Disclaimer:I do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters or plots.

For the last two days I had been listening to Holmes complain about this case

For the last two days I had been listening to Holmes complain about this case. I had scarcely seen him more frustrated, pacing absently about the room, smoking his clay pipe, his mind obviously elsewhere. I was engaged in putting the final editorial touches on the sketch I had entitled 'The Empty House', and my companion's agitation served as a rather unwanted distraction. As tempting as the impulse was, I knew better than to interrupt his thoughts, since he often remarked that he needed silence to resolve the most tangled affairs. As it happened, I did not have long to wait for an explanation.

'There's nothing, Watson,' he started, finally seating himself on his chair and drawing his legs up to his chest, such as he was usually want to do. 'Nothing at all which interests me about this case.'

'Then why did you agree to consult on it?'

'Tact, Watson! The bane of my existence,' he exclaimed with more than a tinge of bitterness in his tone. 'I would not have touched the problem had it not been brought to me by a very old and very useful acquaintance. I've looked at the events from every possible angle and still I have not come across anything remotely deserving of my attention. Trust me, Watson, it would probably send your readers early to bed.'

His protestation of boredom intrigued me almost as much as one of keen interest. For Sherlock Holmes even the most mundane of circumstances usually presented with something remarkable, inexplicable, or singular. To hear him say then that there was absolutely nothing of note made me wonder just how ordinary this problem would seem to the layman. My face must have reflected my incredulity because with an amused smile Holmes continued.

'It's an exceedingly simple case of blackmail. As these affairs usually play out, there was a lady and a compromising letter involved, which ended up in the hands of a Mr. James Hodge. Never have I seen such plain evidence which can so easily be explained. I knew by certain idiosyncratic tendencies which he possesses that this was indeed his work and it took less than an afternoon to determine his immediate plans. Make it a lesson to you, Watson; should you ever send someone a threatening letter, be sure not to include your genuine address in its contents.

'He plans to leave London by the 11.15 with the embarrassing note on his person if my conjecture is correct. I plan on catching him just as he picks up said article from his hiding place near Brixton Road. Hodge is many things, and one of them is not careful. A couple of hours in the guise of Captain Basil to keep an eye on his movements were all I needed do in this case. So, I've arranged to meet with Lestrade at Brixton, since there could be a hint of danger. Some things in Hodge's history are slightly suggestive and I should be obliged to you, Watson, if you and your service revolver would accompany me on the business.'

'Of course.'

'Excellent! Then I will be shut of this case and hopefully something more singular will present itself to my attention.'

--

October that year was particularly wet and somewhat unpleasant, so a steady downpour made our night's task particularly loathsome if it were not so already. Holmes remained silent for most of the drive despite my attempts at conversation, doing nothing save continually checking his watch. This was rather unusual since these silences were commonly signs of him gathering his thoughts, but by his manner and impatience I could tell that this was not true in this case. At length he returned the timepiece to his pocket.

'We're going to be early, Watson.' Clearly this was not in concordance with his plans. 'We'll have to conceal ourselves outside, lest our bird catch sight of us and leave the nest. I was really hoping to avoid such a step on as horrid an evening as this one.'

I could do nothing but agree. My war wound was aching from the damp and it was certain to get worse if exposed to a prolonged vigil out of doors.

The cab halted and in a moment we stood in front of an empty dilapidated house, contrasting with those around it. The agent's sign in the scant and overgrown front yard was faded with sunlight and had been bent in several places. There was glass littering the ground from a broken bay window and the walk leading to the entrance consisted of little more than dirt and the vestiges of a fence. Holmes of course was more concerned with what the former could yield, as he gestured for me to look as well. What appeared as first to be nothing but mud did in fact contain several footprints heading in the direction of the house.

'It looks like Hodge was perhaps a bit more cautious than I gave him credit for. He must be trying for an earlier train.' As he spoke, a light came on in a rather small window in the upper level of the house, shining out into the yard. 'It looks like Lestrade will have to give this one a miss. Hodge will probably leave before he arrives.'

