THE RETURN OF CULVERTON SMITH

Story by GM and Maura Kelly

written

by

G M

Christmas 1900

During the many years of our partnership there have been countless dramas enacted upon the small stage at 221B Baker Street. Holmes' expertise as the first and foremost consulting detective in England brought us into contact with many dangerous and desperate criminals. We had seen the face of tragedy, horror and death many times, yet one night's memory is forever etched deeply in my mind. A cold, forsaken midnight, when the best and worst of human attributes were tested. When fear, hatred and revenge warred alongside nobility, honor and love.

The night was bitterly chill. Snow clogged the congested streets; the thoroughfares iced, frosty sheets connecting the great city. Wind howled like a demon through the man-made corridors of civilization.

It was with grateful relief that we entered the warm and cozy sitting room of 221B. We had been on an outing to the theater that night. The trip was an effort to divert Holmes from a self-imposed silence, from whence he had frequently slipped into moody contemplation between cases for the last several weeks. The theater had not distracted his mind from the convoluted thoughts, which preoccupied him. Neither of us paid much attention to the energetic drama of the play. To make matters worse, I feared I had caught a cold from the night's excursion

Many years since he had painfully forsaken the dreaded cocaine, yet a latent, unreasonable fear of a return to the fatal drug haunted my worried mind during these quiet periods. Holmes never exhibited any signs of returning to the habit, yet my fears remained. Holmes automatically moved to the mantle where he filled a pipe. I turned up a lamp then moved to the sideboard and poured out two generous helpings of port.

"Rest yourself, Watson. I shall fetch the port."

Realizing he had noticed my exaggerated, slow limp, I strove to hide the ache in my leg as I crossed the room and placed Holmes' glass on the mantle. I sipped the warming liquor and stood by the fire to take the chill from my limbs. While the burning spirit was comforting, my cold prevented me from savoring the full flavor of the rich port. A prodigious yawn escaped me and broke the silence in the room.

Holmes chuckled. "Too much port, Watson?" he nodded toward my glass. "It was almost noon before you arose this morning," he teased with an obvious glint of humor in his eyes.

Acknowledging the joke with a grin, I defended, "I slept until eleven-thirty because we did not return from Kent until three this morning."

I tapped him on the arm to emphasize the blame was on his shoulders, then crossed to the window

Snow was piling along the sidewalk and houses across the way. Gold-yellow gaslight cast shimmery columns of glistened illumination across the slick-wet street shiny with ice. Fat splatters of snow coursed down the cold glass as coagulated rain. I hoped we would not be called to leave Baker Street for a few days. Persistent aches in my shoulder and thigh reminded me my old war wound and more recent gunshot wound (respectively) were ill companions in the chill weather

I was perfectly aware of what preoccupied Holmes. I wondered how best to break into his thoughts. We had both been reluctant to discuss the subject, yet now I saw conversation might be the only way to extricate him from moody depression, from extended contemplation of a weighty matter.

I felt his presence as he stood near my shoulder and peered out the window. Considering there was no time like the present, I decided to press him for answers

"You have not reached a decision, have you?"

The smile was discernable in his voice. "However did you deduce that?"

"Observation, of course," I responded lightly as I turned to face him. "Between cases these past weeks you have been in an unusually quiet, withdrawn mood."

"Not withdrawn --"

"Yes, withdrawn," I insisted, studying the liquor in my hand. "Since Mycroft's visit you incessantly smoke your black clay pipe. And I must constantly remind you to eat."

I glanced at him in time to catch a momentarily perplexed expression as he removed the pipe from his mouth. I tapped the pipe with my glass. "The black clay means deep concentration. You reserve your brier or cherrywood for your disputatious moods."

"Ha!" Holmes laughed in his peculiar, unique expression of amusement. He patted me on the shoulder. "I never do get your limits, old fellow. Am I so predictable?"

Wryly I responded, "I have had a great deal of time to study my subject."

"Touché." His nod was a compliment. He retained his touch on my shoulder and applied the merest pressure. "You have not come to a decision either."

"It is not my place to decide," I responded quickly, not willing to accept any responsibility. "This is your quandary, Holmes."

