"Mr. Holmes, turning a blind eye is one thing, but I can't just watch you break in there," I sighed, watching Cummings and the cab rattling away after reinforcements. The warehouse – if the crumbling old den could be termed that – was obviously still inhabited; from our vantage point we saw people scrambling about, obviously in a dreadful hurry.
"Then suppose you just stand here and wait to hear a gunshot, Lestrade – then you can enter without fear of jeopardizing your career. After all, it is only a man's life!" he snapped, eyes flashing.
"Don't vent your frustration with yourself on me, Mr. Holmes!" I matched his glare, spark for spark, until to my surprise his face crumpled and he rubbed his eyes.
"That was uncalled-for, of course. My apologies," he muttered, as if either too weary to speak or else completely unaccustomed to apologising. I suspected the latter.
I opened my mouth to reassure him, but a sudden burst of muffled gunfire broke the chill morning air, draining his face of color and replacing it with unspeakable terrified fury.
I yanked my revolver from my hip-pocket as we as one bolted for the warehouse, hoping that murder had not been done and that I would not have to prevent him from committing another.
"Hang on, Doctor," I whispered under my breath.