacity on a few cases while you were gone. Henry's brother was arrested, tried, and convicted on the basis of the autopsy I had performed. I testified, of course, and had my first run-in with Henry. That was a few months ago."

"Has he made any attempts? What precautions are you taking? Why didn't you tell me about this?"

He looked at me, then threw his head back and laughed. "You didn't tell me about Moriarty until there had been attempts on your life, and now you are offended that I didn't mention a few letters. Why does this bother you? Many have made threats against you over the years."

"That's different. The risk of such threats is part of my profession. But the thought that this villain is coming for you rather than me is troubling."

"Your profession is mine, now, and that evidently means I, too, must be cautious sometimes. And he's not a villain, not until he does something against the law. If he does, I'll have the letters for evidence at his trial."

I grudgingly conceded he had been wise in preserving them, but that did not allay my fears on his behalf. "Having them for evidence will not return you to life should his threats come to fruition. You must promise to tell me if you see or hear from him again."

His lips quirked into a near-smile. "I will, so long as you remember that I have a revolver and I know how to use it."

I knew that well, and I knew there were situations in which that would be irrelevant. I resolved to be ever more watchful for his sake; he had dealt with my death far better than I would deal with his.