"I hate fog!"
"You've said that ten times today, Holmes. You're horrible, wishing someone would get hurt so it would break up your monotony."
He laughed.
"Well, this stage is set for a magnificent crime; 'tis a shame no criminal has risen to the opportunity. I'm running down to the tobacconist's, Watson."
I nodded, vaguely hearing the front door shut, continuing to scribble for a while.
And completely not hearing the footsteps behind me.
I started, seeing a familiar figure, gun in hand.
"Rogers! What – what are you doing out of jail?" I gasped.
"On an errand, Doctor. Where's your friend?" he asked coolly.
"He left – won't be back until tomorrow," I fibbed.
"Well, I suppose I shall have to settle for you, then," he stated calmly, cocking the gun.
I dropped to my knees, slamming Rogers to the ground, struggling for the pistol.
My fingers closed round the weapon and I tried to twist it from his hand, but he was stronger and started to force it against my head. I was weakening, I was about to die…
Suddenly something crashed and Rogers fell limply off me.
"T-took you long enough!" I gasped.
Holmes dropped the poker, slipping an arm round my shoulders, face white as a ghost.
"I swear, I shall never complain about the fog again," he breathed.