"Quandary. Appropriate word, Watson. Indeed a man of letters," he muttered in a tone devoid of his usual tartness when referring to my writing.

Mycroft Holmes' recent visits had been on our minds for some time. He had offered his brother a chance to work for the government in a continuation of the skullduggery Holmes undertook during the three years after Reichenbach. At first, Holmes had refused the offer outright. Mycroft had persisted for months until he had elicited a promise that Sherlock would at least consider the employment.

"This decision involves you, yet you have been scrupulously reluctant to offer advice." His penetratingly keen, piercing green/grey eyes bore into mine. I knew my self-appointed neutrality was about to be jarred to a forced commitment.

"You are my friend, my advisor, my confidant, Watson," he continued in a tone both serious and complimentary. "You have refrained from even the hint of an opinion."

Refusing to let the rare compliments sway me, I clung to my noncommittal stance. "It is your decision, Holmes. This is your career."

"OUR career, Watson. This is a partnership," he countered firmly and emphasized by patting my shoulder. "Have I not made that clear -- certainly in these past months?"

He referred to the traumatic case the past summer when Killer Evans had wounded me. In an impulsive, over-reaction, Holmes had threatened to retire as a consulting detective because of the dangers of the case. After the initial shock of the attack was over, I had convinced Holmes to reconsider retirement. Feeling somewhat guilty about my wound, he promised he would undertake no more dangerous cases for fear of further misadventure to his 'partner'.

He was not so concerned over his own health when not long ago he was severely beaten by Baron Gruner's thugs. Then it had been my turn to care for and remonstrate my reckless friend. Beyond that had also been the chilling dangers of the Milverton mess. My warnings had fallen on deaf ears, as usual. Little wonder I was skeptical of entering into a new career which offered new risks.

Although flattered by the status I held in his eyes, I was reluctant to inhibit his opportunities. Detection was his life and my conscience would not condone limiting his talents. Selfishly, I did not want to give up the adventurous life we had come to relish. So I managed to sway him not to end his career.

His expression was speculative when he continued. "Government service may be less dangerous than dealing with the criminal classes. We would be less likely to encounter the likes of Killer Evans."

"Or Baron Gruner," I said, reminding him of his own near fatal encounter. "A nasty piece of work." Silently I wondered if the criminals were becoming more daring and dangerous, or if we were growing slow and careless with age. "We could encounter far worse."

"You must have an opinion, Watson," he insisted as he crossed back to the mantle to light his pipe. His gaze wandered the sitting room absently as his long fingers went through the familiar motions. "It would certainly alter our lifestyle."

"And your independence in selecting cases," I added casually, assuming the role of Devil's advocate.

He had probably already deduced my reluctance to work with Mycroft. Maturity had brought to our lives a greater appreciation of security and serenity. I was fearful of changing a life which was comfortable and eminently satisfying.

Holmes' back and shoulders suddenly tightened, when his eyes snagged for the merest of moments on something in the shadows near his room. With an abruptness denoting alarm, his whipcord frame spun round and closed the distance between us in a few quick strides.

His face was taut with anxiety. "Someone is here," he whispered, his hands gripping tightly to my arm. "My bedroom door was closed when we left tonight."

I darted a quick glance toward the bedroom and saw the door slightly ajar. I knew Mrs. Hudson was away for the evening. My mind raced for possible explanations, yet I knew Holmes had already thought of any ramifications and rapidly ended with this conclusion. An inner instinct telegraphed a confirmation of the danger, which obviously gripped Holmes.

"Your revolver?"

My eyes shot to my nearby desk. "In the drawer." I edged past Holmes and quietly placed my glass on the desk then reached for the drawer for my Webley

"Stop, Dr. Watson!" a voice shouted. The raspy order echoed through the achingly still room where every breath, every crackle of the fire was magnified in the tense silence.

I froze. A quiet sigh was released from my friend close beside me. For several seconds I hesitated, weighing my chances of reaching my Webley and shooting our intruder -- the unseen threat I knew must be deadly

"Move to the pistol and you die!"

