It took them some time to make their way back to the main road, whereupon it was another fifteen minutes of walking in the damp, persistent drizzle until they came across a cab. By then, both men were soaked and shivering; Watson was leaning heavily on his cane, coughing painfully, as Holmes nudged him into the cab before climbing in and rapping on the roof to signal to the cabbie to make haste.
"Buckhannon is still out there, somewhere, doctor," Holmes said, distantly, "I fear that although he is no real match for either of us, he will become something of a thorn in our sides…"
"You do not expect him to make another move soon, then?" Watson asked, his voice rasping in his raw throat as he spoke.
"No," Holmes shook his head, "I believe he had planned to kill you when you walked into the warehouse, and then me at his leisure… when his first shot missed, he panicked and ran. He will spend some time formulating his next plan, I would wager. He is not a particularly intelligent opponent."
The last words were spoken with something akin to contempt, and Watson gave a quick bark of a laugh, which dissolved into another wracking coughing fit which left him trembling and gasping for breath. Concerned, Holmes leaned forwards in his seat, reaching out with one hand to grasp Watson's shoulder.
"My dear fellow," Holmes murmured, "you really are quite ill, aren't you?"
"A mere cold, Holmes," Watson replied, with forced lightness, but little conviction, "I shall be fine with a change of clothes and a cup of tea…"
He trailed off, coughing again, painfully; struggling to draw breath. Holmes quickly switched seats to sit beside his companion, grasping his arm in horror.
"Watson!" he said, worry edging his voice, "Breathe, man! Slowly, now!"
Gasping and wheezing, Watson managed to get his breathing back under control, even as tremors wracked his body. Holmes kept hold of him for the duration of the journey back to Baker Street.
On arrival, Holmes quickly paid the cabbie, and helped Watson from the vehicle, despite the doctor's weak protests that he could manage. Holmes opened the front door to their lodgings with more force than he had probably intended, shed his coat and carelessly cast it to the floor. He then assisted Watson in removing his damp coat, and, taking the doctor's arm again, all but carried him up the stairs towards the living room.
Holmes pushed the door open, concerned only with getting Watson warm and dry before he considered sending for another doctor, but he froze in horror when he entered the room. Watson, exhausted, raised his head slowly, questioningly, and gasped, triggering another coughing fit.
Buckhannon simply smiled at them cruelly, the pistol he held pointed squarely at Holmes.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, evenly, "do come in, close the door, and make yourself at home…"
~*~