Please Note: The following story contains spoilers for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 1883 short story, "The Silver Hatchet." For anyone who would like to read that first, it can be read for free online or listened to for free on YouTube. Thank you.

"Curse or no," Sherlock Holmes sniffed, "I could never kill you, Watson, and I resent the mere idea that you think I could." His tone was slighty defensive, slightly wounded, but still with an underlying air of superior condesention that always grated on Watson's nerves.

"Anyone could kill a friend, given the right circumstances," Watson argued. "If I were cursed, don't you imagine I could murder you?"

"If," Holmes said, drawing out the word slowly, "curses were real, then, theoretically, yes. You could kill me, I suppose. But here? In the real world? There are a dozen other explanations for why this particular item may seem to be cursed, not the least of which is that the story we think we know about its history may be complete bunkum. You won't kill me, John Watson. You're mentally stronger than that. Whatever evil omens are connected to this item, they can have no hold over you. We are both quite safe."

They both turned to look at the weapon in question. Despite Holmes' assured words, they both hesitated. The looked but didn't approach, staying a safe distance back from the table where the hatchet rested in the box it had come to them in, special delivery from Mycroft Holmes.

Its handle was silver, the metal still gleaming despite it having been broken and put back together. The head of the hatchet was a sturdy steel, and neither Holmes nor Watson knew if they was imagining the flecks of rust colored stains on the blade. It looked sharp depite the years of disuse, sharp enough to easily split though anything it pleased. Its handle had been reconstructed, but didn't look as if it was going to fall apart.

"I hate it," Watson said with a small shudder. "If I killed you, I'd go the way of that last killer…"

"No!" Holmes' voice was sharp and insistent and startling.

Watson drew back a little, not out of fright but out of remorse. There was hardly any topic Holmes was more sensitive about then the taking of one's own life, and even though he'd meant it, Watson hadn't meant to upset him.

"I'm sorry," he apologized.

Holmes reached out, touched his shoulder in his own soft apology for snapping at him.

The hatchet had a morbid past, was apparently cursed to always take the life of a friend of those who would weild it. Factually, it was the weapon used in three murders and two attempted murders, all of which shared on common feature: the killers or would-be killers had no motive and were dear friends of thier victims.

"What do you think the purpose was in your brother sending it to us?" Watson asked Holmes with a small shudder as he considered the hatchet's past.

"For some examination, I'm sure," Holmes murmured thoughtfully. "One of the theories put forth as an explanation for the curse was that there could be some chemical solution on the handle to influence the user. There may be some trace amounts left to be found. They tried to bury the hatchet forever, you know. Threw it in a lake. But, becuase of the rumors and the mystery, people looked for it and pulled it out. It went missing, but now we know where it ended up. Good old brother Mycroft, he always does get me only the most... interesting gifts."

Watson huffed a soft laugh. "Perhaps I shouldn't attempt to get you thoughtful, personal gifts anymore," he lamented. "I'll simply pick up the daggers of the ciminals we catch."

Holmes shot him a half-annoyed, half-fond look, rolling his eyes to say what he thought of that idea.

"Chemicals..." Watson wondered aloud, "I thought this was an antique?"

"It is," Holmes replied, smiling in the way he did when Watson had thought of something clever, "but chemists in the middle ages were more advanced then they're given credit for. We think of them all as delusional alchemists only out for riches, but they were really quite clever and made many scientific advancements... it's very possible something was put on the handle to fulfill the conditions of the curse and make it seem real. If there was, however, I'm sure they're long past potency, only detectable though a chemical test."

"I still hate it," Watson murmured. "I don't care if it's harmless. I wish you would send it back."

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Watson. As I said, I couldn't kill you be I cursed, drugged, or otherwise; you know I couldn't. Why don't we part for the night, and I will have it tested and put away by morning."

"Are you going to analyze it?"

"Yes, Watson. I am not afraid, though of course I would never look down on you if you left the apartment altogether. After all, this instrument did, allegedly, induce three men to attempt to kill their friends."

"In well documented cases, Holmes, wherein there could be no other explanation than a curse."

"Watson, please," Holmes said with a sigh.

Watson sighed, too. "Goodnight, Holmes."

Holmes watched him expectantly. Watson turned when he got to the door, grinning slightly. "I'm going upstairs, Holmes, not away."

Holmes grinned back, "I was not worried," he sniffed haughtily.

"Perhaps we should become bitter enemies for the night?" Watson called, smiling as he went upstairs.

Holmes huffed, smiling slightly and watching him for just a moment before turning his attention back to the hatchet. He swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the deaths this hatchet had seen, none of them perpetuates against enemies. Holmes reached out, but paused. What if Watson was right? What if there was a curse? What if he was overwhelmes by an urge to kill his friend? Despite how he'd reacted to Watson's announcement of the same, Holmes knew he, too, would go the way of the second killer.

