Was it the delusions of a fevered brain or could there be something more tangible to his ravings?
Holmes was broken out in a cold sweat, his rest a fitful one. Though the bullet had been successfully removed, the worst of the damage repaired, I was not fool enough to believe he was remotely out of the woods. His still laboured breathing, the elevated temperature, assured me of that, and the probability that his fevered brain was conjuring nightmares he was unable to distinguish from reality was not a far fetched one.
All I could be sure of was that I had never before known him to falter, not even under the greatest of stress. I unquestioningly placed my trust in his capabilities with much less to go on, therefore, was not about to begin doubting the man now.
With this in mind, I hesitantly left my patient's side to retrieve my old service revolver from the desk drawer. On my way back, as I paused to lock the sitting room door, I heard muffled voices emanating from the hallway.
"He was 'ere all right; look!"
A second man barked out a laugh. "Left a trail of blood all the way from the docks, he did!"
"Think 'es done for?" came the throaty voice of a third man.
"No such luck, I'd wager," the first chimed in. "Missed me mark by a mile! Woulda got the sodder clean through the heart, too, if he hadn't seen me and taken a flyin' leap off the pier like that!"
My hand was as yet curled around the doorknob when I felt one of the ruffians turn it.
Not being one to stand idly by and wait for my fate to be dealt, there was but one option I could think of that would give me even the slightest of advantages in so precarious a situation. Thus it was I wrenched open the door, revolver cocked, shouting like a madman for the gang of ruffians to drop their weapons and halt in their tracks.
The voice which came out of me startled myself as much as it did the three hooligans standing open mouthed in the hallway, and I must have appeared like one let loose from Bedlam! There I was, a respectable young gentleman in my dressing gown, shouting down the walls with the most foul of obscenities, my eyes alight with a raging fire that could have frightened off the devil himself. I was all that stood between these hired ruffians and Holmes, and by no means would I allow any of them to lay a finger on him, much less while he was practically defenseless in the throes of fever.
I cannot recall much of what took place in those few jumbled moments, but I do know that my sanity had fled. I can clearly hear the sound of my revolver firing off a round, but I would swear my finger remained fixed, that I never pulled back the trigger.
One of the ruffians hurled himself at me, clipped me in the jaw before the butt of my revolver came down on his skull with a bone splitting crack. Then another round of gunfire, aimed at me this time. The sting of a bullet grazing my ear. I stumbled against the doorframe, but quickly steeled myself, fired at one of the two men still standing and rushing towards me. I hooked the taller, bearded man, but the other, a short but hefty specimen, came charging at me like a bull. I fired, aiming for the shoulder but hit him square in the throat. He went down with an awful gurgling as blood bubbled from his mouth.
And first do no harm… and first do no harm… no harm…
There was nothing I could do to quell his bleeding. Blood squirted past the fingers I had inserted in the wound with every slowing beat of his heart. His intentions were to harm Holmes, I was protecting my friend, I told myself. Yet, I had not meant to do this horrible thing.
I cannot say when the other men came round from the thrashing inflicted upon them. For the next several moments, there was nothing but a complete concentration of marking the diminishing pulse of my victim and the never ending flow of blood through my fingers. When at last there was no more blood to hold in, I could not bring myself to remove my fingers from the wound. It was then I felt the gentle press of a hand squeezing my shoulder, turning me towards its owner.
Sitting by my side, with his own revolver in hand, was Sherlock Holmes. I am not certain how long he was there, but I believe it many minutes must have passed. Then, bending as best he could with the aid of his walking stick, put his lips to my ear, and broke the spell of my reverie.
"You are a better man than I, John Watson," he breathed, voice barely audible. "I would never be compelled to feel such remorse after taking the life of that vile miscreant."
"Bad as he was, he was still human," I answered without looking up at my companion. "He was human and I have seen enough senseless death to last me two lifetimes. Enough of it already!" I ejaculated, with a good deal of heat in my voice.
