My men were absolutely useless, standing there just gawping at the three dead men…or was it four?
My heart plummeted into my shoes as I saw Mr. Holmes dropping beside his fallen friend, his face the color of a London fog. Even from the door I could see he was trembling, frightened half out of his wits; and no wonder, the Doctor standing over him like that and then taking a bullet right in front of him.
"Cummings, stop that gawking! Get these men out of here!" I snapped, nervously making my way over to Holmes.
I'd seen him shaken up before – that Rawlings case when the murderer had thrown a knife at Watson and nicked him – but I'd never seen Holmes anywhere close to being this petrified. I gaped, unable to believe how the detective's barriers suddenly became non-existent.
Holmes was cradling the Doctor in his arms as tenderly as any normal man, his lips shaking as he whispered his name. I caught my breath as the Doctor's eyes opened, looking about dizzily before settling back on Holmes's white face. Then he feebly patted Holmes's arm.
"'S all right, Holmes," he whispered weakly, "I ought to know – not – not bad. I promise."
I only realised as my head started to swim that I'd forgotten to let out my breath.