Part One: Action

Thanks to Adidasandpie, my lovely beta.

Warnings: Some violence.

Sherlock Holmes always prided himself on the skills of observation and deduction with which he plied his trade. So great was that skill and so often were his conclusions correct that he had reason to build up a great deal of ego. That, combined with the natural hot-headedness of youth, had made him quite insufferable a young man.

He remembered quite vividly the day that all crashed down, when he learned that the world was a far more complex matter than even he had ever dreamt.

It had not been long since he had engaged his rooms in Baker Street with the doctor - a year, at most, but a surprisingly pleasant one. Though the man was still in recovery and mayhaps would never regain full maneuverability in his leg and shoulder, he had proved such a benefit in the case of the poisoned mormons that Holmes had decided to invite him along on another, and then again, until by the end of that year it had become second nature for Doctor Watson to accompany him. There was some peculiar utility about the doctor - it was easier to think with him around, harder to fall into a black mood, and occasionally his misguided musings were exactly what Holmes needed to get on the right track. When he was in a poetical mood, Holmes would reflect that Watson was like a body of water: on the surface a far from remarkable gentleman, a crippled ex-military surgeon with an open face, entirely lacking in exciting hobbies or flaws; but once those superficies had been breached, the depths discovered beneath seemed endless.

They had been engaged these last few days helping the Yard, more specifically Lestrade, with a case that presented those peculiar qualities that piqued Holmes' interest. This one was a robbery at first glance, but had culminated in the violent beheading of the shop owner, a strange sentence for a man who seemed to have no enemies. Holmes was already buzzing with the hardly-contained excitement of a case drawn close to the finish. He had not yet divulged the details of his discoveries nor his plan, as was his way, but rather had bundled the doctor and Lestrade into a four-wheeler at dusk with naught but an enigmatical remark about strength in numbers. He had, however, ensured that both his companions were armed.

The cab trundled over cobblestone streets. Lestrade rubbed his hands together and thought wistfully of the gloves that lay forgotten on the edge of his desk. "Really, mister Holmes," he protested, "this is highly unusual. Will you not at least tell us our destination?"

"Rotherhithe Wharf," Holmes said, and would say no more.

Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh and cast a look at the doctor. How on earth the man had shared rooms with Holmes so long without attempting to strangle him in his sleep was beyond the Inspector's understanding. Watson caught his look and returned a sheepish half-smile, shrugging minutely.

It was well into night by the time their cab drew to a stop, with a wet breeze flowing into the open compartment and carrying to them the distinctive scent of the wharf - wet wood, tar, rotting fish, all undercut by the constant indescribable stench of the river. Beyond the buildings could be heard the gentle susurration of water against the dock. The streetlamp overhead sputtered dangerously, its halo hardly illuminating anything but its own post. It was as singularly unpleasant a scene as only the docks in the dead of night could conjure.

The atmosphere did nothing to dampen Holmes' energy. He debarked first with a leap, giving his long limbs a leisurely stretch before he dealt with the cabbie. Lestrade, in contrast, was drawn up so tense as to shrink his already small stature a full inch. He did not doubt Holmes' ability to find the criminal - oh, no, Holmes had proven himself time and again on that front - but he did rather doubt the amateur's confidence that the three of them could take this man. It was not just any man that could behead another in a single clean swipe and leave steady as a rock. Watson climbed out after the Inspector, alert eyes sweeping over the area, but besides his absent fingering of the revolver in his pocket he showed little sign of tension.

This changed as they followed Holmes down the wharf. It was a subtle shift, a little drawing up of the shoulders, a tightening of his expression. Holmes, forging eagerly on ahead, did not notice, and Lestrade was too busy jumping at shadows. Then they came to a tight passage between a pair of crumbling buildings, and Watson stopped halfway through with a strangled gasp, clutching a hand to his stomach.

"Holmes, hold on!" Lestrade hissed into the darkness where the amateur had all but disappeared. "Are you alright, Doctor?"

"Fine. I am fine. Just a fit, it's - it's this atmosphere."

Holmes reappeared, arm snaking past Lestrade in the narrow enclosure to grip Watson's shoulder. "Can you continue?"

"It will pass in a moment," Watson assured them both. "Don't let me slow you down, I will - I'll catch up as soon as it passes."

Holmes's brow clouded. "If it's something serious-"

"Holmes, I am the doctor here, and I tell you it'll pass in a moment. Go solve your case."

