It was a very warm April that year, though cloudy, and I visited Baker Street with some frequency.  My daughter Ivy was just turned seven years old, so I found myself with a great deal more free-time.  It was a Saturday, and I decided that I would spend the day at 221 B.  Mrs. Hudson greeted me warmly at the door and lead me upstairs.

            Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, his brows drawn in consternation as he read the paper.

“Good morning, Sherlock!” I exclaimed. “How are you?”

“Hello, Watson,” Sherlock spoke with much the same tone as if I had only just come back from the market.

            I must confess that I felt rather irritated by his seemingly cold greeting, but I had learned that when he was in such a mood there was little that could move him.  I sat down close to the window and set to enjoying the familiar comforts of the apartment in which I had spent so many years.

“Have you seen Lestrade recently?” Sherlock spoke up.

“A bit,” I replied. “He’s been over for tea a few times.  Why do you ask?”

            Holmes tossed me the paper.  The front page read, THREE MORE MURDERED AT HANDS OF WALTER BECK.

“Walter Beck has killed eight people since the beginning of April.  Is the name familiar to you?”

            Sherlock stood as he spoke, walking over to his bookshelf.

“No,” I confessed. “A colleague of the Professor Moriarty, perhaps?”

“Excellent, Watson.  Moriarty took Beck under his wing after the young man carried out a nearly successful assassination upon the professor.  Though not a tactician, Beck is a master among killers.”

            Sherlock drummed his long fingers on the top of the bookcase.

“He’s trying to draw me out, Watson, with all these murders,” he said at last, a smile creeping onto his face. “Rather diverting, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock!” I cried, aghast. “People are dying!”

“Watson, please.  You know that such things amuse me, flatter me even.” Sherlock said, rather flippantly.

            Still feeling perturbed by my friend’s evident coldness towards the human race as a whole, I turned back to the root of the conversation.

“You’re wondering why Lestrade hasn’t brought the station down on top of him.”

“Precisely.  Lestrade is hardly oblivious enough to not notice the near-constant reports of murder, and yet Beck sallies onward.  I’ve sent our dear inspector two telegrams asking that he would come see me, and he has not replied.”

“Well Sherlock,” I said, somewhat put out, “Lestrade likely has more important things to do than go calling.”

“But my dear Watson, have you ever known him to ignore a summons from Baker Street?” Sherlock said.

            And that alone seemed to encompass the oddity of the situation.  Over the course of many years and equally many cases, Lestrade had learned that a telegram from Sherlock was of supreme importance.

“It is, as you noted, a fine day out, so I believe I shall go see him.” Sherlock said.

“Did I note such a thing?” I asked, bemused.

“Didn’t you?” Sherlock said politely. “Well to be sure, you believe that it is such.  You haven’t brought your umbrella or even your watch, suggesting that you find the weather pleasant enough to disdain both time and the possibility of rain.  You took the long way to come here, walking through the park, I would guess, as your shoes have wet grass clippings on them.  No- you went through Fairway Circle.  The cottonseeds from the trees are still sticking on your collar.”

            I could only shake my head at his shrewd observations.  As he was speaking, Sherlock had donned his coat and hat.

“I’ll be back before noon, I would expect.  There’s a tin of Weyford biscuits on the shelf and the teapot is still warm.”

            And with that he was gone, his footsteps receding down the stairs and into the busy street below.

            Without even a touch of compunction, Sherlock let himself into Lestrade’s office.  The inspector looked up, somewhat nervously.

“Why Mr. Holmes, what a surprise!” he exclaimed.

“Hardly.” Sherlock said disinterestedly. “Why have you been disregarding my telegrams?”

“What telegrams?” Lestrade said, with admirable steadiness.

“My dear Inspector, surely you would know by this time that I am not a man who is thwarted by lies.” Sherlock replied. “It is far too warm a day for a fire, and yet one burns in your office.  Moreover, the tips of the flames are a whitish blue, suggesting that you are burning a paper containing theledide.  Interestingly, the telegraph paper that I am in the habit of using contains just such a chemical.  Finally, your coal bucket is empty, which suggests that you had no intention of lighting a fire today but promptly did so when you saw me coming up the lane.  Is it not so?”

            Lestrade sighed resignedly.

“It is just so, Mr. Holmes.  Will you sit down?”

