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I have the pistol I brought for my own use; I have felled Evans and taken away his revolver (two seconds too late). But it is the Adams service piece for which I grope blindly on the floor, not far from its former owner’s outstretched fingers.

The terror on our prey’s face as I turn and aim is the last reward I will ever reap for my work. A third shot sounds and Killer Evans is falling, already dead and staring, bloody-headed. He sprawls an arm’s length from Watson’s corpse.

There are five bullets left. I need only one more.

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"Sherlock Holmes!" the old man shouted over the rail. "Take it to Sherlock Holmes, in Sussex!"

The pregnant woman to whom he'd given his seat spoke no English, and he no Italian. But the little girl on her mother's lap clutched the watch he'd given her, looking up at him with wide dark eyes as their lifeboat descended into the freezing Atlantic. "Sherlock Holmes," she called. "Sussex."

Dr. John Watson closed his eyes and leaned against the rail, heedless of the cries and panic around him. At least his fate would not be one last mystery for his poor friend.

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She is angry at my tests, exasperated by my relentlessness on the subject. I concede that a woman of her build who lives in this city must perforce develop defense mechanisms for unwanted male attention.

But she fell afoul of this ruthless monster precisely and only because of her association with me.

My actions express my understandable concern that this series of events will not be repeated.

I cannot tell her of waking up sweating from a dream of identifying her severed right forefinger in that damned box – and knowing I caused the ruination of her beautiful, irreplaceable surgeon's hands.

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Sherlock Holmes, like Charles Dickens' miserly accountant, had as little of what could be called 'fancy' as had anyone in London. He dealt strictly with facts, which suited his analytical mind straight to the core, and not with possible might-have-beens.

Nevertheless, the facts of the Battle of Maiwand - which he finally studied in depth for the first time not long after January 1881, at the first opportunity when it became important to know - often caused him to lie awake many years afterward, thinking about what could easily have happened, and how very many things would be different because of it.

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Mycroft jokes sometimes, in his dry way, that their mother had dipped them into the Styx heart-first, and it was some other yet unknown part of their bodies that was left vulnerable to outside attack.

But Sherlock knows the truth. One small spot exists on his heart - covered by her fingertip, perhaps – that he had not known was there.

The spot proved to be wide enough for a bullet – the one that had struck John and had threatened to drop him as well on the instant, had that wound not in turn proved to be so very superficial an injury.

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Holmes loathes the mincing, painted boys who fawn on their escorts in these clandestine clubs. But more than the perfumed girlboys he despises their escorts, men who refuse to admit their own inverted natures, and lie to themselves by choosing to stroll with the illusion of femininity clinging to their arms and trilling in their ears.

It is men, masculinity and manliness that stir his blood; specifically, the rugged handsomeness of a soldier in his dress uniform on his arm, the bristle of a moustache on his most private parts, a hoarse baritone voice smelling of ship's tobacco whispering obscenities.

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Some things are unthinkable for men in their sixties.

They should not volunteer for undercover spy work and code-cracking in wartime. Still less should they volunteer for frontline combat duty in said war.

Such men ought not write to each other, their reams of letters expressing all the passion of young lovers and the well-tempered bonds of an old married pair – not in an age when conventional couples exercise caution.

Nor should such men reunite at war's end as joyfully and tearfully as did Odysseus and Penelope, and retire to the bedchamber in like-mindedness.

They quite like scandalising another century.

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We have faced danger before - temper-prone squires, homicidal lepidopterists and physicians, vicious dogs, poisonous snakes and darts, the fatal heights of a beautiful cataract. We have defied monsters in human form, Napoleonic criminals, international crime syndicates; we have averted nationwide disasters and scandals that would have rocked Europe to her very foundation.

So when I felled Killer Evans – only to hear the pained gasp behind me that let me know that his wild shooting had found a mark – my horror can perhaps be understood:

Oh God, for this – this ridiculous, petty, forgettable crime – I may have just lost my Watson –

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"I want you to keep something for me, Sherlock.

"I've been thinking, you see. Not much else to do these past weeks.

You called Moriarty a spider. Well, spiders leave webs. I need to do something about that. It has to be tied in with – what you did. Why you did it.

"I'm going after them – his people. And when they're dealt with and it's all over, then I can come back here and send this where it needs to go."

John knelt and buried the tiny box beside the headstone; the bullet inside rattled once as he covered it.

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John walks differently when Sherlock returns. There’s a different cast to his eyes – a bloody relief after the thousand-mile stare, true, but different even from his pre-Fall days. It’s not as if he casts puppy-eyes on Sherlock the way you’d think he would. His gaze is proprietary, calm and reassured as the Pope.

