"I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven't got the guts to bite people themselves." - Author Unknown

Holmes

My dismay at finding that Sinclair's debilitating 'accident' had been just another enormous lie was quashed under the sensation of blood running across the back of my hand and the sense that this was not exactly a promising situation.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Watson make a dive for Callaway, who had started to crawl for my lost pistol. Thus assured of that quarter's security, I dodged a swing from Sinclair and snatched a pike of my own from the weaponry adorning the walls, whirling 'round and standing at bay – only just in time to dodge another sharp blow from the man. Fair play was obviously not in the man's vocabulary, not that I should have expected anything more.

I blocked the next blow and for a few moments the only sounds in my immediate perception were the clangs of metal upon metal and grunts from my opponent. I blocked a slashing blow at my legs, only barely deflecting his weapon's razor-sharp head against the wall, putting a jagged slit in the wall-paper.

Sinclair stepped back, looking at me with eyes that may have been praising had they not been full of so much hate. "The Doctor's accounts of your skill with various weapons are not as exaggerated as I thought, Holmes."

He was trying to distract me, as I belatedly realised when the pike came suddenly stabbing at my shoulder – I had just enough time to duck and weave away. I blocked a vicious swipe at my torso and returned the blow, but Sinclair deflected it with more ease than I had been – obviously the man was expert at his violent pastime.

And expert in his verbal barrage as well.

"But I rather think other items of note in those stories are rather exaggerated – surely a 'brain without a heart' would not be so eager to walk into this house, breaking the law in order to help that worthless girl?"

Block, block, swing – Sinclair jumped lithely out of harm's way and nearly stabbed me in the eye. I ducked and the blow went harmlessly into the wall, glancing off the plaster with a spray of dust.

"Or so perfectly willing to take a bullet for his friend? Come now, Mr. Holmes!"

I felt my jaw clench instinctively, swinging with all my strength at the man's smiling head. He jumped backwards, my momentum throwing me off-balance. I righted myself in time, however, and blocked again, the strength of his savage blows enough to send a jarring shock through my wrists.

"You see, that is your one mistake, Holmes. Why I have been able to beat you and no one else has been," he went on, that mocking voice ringing in my head.

Block, thrust. Dodge, block. I wanted to say "You haven't beat me yet.", but I lacked the breath to do so. He may have been aging, but he was incredibly agile, and I began to believe that this sparring match might end with a blade buried deep in me.

"Every man has a weakness, Holmes. Attachment leads to a dependency – and dependency is weakness," Sinclair said with a leer, stabbing at my neck with the weapon.

I blocked the blow and returned it with a glancing one of my own that made him grunt in pain, a dark stain showing through his sleeve where I had nicked him.

Dependency was a weakness?

"That is the whole reason you are here, is it not? That child has wormed her way into your affections and you yourself have become attached to her."

Much as I hated to admit the fact, he was quite correct – I was nowhere near as attached to the child as Watson but…

I ducked another blow, sternly bringing my attention back to the here and now – another break in my focus could very well mean my death. I was not so sure this would end in my favour even with my full attention, much less if I were distracted.

I heard a sharp clang across the room, and I automatically glanced up to see Watson scrambling after the gun, which the captive manservant had apparently kicked from his hand.

That was no ordinary trained staff, as we were discovering the hard way.

"There, you see? That illustrates my point exactly, Holmes," I heard the menace in Sinclair's voice and whirled back to face him, deflecting a slash at my face. "You depend far too much on him, you know. And it's a two-way street; you look after him when it is your own back you should be watching."

I bit my tongue, renewing my attack on the man in a series of well-timed thrusts that drove him back against the wall, to my exultation. But his face was still frozen in that amiable smile as he coolly blocked the last few strokes. This whole fight had taken less than a minute, but it seemed like a lifetime already.

"The secret to invincibility, Holmes, is having no attachments, you know. If all your assets are expendable, then the loss of them would not bother you in the least," said he with a smirk, "which is why I have remained untouchable for all this time."

"No longer," I growled, being forced to weave away from the villain as he brought the point of that pike dangerously close to my eyes.

"You were far stronger when you were alone, you know."

I nearly stopped, only deflecting the next thrust mechanically.

"No, really, Mr. Holmes. Think about it – alone you have no weakness. Your dependency on your…friend, has made you weak. Pathetic, really. Why you should deteriorate you powers with a dependency like that is beyond my ken."

Weakness…I have never been able to tolerate weakness. And it was true, I acted much more freely and carelessly when alone. But…

Too late, I realised he had finally succeeded in distracting my focus – no doubt what he had been planning all along the line. I only just saw a blur as the pike came slashing at my neck and shoulder; I had not enough time to do anything in defence. I instinctively threw my arm up in front of my face and felt a flash of biting agony as the blade ripped into the skin above my elbow, the impact spinning me round and knocking me sprawling on the carpet.