            Holmes complied, draping himself upon a chair with the lazy yet somehow keen grace which became him so well.

“Walter Beck sent us this letter a few days back, when only four had died.”

            Lestrade slid a thin sheet of paper across the desk to Sherlock.  It read:

Inspector;

            I’m sure that you have made note of my work over the past few days.  I would imagine that it has you greatly concerned.  Be at ease in the knowledge that a quick end can be made of it.  Send Sherlock Holmes to number 617 Corin Lane, and all violence will cease immediately.  If you decide to send some of your men with Mr. Holmes, know that they will not return.  Only one man need be lost.

Respectfully yours,

Walter Beck

“As I suspected,” Sherlock said. “Beck is seeking to lure me out.  Have you found him yet?”

“No.  But neither has he found you.”

“We assume.  Our first order of business must be to uncover where he is.  Evidently, he is not at 617 Corin Lane, which raises the question of what exactly is at 617 Corin Lane.”

“We are investigating.” Lestrade said.

“Well your men are clearly quite dull, inspector!  It has been eight days since this letter was written!  I shall look into the matter at once.  Evidently, Beck sees no reason to stop his ‘work’.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade said quietly. “You are an invaluable asset to this country, and, frankly, to this world.  Beck is a master assassin and your life must not be put in danger.”

“Inspector!” Sherlock said sharply. “My entire career has put my life in danger.  You cannot prevent me from seeking this man.”

“I believe I can, as a matter of fact.” Lestrade said. “I am a police officer, an inspector, and an administrator of the law.”

            Sherlock leveled a cold, unblinking gaze on Lestrade.  Sweat began to bead the Inspector’s brow.  At last, with a supreme effort, he rose and opened the door.

“Good day to you, Mr. Holmes.”

            Sherlock rose very slowly and made his way out.  Lestrade caught a dry glitter in his eyes, and was at once sure that the honorable Sherlock Holmes would break the law if it was necessary for the capture of Walter Beck.

“Mr. Holmes, a man came to see you.” Mrs. Hudson said as she scrubbed the stair bannister.

“And he left already?”

“I heard him let himself out, yes.  Perhaps he left you a note.”

            Sherlock paused suddenly; his jaw tight.

“No.”

            With a swift step, he was up the stairs.  The apartment stood still, empty and silent.

“John?” Sherlock called.

            Almost as soon as he spoke, he noticed a gleam on the carpet.  It was Watson’s wedding ring, a thick dab of blood glittering on the rim.  Sherlock clenched it in the palm of his hand for a moment.  Then he was on the floor, examining the carpet for prints.

“You are a master, Beck.” Sherlock murmured, standing up with the faintest of smiles. “And so does our little game begin.  Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Hudson poked her head in the door. “Gracious, where is Doctor Watson?”

“Kidnapped, Mrs. Hudson.  Did you see the man leave?”

“I’m afraid not.  Is the Doctor alright?”

“He was when Beck took him.  The ring is still warm.  Unless I’m much mistaken, which I rarely am, Beck left it here to tempt me.  The man has two goals: to best me intellectually and then to kill me.”

“And is this to ‘best you intellectually’?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

            Holmes turned the ring over and over in his fingers.

“No.  This is to kill me.” He said quietly. “If we give him time, Beck will leave us with nothing more than a body to find.  He has demonstrated an utter lack of compunction when it comes to killing, and I’m quite sure that it would delight him to murder my friend.”

            Sherlock rose, pocketed Watson’s ring, and strode out the door.

            It was past noon by the time he reached the door of number 617 Corin Lane.  It was a very pretty house, pale green on the outside with many cut-glass windows.  The roof was a gentle slope of grey shingle and the door was cream-coloured.  Sherlock rang the bell and stood, restless, on the top step to wait.

            A few moments passed, and the then the door was opened by a young woman.  Her hair was blonde and curly and her eyes were bright blue.  She was dressed in a white-taffeta summer frock, with a wreath of daffodils on her head.

“Good day, sir!” she said cheerfully. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve come to inquire about Walter Beck.  I’m a colleague of his.  May I come in?”

“Of course,” the girl said courteously. “Though I hardly know why you’ve come to me, for I know very little of Walter Beck.”

            She led Sherlock through the vestibule and into the parlor, where they sat down on a fainting-couch.

“You must forgive the mess.  The stairs are being repainted.”

