Ragha an dhiogha.
The lesser of two evils.
"Watson! Get away from him!"
On impulse I did step back from the man I had been pleased to see only a moment ago. Traversing Regent's at that time of night was lonely, and dangerous. Friendly faces, even if they weren't remembered, were a welcome sight to me, especially after Holmes' cheek.
"Holmes?"
My strange companion emerged around a bend in the path. And my anger died a little as I saw he was limping badly, his breath came in heavy gulps of air.
He had a revolver in hand and raised it to point at Stapleton. "Get away from him." he barked at both of us and I shied back.
"Holmes, are you mad!"
"I feared something like this," Stapleton muttered. "Beware of him, Doctor."
"Nonsense," Holmes growled, "You're not fooling anyone you deranged lunatic. Watson, come over here."
"I will not move while you are pointing that revolver!" I cried, hoping to jolt some sense into the madman. "I may be confused but I'm not going to let you shoot someone."
Holmes blinked, still breathing heavily. He raised the gun, but only to swipe at his eyes. They were doused in a stream of blood coming from a cut on his forehead.
"I'm not going to shoot him," he declared in a softer voice as though the idea had never occurred to him.
"Then put the gun down."
Holmes shook his head. "Come here, Watson, and take it from me. I will only give it up to you."
And he held it out quite willingly.
"You aren't going to trust him to give it to you!" Stapleton snapped, halting my impulsive step forwards.
I ignored him, not because I distrusted him, but he was a distraction. I began to walk slowly towards my former roommate. My hand outstretched to take the revolver.
He looked like a madman. Not only was his face covered in blood, but his right leg as well. His trouser leg was in shreds. The colorless tint of his skin attested it was all his own blood.
"Don't listen to him, Doctor." Stapleton hissed behind me. I heard the scuffle of his boots on the path as he started after me.
In an instant Holmes had straightened the gun in his hand, and the man behind me cried out in pain as the gun snapped and filled the air with cordite.
"Holmes!"
The detective dropped the gun at once.
"It's only his leg, Watson, a graze at most."
"You shot an unarmed man!"
"Oh I have no doubt he is armed, my friend." Holmes muttered darkly, reaching into his coat and freeing an odd bound manuscript from its folds. "He would have no qualms about killing you, to keep you from getting to this."
Holmes extended the book towards me.
It looked a very ordinary thing, bound in leather, if very old. And yet the way Holmes held it out with serious consideration writ all over his suffering face, he might have thought he was handing me the world.
"What is it?"
"It is you." He said eagerly, "Your thoughts your memories, the sum of who you are; a journal for your whole life, my dear fellow." Over the last few days his expression had been shuttered. Now he appealed to me openly, practically thrusting to volume at me. He wanted very badly me to take it.
When I did not reach for it, his face fell somewhat
"Why should Stapleton want to keep that from me?"
"Because he stole it from you; he used it to steal your memories."
Behind me I heard Stapleton give a high, scornful laugh, thought it died off in a pained moan.
I sighed deeply, wondering if I had two injured madmen on my hands. One looking as though he would collapse any moment, the makeshift bandage on his leg was a disgrace. "Holmes, are you talking of witchcraft?"
"Take it, Watson." Holmes took another step, stumbled, but kept the book extended in one shaking hand. "Even if you don't wish to open it, even if you think I am mad. No one should possess this save you. Take it."
I took it, and for a moment both our hands were closed over the volume, while Stapleton groaned and fretted behind me.
Holmes smiled, his lips grey, and relinquished it to me, falling back to sit on the grass beside the path.
I examined the warm leather in my hands, marked with his bloody fingerprints.