John himself is aware of it, a certainty within like a titanium spine keeping him upright.

Do your worst, his manner radiates before him to any who confront them. I am a fucking god. I ordered a man not to be dead, and he returned to life.

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Sherlock struck like a cobra when Evans fired at both and John yelped with pain; he had the counterfeiter coshed and cuffed before John hit the floor. John kept swearing as Sherlock helped him sit up and slit open his jeans to examine the bleeding crease in his thigh; "Three stitches," he said coolly, calling 999.

Not until the faux Garrideb was in custody, not till John was released from A&E and settled in his chair in the main room at 221b, did Sherlock collapse. "I'd have killed him," he wept. "I'd pour all his blood out on your grave."

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The sound of the clavicle shattering hit him first, then the blood and then came the pain that whited out everything. He fell, screaming.

***

He blinked past his torpor to beam at Lestrade's furious face. "No more, little brother," he heard from behind.

***

This impossible, infuriating child of a man had only to say five words – "Want to see some more?" – and the surge through his blood warned him that he was lost.

***

This blunt, obvious idiot needed only four words of his own – "I don't have to" – and at that moment he felt the precipice beneath him give way.

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“Sherlock,” his brother said. “This is absurd.”

“I tell the truth, brother mine. The next time I near you, I will stink of mortality.”

The Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club was nearly deserted save for the pair; other members moved nearby, silent, their glittering eyes upon them, but they did not interrupt nor join the conversation.

“The Doctor.”

“The Doctor.”

“Warm. Generous. Valiant.” The words were not compliments. “A flame for such Death’s-head moths as we. And you will happily plummet into the fire.”

“He gave me his blood.”

He did not imagine the icy envy in Mycroft’s eyes.

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I was relieved that the rooming situation had been resolved. I became accustomed to his presence. Amused by his attempts at thought. Curious about the friendship conventions we seemed to be observing. Surprised that his feedback sharpened my concentration. Touched by his admiration. Disdainful of his raging emotionality during a case. Stunned by his unequivocal defence of my life. Warmed by his teasing.

And then I faced down an enemy; in his eyes I saw utter trust and permission to act - and it was as if a lion roared inside me.

Burn it out? Your actions blew it into life.

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The newspapers trumpeted your name; you reveled in the accolades. My companion, who caught Jefferson Hope for you, remains in undeserved anonymity, while you have garnered prestige and promotion, the approval of your superiors and the adulation of your underlings.

Well, I have a Christmas present for you.

I’m a dab hand at writing, have been all my life. I just received word from Beeton’s that they’ll publish my account of the case in their December annual. The editor said it was “ripping stuff, a jolly good read.”

And then YOU – you sallow, rat-faced man – will learn what fame is!

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“It’s a very … vivid story, dear.” Mummy stared, eyes wide, at the paper handed her by her beaming son.

“I drew the pictures too!” Johnny said.

“Yeeees.” Mummy held the page out at arm’s length.

“Don’t worry, Mummy, the paints are dry.”

“Do you have any red left, Johnny?”

“Just a little. I had to make the murder look real.” The proud child pointed. “See the way it drips from the word REVENGE on the wall? He was a very bad man. So the man who killed him is a good man.”

Mummy kissed him and picked up the gin.

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The beautiful little white star-shaped flowers covered the crags of the mountains along which Sherlock Holmes and I trod. I beamed to look at them, their sprightly appearance that of seemingly throwing open their arms to embrace the sun and the bright blue of the Alpine sky on this glorious day.

***

They clung to the rocks as I dashed past, heart in my throat, their spiked faces seeming to shriek with my inner being.

***

And they lined the cortege as I trudged to the Englischer Hof alone in the wake of the police, like hands reaching out to comfort me.

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The one aspect of my Watson to which I cannot accustom myself is his pawky if not puerile sense of humour.

Once, while we walked the gentle green hills near our Sussex cottage, I lost my footing and sprawled on the ground. When I sat up and spat out chalky dirt and grass blades, Watson shook with merriment.

“Forgive me, my dear man,” he burbled, “but it seems you’ve gotten a bit Down in the mouth.”

I watched him double over with mirth, and silently resolved that Watson would sleep alone that night. Let him feel down in the mouth.

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“Watson. This is one thing that you knew without me explaining every step of my deductions to you. I know you knew and understood this thing that I never said to you.

“Nevertheless. I am full of pain that I waited so long, and when saying it cannot make any kind of difference. But let it be my penance for delaying this business as I have.”

