A Waiting Game

When trussing up a tiger, never tie it loosely. – Chinese proverb

I spent the rest of that afternoon fitfully dozing; Holmes spent it in restless pacing. Finally my strained nerves snapped as he drummed his thin fingers on the table for the hundredth time that hour.

"Holmes! If you don't stop that, I shall give you a sedative!"

He jumped at the sound of my voice – we had not spoken in almost two hours.

"I thought you were asleep, Watson," he said, an annoyed look crossing his aquiline face.

I sighed, wishing that were the case. I was prevented from answering him by the entrance of Mrs. Hudson, carrying our supper.

"Doctor, it's good to see you looking a little better," the good woman said as she laid the dishes on the table, "you had us all worried this afternoon."

I sat up gingerly, but was relieved to find that the sharp pain in my head had receded to just a dull ache, and I was no longer dizzy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I suppose I was to blame this time for not being back in time for tea, not Mr. Holmes," I said, glancing pointedly at my companion. I was worried to see that he did not so much as crack a smile.

Our worthy landlady sniffed disdainfully and finished laying the meal.

"Do you require anything else, Mr. Holmes?" she asked as I rose slowly from the couch.

Holmes was again staring at some invisible spot on the wall, and so I guided Mrs. Hudson out the door and explained the situation to her when we were in the hall.

"I believe it would be a good idea for you to leave the house for a few days, Mrs. Hudson," I said earnestly after my explanation, "because you would be horribly in the way if Moran were to try something."

She glared at me with that show of hidden spirit I knew existed somewhere under that demure demeanor, and I realized she had misunderstood my intent.

"I mean you would complicate matters and tie our hands, Mrs. Hudson – it is not that we do not trust you, it is that we need to have one less thing to worry about if Moran were to try something," I hastened to add.

The good woman's features softened a bit.

"It would definitely be a weight off both our minds if we knew you were out of harm's way," I finished gently.

"My sister has been after me to spend a week with her in Cornwall," she admitted, "but what shall you and Mr. Holmes do for meals and such while I am away?"

"We shall manage," I replied, "I doubt that either of us will be very hungry until this blows over, at any rate. Please do go, Mrs. Hudson. I am having enough trouble worrying about Holmes's well-being; I do not need another patient on my hands."

"You, Doctor, should not be attending to anyone but yourself until that headache goes away," the woman declared, seeing how I had begun to lean a bit on the wall.

I smiled. "I shall manage, Mrs. Hudson. Please leave tonight if possible. We will both rest better knowing we are the only ones in the house."

She gave me a long look. "I shall pack at once. And you, Doctor, go straight to bed after dinner! And make sure that Mr. Holmes eats something!"

And with that, the extraordinary woman flounced regally down the seventeen steps to the floor below.

I sighed tiredly and returned to the sitting room. Holmes was still in the same position I had left him; obviously his nerves were on raw edge.

"I promised Mrs. Hudson I would make you eat something, Holmes," I said, seating myself at the table and pointing to the other chair, "and frankly, I am too tired to fight with you about it. Get over here and sit down, this instant!"

Startled, he looked at me with some amusement, but I was glad he did actually come to the table and at least pick half-heartedly at the food I put on his plate.

"We need to get that woman out of the way," he suddenly said, staring at the roast with a scrutinizing gaze.

"For once, Holmes, my deductions were faster than yours. She is leaving for her sister's in Cornwall this very night," I replied, eyeing him for his reaction.

His head lifted, and I saw surprise and discomfiture in his gaze.

"Thank you, Watson," he said, dropping his eyes back down to the plate. I sighed once again, realizing nothing I could do was going to shake this dread weight off him.

We finished what little we ate of the meal in silence, and then he went to his pipe and I stacked the dishes on the tray and began to move toward the door with it. I met Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs and handed the articles off to her.

"I am leaving now, Doctor," she said, rattling off a list of things for me to remember while she was away.

I tried my best to listen, vaguely noting the fact that she had left enough cold food for several meals in the pantry and kitchen downstairs, and for me to be sure to light the fire every morning, and a dozen other little things I had no idea she did on a regular basis.

I saw her to the door, nodded to the two policemen guarding it, and watched as the cab took our landlady out of the danger zone. Shrinking back inside the door, I gazed out at the twilight, looking for any signs of danger.

I could see nothing. No loafers across the street, no suspicious characters loitering around, no movement in the houses opposite. Nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.

I was about to shut the door when I heard Holmes's imperious voice above me.

"Watson! Get out of that hall light! And close the door, man!"

I slammed the door with some force and turned round.

"I was merely seeing Mrs. Hudson to her cab, Holmes!"

"I do not care what you were doing, Watson! Don't open that door again with the hall lamps lit!"

I sighed and began to climb the stairs back up to the sitting room. Holmes was standing in the doorway, and in the light of the lamp I could see his features drawn and worried. But before he turned to go back into the sitting room, I saw something else in them.

A characteristic I thought foreign to his inquisitive, courageous nature.

I saw fear. Deep, lurking, petrifying fear.

And that frightened me more than the thought of the most dangerous man in London being out for revenge against us.

It was with a cold, chilling feeling settling within me that I climbed the stairs to my room, tossing and turning for at least two or three hours before falling into a restless sleep.

The next morning, I dressed and went down to our sitting room to find Holmes in his dressing gown, attempting to coax some life into the fire.

"Are you hungry, Watson?" he asked abruptly.

"Not really," I admitted, sitting down in my chair with a sigh, "and I suppose you as usual are not in the least either?"

He growled some reply that I could not hear and finally got the fire to spring to life. Although in a few hours, it probably would no longer be needed. The beauty of the spring day seemed to simply mock the danger we were in, and I almost hated the sun for shining so cheerily.

