It was with a heavy heart and a sick feeling that I went with my cousin to his lodgings. I did not want to see the damage that had been done; that I had been a part in. James, at least, was ignorant of what had actually occurred and I had no desire to cause him further grief by telling him how his sister came to bleeding to death. We ran all the way back to his lodgings, pausing only for breath when we had reached the door to his own bed chambers. He pushed open the door.

"I put her in my bed. Oh, please, John, please help her." My cousin looked as though he might break down.

"I'll do what I can." I told him, placing a reassuring arm round him. "I think it best that you calm down, James. Have your land lady make some tea."

James nodded and left for the kitchen. Reluctantly, I entered his bed chambers, not wanting to confront what I had had a part in. As I doctor, I have seen many things, but none had prepared me for such a sight. My cousin Violet lay barely conscious in the arms of the older Spanish girl, her shirt front now a deep crimson, bloody towels nearby. The Spanish girl gently held her, whispered soothing things in her native tongue every time violet cried out. I ran over to the bedside, placing my bag on the table. The older girl looked up.

"What are you doing here, señor?" she demanded in a voice that suggested she was used to giving orders. "come to observe your lover's handy work?"

I rolled up my sleeves. "No, I came here to help. And you?"

"I care about Violeta! I care about her and her brother!" the Spanish girl crossed the room so that she stood in the doorway. She looked at me, brilliant green eyes piercing. "Whatever you may think of us, know this; we did not choose this lifestyle. It was forced upon us. Adios, señor."

It was well into the early hours of the morning when I returned to my own home in Baker Street. I had never felt such guilt and upset as ascended the stairs. I pushed the parlour door open and threw my bag to the floor ad my coat over the armchair. I must have looked a sight; my waistcoat and shirt were ruined, stained a vivid red. Holmes had waited up for me, his face apprehensive. Out of character, my detective cautiously approached me.

"John?" he rarely used my Christian name.

"Just tell me Holmes," I paused to light a cigarette. My hands shook and were a faint pink. "Just tell me what on Earth it was that you were doing at that girls school?"

"John, I told you, I was…"

I cut him short. I exploded angrily "No, you told me nothing! Whatever it was, I hope it was worth it because I had to tell James that his sister might not make it through the night! I swear to God, Holmes, if I have to return in the morning to pronounce Violet dead, then you will have to find another to pay the rent!"

Holmes's eyes widened. Never before had I threatened to leave him, even after our worst arguments, but this had gone too far. Silently he poured brandy and handed it to me. I muttered thank you and knocked it straight back. Holmes slumped down on the tiger skin rug and I on the sofa. For a while there was a tense angry silence that hung in the air before he finally broke it.

"my dearest Watson, I know that you are upset, but she had a revolver pointed at you. I could not let her have killed you."

I sighed. "Holmes, I do not think that she would have pulled that trigger. She was just a child! A child who may not see tomorrow because you and I were poking our noses. Just tell me this; what did you find that gave their mistress such cause to silence us permanently?"

"The Spanish girl." My detective stated. "The Spanish girl is what we were not meant to discover."