Watson tried the door to his cell again, but it was no use.
Exhaustion made him dizzy, so Watson sank onto his threadbare blanket, holding his wounded side, blood staining the bandages made from his shirt.
He was close to the river Thames, recognising that odour from many adventures with Holmes. Now however, he was alone, stupidly captured by Moriarty.
Please let Holmes be safe.
Time passed slowly when…
His friend clutched him with bloodied hands.
“You’re hurt Holmes!”
“Never fear my dear Watson, it’s not my blood.” A knife was pocketed.
What have you done old man?