Honor
"Here he is, Doctor," came a voice from the other side of the barred door, making the cell's occupant look up. "Just give us a shout if you need anything."
"I doubt it, but thank you for the warning."
The big metal door swung open to admit a seemingly average man carrying a worn black doctor's bag, then swung closed again behind him. The prisoner's face twisted into a surly scowl, and he prepared a retort to fling at the unsuspecting…
His ready jeer turned into a panic-stricken yelp as the man turned and he viewed his face for the first time. He attempted to scramble away, hampered badly by his wounded shoulder. "You," he gasped with a wild look in his eyes, coming to a belated halt half-off the bed as he realized that, of course, the door was barred. Curran groaned slightly. Trapped in this room, with… with him…
Not twenty-four hours had passed since a cocky band of would-be thieves had accosted a seemingly elderly man in a back alley. He had fought back with almost inhuman force, but even a man of his unlikely strengths was no match for five. Just as a well placed blow had sent him to the ground, however…
A shot rang out, knocking the pistol out of the leader's hand mid-swing as he attempted to pistol-whip their abused victim. A shout of pain rang from his throat, and he whirled angrily as a strong, commanding voice echoed down the street. "Stop where you are."
Curran had been foolish enough to go for his gun at the same moment that his cock-sure companions had decided to dive for cover, and had received a wound of his own for his efforts. The others wisely decided, after a hasty glance at the selfsame walls that had been such a convenient trap for their victim, that surrender was their best option.
They were all back in various attitudes of complacency against the wall, nervously eying the furious interloper, by the time the latter helped their erstwhile victim to his feet.
"Are you all right?" he'd asked the man, sending a blazing glance their direction.
That was the moment they realized just how much trouble they were in.
Now Curran was again face to face with his own assailant, who had seemingly ignored his scramble for safety and was removing tools from his unmarked bag.
"What are you, a plainclothes constable?" Curran mumbled, trying to call back his previous bravado.
One wry glance from the supposed doctor sent it right back out the window. "Former army surgeon."
"Come back to finish this?" A note of dread entered his voice, as he realized just how easy it would be for the man to kill him on the spot and claim he had been attacked…
He looked up again just to see the man's mustache twitch slightly in… amusement? "In a way. I am a doctor, after all."
Despite all his arrogance and bravado, Curran was slowly betraying his true emotions in his confusion. He was young, frightened, hurt, baffled by this doctor who held his life in his hands and would apparently do nothing about it. For a while they were silent, Curran hardly noticing as the doctor began to cut back his sleeve. Then, with a wary glance at the man's hand to ensure he held nothing more than the knife he was using on the cloth, which he eyed warily in turn, he finally asked, "Former?"
His odd benefactor shrugged. He set down the knife and reached for a cloth, which he dampened with water from a small flask in his bag, before answering, "I was discharged a year ago."
Through his mind flashed images of this man's precise shots in almost complete darkness, thoroughly routing five roughs on his own. Curran glanced involuntarily at his own wound. "Why?" A tone of disbelief accented the word.
"I took a bullet to the shoulder," the doctor replied ironically.
Curran eyed him, trying to decide if the man were serious and merely empathizing or attempting to lull him into a false sense of security so he could make his move. Gaining courage from the man's continued silence, he asked, "Who was –"
"Your target?"
Curran winced, but nodded.
"My friend, Sherlock Holmes. We share a flat together." The doctor met Curran's gaze and added pointedly, "And he's far younger than you estimated by at least a decade or so." He reached for a roll of gauze and began bandaging the wound. Curran winced. "You really could have chosen a better pastime."
That last had the distinct sound of a warning, but Curran couldn't help a frown. "But…" he ventured, "why are you telling me?"
The doctor replaced the remaining gauze in his bag and snapped it shut. "You remind me of someone I cared about," he replied finally. "My brother recently lost his life due to his own negligent lifestyle." His tone was short, but as he turned to go he paused. "You have a chance yet."
"Wait!" Curran could hear the constable coming. "What's your name?"
A smile brushed across his face for a brief moment. He nodded slightly to the young prisoner. "Watson."
And with that, the door swung open and he walked out, leaving a thoughtful youth to ponder their conversation.