I stared at the young women who stood before us. They were so young but they had none of the innocence one would expect of girls their age. Their eyes were cold and showed age beyond their years. It unnerved me; a decorated veteran scared by a couple of girls. Holmes, on the other hand, was careful not to let them see whatever fear he felt. My detective turned to me.

"Here are a fine of example of the outstanding ladies that school produces," my companion walked towards them. "Every inch the perfect lady and cold hearted killer."

The older girl smiled a cold beautiful smile. "My mistress was fair. She gave you clear warning not to poke your nose where it was not wanted. Yet you persist. It is clear that you need more persuasion, and neither my friend or I came here to talk."

"Quite." Holmes agreed.

I had not thought that evening when I had suggested we take a walk that I would be fighting against a couple of school girls. The idea would have seemed preposterous; but not now. The Spanish girl began her assault of my detective, a blur of quick jabs and kicks, and even Holmes was struggling to defend himself from her blows. The younger girl advanced towards me and I gripped my cane tight. I had no wish to injure the girl, to strike her, and yet it seemed inevitable. The younger girl looked at me, preparing to strike, when I swung my cane out, knocking the girl off her feet. This was not a gentlemanly thing to do, but I had no desire to cause the girl any harm or to die that evening by her hands. She swore, scrambling for her fallen revolver, and I could scarcely believe the face that looked up at me. I saw not the face of a ruthless, cold hearted assassin but the face of the scared 16 year old girl. Her indigo eyes were wide beneath her blonde fringe and curls. I did not know which was worse, that I knew the girl, or that her revolver was pointed at my heart.

"Cousin John!" her voice was broken, her fingers loosened on the trigger, and I caught a glimpse of a fragile girl.

"Please, Violet," I found myself pleading with my cousin. "Don't do this. You're just a child!"

"I am a child no longer!" she angrily spat, pulling back the hammer of the revolver. "And you would do well to remember that!"

"Violet, I implore you!" I had not planned to die like this, at the hands my blood relative, nor did I plan to see her turned into a hardened killer. "What would your brother think? This is not you!"

"What would you know?"

I watched in horror unable to do anything as she raised the revolver, her finger tightening on the trigger. I looked at my detective, who was fighting a losing battle against the older girl, and knew that he could not help me now. Violet squeezed the trigger and the shot rang out, acrid smoke filling the air. It was though time had frozen; all of us paused, eyes wide, wondering if the bullet had found its home. Yet I felt no white hot pain, no warm damp blood. Perhaps she had missed? No, her eyes had made it clear that she and her companion did not miss. My mind raced. What if her companion had shot Holmes? I looked at him. He was not injured, but in fact holding a smoking revolver. My cousin slumped against me, feebly grasping at my lapels. I pulled my hands away from her in disgust. They were red and sticky. The older girl was outraged, bringing the butt of her revolver crashing down against Holmes's forehead.

"¡Hijo de puta!" the older girl growled in rapid Spanish. "Usted tendra que pagar un alto precio por esto!"

Holmes wiped away the blood that had begun to trickle down his face with his sleeve. "¿Princesa Esmeralda, donde ha estado? Que tan has caido, su alteza."

"Go to the devil!" The Spanish girl snapped in English.

The older girl led my cousin away into the night. I felt sick. Her blood covered my hands and my clothes. I limped over to my companion, who was attempting to get to his feet. He had shot Violet and I was angry with him, but he was injured also and as a doctor to see that he was well was more urgent then my anger. I could see that he was visibly shaken by our evening stroll, but he brushed it off, insisting that he would be fine once he reached Baker Street. We were in fact not far off our lodgings in Baker Street, and I yet I hailed a cab, not having the strength to walk. I tried to shut out what had just happened, but all I could see were the wide, frightened eyes of my cousin.

Once inside our lodgings I saw immediately to my detective's gash on his head. I cleaned away the blood that had begun to matt in his wavy brown locks, not uttering a word to him. His brown eyes caught my blue ones. I looked away, throwing the cloth into the basin of warm water. I sighed.

"Dearest Watson, I know that you are angry with me." Holmes knew me too well. He knew that I needed to say my piece, and he would let me shout and rave until I was blue in the face as long as I felt better for it.

"Yes. You shot her Holmes! She was just a child and you shot her!" I replied.

"Watson! She was going to kill you! She had a revolver aimed at you!"

"I don't believe she would have pulled the trigger!" I snapped. "She is just a child!"

Holmes grabbed hold of my arm and forced me to look at him. "Yes, Watson, a child who knows how to handle a revolver expertly!"

I had not the chance to reply when there was a frantic knocking at the front door. I heard Mrs Hudson open the door and a voice ask for me. Our landlady replied that I was busy, but I knew the voice. I left the parlour and walked onto the landing. Before me stood my cousin, James Rain, clothing stained crimson. My heart fell. He looked up at me, catching his breath, clearly trying to hold back tears.

"Cousin John, I am sorry for disturbing you, but I beg of you, please come with me!" "Whatever has happened?" I asked, although I already knew the answer. "Is that blood yours?"

"Please! It's my sister! It's Violet! I fear she is dying!"

My heart sank and I felt sick to the very core of my stomach.