There was a note of panic in the oddly familiar voice. Seconds ticked by as I considered an heroic attempt for the pistol. The villain easily could shoot Holmes or me if I was willing to take the chance. My mind automatically flinched at the thought of the unnecessary peril, which would be placed on my friend with the brashness. Judging the risk not worth the candle I slowly straightened and took my place beside Holmes.

A quick glance at my friend indicated the situation was not as hopeless as I had first thought. His keen, confident expression told me he had identified the visitor. There would be few surprises left. Holmes rarely allowed someone to get the better of him more than once. Certainly not after the blackguard had breached the very security of our home.

"Do come out of the shadows, Smith. You may drop the intrigue and drama. The good Doctor and I have divined your identity."

I hoped I covered my surprise at the revelation of the intruder. I had not recognized the voice of Culverton Smith. Holmes, as usual, gave me more credit for inference than I deserved. He pluraly included me into his deductions. My friend was of a generous nature where my part in his investigations was concerned. I often wondered why he felt I was an equal contributor to the partnership.

I never would have recognized the near cadaver-like form of the man who slowly stepped from the deep shadows and into the light. Years had passed since I had seen the evil Smith. Those years had been harsh to the wicked murderer. The wages of sin certainly preyed against the man who was shrunken and thin; a sickly, sallow pallor tinted his wrinkled face; the hunched shoulders tremored. The hand holding the pistol shuddered with palsy denoting a lingering, terminal illness. I automatically diagnosed several possibilities. Then I peered closely at his face -- his eyes -- and felt a paralyzing chill grip my heart. Madness gleamed from the bright orbs -- eyes directed at Sherlock Holmes. I felt a terrible, strangling fear for my friend.

“It would be superfluous to ask your business," Holmes said with impatient irritation.

"Oh, so clever, Mr. Great Sherlock Holmes!" Smith spat. Each word laced with contempt, hate; poisoned with festered madness and anger. "Yes I am here to kill you -- the one responsible for my torture -- my death! I am dying from the rot of prison where you consigned me! And I shall deliver you to Hell for it!" he screamed, the pistol quaking from a wavering hand. "This night will be your torture and death at my hands!"

I felt the blood drain from my face. A sideways glance at my friend revealed no emotion on his set, angular face. I marveled at his control. Particularly considering the hatred, the evil, our adversary had proven he was capable of inflicting.

Never could I forget the awful circumstances of our first encounter with Smith. Never shall I forget the fear I knew when I was called to Holmes' bedside to find him dying of an exotic, fatal poison. I had been asked to summon Smith, an expert in poisons. I was relieved to find Holmes had faked the illness to trap Smith. Yet the memory of the fear of Holmes' poisoning lingered even after all these years. Perhaps because I had once agonized through the realization of Holmes' supposed death at Reichenbach. That still stark and frightening memory was vividly alive in my mind now as I once more faced my friend's death.

Overcome with the emotions of past fears I protectively pushed in front of Holmes. "You will not kill him unless you kill me first," I insisted firmly, secretly relieved my shaking nerves were not betrayed in my tone.

"Watson," Holmes chastised with a quiet sigh. He tried to pull me back, but I stood my ground.

"No need for your pathetic heroics, Doctor," Smith said with a derisive laugh. "It's too late. Sherlock Holmes is already dead. And you have already fulfilled your wish, fool -- lackey! You are dead as well!"

Holmes placed his long, strong fingers on my shoulder. I could feel the anger actually emanate from his touch. "Mind your impudent tongue, Smith!"

"No need to mind yours, Holmes. You are both dead!"

"You are looking well for a dead man, Watson," he offered with a wry twist, which completely dismissed Smith's threats. Yet his tone was hard as diamonds. From the rigid lines about his mouth, I read the strain underlying the cavalier mask. The green/grey eyes flashed at our opponent. "You on the other hand, Smith, have been dead for years. Evil poisoned your soul long before we met."

Smith's sudden explosion of laughter grated on my already overwrought nerves. The laughter of a madman, yet I wondered why it brought such fear to my heart. For a fleeting moment, I contemplated an impulsive rush for Smith, then reason reasserted itself. I could never race round the sofa to Smith before he returned to his unstable senses. As if reading my mind Holmes moved close enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with me, his right hand still on my arm.

