Watson was a healer, not hardened to this sort of thing as I. Killing a soldier in battle in the Afghan War was one thing, shooting a criminal in our own sitting room was quite another.
"You've never killed a man outside of war before, have you?" I asked softly.
"No," he whispered, staring down at the body as if in disbelief.
The revolver thudded down from his nerveless fingers, and I caught hold of his arm, pushing him down to the couch, going for a stiff brandy.
"Who – was he?" he asked shakily, "why did he want to kill you?"
"I sent his brother to prison for life," I replied, sitting beside him.
Watson had only seen a couple of my cases and the type of thing I dealt with on a regular basis – this was all a shock to him.
"I – I shot him, just like that," he whispered, still staring at Fortner.
He turned a troubled gaze to me, and I again wondered at his strength of character, that he should be bothered by such an act.
"My dear Watson, you saved my life," I emphasised gently.
I held out my hand, meeting his shaking one, and the die was cast – whether I welcomed the connection or not, we had formed a trust that would never be broken.