Sherlock Holmes stood straight and tall in grass cobbled with acorns from the ancient oaks that graced the Minstead churchyard, before a pitted granite stone cross. He drew a deep breath.

“I love you.”

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He couldn’t miss.

Yusuf Pahwa settled his stock at his shoulder, eye on his target. God had blessed his battered old Jezail rifle throughout this campaign; he’d already sent a dozen English soldiers to Eblis.

His finger tightened on the trigger – just as the English moved a little, showing a flash of white across his breast.

Ya‘llah, a daktaar!

Without thought, Yusuf jerked his rifle stock a fraction, just enough, even as his finger finished completing the move. The man fell back, blood spraying from his shoulder instead of his heart.

It was wickedness to kill even an infidel doctor.

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Basil and I watched Mr. Tibbert disappear down the alley from which he’d come.

I glared where the sharp-toothed red-coat had vanished. “I don’t trust him, and even I can tell you don’t either. Why on Earth did you accept Tibbert as a client?”

Basil’s eyes also never left the site where we’d last seen the long-nosed mouse-eater – outwardly calm even as hackled tail-hairs belied it. “Can you think of anything more challenging than solving a case and outwitting the client at the same time, Dawson?”

I smiled. He wouldn’t let me be the only reckless one in the family.

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Watson's ability to hold alcohol is prodigious. His Army days have undoubtedly steeled his nerve (or at least his liver) against brandy, whisky, rum, and gin. I have watched him down vast quantities of beer while we were undercover in a pub, and stand up to flatten a threatening opponent as coolly and steadily as if he’d been drinking water all night.

One spirit, however, produces the amusing side-effect of making Watson hiccup in a very loud and intrusive fashion, so he does not drink it when on a case. I cannot fathom why vodka, and vodka alone, causes this.

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"'The suspect attempted to bolt – so that's what we did to his cell door'."

Constable Wilkins guffawed.

Smiling, Watson flipped through his notebook. "Ah, here. 'When he'd clipped his ties, Henderson took off across the roof at a brisk clip, only to be clipped in a cell at day's end.'"

"Oh my word." Wilkins set down his beer. "Governor hates me adding bits and bobs to the report. Says a real copper just sets it down."

"I'm not surprised, Constable. He's a straightforward man."

"Aye. So when he overlooks my reports, he doesn't overlook such things."

Laughing, they clinked glasses.

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“Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “Holmes, how did you catch the customs clerk aiding the smugglers?”

My immense friend expelled a puff of smoke that reeked of cheap shag and day-old krill. “Simplicity itself, Watson. I had the usual trouble engaging a hansom toward the docks” (I wisely did not remind Holmes that every cab he took splintered under his avoirdupois) “but once I’d freed myself from the debris and flung myself against the warehouse wall the whole operation went down like a house of cards. One good tail-slap and he was in the Thames.”

I smiled. “So it was a fluke.”

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“Watson. Stay where you are. I shall be in my room. I wish to be quite alone.”

I could barely lift my head at those words from him. Exhaustion dragged me downward and sweat trickled in a river down my back; I wanted only to sink in and become unconscious.

His lovely deft hand brushed back my sweat-soaked hair. “Dear one, do you think I will be able to sleep for half an hour, let alone take enough rest to refresh myself, whilst Ganymede made flesh lies in my arms? No; I must lose my spouse to gain my sleep.”

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I could have stayed out of it.

I had a normal life in the E.R., a normal medical intern doing normal work. I could have written off that poor little lost girl as just another Jane Doe, victim of poverty and neglect.

But this short dude with a white fedora strides into my domain and takes it over with an authority I’m only trying to attain – and with the work he’s doing I saw a glimmer of hope that some justice will be found for that tiny patient left in a Dumpster.

So I got swept along with the tide.

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Raven stared across the courtyard.

Peregine saw a woman wearing a sleek black top hemmed with sparkling discs. "That's a good shirt, definitely not American. Possibly Parisian." No response. "Raven?"

"Shiny." Raven had not moved. "So. Shiny."

The one-winged falcon hid his amusement. Then Peregrine hopped closer to the shirt-wearer, cheeping like a chick.

It worked. She bent down, charmed – and Peregrine lunged forward, tearing at the sparkly stuff. He hopped away from the screaming woman, and dropped the swatch of sequins at his friend's feet. "For your collection."

Marie always swore those two oiseaux damnés were laughing at her.

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A dead man is a free man.

Those closest to me are safe now; they cannot and will not be used as hostages nor threats against me.