"Poison is an excellent choice of words," Smith said with an eerily abrupt soberness. With the frightening agility of the demented, he moved from mood level to mood level without transition or reason. He stepped over to the liquor sideboard and tapped the port decanter with the pistol. "I poisoned the wine, fools!" he sneered. "I failed once, Holmes, but now I have you!"

Holmes' grip tightened, his quavering fingers the only evidence of the affect of Smith's piercing words. From the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes glance at his untouched glass on the mantle. His face was unusually pale in the flickering firelight. For the first time that night, fear tinged his not-quite-controlled expression. His anger and frustrated misery was such a tangible presence I imagined his fingers sear my shoulder.

In contrast, I felt oddly relieved. Strange, that I found my own death sentence easier to bear than the thought of Holmes' demise. I had been the only one to drink from the decanter. He would be mercifully spared and this time I would be the only target of Smith's vile revenge. An empty victory for us all.

"It is a slow, lingering poison, Holmes. Yours will be a painful end -- I shall enjoy watching every agonizing moment of your collapse!"

Only a momentary fear for myself flashed through my mind. Soothing relief instantly drowned it. My single thought was that Holmes was saved.

I felt Holmes' intent eyes upon me and met the look with all the courage I could summon. It was a strange moment of silent communication when every thought was clear to the other. I saw the painful regret in his eyes; the recognition when he easily read my own relief that the poison would claim only half of our partnership.

Silent, yet expressive anguish palpably emanated from him. The sting of tears burned at the back of my eyes; this would be so painful for my friend. I knew exactly what he was feeling. Yet, still I selfishly was glad it was I who would die this time.

"It will be quite entertaining to see who will die first," Smith almost screeched with delight. "Will it be the mighty Holmes or his fool lackey?"

"Damn you!" Holmes exploded.

The rare eruption of savage condemnation was as jolting and effective as the intensity of his anger. Wrath reverberated in the room electrified with strained emotions. Obvious hatred glared from him to Smith. "I'll see you die for this!" he promised in a low, trembling voice.

"I hardly think so, Holmes. I shall have the pleasure of seeing you the first one consigned to the flames of Hell!"

He seized the decanter and threw it into the fire. The explosion of glass and liquor shot flames bursting from the hearth. Holmes instantly dashed behind me and lunged for my desk. Two shots cracked even as I dove forward to push Holmes from the line of fire. Before I could reach him, I saw his body jerk from the impact of a bullet.

"Holmes!"

"Stand clear, Doctor!"

I ignored Smith's shout and grabbed for my friend, who had been thrown onto the floor. With nerveless hands I lifted Holmes by the shoulders. I nearly passed out from the intensity of relief when I saw he was still alive; nearly cried out with joy when I saw his wound was a minor graze on his upper right arm.

"Holmes --"

My throat was too tight and dry to say anything more.

He offered a slight nod and a twitch of a quick smile indicating he was all right.

Then I realized I had the opportunity to finish Holmes' heroic attempt. Even as I thought of reaching toward the desk, I felt the press of cold steel upon my head.

"Try it, Doctor," Smith challenged in a low, dangerous voice. "It might be amusing to watch your brains blown onto your friend, the brilliant detective!"

I swallowed hard, my bravado drained as I saw Holmes cover a fleeting, horrified expression.

"Don't, Watson," Holmes insisted.

Thoughts of impulsive heroics fled from my mind. There would have to be another plan, another chance. Even if I was under a death sentence, I could not throw my life away yet. How could I purposefully cause my friend such pain in a futile and empty gesture?

Now I had a patient who required my attention. I would focus on that for the moment and place our lives in the hands of fate and Holmes' wit. I had no doubt his agile mind was churning through possible escapes from our trap.

Smith kept the pistol at my head as he took my Webley from the drawer. "Move away, Doctor," he ordered as he backed to the sofa and sat down.

I helped Holmes to his feet. My friend was shaky and pale. The sleeve of his black coat now silkily, fluidly dark from the growing blood stain.

"Get away!" Smith screamed.