We hurried along the walk and quietly entered the house through the unlocked front door. With the distant streetlamps the sole source of illumination we were immersed in almost total darkness. Apparently Holmes must have examined the house previously as he put a hand on my shoulder and lead me to what seemed to be the stairs. He ascended first, deftly avoiding what could only be loose boards or unsteady construction which stood in his path, indicating several times where I should step. I followed, my hand to my side, feeling the revolver in my coat pocket. If I had only taken it out and prepared myself the next few minutes could have been avoided.

At length we reached the hall where Holmes paused pointing directly ahead. Inside the solitary room on the second floor stood who I assumed was Mr. Hodge. He was a slight man, rather short with a rat-like countenance, animated only with a pair of beady eyes that seemed to hold in them an animal-like desperation. He had on a rather humble and worn tweed suit under a great coat, and his gloved hands trembled as he bent down to the floor boards. As Holmes and I watched from the hall he removed a plank and, reaching into the floor, retrieved what appeared to be the letter.

Holmes smiled, satisfied that he had the culprit red handed. He stepped out of the shadows and quickly darted into the room. I kept close behind, hand in my pocket and still resting on my revolver.

'The game's up Hodge,' Holmes remarked coolly as the villain stood up, startled at our entrance. He glanced from one to the other of us and then he seemed to unravel. His shoulders collapsed and his whole body shook with what appeared to be silent sobs. The entire scene reminded me of the reaction of James Ryder upon his discovery of Holmes' trap.

'Pull yourself together, man.' Holmes was clearly impatient and distrustful of this display of remorse. He merely stood with arms folded, staring coldly at Hodge. 'You've been in this dirty business for years, it was only a matter of time until it caught up to you.'

'That's quite true, Mr. Holmes.' The words were barely comprehensible between the man's sobs as his face was buried in both his hands.

The next few seconds which I am about to relate are ones which still plague my guilty conscience to this day. I noticed Hodge, who had by this time dropped his hands back to his sides, had secreted his right into the folds of his coat. I should have drawn my weapon and fired, but I was so distracted by the fiend's display that I stood riveted by Holmes' side. Not giving my revolver so much as a thought despite a deepening sense of foreboding.

In less than a second Hodge had drawn a pistol from a hidden pocket and fired at point blank range. Holmes fell to the floor and for an instant my heart seemed to become lead in my chest. My training combined with shock and concern for my friend made me kneel immediately by Holmes, not so much as hearing the opening of the door downstairs or the quick succession of footsteps on the stair. Holmes readily sat up and - other than a trickle of blood running down the side of his face – appeared unharmed.

'James Hodge, you're under arrest for attempted murder. Anything you do say may be used against you.' Two gruff constables who had followed Lestrade into the room took Hodge by the arms, as the inspector pried the pistol from his grasp and put the brute in handcuffs.

'You need not mention my involvement in this case, Lestrade, the credit's all yours.' Holmes rose from the floor and faced the representative of Scotland Yard. Though he appeared calm, I could tell that the bullet had not failed to rattle him as the colour temporarily drained from his face. 'I'm sure you can find many other offences with which to charge Mr. Hodge, including that unsolved burglary on Lady Eleanor Reilly from last April.'

'Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes.' Lestrade shrugged, obviously rather bewildered. 'The Yard is, of course, grateful as always.' The inspector's gaze rested on the blood still coming from Sherlock Holmes' left temple. The subject noticed and commented accordingly.

'This time Watson and I cut it rather fine.'

With that we bid Lestrade good night and made our way back to Baker Street.

--

'That bullet took a fair bit of skin with it; I'm afraid you'll have a scar.' I had just finished tending Holmes' injury and was now seated on the sofa. I was doing the best I could to conceal my own depressive state, but it had been a long, silent ride home as a sombre mood descended upon us.

'As long as my brain remains intact it fails to be of much importance,' the patient replied, throwing a cursory glance in his looking glass before relaxing in the chair closest to the fire. A long silence threatened to take root, but my guilt ousted it before it could settle.

'I apologize, Holmes,' said I, emotion quickly rising in my throat despite my efforts to quell it. 'I nearly saw you killed but for Lestrade.'

Holmes waved his hand dismissively, taking the opportune moment to light his cigarette.

'Don't be foolish, Watson, the fault was mine. I grossly underestimated my opponent and as a result nearly lost my head. I'm just glad I did not put my biographer at risk.' He smiled weakly, but it failed to put me at ease. I was determined to confess the entire reason behind my troubled mind.