Holmes did not seem quite convinced, but he nodded all the same, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "To the mouth of the alley, right and then left, you'll see it. Approach quietly." His eyes sparkled when he added, "we shall try to save a little of him for you. Shall we, Lestrade?"

"Holmes?" Watson said.

The distinctly concerned tone made Holmes turn back. "Yes, doctor?"

"...Be careful."

Holmes' brow quirked, but he nodded, before gesturing Lestrade away after him. Watson watched until long after the night shadows had swallowed them.

The two arrived minutes later in a small, open plaza, a back-yard flanked on three sides by buildings and the fourth by a short rough-hewn wall that marked the edge of the wharf. The only light came from the stars of the unusually clear sky above, as Holmes refused to light the lantern he had brought with him. A store of crates and barrels had accumulated against the wall farthest from the wharf, and it was behind them that Holmes and his less-than-content companion settled in to wait.

They did not have to wait long. Light spilled down the corridor between wharf-edge and warehouse, the unsteady luminance of a lantern held in a nervous man's hands. Their quarry rounded the corner, eyes raking the yard. He was medium-size and strongly-built, dressed in workman's clothes, with thick black hair and sun-dark skin that shone with sweat in the lantern-light.

"He's smaller than I expected," Holmes breathed at Lestrade's shoulder. "Stay here a moment, but do ready your pistol."

Holmes waited until the man had approached the boxes to emerge, gracefully springing onto one of the barrels and sitting as though it was the most natural thing in the world that he be there. The man with the lantern gave a start.

"Gah! Don't sneak up on a man like that! Y-ye're the one what sent me that note, are you?"

"I am. And thank you for arriving in such a timely fashion, Mr. Josiah Debtford."

The man paled. "You - how do ya - what is the meanin' of this, sir?"

"The meaning? I should have thought that would be obvious. The meaning of this is the arrest of the murderer of one Abraham Trumbull, of Mulvihill and Trumbull on the East Side. Ah! Thank you, Lestrade, you do your position credit."

The man had paled at Holmes' accusations and made to run, only to find Lestrade had darted in behind him and had his revolver leveled. "You just stay right there, mister," the small official said. "Resisting arrest will only make things worse for you."

"Then again," Holmes commented thoughtfully, "It'd be difficult to make your situation much worse. The way the evidence currently falls, you're destined for the rope - though, of course, you'll likely get a more lenient sentence if you turn in your compatriot."

Lestrade started and shot a glare at Holmes. Last he'd heard, there had only been one man at the scene, so what was this about a compatriot?

If it was possible, Debtford paled even further, but to his credit his expression turned stony. "I'm sure I dun't know what ye mean, sir. Wasn't no one but me."

Holmes laughed dryly. "It's no use prevaricating at this juncture, good sir. Tell us about your tall friend with the strange forward-curved sword, and perhaps you'll get off on just a robbery charge."

Debtford's eyes widened at the description, but his lip curled in a sneer. "Ye don't know what ye're talking about. I tell you, I was the only one there, and even if I weren't I wouldn't rat. Ye want to charge anyone, ye can charge me."

"Very well," Holmes said with a languid shrug, "I'll catch him anyhow and you can both hang. Lestrade, if you will do the honors-?"

He faltered, as from his left came the creak of shifting wood, and in that moment he realized his mistake. Debtford's partner had, without his knowledge, come with him.

Holmes only had time to call Lestrade's name before the back-door of the building burst open and a dark blur shot out. A tall man it was, features obscured by hat, scarf, and ulster, and he snatched at Lestrade's wrist, pulling the revolver away from Debtford. Lestrade spun full around to engage this new opponent, while Debtford took the opportunity to capture Holmes' full attention.

Though neither amateur nor inspector were incompetent in the way of physical altercations, their opponents had them more than matched. Debtford alone was strong as his build suggested and had some skill in brawling that kept Holmes well occupied. Lestrade was not faring so well against his man, who ably deflected every attempted hit and struck back doubly hard. Lestrade had little choice but to fall back on his weapon.

The sharp crack of the revolver filled the air, the bullet catching squarely in the ulstered man's ribcage. Blood blossomed forth from the hole in the cloth. Such a wound would have - should have - stopped a man short.

The tall man did not even seem to notice. Nor when the trigger was pulled a second time, a second hole opening at the man's stomach. Heedless, he surged forth, seizing the stunned Lestrade and striking a sound blow to his crown. The inspector crumpled. The tall man drew from his coat a pistol of his own, taking aim at the struggle still ongoing. Holmes was begrudged to back down.