"I have a patient to tend to," I muttered without even glancing at the madman. "Sit down, Holmes," I ordered and gestured him to a chair by the table.

"No! Get away or I shoot!"

Losing grip of the thin vestiges of control, which I barely retained I impatiently shouted back, "Then shoot, damn you, and finish it! I am already a dead man --"

"Watson --"

"-- finish your deed and shoot! Otherwise I will take care of my friend!"

My back to Smith, I heard the metallic click of a hammer and I held my breath.

"Watson, please ignore your diligent tenacity and do as he says," Holmes commanded sternly.

I ignored them both as I carefully tore at the ripped sleeve. I pressed my handkerchief to the wound to temporarily stop the bleeding.

"Doctor, I'll kill you!"

Holmes seized my wrist with a grip which numbed my hand. "Watson --" Concern for my safety was a naked plea in his eyes. He took a breath and suppressed his momentary emotional outburst with an iron control. "Watson!" He ordered with that commanding manner of which I could do naught but, as always, obey his wishes.

"The wound is only superficial," he assured. A flexing of his hand proved no serious damage, yet I saw through the brave show; saw the pain, saw his face pale and drawn from the shock of the injury and the untenable situation.

Reluctantly I stepped away and stood by the mantle as Smith ordered. I tried not to fidget as Smith stared from me to Holmes. The man was utterly deranged. No way to guess what his next outrage might be. I vowed I would take any risk if it seemed Smith was going to attack Holmes again.

At that moment, I committed my life to Holmes' safety. Much as Holmes must have committed himself to self-sacrifice to rid the world of Moriarity. The only difference now was that my life no longer mattered -- no longer held any value. I was a walking dead man. The only purpose left me was to assure my friend's life was spared.

"I have misjudged things, I fear," Smith admitted, his voice very quiet and calm.

'Join the club,' I thought wryly as I glanced at my friend.

There was an ache of sorrow in my heart for Holmes. I knew well by the look in his expressive eyes that he was silently berating himself for this situation; blaming himself for being fallible, for not having control of this deadly moment. I shared his sense of desperation and violation -- that this nightmare from our past had entered our cozy room and warped our lives with a vengeance we had never imagined. Even if, by some miracle we survived this siege, our lives would be forever scarred by this intrusion. Certainly Holmes would never be the same (nor would I since I would be dead, I thought in a flash of black humor)

"I am entertained you hold some form of affection for your dull lackey."

Holmes snarled viciously. "Not another word of Watson--"

"All these years I thought it was only his mindless devotion to the great detective --"

Never have I seen my friend's face etched with such cold, deep lines of hatred. He leaped to his feet. Fortunately, he held his ground. His tone was brittle and iced with loathing as he leered at the gunman. "As usual, Smith, you have underestimated your opponents."

I felt Holmes tense as if to spring at Smith.

Quickly I interrupted, "As you have overrated your skills with poison."

I was glad to see I had defused a bit of tension from my companion. He continued to stare with malevolence at Smith, yet I knew he had given second thoughts to an impulsive attack. He sank into the chair, apparently spent. Yet, I noted his manner was of a crouching tiger waiting to spring upon his prey

Smith spared only a fleeting glance at me. "You will soon feel the effects of the slow, agonizing poison, Doctor."

"I still feel well," I defiantly snapped.

The retort was for Holmes' benefit. It was a feeble attempt to lessen the desolation I saw in his eyes. He had not surrendered, but he clearly held little hope for our survival. His eyes flicked my way with a silent show of gratitude and acknowledgement. It was as good as a shout to me that all was not lost.

"'Physician heal thyself,'" Smith sniggered. "It will take more than your pathetic ineptness -- more than your friend's ego to save you now!"

A small comfort was that Smith would never know how devastatingly effective his revenge was. Could he ever conceive the guilt and pain he had wrecked on my friend? Holmes would never forgive himself for indirectly causing my death. Aside from my natural instinct for survival, I now found myself desperate to live. How could I allow my death to weigh on my friend's sensitive conscience?

Fine trickles of sweat slid down my neck. I resisted the nervous urge to wipe away the moisture. I wondered if this was the first symptom of the poisoning. I pushed the thought away, not wishing to linger on the possibilities. Soon enough, no doubt, I would have an intimate knowledge of the poison's effects.

