To all who may read it: This is written in response to bcbdrum's AU 3GAR challenge. Enjoy this entry, if you can.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of course (as well as the first four or five sentences)

A Foul Trick to Play

Part I

"Well, well!" said Evans coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and—" In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots.

With a shock I heard the bullet whiz past me — then I hastily turned to see if Holmes had been hit.

His eyes were shut tightly and I realized that he had been struck as I saw the blood quickly spreading on his right trouser-leg; but in another moment his eyes flashed open, stared at me, and then sharply beyond me. Suddenly his eyebrows shot up the fraction of an inch.

"Quick, Watson!" he hissed urgently. He attempted to lurch forward, but stopped short in pain.

I whirled round; Evans was making a dash for the door, but as he passed from the room, his gun hit the door frame at an odd angle and flipped from his hand. He glared from it to me, then started toward the gun; but I charged toward him and he bolted out the door.

When I had passed through the door, Evans was turning left; just as quickly I followed him. He swiftly turned another left; just as I turned the corner, however, he suddenly slowed down, waited a few seconds, then bolted around a corner to the right. I stopped in surprise; then I made haste to turn the same corner, but stopped just as soon as before.

Evans was nowhere to be seen.

I sprinted forward, straining my ears for the slightest sound - but not a slightest sound did I hear. I looked around every corner, and at the ground for any sign of his foot-prints; but my eyes are by no means as keen as Holmes's and I could perceive nothing. Evans was nowhere to be found.

I turned around and slowly retraced my steps.

I had failed to capture this criminal.

What was I to say once I returned?

It took me a good thirty minutes to return, for so many corners had we turned, that it seemed we had gotten further and further away from Mr. Garrideb's abode. When at last I entered the place, I said quietly,

"Holmes, he's escaped. Shall I call Scotland Yard?"

There was no reply. I remained quiet for a time, then said,

"Are you alright, Holmes? What of your wound?"

Again, there was silence; impatiently, I turned towards Holmes.

But Holmes wasn't looking at me. Holmes was slumped sideways on a chair, his eyes staring ceiling-ward in not a quite natural fashion.

"Holmes?"

Again all was quiet; with a supreme feeling of dread and fear I approached him quickly.

But wait— what was that dark spot I saw on Holmes's neck?

I stooped and looked more closely.

It was a dark, bloodied hole.

I stared, for, I believe, quite a while in shock and stupefaction; then I straightened up, still staring.

I almost could not believe my eyes. Holmes, my dearest friend, was dead—murdered.

What a slow, stupid, bumbling fool I had been! If I had not been so slow in coming back, Holmes might still be living. But no, instead I had been too ashamed of having allowed Evans to escape, giving the person of that name time enough to double back to Mr. Garrideb's house and murder Holmes. Most likely, he also took all of the forged money and the counterfeiting press.

Sighing, I went over to the opening in the floor and, lighting a candle, looked in. If what I feared was true...

It was. Every single wad of counterfeited money had vanished completely. But the press remained where it had been before. Most likely Evans thought that he hadn't enough time to take it with him, and just left.

Evans would not get away with this. Not with the murder of my greatest friend. Not as long as I would live.

After a few more moments of that terrible silence, I rang up Scotland Yard, and they arrived in time; but I shall not trouble the readers with the particulars of what I told the Yarders. All that shall be sufficient to tell you, is that Holmes was given a decent burial, and that the Yard removed the counterfeiting press, going through all their usual particulars on the scene.

It is nearly five years since that incident that I have been able to bring myself to write of this. As I start to finish off this document, I hear a sound as of the door opening, and look up to see a short man standing there in the doorway.

He stares at me with a curling lip and a smirk; finally he says,

"Do you remember a certain Evans, Mr. Watson?"

There is a silence; I stare at him in disbelief, but then quickly my mind hardens with rage.

"Ha!" he laughs, perceiving my intention as I begin to rise from the table; "do you really think that you can avenge your friend so easily? You see, some of us are smart enough not to go unarmed." He draws a revolver from his pocket as he speaks, and I stand quite still. "I believe there is some unfinished business here. You see, I did not mean for only Mr. Holmes to die. Because you blew the whistle on me and told the Yard, they kept their eyes peeled for all of the counterfeited money, and managed to snatch every bit of it! In fact, I think—" He breaks off and cocks his pistol to finish the sentence.

I angrily open my mouth to speak, then close it again, judging it wiser to keep silent. Evans looks at his pistol, then drawls: "The deal is this, mister—" Suddenly he breaks off and shoots towards me.

I stare for a moment, quite paralyzed; then regaining my senses, I quickly dodge out of the way,— just in time to hear the bullet whiz past, where I had been a mere moment before.

He glares at me aghast, then tries to shoot again; but the gun only clicks harmlessly.

With a muffled curse he throws it down and dashes out the door, and I rise to dash after him.

This is what I think will happen: I shall avenge Holmes, the best and wisest man I have ever known; whether quickly or slowly, he most certainly shall be avenged. If Killer Evans is brought to justice, then I shall write further on the morrow to signify that all is well; but if nothing further is written here, then... the worst is to be assumed.

So, how did you all like that? It was extremely sad and painful to kill off Holmes, but who knows what will happen next? To Be Continued!