"You're really planning on.. no, Holmes, this is too far. I've gone along with everything else, but not this. I won't let you put him in danger."

"Watson, I understand your worry, but I assure you this is the best course of action. He is in no danger; we will be nearby to see to that."

Holmes wasn't prepared for the angry way Watson began to argue against his plan. "Holmes, you asked me to protect him and now you ask me to put him in danger? No! Absolutely not. Sir Henry is not a pawn in your chess game against Stapleton, and neither am I. If you think I'm just going to sit around and watch as you play God Almighty with his life then you don't know me as well as you think."

"Watson," Holmes growled, "I have to have proof. You know that. I can't just arrest Stapleton; there has to be facts! Evidence! Sir Henry will be protected by both our revolvers as well as Lestrade's."

"No, Holmes. This is too far. I shouldn't have even allowed Sir Henry to accept the invitation to Merripit house. If I'd known what your course of action was to be…"

"Watson…"

"Will you change your plan?"

"Why?" Holmes sneered, his patience spent. "Because your new best friend might have a bit of a surprise before being liberated from all fear of a demon hound forever? For you? Because you're a little bit nervous about putting down a dog? Really, Watson, I've never known you to be so cowardly."

Watson slammed his fist on the table. "Dammit, Holmes! Do you know what this case has been like? How terribly sick at heart I've been? My only thoughts have been for Sir Henry and his safety, even if it's at risk of my own."

Holmes sobered. "My dear Watson, I had no idea you've been so tried…"

"Oh, what would you know about it?" Watson growled. "You, who lie so prettily and easily to even me. It's all just a game to you, isn't it? Would you even care if the hound tore my throat out, or would it be just another sacrifice to the altar of your ego?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson," Holmes said, frowning darkly. "It's this place that has affected you…"

"No," Watson hissed, leaning close. "It's you. You and your lies."

"Watson… Watson, where are you going?"

But the doctor had already left, and his words fell on air.

Sir Henry felt a hand cover his mouth.

"It's me," came a familiar whisper. "Give me your hat and don't make a sound."

He nodded, removing his cap in the moonlight. "Watson…"

"Shh. The stables, man. Go inside, get to the upper floor, and hide in the hay. Go quickly and quietly, if you value your life! Go!"

Baskerville nodded, eyes wide. When he was gone, Watson glanced at the house, knowing he'd soon be in sight of the windows. What if they realized the deception? He'd have to chance it. He began to walk, the clothes he'd taken from Sir Henry's room at the hall tight on his legs and arms. He hoped he wouldn't have to run very far.

He shivered, but from anticipation, not fear. Holmes was out there somewhere; Holmes would protect him just like he would have defended Sir Henry. Despite the hot words they'd exchanged, Watson knew Homes, in his own mind, really was convinced he was doing the right thing and that he could prevent any danger posed to Sir Henry. Had he seen all of what Watson had furing this case, however, he'd have known nothing on the moor was a sure bet.

Watson felt almost happy. The case was almost over. No matter what happened next, Sir Henry would be safe. He'd won. Even if he lost his life, even if the dog did tear his throat out, even if he never got a chance to tell Holmes he was sorry, he'd still won.

It was enough to make him smile, but only for a moment. When he heard and all-too familiar howl, any semblance of happiness was stripped from him and was replaced with cold terror. He looked around, drawing his gun from his pocket. There was a growl from somewhere behind him, and despite having told himself he would stand bravely and face the thing head on, he found himself fleeing in terror before his mind could even process the fact he'd just seen a glowing dog emerging from the fog. Glowing! In that moment, he was certain it really was a hound from Hell.

He ran, but the tight clothes pulled at his limbs and the terrain was both unfamiliar and uneven. He tripped, his bad leg twisting painfully. He was unable to stop himself from rolling down a steep, rocky decline he hadn't seen coming through the fog. He bounced helplessly downwards, each time feeling the sharp stabs of the rocks as he fell. The jarring impacts rattled him and made him drop his gun. He couldn't dwell on it, though, couldn't stop. He had to get to his feet, and had to get away. Miraculously, he did, and was able to start running once more. Sheer terror kept him moving, but he knew, distantly, that it would be in vain. He was right.