"There is one thing you could do, Holmes."

The silky evil in his tone was enough to send chills slithering along my spine. What was Smith about to suggest which was so terrifying I was instinctively afraid to hear? Holmes' expression remained cold and unmoved. Both of us seemed to hold our breaths for the next horror to unfold.

With one hand, Smith dexterously unsnapped the Webley's chamber and shook bullets onto the floor. With a flick, the chamber snapped back into place. Smith came to his feet. With the air of a showman, he carefully placed the Webley on the table near Holmes. Smith pointed his revolver at me as he backed to the other side of the room.

"A shoot-out at ten paces?" Holmes asked without humor. "Duels are hardly your style. Ambush is more in character."

"There is a single bullet in the chamber, Mister Detective."

"Yes, yes," Holmes said impatiently with a wave of his hand. I almost smiled at his characteristic sharpness when someone took too long to come to an important comment. "My vision is unimpaired, Smith."

With a nod Smith glanced at my near-empty glass of port on the desk and Holmes' glass on the mantle

"The Doctor drank more of his poison, Holmes. He will be the first to die. You will have the opportunity to watch him suffer."

There was an irrational glimmer of pride in my heart as I saw Holmes' non-reaction and superb control to the barb, which I knew, was a sharp blade of pain to his soul. I was also grateful we had continued to deceive Smith, who did not realize Holmes had never touched the port.

With his best superior air of impatience, Holmes sighed. "Do get to the point, Smith before my colleague and I are both dead from the boredom."

"Laugh now, Holmes!" he rattled. "Will you laugh when you use that bullet to kill your dullard friend?"

Holmes' head snapped round toward Smith so sharply I imagined I heard the crack of his neck. For a breathless moment, he stared at Smith as he would a diseased, rotting animal. Holmes' face had paled to an almost transparent shade of chalk. There was a rigid tautness in his jaw; tangible emanation of cold, merciless hatred vibrated from every fibre of his being.

"You are mad!" It was a barely audible whispered condemnation. Holmes' voice scraped his contempt.

"You will kill him."

"I will not!" Holmes' enunciated crisply, the shout echoing round the walls of the haunted room. "Well you know I would never contemplate such an act!"

"You will do it!"

"I would sooner place the bullet in my own head!"

"No, Holmes!"

Smith kept a steady aim on me; otherwise, I would have risked the folly of jumping the madman. I would certainly risk anything to save Holmes.

As my emotions now bounced from one horror to another, my mind tried to comprehend the awful choice Smith was presenting to my friend. Some terrifying premonition whispered that Smith still had more evils saved for us. I knew Holmes would never kill me and would indeed allow his own death first. His noble self-sacrifices had been already demonstrated at Reichenbach. At this more personal dilemma, Holmes would not hesitate to exchange his life for mine.

I wondered if Smith could read the aggression in my friend's body, could see Holmes was an instant away from snatching the pistol. Holmes was certainly prepared, yet I knew he hesitated because Smith still held the revolver on me.

"Do you need a bit of encouragement, Holmes?"

Smith divided his attention between Holmes and myself as he walked round the sofa and approached me. I tensed, waiting for an opportunity to attack. The only thing keeping me in check was the knowledge that Holmes would be the one to suffer if I was too rash. As long as we lived, there was hope.

Without warning a bullet slammed into my left shoulder just as I heard the report of the pistol. I was thrown back against the mantle.

"Watson!" I heard Holmes cry.

My fingernails scraped on the wood as I vainly flailed to remain standing. A coppery, bitter taste was in my mouth. Cordite stung the air. I was strangely aware of every detail of the moment as I quaked from the shock of the wound and slid to the floor as my legs gave out. Momentarily, my vision washed to black

I heard the scratch of the chair as Holmes leaped to his feet.

"Stay Holmes, or I kill him now!" Smith shouted.

I clutched my throbbing shoulder, my eyes blurring from the hot stinging. As bad luck would have it, the bullet was near my old wound, intensifying the pain.

"Watson?"