I wanted to pull the shade up but Holmes refused to allow me even close to the windows. In frustration, I turned to him.

"Holmes, Scotland Yard's museum has VonHerder's air-gun, and Moran would definitely not have had time to construct a new one! He is not going to attempt to shoot with a pistol through a second-story window!" I exclaimed.

Holmes whirled to face me.

"He has friends that you have no idea of, Watson! Moriarty's organization extended into every corner and pocket of London! I am ruling out no possibilities, for the man has infinite resources at his command! Think, Watson! If twenty minutes after he landed in London he could locate a cab driver to run us down, then the man obviously still has connections!"

I bristled at his harsh tone, even though I knew it was the strain of the past eighteen hours talking and not my friend.

"Well how could I be expected to know that, Holmes? I only just found out last year of the true facts about the Moriarty gang! How could I know how extensive it was?"

"You could have paid attention at the trial, Watson!" he snapped impatiently.

"Well, I'm afraid I was engaged with something a little more important to me – trying to deal with the death of my dearest friend, Holmes!"

My tone was harsher than I had meant it to be, and I instantly regretted it when Holmes spun around and fixed me with an angry glare.

Then, to my surprise, his composure seemed to crumple within him and he slumped down into the nearest chair.

"I am sorry, Watson. This business – my nerves are quite on edge. My apologies," he sighed, resting his head on his hand.

"You did not go to bed last night, did you, my dear fellow?" I asked, seeing that he was wearing the same tweed trousers under his dressing gown that he had worn the day before.

He did not answer me; there was no need to.

We spent an uneasy morning without saying a word to each other – he pacing up and down, occasionally scratching away at some disturbing pieces on his violin, and I absently doodling in the pages of one of my journals, trying to write up the account of the left-handed clergyman we had been involved with the preceding month.

Finally, the screeching wails of his instrument grew too much for me and I got up to leave.

The noise stopped instantly.

"Watson, where are you going?"

"Out for a walk, Holmes. I cannot stand being cooped up in this house a moment longer. Danger or no danger, I refuse to just sit here and vegetate, waiting for a man to kill us. I have to do something!" I snatched my hat from the stand and stood looking at him defiantly.

Holmes had fixed me with a deep frown.

"Watson, it is too dangerous."

"Rubbish. When the entire Moriarty gang was after us, you ran about London for days on end with only minor incidents happening. With us being watchful, the chances are even slimmer. Either way, Holmes, I will not remain in this house on such a beautiful day."

I had forced a cheerful note into my tone, hoping to dislodge him from his depressive state, but something must have rung false in my voice, for he eyed me skeptically.

"Come on, Holmes. Let's go to a concert or an art gallery or something. Surely Moran would not take any chances in a public place like that – there would be too many people around!" I pleaded desperately, wanting my friend to snap out of it and back to his normal collected self.

After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "You really are going?"

"Yes."

"Even against my wishes?"

"Even so," I bluffed – knowing in my heart that I would never leave him alone at a time like this.

Either my skills at dissimulation have improved with time, or else he was too distracted to perceive it, for he sighed and replied, "Then I shall have to come along."

"Good," I responded, handing him his hat.

We exited the building with a little trepidation, but saw nothing whatsoever amiss on Baker Street. I saw Holmes's sharp grey eyes flit between the two men on guard at our door and we nodded to each other.

"Be careful, Mr. Holmes," the one said – I could not recall his name. Hunter, I thought.

Holmes nodded with one of those twitching half-smiles, and we set off.

As the minutes passed into an hour, with absolutely nothing untoward happening, I began to relax somewhat, and I could feel Holmes's tenseness begin to ease as his sharp grip on my arm relaxed its nearly painful hold.

Indeed, it was rather hard to be morose on a day like this one. The sun shining, warm breezes blowing away the smog and grime of the city, and the birds and flowers of the parks we passed were like a soothing balm against the horrors lurking around our minds.

We spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in an art gallery of Holmes's choice – he had got quite heated when I questioned his taste in Renaissance paintings, but I was thrilled to see as he drove his point home with me that his eyes no longer held that fear in them that I had seen last night and that had scared me so.

After an early supper at a local café – Holmes made me stop the meal after a few moments and insisted we wait to see if it had been poisoned (it had not), - we turned our steps back toward Baker Street.

"My dear Watson," he remarked as we strolled along, weaving around dawdling passers-by, "I must say that your advice, as always, was quite sound. I do feel somewhat better now. And you are right, we cannot live our lives in constant fear."

"It is a more dangerous habit than living the life of a detective," I answered him pointedly, "because fear makes a man do things he would not otherwise. It distorts his judgment and weakens his powers."

He shot me a sideways look. "Is that a not-so-subtle hint, old fellow?"

I shrugged. "You are the deducing machine, not I, Holmes!"

We both smiled, for the first time all day, and a few moments later we had arrived at 221b with absolutely nothing happening.

In the beauty of the twilight, I could have believed that the whole thing had been an atrocious nightmare, were it not for the visible reminder of the two stout bobbies standing on either side of our front door.

They saluted when we approached, and Holmes unlocked the door and opened it.

I saw him cast a sharp glance at the floor, and then he stiffened. "Watson!" he hissed, shutting the door without a sound.

"What?"

"Look here," he whispered, pointing to the stairs.

By the light of the hall lamp, I could see it – dry pieces of mud on the carpeted stairs. It had not been there this morning when we left. My face drained of color.

Someone had been in the house.

Oooh, sorry 'bout the cliffhanger! (somewhat sorry, anyway!) - please review!