He heard the floorboards creak before he could feel the gentle shift in the air. His hand reached for his pistol instinctively. He didn’t receive many visitors these days, and those he did were hardly welcome here; this one was rather daring, or foolish, walking in through the front door as if they could not comprehend the danger which lay inside. His heart hammered against his rib cage like a thousand raging ocean waves slamming against the shore rocks with all of their might, but his breathing remained steady; in, out, in, out.
His finger slid above the trigger as he stepped out from behind the wall where he had chosen to hide, and aimed at the shadows lurking in the narrow hallway. The end of the pistol met rich fabric and solid flesh, and he lifted his gaze to seek the face of the intruder. And then it was as if the world tipped over, and he was falling. Or perhaps it was more as if the wind was knocked out of his lungs by a sheer invisible force.
❝——I almost shot you.❞ There was a slight tremble in his voice; perhaps that was why he kept it low. His arm had fallen limp at his side. Fate had always had a taunting way with him, and this was only further proof to that bitter truth; for of all the people it could have led to his door, it had to be Sherlock Holmes who had found him out.