Another day, another chapter. Judging by your comments, you haven't yet become bored with this fanfic yet. Glad you're still enjoying it.

I do want to give a shoutout to Lee for assuring me that Holmes was indeed not out of character. I'm glad for that. Thanks.

And a big thank you – and a hug if you'll accept it – to Creativity-On-Full for your beautifully written review. Your words are exceedingly appreciated and you've set my mind further at ease as to the OOC part. Your compliments mean a lot to me and made me smile. Thank you so much for your kind and encouraging review. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Thanks to all those that have and continue to read. And double thanks for leaving your thoughts in a review. Your opinions are part of making writing so enjoyable.

Now, enough talk, keep right on reading.

The Vengeful Jewel

Tuesday, January 19, 1891
10:01 a.m.

Having sufficiently regained their strength, Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Jones staggered to their feet, each using the nearest wall as a crutch.

Cringing from the pain in his ribs and spine, Holmes met Mr. Jones' glare as the other man clutched his sore arm.

Watson made his way cautiously down the stairs while Mrs. Jones stayed watchful on the second floor.

"Damage?" Watson asked, keeping a careful eye on Mr. Jones.

"Just some bruising," Holmes grunted.

"I wasn't talking to you," Watson countered. "I know you can handle yourself. You've sustained far worse injuries in the ring."

Watson ignored the hurt and chagrined expression on Holmes' face as he moved past the detective.

"You should let me look at that," Watson said gently to Mr. Jones, referring to the arm that Jones pressed close to his side. "It might be broken."

"John."

Watson was unable to ignore Holmes this time. The ominous warning resounded deeply in the single word. He glanced back at Holmes to see that the detective had straightened in preparation; the effect of his wounds forgotten. Holmes' eyes burned with the foreboding warning.

Watson turned his attention back to Jones. The man was tense as if ready to spring forward in an attack if provoked.

"It's all right, I'm a doctor." Watson assured as if talking to a cornered animal. "I just want to make sure it's not broken."

A cornered animal is most dangerous when angry.

Watson took a step closer and Jones reacted.

Jones launched himself at Watson, lashing out at the doctor with curled fists. His fist clipped Watson's jaw and then his body collided with Watson's. The breath burst out of Watson's lungs as his back slammed against the floor and Jones' weight fell over him; pinning him down.

Gasping loudly to catch his breath, Watson could only raise his arms to cover his head as Jones assaulted him with uncontrolled punches. An inhuman cry bubbled out of Jones' throat as he released his anger out on the man who couldn't protect himself. For too long he had been foiled by the detective and now that he finally had an opponent he knew he could beat, Jones was determined to take advantage of it. Blinded by that rage, Jones pummeled Watson with his fists.

Jones' relentless attacks ceased as quickly as they had started when a sharp and unexpected kick was delivered to his gut; his nose impacting painfully with the hard shin. The force of the kick sent him tumbling head over heels off of Watson and across the floor. He stopped and curled into a tight ball near the front door; pressing his hands to his bleeding nose.

Coughing, Watson turned onto his side. He felt a tentative hand land on his shoulder and then he was eased into a sitting position. His hands fell into his lap; his arms quivering from the blows they had taken. Luckily he had managed to block most of Jones' attacks but a few punches had managed to sneak past his defenses and he, unfortunately, found that his jaw was sore and the wound on his temple where he had been hit with the metal fire poker had reopened; blood trickling down into his eye.

He leaned back heavily against his support, breathing deeply to refill his dry lungs. "Thanks for that," he gasped gratefully.

Watson looked up to see the stoic figure of Sherlock Holmes crouched down beside him. The man had turned sober and glowered at the whimpering Jones with simmering eyes.

"He went too far," Holmes growled vehemently. "It's one thing to pick a fight with me but to drag you – a bystander – into the fray… That I won't stand for."

Leaving Watson sitting on the floor to recover, Holmes stood and placed himself protectively in front of his friend. His hard glare pierced Jones mercilessly. Mrs. Jones hurried down the stairs to kneel down beside Watson. She wiped her handkerchief across his wound and dabbed at the blood that dribbled over his eye.

"No more holding back. If this guy wants a real fight, I'll give it to him."

Watson looked up admirably at the strong back of his loyal friend and couldn't help but feel pride towards the virtuous man. Holmes knew when justice needed to be delivered and with what amount of force it was to be delivered with.

"This ends now."

_._._._._._._

Don't mess with Watson. An angry Holmes is someone you don't want to deal with.

A climatic battle between Jones and Holmes is drawing closer.

Stay tuned,
Hobey-Ho