            She gestured towards the staircase at the far end of the room.  The steps were a damp white, with a pail of paint standing at the top.  In the far corner of the room rested a wooden barrel.

“More paint?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, the entire house is being redone.  I’m not overly fond of the blue.” The girl waved her hand towards the walls, which were a light azure.  Shelves of pewterware wrapped around the room. “I’m Anna, by the way.  And you are…?”

“Robert Thoreaux.  I’ve come to inquire about where our mutual friend Walter Beck is currently residing.  You know, of course, how difficult it is to get a hold of him.  I have some information for him about his latest project, but I can’t seem to get a hold of him.  Would you happen to have his current address?”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid not.” Anna said with some distress. “You see, I hardly know Walter, and I certainly know little of his work.”

“A real shame.” Sherlock said. “Well thank you anyways.  I must be going.  Good day to you!”

            Sherlock let himself out, rounding the street corner to where an officer stood twirling his baton idly.

“Officer?” Sherlock said sharply.

“Bartholomews.” The man responded, leaning against the brick corner of a millinery shop.

“I don’t care what your name is.” Sherlock said impatiently. “I want you to watch number 617 until I return later this evening.”

“Yes sir.” Bartholomews said, suddenly humbled by Sherlock’s commanding attitude.

            Sherlock climbed the steps of number 221 B with great purpose.  Once in the familiar apartment, he immediately set to work rifling through an old wardrobe.  A knock came at the door, eliciting an irritated frown.

“What is it?” Sherlock called.

“Mr. Holmes, there is someone to see you.”

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson!  I’m busy, can’t you see?”

“But sir, it is urgent.”

“Mrs. Hudson, it cannot possibly be as urgent as what I am doing!  Now for the final time, please leave me!  I am busy!” Sherlock snapped.

            He pulled out of the wardrobe the uniform of a police officer and put it on.  Standing before the looking glass, he painted a small mustache over his lip and combed his hair out as straight as he could.  Holmes thrusted a loaded pistol into his overcoat pocket and then stepped out the door.

            In the hall before him stood Mrs. Hudson.  Next to her was Mrs. Mary Watson and her little daughter Ivy.

“Mr. Holmes.” Mrs. Watson said, as steadily as she could, “Is it true that my husband has been captured and is in grave danger?”

“It is true.” Sherlock said briskly. “He may already be dead.  It is quite likely, in fact.”

            At this, poor Mrs. Watson burst into tears.  Mrs. Hudson shot Sherlock a reproving look.

“Mrs. Watson,” said Sherlock, softening a bit, “I shall do everything in my power to save him.  In the meantime, you and your daughter may wait here for my return.  Your daughter can sleep in my flat, and I’m sure Mrs. Hudson could set you up with a cup of tea in her sitting room.”

            Rather glumly, the four parted ways.  Sherlock strode down the stairs and out into the dim street, making for Corin Lane.

            I had been tied up for several hours, and my joints were beginning to ache.  The room had grown cold and I saw the moon shining from the high window.  I tried to turn over and find a more comfortable position on the wood floor, but none presented itself.  My gag tasted stiff and dry, and my hope was beginning to peter out.

            Deep down, I had nursed the belief that Sherlock would come for me, but gradually that belief was falling away.  He was likely more occupied with the apprehension of Beck.  I would merely be an afterthought to him; his supremely logical mind focusing on only one problem at a time.  With a slight shiver, I wondered when Beck would return to kill me.

            Just as the thought crossed my mind, I heard the splintering sound of a door breaking.  Footsteps clattered up the stairs, and the door to my prison was thrown open.  My eyes widened with astonishment.

            There stood Sherlock, dressed as a police officer.  He wasted no time in cutting my bonds and gag and helping me stand.

“Sherlock?” I exclaimed, bewildered. “Why on earth are you dressed like that?  I suppose you know that it is illegal to impersonate an officer?”

“More so because that fool of an inspector, Lestrade, practically put me under house arrest.  Come on!”

            We went down the stairs and through the empty house, questions overflowing from my mind.

“How did you get in?” I exclaimed.

“Beck’s sister realized that I knew, so she left and took the bullets and powder with her.  And with an officer’s uniform, the neighbors wouldn’t report me breaking down the door.”