Something told me to get my senses back in order, as this was obviously not the only injury Sinclair meant to deal to me…but the room seemed to be spinning, and between that and the sickening smell and sight of more blood than I would prefer to see running out of my arm, I was rather dizzy, desperately fighting the blackness that curled 'round the edges of my senses.

I clutched my wounded arm reflexively, trying to regain my breathing, and finally shook my blurred vision clear enough to see Sinclair standing over me, his face complacently triumphant, the pike held upraised in his hand.

Somehow that fact did not seem to be as alarming as it probably should have been…I was not so sure that I was not dying already. Odd, how my thoughts and sight should be so foggy when I could hear perfectly clearly, Sinclair spouting some rubbish about victory.

As the shock wore off within a matter of seconds, I finally could see perfectly clearly and think lucidly as well. If I could roll to the side when he brought the weapon down –

But there was a suddenly rattling of chain, and a vicious snarling sound that I recognised all too well. I saw Sinclair's face freeze in an expression of absolute the second he turned, and a moment later he gave an awful scream that will ring forever in my memory as the vicious brute of a guard dog came flying over my prostrate form, knocking the man to the ground and sinking its long fangs into his arm. Sinclair screamed in pain as the dog shook the arm viciously between its jaws. Strange, that the thing should be loose at so opportune a moment…

Watson

I found that Callaway was not a man to give up easily; when I attempted to hinder Sinclair, the man grabbed me by the ankle. Not an intelligent action on his part, and his howls rang out when I laid foot to his bleeding leg. I managed to tie him up with my cravat and handkerchief only barely. This fellow was annoyingly persistent against pain and blood loss.

I barely heard Sinclair's voice, and yet the foreboding sounds of metal upon metal spoke of little time for me to act. I could not place the revolver at the moment, and I was under no delusions that I had time enough to find it. There was another weapon in the room, however.

As Sinclair shoved my dear friend with his boot, calmly spouting some drivel about victory in a voice that fairly dripped with maniacal triumph, I crept to the side and came up behind the guard dog, which was now straining at its chain and growling ferociously in the direction of its master. Pray heaven it did not decide to turn round before I got there…

But no, it was to intent upon watching the man who had abused it for so long raise that pike, intent on dealing the final blow to my dearest friend. Out of my peripheral, I saw Holmes's head raise feebly from the floor, his eyes taking on a frantic look as Sinclair raised the pike, razor-sharp point downward. Then I reached the dog and unsnapped the chain from its collar, springing back out of its way the instant after.

Like a suddenly uncoiled spring, the brute bounded from the wall with a speed I never would have expected, giving such a ferocious snarling growl that Sinclair spun 'round on the instant. I saw his eyes fill with terror for the fraction of a second before the beast attacked, knocking the villain to the ground and sinking its huge jaws into the screaming man's arm.

But there was no time to think of that. I made a dash for Holmes, swallowing down my nausea at the sight of my wounded comrade. Across the room, Calloway was struggling furiously, and besides we had no idea if the dog would continue to maul a dead man or would turn its attentions upon us; I hoped the beast would go for the manservant before us, but we had to flee.

I slipped an arm under Holmes's unresponsive form and started to lift him, only to be surprised when his eyes fluttered open and he looked at me dazedly.

"Bravo, Watson," he muttered, his hand clenching convulsively on my arm.

"Can you walk?" I demanded, not having time for other words.

"We'll see, won't we?" he replied with a perfectly ghastly smile.

I pulled my uninjured arm over my shoulder and started for the door. My heart grew heavy when it was obvious that I was more dragging him than anything else.

The screams of the criminal mastermind reverberating through the room and making us both shudder. Then there was silence… I could guess that the animal had gotten its teeth into something more vital than his arm.

I more than half-carried him from the room, for he did not get his feet under him until we were in the hall, and then he took a bit of the weight off me, though he staggered drunkenly, leaning heavily on me. I prayed the wound he had sustained had avoided an artery, or the blood-loss could be serious.

I quickened my pace, pulling Holmes along with me. He had no energy for talking, and I had little to spare as we went as fast as his weakness would allow through the mansion, trying to find an exit. I saw light ahead, a watery glow that bespoke of rainy skies, and hurried toward it – thank heaven, it was the front door of this deathly place.

"Watson," he whispered faintly.

"Save your strength, Holmes," I said worriedly, as he stumbled once more.

"No, behind –" he gasped, "dog – barking."

So it was. Why…

Muffled barking, not snarling. That meant it no longer had a victim to work on…which could mean that Callaway –

I turned halfway and stopped, listening – and heard limping footsteps. That man was inhuman; being able to get loose from my hasty binds, shut the door on the dog, and come after us with two bullets in his body? I had not expected a man like Sinclair to hire someone who could not earn his keep, but to possess such stamina…

At the same time as this discouraging revelation, Holmes's arm began to slip from my shoulder and he sagged against me with a low gasp. I was about to pick him up outright when, to my astonishment, the door up ahead burst open and a group of drenched but very welcome figures appeared, pouring in through the opening and scattering in a defensive formation.