He was gestured to the stand of crates again, and the groaning Lestrade deposited ungently beside him.

"Thank god, Kessler! I thought you'd gone!" cried Debtford, taking up Lestrade's fallen pistol as he grinned at his companion. "What d'we do with 'em?"

Kessler pulled free his scarf, revealing a hard-lined face and eyes like chips of flint, bearing steady and cool into his prisoners. "Bind them," he instructed in a deep, breathless voice, producing a coil of rope from his coat. Debtford took the coil, but he hesitated in obeying, his gaze on the slowly-spreading stains of his companion's coat.

"Well? You're not badly hurt, are you?" Though his tone was impatient, there was a spark of concern in the look that Kessler threw to his companion.

"I'm fine, just a bruise or three. Wha' about you? I mean, that looks worse'n usual, an'..." Kessler gave him the weary look of one who was asked to explain something for the hundredth time. "Right then," Debtford muttered and set about lashing their prisoners.

At first Holmes attempted to struggle, but an impatient elbow to his gut effectively curtailed that. Once he had his breath back, he turned his attention instead to Lestrade. Blood streamed freely down the left side of the Inspector's face, a nasty laceration having opened where Kessler had struck him. Scalp wounds tended to bleed heavily, though. The wound itself was probably nothing to worry about, and for all his knowledge, Holmes hadn't the faintest idea of how to tell if he was concussed.

Debtford worked fast, and he'd finished with their bindings by the time Lestrade started to come to. The official's dark eyes fluttered open, blinked blearily a few times, focused on Kessler, blinked again, and stared. "I shot you!" Lestrade protested, sounding for all the world like a schoolchild complaining of an unfair ruling. "Twice!"

Kessler grimaced. "Yes, and I'm of a mind to return the favor. You know I'm going to be spitting blood for the next month because of you? Punctured a bloody lung."

"I could do it," Debtford offered, hovering at Kessler's elbow. "Lay it in with th' knife, make certain he remembers it." He seemed entirely too enthused at the prospect.

Kessler smiled, his free hand squeezing Debtford's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Josiah. We've got time. No one's coming after these two - that's not your style, is it, sir?" His smile widened as he turned to Holmes, baring his teeth like a wolf at a cornered hare. "I've met a dozen like you, showmen all, and always to your downfall. You thought that two would be enough to take down my friend, didn't you?"

Two! Holmes' expression remained calm, but inwardly he started. Watson was long overdue in his reappearance! That not even the gunshots had brought him out was surprising - it could only mean that Watson had crept in close, seen the predicament, and gone for help. At least the doctor would not suffer for his short-sightedness. As for the two of them... well, that remained to be seen, but their prospects were looking rather grim.

Holmes shifted closer to Lestrade, watching as their captors relaxed and began to converse between themselves.

"You should have told me about that letter, Josiah," Kessler admonished. "We're lucky I had a feeling you'd get into trouble."

"I know, James. But it only 'ad my name, an' I didn't want to trouble ye if it weren't anythin'..."

"So, of course, it was something, and you were nearly arrested for the trouble. Then where would I be?"

Holmes hunched down and whispered, "I'll try to get us untied. Be ready to run."

"What about the doctor?" Lestrade whispered back.

"He must have gone for help."

"Unless he was worse off than he let on."

"Pessimism will not help this situation, thank you."

"Sorry."

Holmes' nimble fingers began working at the all-too-sturdy knots that Debtford had tied. Their captor's conversation, meanwhile, seemed to have turned.

"Shooting them and dumping them in the river," Kessler was saying as he idly twirled his revolver, "would certainly be the easiest route, but dreadfully dull. I think they ought to pay for frightening you that way, Josiah."

"Like what, James? Cut on 'em awhile? Put the fear a'God into whoever finds 'em?"

"Not a bad notion. Though we should avoid their faces - would hate for the warning to go unappreciated because no one knew who they were."

"Could just lop off their 'eads an' send 'em on to the Yard."

"Mmm," Kessler responded, and Holmes could not help but notice that the man seemed distracted, like he had heard something that was not apparent to anyone else. "Sorry?"

"Ye could lop off their 'eads and send 'em to the Yard, I said."

"Good idea," Kessler mused, turning away even as he said it. "No, no, it won't do..."

"James?"

Kessler turned back, a sudden agitation making his movements fast and sharp. He leveled his pistol at Lestrade. "On second thought, it might be best if we take them out fast. I'm beginning to dislike this area. We'll send their heads on later-"

"That's quite enough, James!"

