As soon as the man's arm moved, Watson tried to call out a warning, but it was too late. He saw Holmes go down, and caught the smell of chloroform in the air. He turned the gun on their assailant, but the man was quicker. Lashing out, he slapped the weapon from Watson's hand, grabbed his arm, and spun him around. With one arm braced across Watson's chest, he held a wickedly sharp kitchen knife to his throat with the other.

"If you move," he snarled, to Sir Henry, who stood in dumb-founded shock on the stairs, "I will kill him."

The moment's pause stretched into eternity, and then slowly, reluctantly, Sir Henry laid his pistol down on the step in front of him.

"Let him go," the American said, calmly, "I don't know who you are… but you've caused no irreparable harm. If you leave here, and do not return, I will make no effort to follow you or to have you arrested. You may simply leave."

"I don't think so," the man growled, needling Watson cruelly with the knife, "I didn't get what I came for, but I might decide to have some fun before I leave. No-one comes here any more… how long until your bodies are found, I wonder…"

"The police are already on their way," Watson replied, hoarsely, careful not to move too much as he spoke, "you have only a little time to make your escape…"

"Don't be so impatient, doctor," hissed the voice in his ear, "I do prefer to kill my victims slowly…"

The knife moved slightly, tightening across the doctor's throat, and Watson stiffened, closing his eyes, waiting for the fatal blow…

The sudden click of a revolver chamber made Watson open his eyes again as relief washed through him.

"Holmes," he croaked, as the knife fell away from his throat.

"Indeed," the detective replied, not taking his eyes from his quarry, holding Watson's revolver assuredly, as Watson quickly stepped clear, "Sir Henry; guard this man…"

"I have him in my sights, Mr Holmes," Sir Henry replied, coolly, stepping forwards, "and I'll shoot him if he so much as flinches."

Holmes made no response, as he took handcuffs from his pocket, and cuffed his prize to one of the dining chairs. Watson noticed that he was dripping wet; he had obviously made efforts to wash the chloroform from his face and clothes before he could be overwhelmed by the fumes.

"Now," Holmes handed the revolver back to Watson, who accepted it gratefully, "I know your method, your aim, and your motivation. These are easily deduced. You are a conman by trade, and no doubt a thief and a murderer to boot, if your skill with weapons is anything to judge by. You are a doctor, of that I have no doubt, I know everything there is to know about you… save for your name, doctor...?"

The man sneered at him; "So you're not as psychic as they claim… go hang, Holmes. I certainly won't. Dr Jim's escaped the noose more times than you've had hot dinners!"

"Ah. You are Doctor James Buckhannon. Wanted for the murder of three wealthy patients in Derbyshire, two in Lancashire, a complicated embezzlement matter in Birmingham and, of course, by the Scottish Lord whose daughter's trust you so callously abused to help yourself to a sizable part of the family fortune," Holmes recounted, from memory, "along with a whole host of petty crimes."

Buckhannon scowled at him; "There isn't a jail cell can hold me. You'll see. I'll have you yet, Holmes – I'll make you and the doctor dance, so I will! I'll take my time over it, too..."

"That remains to be seen," Holmes replied, turning slightly towards the stairs, "Ah. A carriage approaches. The local police…"

Sure enough, several uniformed officers appeared, and, once Watson had introduced Holmes, their air was respectful as they carried away the prisoner, as Dr Mortimer entered the house. He stared around with an air of vague, slightly repulsed familiarity at his surroundings. The four of them were silent for a moment, broken only by Watson, coughing slightly, holstering his revolver and reaching to lean against the back of the chair.

"Come, Watson," Holmes said, with uncharacteristic gentleness, "it sounds like you are developing quite a cold; let us avail ourselves of the warmth and hospitality of Baskerville Hall."

"Indeed, gentlemen," Sir Henry smiled, "I should welcome the company!"

~*~