The dog was on him before he'd gotten far. It leaped from behind, knocking him down. He screamed as he rolled over to fight it, holding up his arms to shield his head. He felt the thing's teeth tear though the skin of his forearm, felt one gigantic paw tear through his shirt and scratch his chest. In a moment where time seemed to still, he even felt the warm drip of the dog's slobber on his face. Or was that his own blood, streaming out from the claw mark of the dog's other paw, the one trying to push his head and arm to the side so it could get at his throat? In another moment, the answer didn't matter because the thing had succeeded, had gotten its jaws locked around his jugular and was beginning to bite down hard…

Watson didn't hear the shot that felled it, didn't even hear the shouting or the arguing until he became painfully aware he was no longer the prey of a dog but the hostage of a madman.

"It's over, Stapleton," Holmes said. "This man here is a police officer. If you kill Watson, you'll only be adding to the charges against you and there will be no escape from the hangman's noose."

Stapleton's foot was on Watson's chest, and the doctor gazed up into the barrel of his revolver. Why, he wondered vaguely, wouldn't he have just used the revolver in the first place to do his murders with? Certainly it would have been less work.

"One step closer, Mr. Holmes, and I shoot him," Stapleton growled. "You thought you were so clever, didn't you? Sending him out instead of Sir Henry. But I was watching from the window! I've seen the two of them enough to which one's which, even in outline. You're not as clever as me by half, Mr. Holmes, and now you all will die!"

Watson, lying in pain and facing inevitable death, couldn't help himself. He laughed. It was a hoarse, raw laugh that caught in his throat and made him spit out a globule of blood onto his shirt. The others all looked at him, not expecting him to have been capable of rational thought, let alone amusement.

"You're too late," he slurred, not knowing if his words were even coherent. "I'm already dead, and we've already won."

Then, he did something he himself wasn't expecting. He reached up, grabbed the bug hunter's leg which was still planted firmly on his chest, raised his head, and bit him.

Stapleton screamed, there was something like an explosion as multiple guns went off at once, and Watson's last thought was that they'd won.

Sherlock Holmes paced restlessly in front of the fire at Baskerville Hall. There was blood on his shirt, Watson's blood. He'd screamed, he remembered, when Stapleton had fired his gun into Watson's torso. He remembered firing, too, but then again so had Lestrade and so Holmes didn't know if he'd been the one who had the honor of firing the bullet which had so pleasingly gone right between Stapleton's eyes.

He'd gone to Watson's side quickly and taken the doctor in his arms, lifting his unconscious form. "I have to get him back to Baskerville Hall!" he'd told Lestrade. "You get Mortimer!"

He set off, then, without even stopping to think that Lestrade didn't have any clue who Mortimer was. The Inspector had instead gone to fetch Baskerville from Merripit house and it was the young American who had bravely rode hard and fast across the moor to fetch the doctor to the hall.

Watson had been heavy in Holmes' arms, but that was nothing compared with what the weight would be like in his heart if Watson died. How had he let himself fight with Watson at so crucial a moment? Why couldn't he have listened to the doctor? He'd thought he'd thought of everything, but Watson had been right. It had been an ill-concieved plan, and now Watson could die because of it.

Holmes shook his head, trying not to remember. He didn't think about the way Watson had looked more like a pile of bloody rags than a man, how there had been too much damage to his friend for him to know what to do first. He'd ended up focusing on the bite wounds to Watson's neck first, deciding that if he couldn't breath well he would be dead regardless of any blood loss. To Holmes' relief, he's found breath. Each rise of his chest was shallow, but at least he was alive, and that was the thought Holmes had clung to.

Watson wasn't dead. Not yet, at least. His heart was still beating, his lungs were still drawing breath. Holmes had examined the worst wounds after ensuring that was true. He had seen that the hound's teeth, though savagely ripping Watson's skin, hadn't actually pierced through anything that couldn't be mended. The claw marks would eventually fade into faint scars, the bruises would worsen and then heal. The gunshot wound was trickier, but it had passed cleanly through Watson's side. He'd lost blood, but Holmes didn't think any major organs had been hit.

Watson wouldn't be feeling very well or moving for a very long time when he woke, but he would wake. He would live. He had to. Holmes couldn't let himself believe anything else even though his too-rational brain was screaming at him that there was no way Watson would live.