"Lestrade!" I gasped in surprise, as the bedraggled Inspector dashed towards us, followed by a trio of his men.

Then behind us I heard a thud, and I instinctively pushed Holmes up against the wall as Callaway appeared, limping heavily but brandishing a still very serviceable revolver that rightfully belonged to my friend.

Lestrade, for once in his life, actually was firmly on the ball, and had barked out an order to drop the weapon before the man had even raised the gun. I desperately hoped Callaway would surrender, as being caught in a crossfire was not my idea of a pleasant situation.

Providence was evidently smiling on us, for the manservant glared for a moment, then dropped the pistol with a clank, sagging against the wall. I was forced to admire the man's endurance and loyalty to his master, but I had far more important things to think about. Holmes was still leaning against me, only half-conscious, and as Lestrade's men closed in on Callaway I lowered my wounded friend to the floor as gently as I could.

I was surprised to see him open his eyes and peer up at the worried official standing over us. "Lestrade, what about your precious warrant?" he murmured with the faintest of smiles.

I took the offered handkerchief from the man and used it to tighten the improvised tourniquet on Holmes's arm, glad to see a bit of colour returning to his face, now that the tension and the shock had eased slightly. The wound appeared to have missed the main artery, for which I was devoutly grateful, and I sighed with intense relief as Lestrade responded to Holmes's query.

"Your brother sent us here, Mr. Holmes," the man replied, crouching down beside us. "Since the mansion was in the name of Sinclair's charity, not he himself, all we had to do was telegraph the head of the charity. He did not know there was anything to hide; he sent us permission to enter without hesitation. All legal and proper. Smart man, your brother, Mr. Holmes."

"So he has made sure to tell me on numerous occasions," my friend muttered, glancing at my anxious face. "For heaven's sake, Watson, you look worse than I feel. Lestrade, have any of your men a brandy bottle?"

I glared at him, but could not repress a sigh of relief – if he could be petulant then he would no doubt be fine, in time.

"Sinclair is in a back room, Inspector," I said, tightly wrapping the gash in Holmes's arm with an obliging few constables' handkerchiefs until I could get the necessary equipment for treatment, "but be careful, there's a vicious brute of a dog in there as well."

The Inspector's face was the facial version of curdled milk. He likely had an approximate picture of what he would find behind that door; most dogs were notoriously messy eaters. "Oh, lovely. I take it Sinclair's dead, then?"

"I certainly hope so," I muttered. Holmes winced (and not from the pain in his arm), and Lestrade's thin eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "I give you my word, the only crime we are guilty of here is trespassing, Inspector," I hastily amended, realising how my words must have sounded to a policeman.

"Well, it saves a bit of paperwork if he is," was the good man's only comment.

My friend and I were silent as the inspector ordered his men down the hallway, following them. It was Holmes who spoke first.

"What's wrong, my dear fellow?"

Not wanting to meet his gaze entirely, I continued to fuss with his bandaging. "Sinclair. He used me to distract you – and nearly killed you."

"Yes, he did," He saw no point in denying the fact, at any rate.

"He was right, you know," I said hoarsely, forcing myself to meet those stone gray eyes. "You are stronger on your own."

"Perhaps. But the same could be said of you, you know. Watson, there are always risks, and there always will be. I knew that when I took up the detective's mantle, and I knew that when I welcomed your fists into the fray. I will always fret over you, just as you will always fuss over me, but all things considered…" A smile eased its way onto his weary face despite the events of the day. "I would not change a moment, Watson. There are likely times when I would have died without you. If your companionship creates an Achilles heel, well… I shall simply have to guard my feet that much more."

I knew he was trying to make me laugh, but all I could manage was a weak chuckle. It was a very genuine heartfelt chuckle, to my credit. "Do you think you can walk the distance to a carriage, dear fellow?"

"I will do my best, Watson. There is a child not too far away who will be grateful to see your face."

As it turned out, Eve's exhaustion won out against her worry. When we knocked on the hotel room to be let in, Trevor opened the door and hissed at us to be quiet.

"I've already aquired the adjoining room," he whispered, pointing to the door leading into the next room. "But please be silent; Miss Eve only just drifted off."

The creature was cocooned in blankets, peacefully slumbering against Mycroft, whose head was propped against the headboard in sleep. Trevor had thrown a blanket over the pair of them, but it was obvious that both needed the rest.

Once I had settled Holmes in the next room, I tentatively checked her temperature. Her fever was steadily dropping.

When I was a boy in Scotland, I once heard someone say there was a special angel for children.