Close to panic now, I once more struggled futilely to release myself.
I am not a fearful man, but I daresay every man has a right to be afraid when threatened with certain, violent death. I will not deny that I was no exception.
My mind wandered briefly back to Baker Street, where I had left Holmes in the grips of a nasty influenza. I had put him to bed with next to no fuss, proving how ill he really was, and had left the flat to fetch some medicine.
Scarcely had I left the apothecary's when I'd been attacked – and now was facing a revenge-bent maniac in the basement of a nearby house. As he started toward me, pistol in hand, I swallowed hard and braced myself for death.
Only to hear two reports, ringing out simultaneously.
I jerked up to see a familiar figure standing in the doorway with Inspector Lestrade. Holmes's face was flushed and a sheen of sweat stood upon his pale forehead as he stood leaning against the wall, a smoking revolver in his trembling hand.
He glanced at the body upon the floor and staggered over, setting me free.
I jumped up just in time to catch him as he collapsed.
"Holmes, you shouldn't –"
"Watson. Did you really expect me to stay in bed?"