But no, he couldn't believe there was a curse. No human, however earnest, had the power to put a curse on an object to make it kill. Holmes would have to be a very different person indeed to believe that. He needed to be as unafraid as he claimed.

He took the hatchet in hand, holding it out at arm's length as if it was going to possess him. He held his breath and thought of Watson, but nothing was wrong. He let out the breath with a chuckle. There was nothing to be afraid of.

He took the hatchet over to his chemistry table, taking samples of the handle and the head of it to study. He prepared his slides and his chemicals, wanting to first confirm whether or not there was any blood left on it from its victims.

They came on him slowly, those cold, murderous thoughts.

There is no curse… Watson was wrong… Watson's always wrong… where are my matches?… blood… yes, blood, I knew it… Watson didn't believe me… Watson never believes me… he doesn't believe in me… did I get those proportions right?... Watson… Watson doesn't even like me… I saw the way he looked at me tonight… that strange way he looked at me... the way he laughed at me... mocking me... he hates me, doesn't he?... shit, that's burning!... where's that sample… Watson… Watson hates me… yes, why haven't I seen it before now?… Watson hates me... Watson's going to betray me… Watson's planning to kill me himself… Watson… I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!

Holmes grabbed the hatchet, abandoning the chemistry table with the burners still lit. He went up the stairs, his eyes unfocused, the head of the hatchet thumping dully on each step where it dangled by his side. He opened Watson's door, peering through the darkness. Watson lay in bed, sleeping peacefully.

Traitor… liar… I hate him… I hate him… I want to kill him… I can kill him…

Holmes raised the hatchet, held it above the sleeping doctor, then raised it high for the killing blow... he froze, the silver cold in his hands. His legs began to shake, and his breathing became erratic.

"Watson," he groaned unintelligably. His whole body was shaking now. "Watson... help me... Watson…"

The doctor's eyes opened, soft and bleary from sleep for only a moment before opening wide in horror. He opened his mouth, but didn't scream. Instead, he put both hands out in front of him, palms out. He seemed to rise by magic, his legs on the bed, but his arms wrapping around Holmes' middle, using his own body weight to drag the other man down to the floor.

They collapsed in a heap, the hatchet clunking harmlessly to the floor at Holmes' side. Holmes had no grip on Watson, so the doctor was able to quickly pull away, taking the hatchet away from Holmes, backing out the door, and shutting it quickly.

Holmes lay on the floor breathing heavily. A cool wind blew in from Watson's open window, and Holmes let it settle over him. His mind raced, his limbs convulsed, and he was sweating profusely.

Watson… Watson, where are you?... Did I hurt you?... I can't remember… Please, Watson, be alright… I'm coming for you… I'm trying to come... please be alright...

He struggled to his feet, still lightheaded. He took a deep breath, opened the door. He knew immediately something was wrong.

Watson was standing on the landing outside the living room, the hatchet clutched tightly in both hands and held up at chest level. There was smoke coming out of the living room, and the reason for all these troubles hit Holmes at once.

"Watson…" he said cautiously.

The doctor turned slowly, his eyes dull and lifeless.

"Watson, it's me. I need…"

Watson advanced on him quickly, still holding the hatchet in both hands. Holmes reached out, grasping the hatchet as well to keep it in between them. He expected to be able to overwhelm Watson physically, but Watson, like all people taken over with a fit of madness, had quite a bit of sudden strength.

Watson growled, sneering in a way that made him seem more of a wolf than a man. It frightened Holmes, and he lost focus for just a moment, giving Watson the advantage. Watson shoved him against the wall hard, himself taking the high ground and pressing himself against the detective to make the hatchet blade between them slice into his stomach.

Holmes gasped, looking down to see the wound and ready to feel the pain of the blade, but he didn't. Instead, he looked back up and saw that Watson's eyes were wide with confusion and remorse and pain. He backed up slightly, and Holmes glanced down again to see that Watson had twisted the hatchet while he'd pressed against Holmes, aiming the blade at himself instead. He was bleeding, but the wound didn't look horrible.

Holmes wrenched the hatchet away, throwing it down the stairs. He grabbed Watson, dragging him back up to his room. room. Watson was still reeling and there was no way to lock him in, and so Holmes grabbed the cord from Watson's dressing gown, trying Watson to his bed frame near the window.

"I'll be back," he murmured, and moved to Watson's washstand, dunking his handkerchief in water and holding it over his mouth and nose. He shut the door to Watson's room and ran down to the living room. He shut off the gas on his chemistry table, then went to the windows and threw them open. He breathed the fresh air deeply before turning his attention back to the problem at hand. He found the abandoned hatchet, tossing it back in the box it had come to him in without care. He covered it, double and triple checked to make sure everything was turned off on his chemistry table, and then quickly going back to Watson.

Watson was sitting on his bed, still tied even though Holmes had left his bonds loose so that when he had a modicum of sense back he'd be able to free himself.

