A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Holmes would rather take an innocent life than let any harm come to his Watson. [I took a few liberties.]

Fills my hc_bingo square "confession in desperate situation". [though it's not quite what you'd expect from that prompt; call it a more subtle approach, if you will.]

The evening was decidedly not turning out the way he had planned. He had lost Watson at some point during the foot-chase, and his distraction upon discovering this had led him to stumble quite unwittingly into an ambush. Now he was surrounded by half a dozen large armed men with only a riding crop for defense. Not his best showing, but a potentially redeemable situation.

Then it got worse.

Two more roughs emerged from the darkness, hauling Holmes' bound and gagged client. The hapless gentleman was pushed to his knees before Holmes and the man Holmes had been pursuing spoke. "Now, Mr. Holmes, we have a proposition for you. We have a gun here with a bullet meant for this particular gent, and we'd like you to do the honors, see." The rest of the men sniggered.

"Absolutely not," Holmes said heatedly.

More laughter. "Ah, see, we expected you to say that. That's why we have your friend, here."

A shuffling, stumbling sound behind him, and Holmes whirled around to see Watson in the care of yet another pair of burly men. He had greatly underestimated his suspect's number of associates. Watson nodded to him as he was pushed past Holmes to stand near their cowering client.

"So the proposition is this: you see to this gent, or we see to your friend, like." One of the roughs cocked his gun and held it against Watson's temple.

Watson's eyes widened. "Holmes, don't!" he said urgently as Holmes accepted the pistol he was offered.

Holmes mechanically checked the ammunition; indeed, just one round-there would be no opportunity for heroics from that avenue. His eyes skimmed the circle of eager thugs, felt the press of two guns against his back, and frantically tried to think.

Lestrade's men had very little chance of finding the correct alley in time. No hope of rescue there.

Watson still had his walking cane, and one hand was in his coat pocket. He had not been stripped of his revolver, then, and could use it if the opportunity arose. But first the gun at his temple would need to be removed.

The client he knew to be a weak-willed man. From the way he cowered on the ground, trembling and weeping in fear, he could not prove to be of assistance.

The leader of this merry band of thieves was growing impatient, gesticulating and waving his pistol at Holmes and then at his Watson.

His Watson. It was curious, that he should think of him so at this desperate moment. He would have to consider the implications if they both survived this encounter.

But for now they were outnumbered, outgunned, and out of time.

Holmes' hand shook as he raised the gun, his finger trembled as it tightened upon the trigger. He turned away and closed his eyes as the shot rang out and, after a breath of silence, all hell broke loose.

Their captors were stunned briefly, evidently unable to comprehend that Sherlock Holmes had actually pulled the trigger. Of all the things they had anticipated, apparently the fulfillment of their plan was not one of them. He used the empty gun to knock out the men directly behind him and from the sound of things, Watson too had sprung into action.

Several shots rang out, though he could not discern their source in the commotion. He dispatched at least four men before he was grabbed in a chokehold from behind and it seemed his valiant efforts would come to naught.

Another shot was fired, the hands strangling him disappeared, and he felt a momentary flash of pain along his side. Bending as he turned, he disarmed two of the men he had felled and quickly scanned the alley.

Watson's generosity in shooting his attacker had given another rough an opening to attack him, so Holmes neatly picked him off and sent a warning shot past the nose of a different thug, one who could take a hint and fled for his life.

Then quiet was sudden and deafening.

"What were you thinking?" Watson cried as he finally rushed to the side of their bleeding client.

"I was thinking I couldn't let them kill you."

"You could have killed him, shooting with your eyes closed like that." Holmes' shot had skimmed the man's shoulder; he was stunned more than seriously wounded, though the graze bled freely.

Holmes started to respond, but realized he couldn't say what he truly meant with someone else present. I didn't want to see your face if I missed and did kill him. Your disapproval would have killed me.

He had ample time to think about this as Watson tended the wounded gentleman and they assisted him from the alley out to the road where they could hail a cab for him. Watson offered to see to his injury back at Baker Street, but he didn't wish to trouble them any further and said his family's physician would be sufficient.

When they were alone on the pavement, Watson turned to Holmes. "Don't expect me to believe that was all part of your plan."

"It wasn't," Holmes admitted freely, turning and walking down the street at a moderate pace. "I believe losing track of you was my first mistake, followed closely by the second, which was allowing myself to be led into a trap. By the time our client was brought out, the odds were quite against us."

"You could have shot one of the men guarding me instead."

"The other one would have killed you if I had."

"Do you really think I couldn't have taken care of him on my own? As it was, I had to deal with both of them."

"I couldn't take the chance," Holmes murmured. "If they had hurt you . . ." he couldn't finish the thought.

"Holmes, what is it?"

"You are all right, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course. A little bruised around the edges, but I've had much worse."

"Good. I'd go back and kill them all if you were injured."

"Holmes, what has gotten into you?" Watson asked worriedly, coming to an abrupt stop.

Holmes halted a short distance ahead of Watson, realizing belatedly that he had given voice to his fierce sentiment. He hesitated before turning to face his friend-more than friend?-and saying wearily, "Nothing, Watson, it is nothing."

"You're allowed to be frustrated that it didn't go as planned," Watson said affably, resuming their former pace.

"There is a bit more to it than that," Holmes admitted.

"Will you tell me?"

"Not now." Perhaps not ever. He noticed Watson was limping more than usual-and no wonder-so he halted and raised his arm for a cab. They rode in silence back to their home.

Watson seemed about to ask him again what was troubling him when they reached their sitting room, but exclaimed instead, "Holmes! Why didn't you tell me you'd been hit?"

It took Holmes a few seconds to realize Watson was referring to the gash evident in his jacket after he'd taken off his coat. Watson hurried over and helped him out of jacket and waistcoat and shirt.

Watson's hands were warm on his skin as he probed the edges of the sluggishly bleeding wound. "It doesn't need stitches," he said with evident relief. "Sit down, and I'll clean it for you."

He was attentive, as always, and Holmes tried not to focus overly much on his touch. It was difficult, given the evening's revelation that he cared more for Watson than he had previously recognized.

When the dried blood had been washed away, Watson's fingers brushed the shallow wound while his face bore a look of utter concentration. "I did this, didn't I? In shooting the man who was attacking you, I struck you as well."

"I much prefer this to the alternative," Holmes assured him, but Watson's expression was one of utter devastation.

"My dear Watson," he began, but Watson interrupted him.

"Stop, Holmes. Don't try to reassure me. You were distressed by the mere idea that I might have been injured, so I'm allowed to be upset that I shot you."

"You saved my life," Holmes said quietly.

"Yes, that too," Watson acknowledged self-consciously after a moment. "As you saved mine. I suppose we're even," he said with a smile.

"I suppose we are." Holmes returned Watson's smile hesitantly.

Watson rose from beside Holmes on the settee. "Brandy?"

"Please."

They concluded their evening with brandy and their pipes. It was normally a comfortable occurrence, but Holmes was preoccupied. Watson caught him staring several times, though he never said a word; he merely smiled and shifted his attention to his glass or his pipe.

At length, Watson rose. "If you need to talk, you know where to find me. Good night," he said, clasping Holmes' shoulder for a fraction of a moment as he passed.

Holmes wondered at his choice of words and entertained the possibility that Watson knew the thoughts he grappled with. It seemed so very unlikely, and yet . . . he had to concede that Watson's reaction to his injury was much like his own might have been if their places had been reversed.

It was a confounding thought, and a thrilling one, too.