“Sister? Bullets and powder?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said impatiently. “It was a simple deduction, really.  She didn’t tell me her last name, which is by all accounts rather odd.  Unless, of course, she is a Beck and did not wish me to know the fact.  This house is far too fine for all the pewter-ware on the walls, which is why Miss Beck is using those dishes to make bullets.  But the paint on the stairs gave it all away.  Clearly, the scent of it was meant to cover the smell of the powder she was making for her brother, which was stored in the barrel in the corner.  Paint, of course, is never put in wood barrels.  And how many people do you know, Watson, who paint stairs after they climb them?  Yet the bucket was at the top of the steps.  Beck clearly arrived, with you, just before me.  He painted up the steps behind him in hopes of hiding where he put you.  You, Doctor, would have a bullet through your head if I hadn’t put on all due haste.”

            I was silent for a moment, taking in all that Sherlock said.  As usual, all his deductions fit into place.  Beck was a wanted man, which would explain why his sister would have to obtain ammunition for him.  And, naturally, Beck’s first priority would be to escape the grip of the law.  With an officer watching the house (as I observed when we left), Beck wouldn’t dare shoot me.

“Do Mary and Ivy know?” I asked.

“Yes, they’re waiting in the flat for our return.” Sherlock said.

            He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out my wedding ring, still with a spot of dried blood on the rim.  I slipped it back onto my finger and rubbed my forehead ruefully, recalling all too well the sharp crack on the skull that Beck had given me.

“Must you walk so quickly, Sherlock?” I was still very tired from my ordeal, and Sherlock was striding down the street with all the speed in his lithe figure.

“There isn’t a moment to lose.” Sherlock said sharply. “Beck knows that I found you, and he knows where I reside.  He’ll be waiting for us.”

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed, alarmed. “Didn’t you say that Mary and Ivy are at the apartment?”

            Sherlock suddenly paused, his face turning a shade paler and his jaw clenching.

“How could you forget?” I cried angrily, beginning to run.

            Sherlock did not reply, but he too began to run.  We were nearly out of breath when we crashed through the door of 221 B.  With surprising energy, Sherlock slammed his shoulder into the door of Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room.

I had seen many things in my time with Sherlock, but nothing pierced my heart quite like the sight of that sitting room.  Mrs. Hudson lay on the carpet, my wife next to her.  Both were utterly still.  I sprang forward, pressing my fingers to my wife’s wrist.  Sherlock spoke before I had even detected the faint flutter of her heartbeat.

“Chloroform.  Tend to them.”

            Then he was gone, dashing up the stairs towards the apartment.

            Sherlock threw open the door and stopped short.  Beck stood by the fireplace, a vacant smile on his face.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

            Locked in Beck’s left arm was Ivy Watson.  His hand was clamped over her mouth, but Sherlock could see the abject terror in the little girl’s eyes.  Beck held a pistol pressed to the side of her head.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, I think that this should be an easy decision, yes?  Just come over here, in front of me, and this sweet little girl doesn’t need to die.”

            Sherlock stood still for a moment.  Slowly, he began to move towards the place on the carpet that Beck had indicated.  Holmes shivered a little, sinking into his coat’s turned-up collar and pressing his hands into his pockets.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Beck sighed pleasantly. “I’ve dreamed of an end like this: for you, for my career… isn’t it wonderful when dreams come true?”

            Sherlock did not respond, instead whipping a pistol out of his own jacket pocket.  He hesitated for only an instant, and then a pair of shots cracked out in the apartment.

            A floor below, I leapt to my feet at the sound of gunfire.  With sudden horror, I realized that Ivy must still be upstairs.  Leaving my wife and Mrs. Hudson semi-conscious, I ran up the stairs and threw open the apartment door.

            Never before and never since have I laid eyes on anything so warm and so wholesome.  Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room; my daughter held in his arms.  Her arms were curled around his neck and her legs were wrapped about his chest.  Sherlock’s hands were pressed to her trembling body.

            Ivy caught sight of me in the doorway and sprang out of Sherlock’s arms and into mine.  I held her with all the love of a father who had lived, if only for a few moments, in the fear that my daughter was hurt.  Then, with all the easy enthusiasm of a child, she was running down the stairs to her mother.

            I turned back to Sherlock, and I felt a sudden vestige of concern.  His face was unusually pale, and he was swaying faintly.

“Sherlock?” I said, moving over to him.

