The Vengeful Jewel

Monday, January 18, 1891
9:30 a.m.

A knocking at the door disrupted Watson's reading and he looked up from the newspaper.

Holmes wasn't so easily distracted, but rather continued to pluck incoherently at the strings of his violin as he lounged in his chair with his feet propped up on the table.

The knock sounded again; this time with more force.

Holmes flinched at the harsh sound and his fingers slipped, causing the violin to screech most unpleasantly. Watson cringed; the newspaper crinkling in his clenched hands.

Again, the sharp knocking sounded and continued incessantly.

"Oh, please answer the door," Holmes whined piteously. "That knocking is most obnoxious,"

"Are you expecting anyone?" Watson asked quizzically as he folded the paper and placed it aside to stand.

"No one in the least," Holmes answered as he sank further into his chair, "So tell whomever it is to kindly leave as it is too early in the morning for such an unwanted ruckus."

"Early? It's nearly noon, Holmes," Watson answered, glancing back at the detective as he placed his hand on the doorknob. The door vibrated under his fingers from the vehement pounding on the other side.

Holmes waved the fact away, silently commanding Watson to just open the door, send the intruder away, and return so that the peaceful quiet could ensue.

Watson turned away from Holmes to hide the roll of his eyes as he opened the door.

"Good morning, sir," he said politely to the man fuming outside, "but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. If you wish for our services, I suggest –"

Watson was abruptly cut off as the man brusquely pushed his way past the doctor to plant himself firmly in the room. Perplexed – and startled by the rather rash action – Watson looked at the man; examining him as Holmes had taught him to.

The man was of tall statue with a pale complexion, meaning that his work reside within a building rather than outdoor labor. He was dressed richly so he was certainly well endowed and prosperous. Though somewhat slim, Watson could see the fine muscles that toned the man's body. He carried himself proudly in a professional manner as if he knew that he was a superior. Even now, he stood looming over Holmes at his full height; radiating confidence and… a more hazardous emotion.

Anger.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" the man spat with obvious disdain and disrespect.

"That depends on who's calling," Holmes replied coyly, still lounging lazily in his chair as he looked up impassively at the towering man.

The man bristled. Watson quietly closed the door and moved closer, his eyes shifting from Holmes to the man.

"Were you the one hired by Mrs. Katherine Jones to find a stolen jewel?" the man asked, his words sharpened with suspicion.

"Ah, yes, kind Mrs. Jones. I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that I have safely returned the jewel to her," Holmes replied breezily. "Why do you ask? Are you a friend of Mrs. Jones?"

"I'm Mr. Robert Jones," the man said lowly with an underlining growl.

Holmes blinked. "Ah… yes… Well, do tell the missus hello for me."

That was when Mr. Jones swung the fist punch.

And so the fight had begun. And Watson had done nothing to stop it. For he knew that Holmes deserved it. To return the kiss of another man's wife. Yes, he definitely deserved it.

He watched silently as the two fought, Holmes leading the dance and Jones growing all the more frustrated.

Ironically, another knock had sounded at the door and Mrs. Jones rushed into the room to find the detective and her husband locked in battle.

And now here he was. He was still watching; doing nothing as Holmes faced Jones. Mrs. Jones tended to his bleeding wound but he paid her little attention. His eyes remained focused on the man standing protectively before him.

Jones stirred and looked up to glower at Holmes. He wiped the blood from his nose onto the back of his hand and stood to face Holmes directly.

Both men were furious now. Although their anger was basically centered around the same reason, said reasons were slightly different.

Jones was fighting for his dignity and honor; to reclaim the woman he had married and then witnessed kiss another man.

Holmes was fighting to avenge the injury Jones had inflicted upon Watson.

Neither man would back down.

"I'm all right," Watson insisted, waving away Mrs. Jones worried hands. "Can you please open the front door." It was an order. "And my cane too please, if you will."

Mrs. Jones stared at Watson with bemusement but found it best not to argue at this point. She stood gracefully and edged around the two men to open the door. Then she backed away just as cautiously, retrieved Watson's cane from where he had dropped it during his assault, and then returned to the doctor's side; all the time keeping her fearful gaze on the two statues of men.

"Remember, Holmes," Watson said simply, his eyes still locked onto that strong back as he slipped his fingers around the neck of his cane.

"I know," Holmes nodded evenly. "Outside."

"I have your back."

"No. It is like you said. This is my fight."

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

And now we are completely in the present. No more flashbacks.

As always, my gratitude extends to my readers. Thank you for your reviews. I do very much enjoy them.

I'm glad to see so much eagerness for a pissed Holmes. His battle's up next.

Until next time,
Hobey-Ho