One bullet.
One bullet gave him to me – one well-placed shot from a Jezail rifle was what sent him back to London and, inadvertently, into my life. One bullet gave me a biographer, fellow-lodger, and - most importantly - a friend.
The truest friend that ever a man could ask for. My dear Watson is everything I am not and probably never will be, no matter how badly I should wish to be – courageous, compassionate, and unquestioningly loyal even when I deserve no less than stern rejection.
And although at first I rejected him as being too risky, too volatile a thing for my scientific, controlled nature, at last that man had penetrated my shields and awakened some returning spark within my soul.
One bullet gave me that.
And tonight, one bullet came close to taking that away from me.
Evans had already killed four men, and had he taken time to aim more carefully…
I shiver at the thought, turning back toward the bed where he lies now, his face relaxed in sleep under the influence of the morphine. As I pull the blankets up round him he moves restlessly for a moment before slipping back into unconsciousness, and I hastily back away, not wanting him to know I was here.
It had just been too close tonight.
One bullet.