HOLMES & WATSON

A series of short stories


Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.


Chapter II

A Case Finale, One of Many

Watson's POV


1

"Holmes," I hissed, "Are you sure you're prepared to use that?"

Sherlock was fumbling with the gun in his hands. "Of course I am," he snapped, highly offended.

"Why don't you give it to me," I said casually. "I am a better shot."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock whispered. "The ex-sea captain guarding the door will hear you, and then, we might as well be dead."

I was just about to ask how he knew that the guard was an ex sea-captain, when two shapes appeared in my peripheral vision, and before I could speak any kind of warning, we were hit on the backs of our heads simultaneously.


2

I woke up first. Sherlock was face-down on the floor beside me, hands tied behind his back. I was sitting in a chair, arms tied likewise.

This is feeling oddly familiar—are they all going to end like this?

"What—what?" I said, disoriented. "You—Sherlock! Sherlock!"

"He'll be coming around soon, I shouldn't wonder," said one of our assailants. He wore a dark stocking mask, and stepped forward under a bluish light. It was the only light in the room, one of the few offices in the entirety of the wide warehouse, riddled with hallways and machines and things that I did not understand. He held Sherlock's gun in his hands. I wondered if the small anchor tattoo on the back of his hand had anything to do with Sherlock's deduction about his profession. The other accomplice remained in darkness, standing behind his fellow with a small metal pipe in his hands.

"Why is he on the floor?" I demanded. "Is he hurt?"

"Except for a headache, he shouldn't be too hurt," said the man, "And we only had one chair. We hoped the esteemed Doctor would be more comfortable."

Sherlock groaned, and shifted, trying to sit up and not succeeding. He looked over at me, a look of hopelessness in his eyes. It inspired a chuckle in our captor.

Then Sherlock winked, and I realized his look of despair was completely contrived. He's playing them—of course he is. He has a plan.


3

"I'll ask you again—what are ya doing here?" the tip of the gun was very cold against my forehead.

Funny to come back from a war only to be shot just a few blocks from my warm, comfortable bed.

"Don't do it," Sherlock cried, mouth muffled against the hard floor. "Don't!"

"Are you telling him not to tell me WHY you are trespassing, or are you telling me not to shoot him?" asked the man, grinning. I could tell by the way the corners of his mouth turned up in the hills of his cheeks beneath his mask.

Shooting me… with Sherlock's own damn gun.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said coldly.

What is he playing at? He just forgot to use the concerned tone he's been using for the past ten minutes.

"Sherlock," I said tightly, clearly strained. The man ground the gun into my forehead. I fought to stay steady, but the stress of being unprepared for a life-threatening incident tonight was beginning to weigh on me.

"Watson," he replied, almost sarcastically. Clearly I was missing something. What was it?

"You blokes have something to do with the break-in," spat the man angrily. "What is it? Blackmail? You the police?"

"More or less," I said through gritted teeth.

"Doesn't matter anyway," he replied, and he pulled the trigger.

My stomach leapt in my throat, but I barely had time to blink before I realized that the gun only clicked.

"Not… loaded," muttered Sherlock.

"Not loaded," I exhaled, relief running in a cold chill down my back and arms.

And that was when I was finally able to pull my wrists through the rope.


4

It was only a manner of time before I had knocked aside the mans arm, used him to propel myself forward, kicked the pipe out of the other man's hands, and threw myself to my knees beside Sherlock, jerking the makeshift rope off of his hands. We were both to our feet in an instant, prepared to meet our recovered criminals. They were fisted and ready for a fight, but the gleam in their eyes were pure fear at the realization that we were not any ordinary trespassers.


5

Both, down. One, unconscious. One dizzy and barely holding on. Police lights and Sherlock standing victoriously with a very, very, small USB drive in his hands.

"Plots to take over the world, Watson," he said dramatically, pressing it to his pursed lips and then tossing it to me. I caught it in both hands and, without the dramatics, examined it and found nothing of interest about it.

"The world?" I said dryly.

"Actually, blueprints for nuclear devices passed from Bin Laden's last surviving post and to his correspondent in Britain. If someone actually put these blueprints into prototypes, it could endanger the entire eastern hemisphere. The western would follow in—say—a minute or two."

I stared down at the USB. I shivered and handed it back to him. "The world… indeed."

"No one should have that much power," Sherlock said, as if giving instructions to a small child. He passed off the USB to Scotland Yard's best and thrust his hands in his pockets. "Unless they are intelligent enough to come up with it themselves."

The metaphor was lost on me, but I assumed it was some slight on the human race, failing to be as competent as he, when it came to matters of deduction and observation.


The End