From Book girl fan: "Don't even try it."


A/N. This references the previous chapter.


I have made no secret of my disdain for Watson's work. His fondness for sentimentality and romanticism turns what should be a series of logical dissertations on the art of deduction into lurid tales worthy of a penny dreadful. It is also a continual source of frustration that Watson chooses to downplay his own considerable abilities. It is true that he cannot hold a candle to my powers of observation, yet it is due to his bravery and cool head in a crisis that so many of my cases have been brought to a successful conclusion.

In the moments after I rounded the corner into the alley and found Matthews waiting for me, I could not help but wish I had not left that coolness and bravery behind. Matthews was braced and waiting, evidently expecting my arrival. He swung a makeshift club - I vaguely registered it as a short iron bar, no doubt scrounged from the nearby factories - and then my world went white with pain, accompanied by the dull snap of bone. My leg gave way beneath me, tumbling me helplessly to the ground at Matthews' feet. I tried to rise, only to be knocked back with a contemptuous kick.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," Matthews said, mouth curling into a cruel smile, "I knew you'd be following me, but I'll admit I was expecting someone more...impressive." He hefted the iron pole. "Ah well."

"Don't even try it."

I managed to turn enough to see Watson standing in the corner of the alley. Despite the darkness, his revolver pointed unerringly at Matthews; his voice held no hint of the kindness that so often characterized him, nor the bumbling idiocy he portrayed in his stories. It was grim and filled with cool determination.

"Back away and lay your weapon on the ground," Watson said, thumbing back the hammer on the revolver.

Matthews simply laughed. "In this light? Without hitting your friend?" He tightened his grip on the iron. "I'll risk it, Doctor."

The revolver barked three times. Matthews froze, startled, and then the metal bar clattered to the ground. His lifeless corpse followed a moment later.

"Holmes?"

I wrenched my gaze away from this latest proof that Watson is more than he pretends. "I'm alright, Watson."

He crouched beside me, sparing Matthews no more than a glance. "Your leg is broken, my dear fellow," he said, voice filled with concern. "I can't examine it properly in this light, and I'd prefer to use a stretcher rather than have you try to limp out of this alley. Have you your police whistle?

I patted the appropriate pocket. "I'm afraid I must have lost it…"

Watson rose reluctantly. "Then I will go seek out a constable on the main street." Then he skewered me with a surprisingly fierce look. "Do not go anywhere without me, Holmes."

I was in far too much pain by that time to protest.