I've seen that sort of desperation a few times; usually in the eyes of those men that you don't dare turn your back on, even if they're restrained. The look of a man who knows he's about to die, and so has nothing to lose by dangerous attempts to stave off the Reaper by any possibility.
I was just glad the man could look at me, period.
"Doctor, if you'll pardon me, you might want to put the gun down," I said gently; for though I did not doubt his control, his hands – they'd handcuffed him! – and the pistol they held were shaking visibly.
To my surprise he staggered unsteadily to his feet, lowering the weapon, and I got a better look at him. The death-light faded from his eyes, leaving them glittering dazedly with what probably was a fever, if his flushed face was any indication. Dried and fresh blood adorned his shirt-cuffs, and an angry bruise was spreading on his forehead – but I could see no signs of other wounds.
Thank heaven. Mr. Holmes was uncontrollable enough as it was.
I winced as a terrified yelp sounded outside, followed by a metallic crash and a shower of falling packing-cases.
"Yes, he's right behind me," I told the Doctor dryly, and received a faint smile before his knees suddenly buckled.