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Jefferson Hope and Sherlock HolmesHoles grabbed Hope, handcuffing him quietly.
But Hope was not to be contained. He lunged forward, wrenching away slightly from Holmes and grabbing the poker from the fire. I hadn't moved fast enough, before the man brought it down on Holmes' arm. Holmes yelled, dropping the pistol and falling back against the wall slightly to clutch at his wrist.
I lunged at Hope, hoping to catch him off guard and hold him until Lestrade and Gregson could get upstairs. But Hope threw me off and then threw himself at the window--and at Holmes, who had moved in front of it to impede Hope's desperate escape.
Holmes cried out as his head and upper body were thrust through the glass. He was using his injured arm the clutch at the window frame, stopping both his and Hope's fall, his good arm in use to attempt to hold Hope back. I tried to grab Hope from the back as the man violently tried to throw both of them through the window.
'You'll be killed, man!' Holmes cried.
'So will you if you don't let go!' Hope
Mycroft HolmesSherlock's Elder Brother and the British Government
I stared into John Watson's hardened eyes and smiled. Yes, this man would do well.
I hadn't thought of what I was getting myself into that night. Not even much later, when I'd gone to check on Sherlock.
As per usual (or as usual as things had become) he was near an ambulance, talking with the police. And yet thankfully still alive.
I sighed when I saw him, as always wondering why on earth he does this so often. I had always thought that Sherlock could have been so much more.
As I talked with him about Mother, I was taunting him. It always got a rise out of him--making him upset. As a rule, we don't bring up our family or our childhoods in conversation. But I had to then.
I remember the very first time I'd laid eyes on Sherlock. I had been seven years old and the then-screaming infant with the curious grey eyes had been annoying, if anything. But then I saw the protective look on Mother's face as she held him, and decided Sherlock was
Senses'Who's been here?' John asked, stopping in the doorway.
'No one.' Sherlock didn't look at him. He stayed seated, staring off into space.
'No. someone's been here. Sherlock...' John stepped into the room and looked around. Everything seemed intact, but then again, it always did. 'Who was here?'
'I told you no one's been here...' Sherlock sighed, sitting up in the chair.
'Sherlock. Don't lie to me.' John couldn't shake the weird feeling he was experiencing. 'It was Moriarty, wasn't it?'
Sherlock finally met John's eyes. 'Yes. It was him. we had tea.' His eyes moved slowly about the room for a second. 'It was...nice.'
'Nice. Sherlock--' John crossed the room and sat opposite him. 'Tea withe Moriarty is not nice. Psychotic, maybe. Nice, no.'
Sherlock sighed. 'He came over. We had tea. We talked. He carved into an apple and left it with his knife...'
'Where is it?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'Threw it away. Only an apple.' For now... he added mentally. He looked at John. 'Are you alri
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