A/N: My apologies for the longer than expected wait. Still getting back into the routine after Hurricane Sandy. Thank you to everyone that has fav'd, reviewed, and followed. I hope to wrap this up shortly and then on to NaNoWriMo.


Chapter Six

Holmes continued to write the words already before him on a separate page. This required little thought, even with the man hovering over his shoulder. Instead, he turned his mind to a the more calming task of sorting out his own thoughts and feelings of the the night. He considered his position with Mr. Gibson and his insane plot. He considered Watson's already suffering from the effects of far too much cocaine. He considered his own guilt in this matter. He considered the previous case that had let to this juncture. He considered his brother's likely reactions to his obvious suicide. He considered his previous attitude toward Watson. He considered what Scotland Yard would make of this whole mess. He considered his regrets. He considered all the unfinished cases he would be leaving behind.

All these simultaneous thoughts and more raging through his mind being swiftly acknowledged, categorized, and filed away. This systematic approach to his inner processing steadied his hand upon the page, slowed his heart rate, and calmed his frayed nerves. Only then did he realize he had considered nearly every aspect and inch of his life of recent weeks that lead to this moment. Combined, this was likely more information than any other human being could process in hours. For him, it was a matter of minutes. And, as he began the second paragraph, did he realize he had considered everything except a way out.

Quickly he dismissed this idea as irrelevant and an unecessary waste of time.

He was set to his task. He had made his decision.

Corpses don't need a way out, Watson's voice spoke acidly in his mind making his hand hesitate on the page momentarily.

Silently growling to the voice in his mind, he satisfied it by running through a myriad scenarios; all of which still left one or both of them dead. In the seconds it took to accomplish this, however, Mr. Gibson's attention was drawn away from Holmes' task. The sound of movement from the bedroom finally penetrated Holmes' thoughts. It was quiet movement, but enough that both had heard. Even as Gibson took a couple of steps away from the desk, Holmes' heart stuttered. That wasn't the sound of Watson tossing on the bed helplessly. He was certain he had just heard his window opening.

Even in his condition, Watson refused to give up without a fight.

The wave of shame that swept through him was consuming. In that moment, so much of what had occurred these last few weeks—and especially tonight—made perfect sense. Watson had not given up on him. Watson was fighting him in a subtle, less direct way, to stop his friend from doing what he believed was wrong. He had not selfishly walked away to protect himself from the inevitable disappointment, he'd been provoking Holmes to react. Tonight, he had not been sacrificing himself to spare Holmes. He had been buying them time for the great brain without a heart to formulate a plan.

And Holmes had almost done exactly the opposite. While his Watson still believed in him, he had given up on himself. Finally, he understood.

Seeing Gibson pulling the key from his pocket as he approached the door converted all of these things into a moment of panic, frantic thought. Holmes reacted more out of instinct than any thought. Knocking over the ink bottle in his sudden movement, he opened the drawer that Watson reserved for a special item. This accomplished two things simultaneously. Only inches from the door, Gibson turned his attention back to Holmes, buying Watson the precious seconds he would need to escape through the window. The second was that he was now armed. Not sparing any time for self-recriminations at his ridiculously clouded judgment in failing to see this sooner, he turned the gun on Gibson.

"If you would be so kind as to step away from that door, Mr. Gibson, I would appreciate continuing our earlier discussion."

Gibson's expression clouded only for a moment before he smiled. "You've disappointed me, Mr. Holmes. We both know you are not one to shoot an unarmed man in the back."

Holmes considered this, as it was very true. With his one arm and both legs still tied to the chair, he had little or no hope of controlling the situation. His only recourse would be to kill a man in his own sitting room. A man, obviously on the edge of madness, who had little care for his own life was a dangerous enough situation. Still hearing noises from the bedroom beyond, both briefly turned their eyes back to the door. Seeing Holmes' hesitation, Gibson made his move.

Not wasting time on the key, Gibson used his larger size to kick the door to the bedroom. The kick was placed perfectly beside the knob shattering the door frame. At the same instant, Holmes fired. There was no decision in his mind. He simply would not allow Watson to come to further harm.

Gibson's body jerked, as the bullet entered low in the left of his back. He stumbled and fell into the now open door. From this angle, Holmes could not hope to fire another shot in his direction without risking Watson. Cursing his bound position in the chair, he set the gun on his desk as he frantically sought for a letter opener or a knife or anything he could use to cut himself free. It was a matter of moments to locate a letter opener, but he could already hear movement from the bedroom as Gibson recovered from the initial shock. He could hear nothing from Watson as he frantically sawed at the scarf used to bind his legs.

A chill breeze from the bedroom was accompanied by a wordless growl of disappointment and growing rage. As this increased in volume, he listened to Gibson apparently trying to avoid Holmes by escaping through the other door with his key. In a matter of seconds he would be going after Watson, who had obviously managed to escape through the window. Having freed his other leg just as he heard the key turning in the lock, Holmes ignored his other hand as he dropped the letter opener and took up the gun. Dragging the chair with him, he dashed toward the sitting room door. He offered a silent thank you to Providence that it was not locked as he fumbled his fingers around the knob and the gun.

He finally managed to get the door open just as Gibson was disappearing around the corner of the landing and down the stairs toward the foyer. Holmes only distantly felt the excruciating pain of his shoulder nearly being wrenched from the socket as the chair caught momentarily on the door. Yanking it with all his considerable strength, he again dragged it with him as he dashed down the landing. Without a second thought, he rounded the corner and fired two more shots down the stairs. The second winged Gibson in the shoulder throwing him off balance. But that mattered not at all when the third impacted him squarely in the back throwing him the rest of the way down the stairs. He landed in a heap at the bottom, his eyes staring blankly back up at Holmes accusingly.

Holmes' world ceased to exist. For several seconds those dark eyes bored into his soul and called to the darkness. He had never before killed a man; not with his own hand and deliberate intent. He could not imagine the effect this would have on him. But as his clenched stomach lurched nauseatingly, he forced these thoughts and feelings aside. He had to get to Watson. Still dragging the chair behind him, he returned to his bedroom. In seconds he had cut his nearly useless hand away from the chair and dashed to the window. He nearly sighed with relief as there was no sign of his friend lying helpless in the slushy remains of snow below the window. His keen eyes also noted there were no fresh tracks or trails.

"Watson?"

The lack of answer sent his already racing heart stuttering. In seconds he was ready to tear apart his room. Forcing his racing thoughts into something resembling order, he searched under the bed and in the corners. As he opened the door of the wardrobe to find Watson curled motionless within, his relief left him weak-kneed. Ignoring the screaming pain in his left arm, he gently took Watson from the wardrobe to place him back on the bed. His friend never stirred, though Holmes took extra time to ensure for himself he was still breathing. He covered Watson and closed the window before quickly dashing back down the stairs and out into the cold night air in search of a constable.