"I can't believe this," Sir Henry mumbled, breaking into Holmes' thoughts. He was sitting on his chair, staring at his hands.

"Oh, what would you know about it?" Holmes snapped at him. "You were Merripit house all warm and cozy with Beryl Stapleton while Watson faced your hound!"

"I was rescuing Ms. Stapleton after her brother tormented her!" Baskerville snapped back.

"She was his wife, not his sister!" Holmes said cruelly. "Now she's his widow."

Baskerville froze. "What?"

"His wife," Holmes reiterated, and explained quickly the truth of who Stapleton was and what his plan had likely been.

Baskerville collapsed on the sofa, trying to take it all in.

Holmes sighed. "Sorry, I'm… I'm sorry." He turned away, and found Lestrade standing in the doorway. "Inspector…"

Lestrade inclined his head.

Holmes moved quickly to Watson's room, hoping to God he was alive. Mortimer was sitting near him, Watson blood yet on his hands. He looked up at Holmes, his face blank.

"Doctor?" Holmes stammered nervously. "Is Watson.."

"He's alive," Mortimer said softly. "Did… did the hound do this?"

"Yes. Well, not all of it. He fell on the rocks and I knew Lestrade told you about Stapleton…"

"Yes. I still can't believe it…"

"Will Watson live?" Holmes pressed.

"I believe there's a good chance," Mortimer said diplomatically. "He's nothing if not resilient. We've all learned that. I'll be spending the night looking out for him. Why don't you sit here with him while I clean myself up. Call me if anything changes."

"Of course. Thank you, doctor." Holmes took Mortimer's place by Watson's side. He reached out, but somehow it didn't feel right to grasp his friend. "Watson…" he murmured, but didn't know what to say.

"Mr. Holmes?" came a voice from behind him. "Is he… alive?"

"Yes, Sir Henry. Please, Come in. I apologize for my sharpness earlier, and for my deception. You were never going to be abandoned, but I wanted Stapleton to think he was safe and therefore give himself away. Despite knowing of his misdeeds, I needed evidence if anything was going to be brought home to him."

"I know you wouldn't have abandoned me, sir, for Watson wouldn't have allowed it," Baskerville replied.

"No. He didn't," Holmes murmured.

"May I?"

Holmes rose. "Please."

Baskerville sat next to Watson's bed, grasping the doctor's hand in his own. "You've saved my life, Watson, and I'm so grateful to you," he murmured. "Be well, my friend." He straightened, holding his hand out. Holmes shook it. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Please, call for me if there is anything I can do. And please, know you and the doctor will always have a place here at Baskerville Hall."

"Sir Henry…"

"Yes?"

"Will you… sit here with Watson? Until he wakes?"

Baskerville blinked in surprise. "Oh, well, of course, if you so wish it. Won't you be here as well? I mean, I'm not trying to run away, but I did think you'd like to be alone with your friend."

"I would, but I'm not sure that he wants to... see me. First thing, I mean, when he wakes. I am, after all, to blame for this whole mess, and it is only you who he put himself in danger to protect."

"Mr. Holmes, you saved my life! You're certainly not to blame for his condition, if that's what you mean by this."

"I am," Holmes murmured. "You see, Sir Henry, I do not often divulge my plans in full, not even to Watson. It is not that I don't trust him, but Watson is no great liar. He's far to open and honest; he'd never betray me to my enemies, but to a crafty criminal, even the merest hint from an adversary can give the game away." He choked a little bit, making Baskerville start.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Not that the detection of crime is a game!" Holmes said quickly.

"Of course not," Baskerville agreed. "So, I take it, this time you did divulge your plan?"

"Yes."

"And Watson did not agree with your course."

"He did not," Holmes confirmed. "I had failed to see just how sorely tried Watson has been on your behalf as well as on mine. He insisted there must be another way. I insisted I was correct. In the end, he left me to take matters into his own hands. I suppose it was a bit of an unwilling compromise: he succeeded in keeping you away from danger and I succeeded in catching Stapleton red-handed. Now, however, I realize I was wrong. It was an unworthy course, one that I did not see the full extent of the danger of."