Holmes visibly started as the familiar voice cut through the scene, far stronger than he could ever remember hearing it. Kessler, too, gave a jump at the voice, whipping about to face the man that stepped almost casually out of the shadows behind them. Watson balanced atop the wharf-wall with apparent ease, one arm folded behind his back, posture straight and head held high. His expression was one of total composure, a gambler's facade, haughty and unreadable. He held his pistol-arm straight out, but the weapon was trained on Debtford, even as his eyes locked on Kessler.

"Doctor Watson!" Lestrade cried in warning.

Kessler's face, meanwhile, went through a very remarkable few seconds in which it displayed surprise, recognition, amusement, and anger all in rapid succession before composing into a stony countenance. "Well, well, well," he said, "If it isn't good old Tommy. You're looking well."

Holmes and Lestrade traded equally confused glances.

"Let them go," said Watson. "They can do you no harm anyhow."

Kessler laughed, a bitter barking thing devoid of real humor. "Perhaps not me personally, no, but they have the means to put my friend here to the gallows. I know it's an unfamiliar concept to you, but some of us actually have some sense of loyalty to our fellows."

Watson drew in a breath, a frown marring his mask, but he did not answer, instead stepping from the wharf-wall to a crate and from there to the ground. The movements were fluid and strong, betraying none of his previous signs of weakness or lingering injury.

Kessler held his ground, his steely eyes boring holes into Watson's. "I have to say, you were the last one I expected to see around here. Especially after what I did to Selkirk."

"Selkirk? You killed Selkirk?"

Kessler smirked. "Just three nights ago. I'd thought you'd have seen it - no? What happened, Tommy, you getting old?" His smirk widened as he found some obscure humor in the concept.

"I've changed, James."

"I'll say. Your little Scotland Yard friend, he called you... Watson? As in Dr John Watson? I saw your story in Beeton's*. Congratulations, your writing style has much improved - I didn't even recognize it. As for putting yourself up with a criminal detective, well, you always did have brass, at least."

"I assure you the arrangement was entirely coincidental."

"Hah! Tommy Murray never made a move in his life that wasn't planned to the letter."

"Thomas Murray is dead. I told you, I've changed. I left that life on the field at Maiwand."

"Ah, of course. Along with the body of the real Dr John Watson, I'll wager. Tell me, did you stab him in the back or did he see you coming?"

"Now see here!" Holmes leapt to his feet, shaking off the hand that Debtford laid on his shoulder to push him down. "I may not know what's transpired between the two of you, but I won't stand for these attacks on the good doctor's character."

Kessler's cold gaze snapped to him. "The good doctor," he sneered, taking a step toward Holmes. "You have this one well-trained, Tommy." He pressed the barrel of his own pistol into Holmes' forehead, cocking the weapon meaningfully.

"Holmes!" Watson cried, genuine panic in his voice.

The tone intrigued Kessler, an ugly smirk curling his lips again as he turned back to Watson. "Well, well. Has the leopard truly changed its spots? Has Tommy Murray developed a soul after all?" The smile slipped into a contemptuous frown. "Only twenty-five years too late."

"James," Watson whispered, his composure gone in favor of outright pleading. "Your quarrel is with me. For God's sake, let them go!"

"God's sake?" Kessler's frown only deepened, a wild light sparking in his eyes as he snarled. "Who are you to speak of God, Hellequin!" In a single motion, he threw aside his pistol and produced from his ulster a forward-curved, cleaver-like short blade - an indian panabas. He dove at Watson, swinging the sword, which rang shrilly as it was deflected by a sturdy cane.

Holmes slipped his loosened bonds, but Debtford moved into his way before he could rush to Watson's aid. Holmes threw a coil of rope around the muzzle of the gun, yanking it safely to one side and sending an ungentlemanly kick at his opponent's gut. Debtford caught it and shoved him. Holmes hit the ground hard, knocking the air from his lungs. It was only by Lestrade's intervention that he was not shot in that moment, as the policeman threw his own bonds around Debtford's neck and pulled them tight.

While the official kept Debtford occupied, Holmes spared a glance to see how his friend fared. It was clear from his sure, swift movements that Kessler was an experienced swordsman, but Watson held him back with an unprecedented skill of his own, all weakness forgotten as he deftly parried and dodged each blow. He did not land any of his own, though, not that Holmes could see it doing much good if he did. It was only a matter of time before Kessler overpowered him.

