A Tiger Loose

Catching a tiger is easier than letting one go. – Chinese proverb

As I remember, spring had come that year to London with surprising mildness. At the close of April 1899, each day seemed to dawn brighter than the one before, and the normal rain that so characterized London seemed to have taken a permanent holiday.

In consequence, Holmes and I had spent a good deal of our free time strolling about the city that he regarded as his own personal domain after the demise of his nemesis, Professor Moriarty, eight years previously.

Each year around this time, my thoughts always reverted to that most climactic case. More so now than formerly, since I had learnt last winter the true facts behind the events I have recorded as the Adventure of the Final Problem.

I had been shocked beyond measure to learn that the events of that case had revolved around me, not Holmes, and that my friend had been willing to give up his freedom, and very nearly his life, for the purpose of protecting me from the machinations of that most awful of opponents.

Such knowledge had deepened the regard I held for the man to no little extent, and in those days our friendship had deepened even more, now that we had known each other for nearly two decades.

Holmes had changed in some respects since his return to London in 1894, and one of those very welcome differences was the way he acted when not engaged on a case.

Whereas he used to sulk, refuse to eat, and revert to that dreaded drug I had tried so hard but with limited success to free him of, he now tried to find other ways of occupying his time, such as going for walks with me like the one we had been out upon the day the trouble began.

I shall never forget the day in question – it was a beautiful, warm day in late April. We had wandered around London for nearly two hours, arm in arm, watching the hustle and bustle of our fair city.

Walking with Sherlock Holmes was never a dull experience – he never failed to use his powers to make outrageous deductions about the people we passed. I have said elsewhere in these incoherent memoirs that the man was gifted with an extraordinary genius for minutae, and the topics of conversation he had at his disposal were endless.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that I realized two hours had gone by in my friend's company.

"Dear me, Holmes, we probably should be heading back home – Mrs. Hudson said if we were late for tea one more time she would cease serving it altogether at Baker Street!" I said, remembering the good woman's indignation the last time this had happened with some discomfort.

Holmes merely laughed, of course. "I am sure she will not sulk for long, Watson."

"Yes, well, Holmes, one half of this partnership, at least, likes to actually eat three meals a day! I for one never professed to being a brain and the rest of me a mere appendix!"

He laughed lightly but acquiesced to my pleading, and we turned our steps toward Baker Street.

I remember distinctly how beautiful the day was, with the spring sun shining warmly down on the buildings we passed, bathing them in a golden glow that made even the alleys of London seem new and clean.

I recall mentioning to Holmes how perfectly gorgeous this spring was turning out to be – I remember because of the events that began to happen with terrible rapidity, soon shattering the beauty of that day.

As we started to cross a street, he snorted at my remark and began launching one of his tirades about romantic imaginings. I was so busy defending my position in our friendly argument that I did not see the four-wheeler come flying round the corner until it was too late.

Thank God, Holmes had been more aware of our surroundings.

"Watson, look out!"

I heard his frantic warning shout at the same time as the clatter of fast-approaching hooves. His cry was accompanied by a very violent tackle, the momentum of which carried us both crashing to the pavement just out of harm's way.

My head struck the sidewalk with considerable force, and for a moment my vision was quite blurred. I could hear perfectly, however, the cab whizzing by us at an abnormally fast clip. Had it not been for Holmes's quick action, we would both have been run down by that insane driver.

"Watson? Are you hurt, old chap?"

I heard Holmes's voice for several seconds before my vision finally cleared. He was bending over me, oblivious to the odd looks we were getting from passers-by, staring anxiously at my face.

I tried to sit up and gasped as a pain shot through my head.

"Lie still, Watson!"

"No, no, Holmes, I'm fine," I said, finally managing to sit up with his help, "I just struck my head, that is all." I rubbed gingerly at the offending spot, hoping I did not have a concussion.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, quite," I replied.

The look of intense worry that had been on his face now faded into a thoughtful but angry glare. He slung my arm over his thin shoulders and helped me to my feet.

"That imbecile could have killed us both!" he snarled, his voice an angry hiss.

"He probably would have, had it - not been for your quick reflexes, Holmes," I said, wishing the world would hold still for more than a moment at a time. "I doubt if I've ever seen a better tackle - on any rugby field."

"Watson, you are walking a trifle unsteadily. Are you sure you are feeling quite well?"

As a matter of fact, I was not. Increasing dizziness was making me feel quite ill, and I began to categorize the sensations as the indications of a probable concussion.

As if to add credence to my thoughts, I was suddenly attacked by such a wave of dizziness that I involuntarily clutched at Holmes's arm to keep from falling.

"Watson!"

"Sorry, Holmes," I gasped, realizing the dizziness was not, as I had hoped, going to pass, "perhaps you had better – better call – a cab, I am afraid I –" my voice trailed off as the world seemed to whirl around me, making me completely lose my tentative balance.

I dimly heard Holmes frantic voice and felt his strong arms trying to keep me upright before my clouded vision washed entirely to black.

When my vision had begun to clear once again, the objects around me came slowly into focus, the foremost one in my line of vision being Holmes's worried face a few feet from my own.

When I could see him clearly, he sighed with relief and slumped back into the chair he had pulled up beside the couch – I realized I was in our sitting room back at Baker Street.

"Thank God, Watson – you gave me quite a fright," he breathed, lighting his pipe with an unsteady hand.

"I'm – sorry, Holmes," I said weakly, trying to remember what exactly had happened. As I knew was usual with the effects of a concussion, my memory might be slow in returning.

"Don't be, my dear fellow - it was not your fault. A doctor had seen what happened and came hurrying up to me just after you collapsed. He came back here with me and told me you had a slight concussion, but as long as you do not exert yourself for a few hours, you should feel much better tomorrow."

Now the events were coming back to me.

"What of the four-wheeler, Holmes? Do you suppose that driver was just an idiot or was it someone trying to kill us?"

"I don't know, Watson," he muttered, thoughtfully smoking his pipe, "I don't know. But we are both rather lucky he did not succeed, I think."

I echoed Holmes's words, trying to not move any more than possible – I had a headache to end all headaches. Holmes must have noticed my look of pain.

"Can I get you anything, Watson?" he asked solicitously.

I was prevented from answering him by a rushing of feet on the stairs outside. I had not heard the bell ring, and I wondered if Holmes had. Whoever it was was certainly in a dreadful hurry.

Holmes turned to me, puzzled, and I raised my eyebrows to match his look. Then the door burst open and Inspector Lestrade rushed into the room, nearly bowling Holmes over with his momentum.

"Hold up, Lestrade! What the deuce is the matter, man?" Holmes asked, pushing the man upright.

"Mr. Holmes, thank God I got here in time – Doctor, what happened to you?" he asked, seeing me for the first time lying on the couch.

"We were nearly run down by a cab in Oxford Street, Lestrade. But for heaven's sakes, man, why in the world did you come barreling in here so unceremoniously?" Holmes asked, his patience running rather thin.

"I came as soon as I heard the news, Mr. Holmes – I was so afraid he might beat me here!"

"Who, Lestrade?! Out with it man, you are not making any sense!" my friend cried in exasperation.

The official took a deep breath to steady himself and went on, "We just got word at the Yard not an hour ago – Colonel Sebastian Moran escaped from Dartmoor Prison early this morning. He was seen in London just over an hour ago!"

To be continued - thanks for reading! Please review!