Holmes had the Webley pointed at Smith. My friend's face was tight with emotion, his eyes shimmering. What prevented him from firing? Smith still held his pistol at me.

Not many months ago, I had seen this same expression of fear when Evans had shot me. It had been a moment when I had seen the rare depth of emotion my friend was capable of revealing under great duress. Holmes hesitated to take the risk of firing while Smith yet had a dead bead on my head. Holmes' marksmanship was not of the first order. Smith seemed to have the edge there.

"I'm all right, Holmes," I lied as soon as I could catch my breath.

I slowly struggled to my feet in a show of normalcy I did not feel. The wound was not serious, yet I was growing too old take these injuries in stride.

"Another twist for this quaint little affectionate melodrama you have provided for me." The revolver still aimed at me; Smith backed away, unconcerned that Holmes would shoot him. "Kill him, Holmes!"

"Never!" Holmes savagely shouted.

I saw this macabre turn had taken my friend off balance once again. For one of the few times in his life he was confused and trapped in a seemingly hopeless web of an enemy. Neither of us comprehended Smith’s game. Torture? Demanding us to kill each other? The rantings of a madman, surely, but this lunatic held the power. Worse than our inability to understand Smith, was the lack of control for the situation.

"Shoot him or I will wound him again. I could empty the gun delivering painful wounds not immediately fatal, Holmes. He could bleed to death before the poison takes effect."

"No!"

Smith's sneer was vicious as he glared at Holmes. "I tire of the game, Holmes. There is no need to stall for time. Do you think anyone will come to your aid? If anyone heard the shots in this storm they would ignore them thanks to your eccentric reputation!"

"So much for indoor target practice," I commented with quiet ruefulness.

I was rewarded with the flash of a thin, quick, mirthless smile from my friend as his intent eyes, darkened with emotion, locked onto mine. "I promise I shall never indulge in the vice again."

"Enough!" Smith screamed. Bouncing from rage to laughter to agitation, the madman was beyond the brink of sanity. I feared what new threat he would produce. "Kill him now or I shoot again!"

“I will shoot you instead.”

“And risk my trigger finger popping a fatal bullet into his brain? I think you will not take the risk, Holmes! Not after I have seen you are not completely heartless and soulless. I have seen a glimmer of humanity within you tonight, Holmes! And it will be your downfall!”

Holmes shook his head and dropped the Webley to his side.

Vibrating with anger Smith turned the pistol to Holmes. "Then I will kill you, and your lackey will be left to my mercy!"

"No!" I shouted desperately.

"Then convince him, Doctor. Beg for his life! I will count to three. One!"

"Holmes, save yourself!" I pleaded. Realizing I had almost given away Holmes' safety I quickly added, "Save yourself time, Holmes."

"Stop, Watson --"

I flinched at the pain in his eyes, yet I continued with a bluntness which was cruel. "I am already dead --"

"Enough!" he commanded.

This time my own desperation overrode my instinctive obedience to his personality. "I won't have you killed before my eyes! Do you think I could stand your death a second time!"

Holmes visibly started at the fear in my tone, at the confession, which I had never before voiced. Perhaps the hopelessness of the situation robbed me of optimism and faith for a miracle. Whatever the cause, I was now determined to use my life in trade for Holmes'. A more than worthy offering in my opinion.

"Two."

"Raise the pistol," I urged, my voice tight, hardly a whisper.

"My dear Watson," said he, tired, drained. "How could I ever harm you?"

I fought to blink back the absurd tears stinging my eyes. How ridiculous that our partnership would end in an argument -- fighting to save the life of the other. The depth of our friendship was a touching testimony of a mutual affection, which would be tragically ended within moments.

Never had I seen such an open expression of love on his face. Over the years, I had come to accept his valued, yet sparse, bits of praise as the only acknowledgement I would ever receive of his affection for me. In turn, out of respect for his reticence, I restrained from comments of my own regard of my friend, allowing most of my respectful opinions voiced in the accolades I gave him in my accounts of our adventures. I abstractly wondered if that was one reason Holmes disliked my narratives. Holmes was such a private person and discussion of any emotion left him embarrassed and off-balance. Odd the emotions bubbling within a mind unable to cope with reality any longer.