Lestrade grunted as Debtford drove an elbow into him to weaken his hold, and Holmes' attention was snatched back to his more immediate problem. Just as the man was throwing Lestrade off, Holmes leapt to his feet and grabbed Debtford's gun-arm, throwing a backhanded strike to his temple. Debtford stumbled but did not fall, and Holmes twisted his arm behind him.

"Lestrade, help Watson!"

"No!" Watson himself snapped at them. "Do not interfere!" He cried out as Kessler took advantage of his distraction, the blade laying into his shoulder and then again across his gut. He tumbled from the wharf-wall that their deadly dance had carried them onto, the cane clattering to the ground beside him. Kessler hopped down and kicked it away before he could snatch it back up.

Hard eyes stared down at their prone prey, his mouth set in a rigid line. "You know, I think that once I have finished with you, I shall let your friends go," he said through his teeth. He smiled a nasty, promising smile as he raised the weapon above his head. "Do you remember our theatre days, Tommy? 'So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.' Come now, Chiron, you know the words! 'Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, an if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe!' "

The words had a marked effect on Watson. His eyes widened, nostrils flared, cheeks flushed, lips trembled, all in rage. The blade swung in an executioner's chop. At the last second, Watson rolled, the weapon sinking into the wharf where his throat had just been. He returned with a vicious kick to Kessler's chest, forcing him to release the blade as he stumbled back. In a flash Watson was up and charged the man, catching him full-on with a rugby tackle. Kessler went down, and a straight left to his solar plexus kept him there.

Holmes and Lestrade together had managed to overpower Debtford, Lestrade knocking him unconscious with the butt of Kessler's revolver. Holmes looked up to see Watson yank the panabas out of the ground and advance on Kessler, who coughed and rolled onto his hands and knees.

"Watson!" Holmes cried, but his friend didn't seem to hear him.

He loomed over the prone Kessler, the blade shining in the lamp-light as it was raised high. "There can be only one," he whispered. The blade described a glowing arch, and with a sick, organic sound, Kessler's head parted from his shoulders.

For a long moment, there was silence. Holmes and Lestrade stood absolutely stunned, while Watson just tried to catch his breath. He still clenched the blade in a white-knuckled grip. Blood slipped lazily down its length, striking the cobblestones with a resounding drip, drip that mixed with the sounds of the river. Then he straightened, his head rolling back and his eyes closing, and he raised his arms, like a bloody maestro waiting for his ovation.

Holmes took a half-step forward. "Stop!" Watson snapped out his free hand. "Stay back!"

The headless body began to crackle, light arcing across it in ways Holmes had only ever seen in a laboratory, and Lestrade in a stormy sky, surrounding the body in an aura of brilliant blue. The wind kicked up, whistling and shrieking and tearing at their clothes, as an invisible force lifted the body clear off the ground. Watson's eyes remained close, his expression expectant, almost serene. Then the building tension broke, and a blinding beam of energy arched from the body to Watson, striking directly into his heart. His entire form tensed and shuddered, eyes flew open, head whipped back, and a terrible cry ripped out of his throat as the light continued its assault. The wind whipped into a frenzied howl. Both lanterns and the one nearby window shattered.

And yet, through it all, Holmes found that he couldn't look away.

The energy subsided all at once, leaving the night dark and silent around them once more. Watson dropped to his knees, the blade clattering to the ground beside him. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and continued to shudder.

Lestrade jerked and gasped as Holmes' hand found his shoulder in the darkness. "It's just me," he whispered, his trembling voice betraying that even his unshakable nerves were in a state. "I think, perhaps, it would be best to learn more about this matter before making any... hasty judgments." He felt more than saw Lestrade's hesitant nod. "If you could deal with the situation here, and meet us back at Baker Street...?" Another nod. Holmes squeezed the official's shoulder. "Thank you, Lestrade."

"Just see you get him home," Lestrade told him, apparently finding his voice. "And keep him there."

Holmes nodded himself. He rose and went to where Watson still knelt, touching his shoulder gently, and was surprised when the man flinched away. "It's just me," he said again, "It's alright." Even more surprising was when Watson looked up at him, and in the starlight his blue eyes shone, wide and vulnerable and... frightened?

"Come on, old boy," Holmes said gently, "Lestrade will take care of things here. It's home for you."

*Technically STUD was not published until '87, 6 years after they started living together, but in this reality, Watson published it earlier.