"Mr. Holmes, I don't think the doctor will blame you at all," Baskerville said. "His only talk of you has been full of praise and confidence, and I have no doubts at all he would walk onto a moor infested with hounds whilst wearing a steak and mutton suit if he knew you were at his back. And so would I, come to it! I do wish you would have warned me, but I wouldn't have minded, tonight, if you'd used me as bait. Not after the fact, I wouldn't. We're sensible men, Mr. Holmes. Men of honor and bravery!"

Holmes smiled very sadly. "You would make a great orator, Sir Henry, but I'm afraid I cannot accept absolution or consolation from your words. Look, see where my hubris has brought me." He gestured to the prone figure of his dearest friend. He was looking at Sir Henry, expecting the younger man to see his point, but instead the other man smiled.

"Watson!" he exclaimed happily. "That's the stuff, old friend! I was just telling Mr. Holmes how you'd surprise us all!"

Holmes spun to face Watson again, and found his friend looking up at him blearily. "Watson…" He murmured, not knowing what to do. Sir Henry seemed to, however, and between them they lifted the doctor to sit up comfortably and gave him some water.

Watson's eyes were still blurred with pain and his skin was pale from blood loss, but he smiled very weakly at them. "We won," he whispered.

"Yes," Baskerville said with a smile of his own. "We won, Watson, and I'm so glad to see you." He patted Watson's arm. "I'll go let Mortimer know you're up."

Watson watched him go, his relief at seeing the younger man unharmed palpable. Then, he turned his gaze to Holmes.

The detective bowed his head. "Forgive me, Watson. I was unaware of just how many factors I did not have in my power tonight."

"You're masterful, Holmes," Watson murmured. "You like to be in control. This time, I simply knew you could not be. But neither did I doubt you." He reached out, placed his hand on Holmes' wrist.

Holmes looked at him. "I know you didn't," he replied softly. "That was why you took his place instead of preventing him from being on the moor altogether. You trusted me to protect you, and I didn't. For that, I sincerely apologize. I tried, Watson, I swear. I did not expect the fog, nor the horrible appearance of the dog itself, which would have induced the stoutest of men to run."

"What was it?" Watson murmured. "That horrible, deathly glow?"

"Phosphorous," Holmes answered. "A very clever mixture of it. Stapleton was a more dangerous and creative adversary than I anticipated."

"Holmes," Watson murmured. "I'm sorry. This place... it has my nerves all shot to peices. What right had I to abandon you? I should have stayed, should have stuck loyal like I always do. Who knows but that it would have been a better outcome than this. Forgive me, my friend. I trust you as much as ever, and I'm sorry."

"So am I, Watson," Holmes said, his voice cracking very slightly. "You have no idea how much."

He leaned towards Watson, laying one hand on his bandaged cheek and softly touching his forehead to Watson's forehead. "I trust you, too. Implicitly, I assure you. You are no pawn, and this is no game," he murmured. "If the hound had ripped your throat out, I would have pursued Stapleton to the ends of the earth to avenge you. I would have razed the world in your name to rid it of crime, and then I would have come back here, to Dartmoor, to watch over Sir Henry for all the days of my life because you would have died defending him, and I wouldn't allow your sacrifice to be in vain. I swear, Watson."

"You, too, could be a good orator," Watson said weakly when Holmes had pulled away.

The detective's face flushed. "You heard me?"

"Vaguely. But it doesn't matter. I knew, Holmes. Before I even took Sir Henry's place, I knew. If I'd have died, and if I yet die, there will still be no doubt."

A strange look took over Holmes' features. "But… you're awake. You haven't died. You won't die. You can't." He sounded slightly desperate, but he couldn't help it.

Watson smiled up at him sadly. "That's not how death works," he murmured, "but nevertheless I'm sure you're right. I'm just so… tired. Not unhappy… not scared… just tired…"

"Then rest, my dear Watson, and I will watch out for you."

Watson closed his eyes, and Holmes leaned close to him, watching his chest rise slightly and straining to hear his breath. Alive. Watson was alive, and more than that he'd been right. They had won.

For the prompt from trustingHim17: Angst time. Whump someone (preferably Watson. Bonus points for guilty, worried Holmes).

I didn't know I was being graded, but I hope I get top marks :)

If anyone's wondering, the answer is no. I'm certainly not planning on theming all my prompt responses around The Hound of the Baskervilles, the first two prompts just seemed to fit.