It has become clear to me that it is something of a tradition for any Sherlock/Watson friendship fan to write their own version of The Three Garridebs – at least, that one part we all have read at least a dozen times. ; )

And so here is my humble attempt at maintaining that tradition…

Time Stood Still

In the same instant as the bullet sounded, his shoulder fell from where it was pressed reassuringly against mine.

And time stood still.

I thought of how many times we had stood exactly like this, when he had been there, protecting my life, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me as he always did.

I thought of what my life would be without that presence beside me.

I thought of all those quiet, gaslit evenings, when we had sat in our respectable places at Baker Street, he in his chair and I in mine.

I thought of returning and finding that chair empty.

I thought of every instant when those war-worn hazel eyes had brightened in wonder, in reaction to one of my obvious deductions.

I thought of never seeing those eyes alight again.

I thought of every amusing moment when he shocked me by rejoining a rude, thoughtless remark from me with an equally sarcastic one – or an undeservingly gentle one. Either usually left me speechless.

I thought of the empty, cold silence that would greet me without him there.

I thought of when he had salvaged my unworthy life that day at Poldhu Cottage in Cornwall…of when he had nursed me to full health after days of starvation when the Culverton Smith case had ended…of when he had fought back-to-back with me against those overwhelming odds in that dark alley near Whitechapel…

So many visions passed through my mind, at such an instantaneous pace to make me physically ill. So many emotions suddenly broke past my careful walls – desperation, rage, agony, loneliness, misery, guilt…

All conspired together, dominating my very being. Redness obscured my vision, until it finally faded and I realized that I was standing over Killer Evans, and blood was trickling down his face.

I wondered if I had done it. I could not recall.

Nor did I care to. My dear friend was lying dead. Why should I care about anything else?

A pain-filled groan reached my ears. Again, my emotions seized control, and I found myself with my arms round him, impelling him unto a nigh chair.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

The words spilled out from my trembling lips unbidden, but I did not attempt at stopping them – I had to know, had to hear him say the words.

"It's nothing, Holmes. It is a mere scratch."

Rather more frantic than I care to admit, I sliced open his tan trousers and saw where the bullet had grazed his knee. That was all – only had it grazed him.

The immense relief that overtook me was stronger than any of the other sensations I had felt in the past minute or so. The stinging in my eyes faded, the knot in my throat that blocked my breathing vanished, and the unconscious trembling in my limbs dissipated.

"You are right," breathed I, "it is quite superficial." Hatred replaced relief as I turned my gaze to the demon who was eyeing me as he began to regain consciousness. "By the Lord, it is as well for you – if you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."

And I meant it, from my very soul.

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