Chapter 2

Melinda Watson knelt beside her brother-in-law for a moment, caught between the need to offer him aid and horror of the words he had uttered before falling unconscious.

She had always been greatly entertained by John's chronicles of his adventures with the detective Sherlock Holmes. She had read all the stories, as John had been thoughtful enough to send his brother a copy of each of the books as it was published. Moreover, in his regular letters to Thomas, she had gotten to see how, even as he sometimes derided him as a lesser mind, Holmes had come to depend on "his Dr. Watson" as a source of honesty and dependability.

But, if John was not delusional, he was telling her that something had happened to Holmes... that he was incapacitated - or worse, dead - at the hands of a man named Moriarty.

And, worse than that... John believed he was now Moriarty's target.

Watching his labored breathing, Melinda realized she needed to tend to John's wounds, rather than concentrate on some uncertain future. Once he had recovered, they could talk more about what had happened, and what might happen.

Melinda Watson had been Nurse Melinda Collier at the time that the Watson brothers began practicing medicine in London. As she moved to check John's pulse, she remembered the wonderful times they'd had then, each brother trying to outdo the other in pursuit of her favor. She could not help but smile to remember how Thomas had once set a date with Melinda to see a new play, and John volunteered to fetch a carriage for him; what Thomas didn't know was that John was in league with the carriage driver, who took Thomas for a long ride in the wrong direction, allowing John to take over as Melinda's companion that evening.

Seeing that John was in no immediate danger, Melinda took his arms and managed to pull him inside the door of the house; then, pulling it shut behind her, she walked down the front path and turned right, headed to the next house further away from town on the foot path.

As she walked, Melinda remembered the night that John told her that he was joining the Army, feeling his talents would be better used patching up soldiers in defense of the crown rather than charging pensioners a pretty penny to listen to coughs he had no hope of curing. She had thought him heroic then, her staid British bulldog going off to fight the wars.

But then, as they walked by the Thames after a wonderful dinner, John got down on one knee and asked her to marry him.

Melinda had been shocked, not ever thinking that John had any serious intentions toward her. In fact, she often thought that she was just another object in the Watson brothers' constant though friendly sibling rivalry. She liked them both dearly, perhaps even loved them somewhat — but she could not choose between them, because to her they had become two parts of the same inseparable whole. So, as John knelt in front of her, offering a diamond ring and a lifetime commitment, she simply looked down at him in shock and panic, unable to say anything. And, finding nothing she could say that would not tear his heart to pieces, she made the only choice she thought possible.

She ran, leaving him still kneeling, watching her receding back as she was lost in the nighttime crowds.

The next day, without a word, he left London for Army training.

Melinda was so lost in thought that she didn't realize she was standing in front of her neighbor's home, her legs having carried her here without needing to think about it. Jarred from her reverie, she marched up to the small, stone-walled hovel and knocked loudly on the door.

From inside came what sounded like a curse, and a moment or two passed before an angry face appeared above her in the barely opened door.

"Bloody 'ell! Why is others always bothering me when... ?" The voice stopped abruptly when the brain it was attached to realized it was Melinda standing at the door. Opening the door a little wider, the man reached to his head as if to remove his hat, then, realizing he wasn't wearing one, quickly bobbed his head in quick acknowledgement.

"G'day to ya', missus. Hope you didna' take no offense, but I was in the middle of stringin' ma fiddle and tis a delicate process that don't like interruptions."

"No, Shamus, I didn't take offense. I know how much you hate being bothered this time of the afternoon." Melinda had to hide the smile she felt like giving her friend Shamus O'Connor. They both knew that what he referred to as "stringing his fiddle" had nothing to do with music, though it certainly had a lot to do with rhythm and climaxes.

Blushing slightly at the ease with which she saw through him, Shamus pulled his housecoat tighter around his body. "Well, I know you wouldna' be at my door around this time if you didna' have somethin' needs doin'. So how can I help ye'?"

Melinda was often glad that Thomas had befriended Shamus soon after they'd moved here 10 years ago. In the interim, Thomas had provided the Irishman with free medical care, and the hot-tempered Shamus had become the groundskeeper for the family, keeping the house and grounds in order and helping with any jobs that needed sheer physical strength. At a bit over 6 feet, 4 inches tall and looking like a tree that had gained the ability to walk, Shamus O'Connor was known far and wide as someone who, while drinking, would start a fight at the drop of a hat... but also as someone who'd give you the blanket off his bed if you were cold, no matter that it meant he'd be cold instead.

Melinda took a moment to explain that an injured man had appeared at her door, and she needed someone strong to help get him into the doctor's surgery so his wounds could be treated and he could begin to recover.