Two

The realization of what has just occurred does not come quickly. It is gradual and slow – and I struggle to grasp what has just passed.

My head whirls as the shot I've just taken rings in my head. I feel dizzy. What… have I done?

I stand there, stupidly clutching my warm revolver, and it takes another gasp of pain from my terribly wounded companion to finally bring me back to the horror at hand.

I cry his name and run to Holmes' side, dropping to my knees and clutching his arms in my trembling hands.

Fear overcomes my brain as I see the gravity of the wound I've given my poor friend; his jacket, hands, and the ground are dyed a sickening crimson.

I choke on my words for a moment as I try to stay calm. I shake off my outer jacket and press it to Holmes' wound in an effort to control the bleeding, but I don't have enough material.

I need help. Now.

I raise my head and cry out, as loudly as I can, pleading for anyone, anything that can aid me.

I do this a few times, praying the Yard has heard me. The man at my side struggles for air, and I turn my attention back to him, my hands shaking.

What have I done?

He seems so unnaturally fragile, so broken, so weak – and to think that not even a minute earlier, he was as healthy as he had ever been. But now…

Never before had I seen the great Sherlock Holmes reduced to such a pitiful state, and my heart ached to think that it was I that did this to my poor friend.

I held my jacket against his wound with one hand, quickly realizing that I needed to keep Holmes awake and alert as possible – he cannot give up, not now. I snap my fingers a few times in an effort to keep his eyes on me.

I keep doing this, hoping someone arrives, which I continue to pray will happen. Please, someone, anyone.

I grasp my friend's jaw and tilt his head, trying to keep my hand steady.

"Listen to me. Stay with me – no, look at me – I want you to keep your eyes on me. Don't look away. Stay awake."

I look into Holmes' gray eyes, usually so bright and alive – and a sickening wave of terror washes over me.

There is so much fear in those eyes.

My companion has never been one for fright, and it is not very often that he is even greatly alarmed. It is not easy to take a man such as Sherlock Holmes by surprise.

But now, I stare into my friend's eyes and see my own emotions of fear reflected back – and in those eyes, beyond the fear and the pain, there is nothing – and that is what scares me the most. He's fighting, fighting to stay awake, fighting to hang on. But he's fading.

Holmes blinks at me, slowly, and opens his mouth as if to speak, but I hear nothing.

Please. Say anything. Anything. Tell me you are fighting this. God, I'm… I'm so, so sorry…

The mask of calm I had been attempting to keep steady was beginning to crack. I felt sick, guilt plaguing me to the point of nausea, and I slump over my friend. Tears sting my eyes.

I need time. More time than I have. He's fading too fast.

I raise my head and cry out one last time, my voice desperate and ragged now, but I do not care. All I want is for this to end. To wake from this horrible nightmare. But I know that won't happen.

I could never dream the immense horror that courses through my body at this very moment.

Holmes' eyes begin to close, and my brain screams.

No, please. Please don't do this. I'm so sorry.

Suddenly, in the distance, I hear them.

Footsteps.

But the panic in my brain is too much, and I begin to feel faint as the steps come closer. I hear people speaking, shouting – but the guilt-ridden voice in my brain screams even louder.

What have I done?

"Doctor? Doctor, can you hear me?"

I begin to open my eyes, slowly, as if I am afraid they will be pierced by a strong light, but where I lay now is a bit dim and uninviting.

I open my eyes fully and give them a moment to adjust – an older woman, a nurse, I assume, by the way she is dressed – is standing next to my bed, continuing to speak my name, though I ignore her.

Why am I in bed?

I try to understand what is happening, and I survey the room.

I quickly realize that my surroundings are all too familiar, and I begin to wonder why I am at my own place of business. I don't remember going to work to-day. But why am I on one of my own medical beds? What –

I remember, and it all comes back far too fast, and I sit up and scream Holmes' name, my eyes wide and frantic, my forehead suddenly moist with cold sweat.

The elderly nurse leaps forward and pushes me back against my pillow, calling my name, trying to calm me, but I push her away with relative ease and escape the bed.

But within moments, I collapse upon the floor, my head horribly dizzy, and my temples pulsing with dull pain.

I groan, and the nurse is there again, helping me to my feet.

"Doctor," she cries, out of breath, "You need to rest – get back into bed. Sit for just a moment; I'll bring some water."

She ushers me back in the bed, and I obey, sitting up next to my pillow. I feel rather groggy as she returns with water, which I am very grateful for.

I take small sips as I try to clear my mind, my hands still shaking.

Eventually I am able to compose myself steadily enough to ask the nurse a few questions. She does her best to fill me in, though it's obvious she doesn't know much about what happened.

"Well, from what I heard, you were found very late last night, after you went off hunting down a criminal… Though I'm not the one to ask, Doctor, you'd best be asking Mr. Lestrade these questions. He's the one that found you and Mr. Holmes –"

I choke on my water.

"Where is he? Is he all right? What happened? I tried to… I mean, I didn't –"

I set my water down and ran my hands over my weary face as the kindly nurse placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "He's alive, Doctor," she says uneasily. "But only just."

I need to see him. My hands still shake upon remembering the events that occurred only just last night. Was it really only last night? I feel as though it occurred decades ago. It all seems… so far away.

I'm so sorry.

I clear my throat. "Please, can I see him?"

The nurse nods quickly. "Yes, of course, they've been expecting you. However, I was only to let you go visit if you were feeling well."

I stand from the bed and give my mind a moment to settle. "I'm fine, fine. Where is he?"

She leads me away, down a hallway just to my left, and stops at the door to one of the rooms. "Here," she says quietly, "He's in here. I'm very sorry, Doctor… he'll be all right, I'm sure."

He'll be all right.

I take the door-handle and turn it, not knowing what horrors I would face on the other side.