"Watson?"

"Holmes," Watson breathed, shaking himself a bit. "Are you alright?" He looked down at his hands, pulling them free. "What… what happened? I mean, I remember, but…"

"I'll explain, I promise, but first I need to see how badly you're injured."

"I'm injured?" he looked down again, saw blood on his shirt. "Oh."

"You must forgive me, my dear man," Holmes murmured. He knelt in front of him and moved aside Watson's nightshirt to see the wound. "This is my fault. I took samples of the handle of the hatchet to test for chemicals. One of the tests included combusting a small amount. I thought that if there was anything, there couldn't possibly be enough to affect me. I was wrong. By the time I could have realized as much, however, it was too late. I was on my way to murder you."

He gently probed the wound with his fingertips, examining it before letting out a long breath. "It's not deep," he declared. He shut his eyes briefly, leaning his head against Watson's thigh and grasping both of Watson's hands in his. "You'll be alright. Thank God." His breathing wasn't quite regular, but he shook himself, pulling away. Watson was kind and understood his fear, not mentioning it and giving Holmes hand a gentle squeeze.

Holmes smiled slightly and left Watson for a moment, grabbing an antibiotic and several bandages.

"When I came to kill you," Holmes said softly as he bandaged his fried, "it must have been the fresh air in your room that gave me just enough mental clarity to wake you. Unfortunately, you escaped from a murderous friend into the poisonous atmosphere that had turned me against you. So, when I came out after you, you were ready to kill me. But I was right, wasn't I? Good old loyal Watson. Even under chemical influence, you couldn't kill me. You were mentally and physically strong enough to turn the blade away. You hit yourself instead of me. My poor man, how have I earned your devotion?"

Watson shook his head fondly. "So it really was chemistry," he murmured. "Not a curse."

"Chemistry," Holmes said with a nod. "Medieval science."

"How could whatever the chemicals are still be so potent?"

"They weren't. Not for us. For the others they would have been, of course. The first ones who held it after it had sat for years, I mean. That's why all it took was for them to hold the thing to be taken over by the so-called curse. The chemicals were still powerful enough then to transfer to them though their skin. We would have been alright, had I not combusted them. I am so sorry, Watson. I should have shielded you from danger or else had you with me to monitor me for any chemical effects of my experiments. I…"

"It's alright, Holmes," Watson said, shushing him. "I promise. I…" he was shaking very slightly.

Holmes rose, holding his hands out. Watson took them, letting Holmes help him to his feet. By silent, mutual agreement, they moved together to Watson's window, sitting in the slight breeze.

"I could have killed you," Watson murmured. "I…" He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, wincing very slightly as he pulled slightly at his wound with the movement.

"I know what you're feeling, Watson," Holmes said with a shudder of his own. "If it hadn't been for your open window…"

"No," Watson said. "You're right. You always were right. You're not any more capable of killing me than I am you. Curse or no. Chemicals or no. Right?" He looked at Holmes expectantly, his face open and his eyes wide with fright.

"Of course," Holmes said. He sat close to Watson in the window seat, reached out and put his arm around his friend. "You're quite right."

"Where... where is the hatchet now?"

"In its crate. Tomorrow it goes back to brother Mycroft."

"Swear to me," Watson murmured, "that if you ever think an experiment will be dangerous like this, you will tell me."

"Of course, Watson. I never meant to deceive you."

"I know." Watson sighed, leaning against Holmes heavily.

"Watson?" Holmes said softly, putting one arm around his friend.

"Yes?"

"I... I know I didn't say anything while I was trying to kill you and there is no way you could know what I was thinking, but I want you to know none of it has stuck. As soon as I snapped out of it I couldn't imagine how I could think such horrible things. I want you to know I'm not holding onto anything. You're as dear as you ever were."

"I don't think my thoughts were coherent at all," Watson murmured. "I remember… I remember thinking that I wanted to kill you. And I could kill you. Murder seemed… easy. Simple. Murder... I wanted to kill. I could kill. I was going to kill. And I was... happy. Excited. To kill. I'm so sorry, Holmes."

"The smoke was stronger by the time you left the room," Holmes murmured. "It hit you harder. But you were stronger than it. And there's no reason to lose heart, for we know the truth now. There is no curse. There never was."

"And yet three men are dead."

"Not us. Not anyone else. I'll see to that."

"Promise me," Watson murmured. "I know you can't, not really, but promise me nothing like this will ever happen again."

"I promise, Watson," Holmes said sternly. "I'll never hurt you. I'll never put you in danger. I'll never do any dangerous experiments or take a gift from Mycroft again."

And, even though they both knew Holmes wasn't likely to keep the last two promises, in the moment both of them chose to believe it.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading my story. I sincerely hope you enjoyed.

Fun fact: Some consider the friendship between Strauss and Schlegal in "The Silver Hatchet" to be an early version of Holmes and Watson.