'I saw Hodge reach for the weapon,' I sighed, trying to reign in my quavering voice, 'and I chose to do nothing. I would never have forgiven myself if -'

'My dear Watson, you really shouldn't get so depressed. I let the situation carry outside of my expectations by not preparing either you or myself for every eventuality. Hodge, though I deemed him harmless, had several incidents in his past which I should have heeded. I made quite a huge blunder and I should be the one apologizing to you, Watson.' As he spoke, his eyes put on a display of remorse, more than I had ever before seen in him. But I would not let go of my conviction.

'No, Holmes, I have been assisting you for years, I should have been on my guard and therefore I must shoulder the blame.' My gaze drifted to the fire which now failed to warm me. Even though I feared a complete collapse of my already weakened composure, I continued. 'To think you were nearly put in the grave again after you so recently crawled out of it.'

The remark was meant to be offhand, but I found I had to turn away momentarily to conceal more obvious emotion. Holmes left his chair and sat next to me on the sofa. He placed a hand on my shoulder.

'I truly am sorry Watson. Trust me when I tell you I wish I could have found an alternative to what happened at Reichenbach. I realize I probably made you suffer a great deal.'

He fixed me a look of utter sincerity. For Holmes, who had never been a man for whom words were difficult, I knew he was struggling with just what to say. I doubt there was anything he could have said. All the guilt, anxiety, and utter grief I had carried for the past three years had been sitting just below the surface of my thoughts. Now they were having their full sway as I looked at my friend.

The colour was still absent from his face, and there was something in his demeanour which spoke of a monster I had never seen make an appearance in Sherlock Holmes. Fear. Fear and his close associate, Regret. Though he had hid it well, I knew Holmes was more disturbed by that night's sordid business than he would ever wish me to know. I knew that disturbance would carry him - as it often had before - into the waiting embrace of a deep depression. However, this time it was entirely my fault. Mine and my tired, lapsed reflexes which obeyed broken instincts. The futility of this approaching calamity which I could do nothing to prevent washed over me as I examined his expression. A rather black time was drawing near and there was absolutely nothing that could assuage it. My coherent thoughts seemed to break off as my body started off on a course of action not approved by my head. I turned toward Holmes, gripped him by the shoulders, and drawing him thusly close to me, I kissed him.

I know it does not seem very romantic, nor was it at the time. It was a desperate attempt by me to somehow express how deeply I cared for him - or at least that is how I look back on it. An action conjured of guilt and grief.

I felt Holmes stiffen but other than that he remained motionless for what seemed like an interminable length of time. My heart seemed to want to escape my chest as I considered the dilemma I had just forced upon myself.

Much to my surprise, however, I next felt Holmes relax. Boldened by this, I pressed myself even closer to him, and he in turn, very cautiously, rested one hand on my knee, his other sinewy arm resting around my waist. I sought to deepen the kiss and he reciprocated, slowly and still with the deepest caution, as if he were treading across an unfamiliar war zone. And thusly the night unfolded with myself making initial gestures and guiding movements which Holmes returned, always with the air of the unsure - not reluctant, yet lacking all his usual control. One thing lead inevitably into another until we lost both the night and ourselves to the sofa; the fire alone standing as witness.

--

'I'm off to see a patient.' I announced, slipping on my overcoat and grabbing my medical bag from the sideboard. Holmes and I had just finished our breakfast. He remained at the table, finishing his coffee and reading the morning paper's agony column.

'I was going to visit a client this morning,' he said bitterly, finally glancing up from his reading, 'but I think I shall have to keep my movements to a minimum.'

I could barely repress a laugh, let alone an amused smile as I gestured toward the bathroom.

'I did leave you some medication if you deem it necessary.'

'You're so considerate, doctor,' said he, turning back to his paper, and biding me good day. I saw none of the blackness in him that I had so feared the night before. Sherlock Holmes appeared to be in his normal frame of mind, though I suppose how "normal" that state actually is could be considered debateable. Though we never discussed the subject of what happened in the course of the James Hodge case, I'm sure neither of us could hope of forgetting it. Holmes remained completely unchanged towards me and in general. As for myself, I fancy I can now draw my revolver ten fold faster than I could have imagined.