"Yes, I know you have." To my astonishment, Sherlock Holmes, the man I had taken as completely devoid of emotion, believing all traces of his humanity to have been shoved aside by his practical deductive skills, wrapped a wiry arm around my shoulder. From this simple act, the tension I had not even realized was there, completely drained out of me. Pressing further into the contact, I leant my head on his shoulder, and he in turn rested his head beside mine. We sat like this for several moments, saying nothing, for nothing needed to be said - not with words, anyhow.
"Watson?"
I looked up at him, our foreheads still nearly pressed together. "Yes, Holmes?"
"You know I shall fully understand if you decided to find other lodgings."
"Why on earth should I want to do that?"
He went rigid for a moment, as if not expecting that response and at a loss as to how he should proceed. I felt him sigh heavily, his hot breath in my hair as he reluctantly pulled away. "Watson, it would not be fair for me to expect you to continue living here when my very occupation places your life at risk on a daily basis. No, it iss not right, and I beg that when you go, you… not hold this against me. I did not - that is to say - I never intended for you to be caught up in this tangled mess when I returned, only sought to warn you that I was being hunted and you might find yourself the proverbial sitting duck if my enemies were unable to get their hands on me."
"Holmes - "
"It was very imprudent of me," he continued, either ignoring me or so lost in his own train of thoughts he truly didn't hear. I never know with him. "To allow myself to faint on our stairs. Had I not done so I may have prevented you from having to go against your own nature and take this man's life. I know how heavily it weighs on your conscience and -"
"Holmes!" I pressed, a bit louder.
"I also wish to apologize for the sorry state you found me in this morning. I know your own health remains somewhat fragile, so there was no excuse for me to cause you to -"
"HOLMES!"
He gaped at me, unaccustomed to such interruptions.
"Be quiet."
"But Watson…"
"Holmes! Remain. Silent. I have no intentions of leaving Baker Street, and that is final."
"Surely you don't mean that," said he in disbelief. "What would ever make you want to stay after I nearly got you killed today?"
"You."
"I - I do not quite follow."
At this, I couldn't help but laugh. "Ah, can it be I have finally baffled the world's only consulting detective?"
Holmes was none too amused at my little jest.
"My dear fellow," I continued, "youalone are the reason I call these rooms in Baker Street my home. What did I have to look forward to after being sent back to England on a pitiable wound pension, with my health in tatters and not even any family or friends to see me through? Do you know how blasted lonely I was? Good Lord, I could not even afford my rooms at the hotel."
Holmes made to interrupt me but I immediately cut him off. "No, let me finish.
"Then, by some miracle of fortune, you and I both bemoan our lodging troubles to the same man. Any you… you seemed to be the exact medicine I required. You are a little trying at times, I must confess, but what drives others to distraction only makes me all the more fond of you. For some time now, I have considered you to be more of a friend than a fellow lodger and have no desire to leave your company even if it means a bit more excitement than I would find elsewhere. In fact, that's one of the things I so love about living here." As an afterthought, I added: "After all, I did survive Maiwand, Holmes. I think I can handle Baker Street."
Holmes pulled away, the warmth I saw in his eyes for a fleeting instant quickly masked beneath the surface, schooling his expression into something unreadable, even to I who knew him so well. When he turned from me, however, I did a bit of my own deducing and came to the conclusion that as no one had ever been close enough to him to have the chance to say as much, he likely did not even believe me.
"Holmes, it is true, whether you choose to believe it or not. There is no place I should rather be but here, with you."
He remained silent, but I thought I noted his shoulders trembling, if only slightly.
"My dear Watson," he breathed, and something in his tone convinced me of how sincerely he meant the endearment. "You puzzle me, and I do enjoy a good puzzle."
Though most might miss the true meaning behind his words, they were not lost on me. It was his way of conceding to me, of returning the affectionate regard I felt for him. I was profoundly grateful for those words spoken on our landing that January morning, however inadequate they should seem to another. For me, they were everything. I felt like a starving dog whose master finally saw fit to throw it a bone.