            I managed to catch his arm just as he collapsed onto the window-seat.  With sudden horror, I noticed a large swathe of blood soaking through his shirt.  I tore it open and grimaced at the sight: a bullet wound penetrated his torso and, likely, his stomach.

            I was abruptly seized by the fear that the incomparable, invincible Sherlock Holmes might die.  Then my training reasserted itself.

            I tore a bedsheet off of the cot in the corner and began to press it to the wound.  Sherlock winced.  My heart felt cold in my chest.  Even in my army days, I had not often seen such blood loss.  Sherlock needed to be taken to a hospital, and quickly.

“All part of the game, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said faintly, with a smile. “Beck is dead.  Those people out there… all of London… the humanity that you love, Watson, will not die as you fear.”

“They’re your people too, Sherlock.” I said softly, suddenly spellbound by his gravity.

            Sherlock flinched as I helped him stand.

“But I am not theirs.”

            Before, in my army days, I had heard men turn to such despairing talk when they were in danger of death.  But from Sherlock, the man whom I admired with all my heart, it made the blood run cold in my veins.  We began to walk, slowly, down the stairs.

“Whatever you say, Sherlock, I refuse to believe that you do not see something worth protecting in humanity,” I said stolidly. “And for a man who has witnessed so much evil, that speaks volumes of your heart.”

            Sherlock did not reply, but his steps seemed to lighten.  I peered into Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room as we passed and was pleased to see that all three of the ladies in the house were fully recovered.  I told them that I’d be back and then I made my way to the curb while supporting Sherlock as best as I could.  We got into a cab.

“St. Claire’s Hospital, as quickly as you can!  A man’s life rides in your cab tonight!” I called out to the driver.

            In only a few minutes, we arrived at the hospital.  I helped Sherlock to sink into a chair in the waiting room as a pair of doctors rushed to prepare the operating room.

            The bedsheet was nearly soaked with Sherlock’s blood and his face had grown deadly pale.  Two nurses entered, helping him onto a stretcher.  Sherlock shot me his familiar ironic smile.

“I’m sure, Doctor, that you wouldn’t oppose to my taking some morphine tonight.”

            Then he was gone, borne away down the hall.  I stood still in the waiting room.

“Heaven preserve you, Sherlock.” I whispered earnestly.

            The hours crawled by.  Sleep dragged at my eyelids, but I was far too restless for it.  The horror of Reichenbach Falls was all coming back.  I leaned back against the wall.

“God, don’t let him die,” I prayed. “He seems cold, as though he lives only for the hunt.  But none other than a good man would risk his life for me, for my daughter… for all of London.”

            I fell silent, my prayer hanging in the chilled air above me.  At long last, dawn began to look out on London.  A nurse came to the waiting room and I leapt to my feet.

“Mr. Holmes is alive and recovering.  You may see him now.”

            My heart lifted and I suddenly realized that I was hungry.  I followed the nurse down the hall and into a recovery room.

            The curtains were drawn and sun poured down on the bed.  Sherlock was watching me as I entered the room, a soft smile on his face.

“Good morning, Watson,” he said, his tone perfectly ordinary.

“Hello Sherlock.” I sat down next to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel quite alright.  A bit bored, perhaps, but I’m sure a murder will present itself in no time.  How delightful this flawed world is!”

            Sherlock sounded so pleasant that I restrained myself from scolding his gruesome comment.

“I never properly thanked you for saving my daughter’s life,” I said earnestly. “I don’t know how you did it, but I shall never be able to repay you.”

            Sherlock waved his hand disinterestedly.

“It was quite rudimentary.  As soon as I saw that your wife and Mrs. Hudson had been chloroformed, I knew that Beck only had one bullet in his gun, likely out of pride.  When I drew my own pistol on him, I gave him an instant: just long enough to choose to shoot me instead of your daughter.”

            I shook my head incredulously.

“You never cease to astound me, Sherlock.” I said.

“Hardly a difficult task, my dear Watson.  You are a man who sees much wonder in the world.  Now where is my violin?”

            And thus did my family become irreversibly bound to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, held by ties initiated in gratitude and maintained in affection.  Forever afterwards, whenever Holmes’ attitude of chilled aloofness began to irritate me, I would recall this unique episode in his career: when he disdained the law in order to save a friend and when he nearly gave his life in order to save a child.  So, where the world sees only an electric, masterfully analytical mind, I am honored to see a man: brilliant and kind.