To my surprise, Holmes abruptly raised the pistol to arm's length. The barrel was unsteadily pointed in my direction. His resolute eyes stared at me above the sights of the Webley. I was hardly aware of the weapon.

I locked onto my friend's bright, grey/green, glistening eyes.

"I am so very sorry, my dear Watson," he whispered.

My heart wrenched from the terrible hurt in his voice, in his face. In a kind of mental fireworks-burst comprehension dawned in a sickening flash of realization. I suddenly understood what hideous impulse he contemplated -- the impossible ploy, which lurked within the most cunning and brilliant mind in England. How ridiculous to think he WOULD ever harm me. He would, again, choose his own sacrifice in trade for my doomed life. He would try a shoot-out with Smith. With the realization came a simultaneous understanding that he would not succeed.

As if overtaken by a vision -- the familiar sitting room faded away. I was once again on the misty, sodden ground of Reichenbach Falls. With the image returned the painfully acute sensation of grief, despair and agony I had suffered when I thought Holmes to have died at the Falls. My heart ached as I recalled those devastating moments/days/years when I suffered from his death.

Time stopped as my mind raced past those nearly overwhelming memories and sensations to our present predicament. I knew for a certainty I could not live through the agony of his death a second time. I would do anything, risk anything, to save Holmes from further injury, from death. I would willingly -- gladly -- give my life in forfeit, or even along with his, rather than experience again the stark, aching loneliness of an empty existence without my friend. Far better to enter the next dimension together, as we had entered so many other investigations in our partnership.

I had only an instant to act. I seized the glass of port within easy reach on the mantle. The action turned Smith's eyes toward me.

In that second my friend spun round and aimed the Webley at Smith, who saw the action from the corner of his eye and turned back to Holmes. I threw the glass, which smashed against Smith's arm. Just then the revolver bucked as he pulled the trigger in nearly the same instant. From the periphery of my eye, I had the impression of Holmes collapsing back against the table.

"Holmes!" I shouted.

I raced toward Smith. The villain had recovered enough to take aim at me and I realized my time had run out. Even as I charged over the sofa to reach him, I felt the impact of a bullet in my chest as I tumbled atop Smith. My anger, desperation, or hateful rage momentarily numbed the pain and shock from my mind. My single, last purpose was to see Smith in Hell before I left my earthly existence for whatever plane I would be assigned. It mattered not where I spent eternity; I would be comforted for aeons by this vengeance for my friend's blood.

We crashed against Holmes' desk then slammed into the wall. Glass splintered and shattered as our shoulders hit the window. We struggled for possession of the pistol. For a perilous moment, I had the sensation of falling; my mind obliquely wondering if this was what it must have felt like for Moriarty as he tumbled down the abyss to death.

Thoughts fragmented with almost hallucinogenic etherealness: Cold snow blew into my face. Glass sliced my skin. My shoulder snagged on the jagged windowpane. The weight of Smith slipped from my hands. The ceiling of the sitting room appeared as I stared up from the floor where I had collapsed

My vision contracted with black-edged numbness. Parts of my mind, my body, were coiled with pain. My entire chest ached; throbbing, hot, sharp -- agony, which radiated and pulsed with each breath. Some analytical portion of my thoughts instinctively categorized the moistness of blood on my skin, the acrid, burning/stale smell of gunpowder and blood, which permeated the cold room.

The torment was now so engulfing I felt little reaction to the knowledge that I was dying. The blackness pressed closer as I slipped toward unconsciousness. Curiosity turgidly wove through my thoughts and I wondered if Holmes was yet alive. If I had not saved him, then I would gladly slip into the void, for this life would hold nothing for me without my friend. I heard myself calling his name without being aware that I was speaking. With the dream-like resonance of a spirit-whisper I heard the well-loved voice speak my name.

The blurred image of Holmes' face appeared very close to me. I would have thought him a fevered imagining except for the tangible, strangling grip as he lifted me into his arms.

"Watson!" he cried out with desperate anguish, my name a demand, a plea. His eyes filled with tears.

Strange images cluttered my incoherent, jumbled thoughts: Holmes