I will move more swiftly with only myself to have a care for.

I will be able to move unmolested by the remnants of this monster's operation.

Now I can track them down one by one, and tear away the last threads of this vile web once and for all.

Teeth clamped on bleeding tongue, I chanted this litany in my mind over the sound of Watson's cries and the roar of water.

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We two had travelled to a small northwestern town in mid-June to find the thieves who'd taken the church bell; not only did we catch the gang but we returned the bell in time for the town's seasonal festivities. However, our planned return to London that night was thwarted as our train's engine required repair.

Neither of us was complaining.

Though the night was late Holmes embraced me again and began to move, causing my shirt to jingle. "I didn't… know… you were a… Morris dancer, John."

I grinned. "I didn't know you reacted that way to Morris dancers, Sherlock."

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My dear Dr. Anstruther: I apologize profusely for imposing upon you, but must make a request. I'm afraid a pressing matter calls me out of town for a few days. Can you possibly please cover my practise until Friday? I'll be happy to repay the favour at your pleasure. Yours Faithfully, John Watson.

#

Anstruther: Holmes requires my aid. Can you tend my patients till my return? Will wire when I know. I owe you. Yours, Watson.

#

ANSTRUTHER AWAY WITH H STOP RETURN UNCERTAIN STOP KEY UNDER MAT FULL STOP W

#

A USUAL SCENARIO FULL STOP JW

***

"Anstruther's moved? But why?"

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Sherlock starts the day with a swim in the ocean; he rises with the sun and heads down to the cove, his swimsuit in his pocket.

A former soldier cherishes his sleep; I remain under the covers while my spouse practices his morning routine.

But I arise half an hour later on my own. And when I hear the cheery humming of some Wagnerian air that is the harbinger of his return to the cottage, I stand on the cliff-top watching his water-plastered anguilliform figure approaching up the path, and greet him with a kiss and a cup of coffee.

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July 1 1880 was hot and dry, and I wryly recalled the old saying. What was Afghanistan but a land where rain was a stranger, a place of perpetual heat and perpetual dryness? A very different rain decimated us all on the 27th, and the spatters on the ground were our blood as we retreated. I gasped for pain and thirst under the merciless sun.

…“The third consecutive week of rain!” Sherlock Holmes glared at the July weather as we left Baker Street ten years later. But I lifted my face under the umbrella, smiling at the cold and wet.

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I laid eyes on the Bride and knew I had finally come home.

Many think I cannot love as I avoid the company of all women. What narrow, shallow minds.

The peaks and gables of Squire Holmes’ Yorkshire estate might have been a prison for the abuse and tyranny that filled it. When we were old enough Mycroft and I fled south.

London’s many church-spires impressed, but the unique shape of St. Bride’s on Fleet Street – its pinnacle inspiring the shape of wedding cakes – reassured me that this city and I were now one flesh, never to be put asunder.

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Watson had halfway finished his description of the suspect’s home – the overhanging ivy, the neatly-laid bricks of the wall, the impressive cast-iron work of the gate, the imposing front of the estate – when Holmes cut him off.

“Yes yes yes, a gated wall surrounded the house. Facts, Watson, facts! Continue.”

#

Holmes expounded on the genus and species of the flies and other vermin that attended an abandoned corpse, and referenced his small monograph on the subject of postmortem ecosystems. Watson nodded, scribbling:

The poor man’s body was in a ghastly state after three days at the mercy of the elements.

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Murray saved my life that horrific day. If he had not staunchly stayed by my side even as the Ghazis swept down upon us, knowing full well what they did to captives, had not thrown me over a horse and led us to safety during the retreat, I would not be here. I would never have met Mr. Sherlock Holmes, never had my life changed forever. So I owe Murray much.

But did he have to seize me by the back of my trousers? The violent cloth-wedge driven into my groin by his actions was almost worse than the bullet.

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“Who’s guilty?” Lestrade shouted, bursting into the room.

“They’re! They’re!” Mellis shouted.

The only others in the room were Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

Lestrade nodded. “Where are these guilty fellows?”

“There! There!” Mellis pointed at Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

“Whose weapons are these?” Lestrade indicated the cosh, gun and knife at Mellis’ feet.

“Their! Their!” Mellis jerked his chin.

Holmes and Watson looked not at all guilty, villainous, or surprised.

“Nice try, Mellis.” Lestrade and the constable led the criminal off in cuffs.

Holmes shook his head. “Criminals are so stupid nowadays.”

Watson patted his shoulder. “There, there.”