Disclaimer – I don't own them, except for Sweetie

Author notes – this is the third in the 'Observations' series, which was entirely unintentional and seems to have taken on a life of its own! (Help! How do I stop this thing?????) It's a bit angst ridden at times and carries on from things mentioned in 'Boswell'.

PS – If you want to see exactly what Sweetie looks like, google 'Harlequin Dane' and click on images…

Observations of a Yarder

We were not far along the tunnel when a small lantern appeared in front of us, along with a very ominous and familiar sound. I had been walking at the head of our little convoy, Lestrade at my side. The Constables were carrying Watson on a makeshift stretcher of woollen capes, in a method they were intimately familiar with. I had been given a lamp and instructions to 'help the Inspector', something I was proud to do. I'd linked arms with Lestrade, much to the mans' surprise, though he did not need the support. He was shivering with the cold, but more than able to walk out of here under his own powers.

Watson had made no sound as we transferred him onto the Constables capes. His head had lolled laxly in my hands; there had been no sign that he was aware of us and our gentle ministrations in the slightest. His unconscious state would at least protect him from the pain of movement, but was a concern to us all. Blood loss was no little factor in his condition, and though the wound had yet to show obvious signs of infection I had no doubt that Watson was in for a rough time of it. We had only just begun to face the trials ahead of us.

"What are you doing with my Boswell?" the voice behind the lamp was eerie enough to make the hairs stand on my arms. There was something not quite right about it, though I would be hard pressed to identify what that was.

"We're taking him to medical help," Lestrade spoke up, stating the obvious in a sharp voice, "He's in desperate need of attention."

"It is not your place!" Jones, for I was sure it was he, hissed in a venomous tone, "He's mine."

"John Watson belongs to no man," I spoke up coldly, my fury making silence impossible, and Jones finally stepped into the light of our lanterns. He made a perfect target, but for the fact that we were all engaged. Hopkins was at the rear of our little convoy, and had no clear shot through our party. The Constables were all occupied with their grips on the stretcher. Watson was unconscious. I had two lanterns in one hand and Lestrade's arm in the other, plus I was not carrying any weapons. I had not had time to arm myself as we dashed out of Baker Street the first time, and had not the space to carry weapons plus my tools the second. Lestrade shifted a little in my grip and I cautiously loosed his arm, though we were careful not to betray what we had done.

"John Watson is the biographer of Sherlock Holmes!" Jones shouted, "You sir, are a foul impostor! In fact it was you who harmed him so grievously those years ago! I shall have my revenge!"

As he ranted I took in the details of the man before me. Jones was short, flabby and red haired. His blue eyes were cloudy and the whites were jaundiced. He was clearly ill, gripped by a fever and palsied, the gun in his hand wavering dangerously. He had yet to aim clearly at any one target, though he wouldn't have to. A lucky shot could do just as much damage as an intentional one.

"Stop it, Jones," Hopkins sounded weary, "We're well aware of who you are. There are reinforcements headed this way, and a platoon of Constables at the exits. Put that gun down and come along."

I marvelled that the weary, and slightly bored, tone of Hopkins had such a calming influence on Jones. Evidently he responded better to that than the cold fury of my own voice and I made an effort to master my temper. If he was clam, there was a better chance of us somehow overpowering him, or at least holding him at bay until the other stretcher party arrived as reinforcements. Instead of continuing to rant, Jones looked a little disconcerted, losing some of his momentum.

"What… no… I can't let you… take him from me…" he mumbled a little uncertainly, confusion clouding his eyes even further. Beside me, Lestrade coughed, rounding his back and turning towards the wall. I let him pull free of my grip, attempting to keep an eye on both him and Jones.

"We're not taking anyone from anyone," Hopkins sighed boredly, "You'll come along with us, now. Quietly."

"No… this isn't… my plan…" Jones shook his head, wavering on the spot in his indecision.

Lestrade put a hand on the wall to brace himself as he continued coughing. His free hand curled around his body and I sensed the alarm of his fellow Yarders. This sudden attack of illness was most unexpected, and possibly the first sign of infection from swimming through such dirty waters. That it had set in so quickly was highly unusual and a cause for concern.

"Sir?" one of the Constables asked nervously, shifting a little, but not letting go of his part of the woollen stretcher.

" 'M fine!" Lestrade gasped, and then coughed again, bending forward as he did. Something about the posture struck me as false; the coughs didn't seem hard enough to require such a posture. I made sure that my face gave no sign of my thoughts as Jones was watching us all closely.

"What's wrong with him?" Jones asked, frowning, "Is he sick?"

I felt myself redden in rage at the mildly curious tone, and bit back a scathing retort. The man's mind was completely useless! If Lestrade was not faking then this was a precursor of the illness that my Watson would suffer. Lestrade's coughs trailed off and he straightened, giving a little shuffle as he did to regain his balance. In the next instant his truncheon, which he had drawn under the cover of the coughing bout, was flying through the air to strike Jones directly between the eyes. The madman collapsed like a sack of potatoes, a look of surprise on his face.

Lestrade and I both leapt for him, securing the gun and preventing his lantern from setting fire to the passageway. We didn't have time to attempt a detour if Lestrade was also falling ill.

"Good shot, sir!" Whitehorse cheered from where he stood, and Lestrade sighed, bowing his head. I shut Jones' eyes, though the man didn't deserve any sign of respect, and then put a hand on Lestrade's shoulder.

"He's dead," I called back to our comrades, and then lowered my voice, "You had no idea that the blow would be fatal. Any other man, when struck there, would simply suffer a concussion."

"Won't look good on the report, though," Lestrade muttered, then helped me move the corpse to one side, "We'll send someone back for him. Let's get Watson to the surface."

I nodded and recollected my lanterns. Jones' would be left beside the body as a marker for the Constabulary. Lestrade stood with a gusty sigh, a sure sign that there was nothing wrong with his lungs despite the very good impersonation he had given of an asthma sufferer only a moment ago. As we hurried on, I made a note to file my own report with Lestrade's superiors, ensuring that no harm came to his career over Jones' death.

It was the least I could do.

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