Watson followed, far too used to these sorts of situations, even after a span of three years. There was a difference, though, one that felt incredibly awkward and wrong to him. He shifted his hand slightly, enough to entwine his fingers with Holmes's properly. To do otherwise was unthinkable; it was necessary to communicate reassurance, comfort, and safety far more clearly than Holmes's fingertips along were able to.

He was keenly aware of the thump of his heart, the sound of his own breathing. He put his free hand to his pocket, his fingers brushing the hilt of his revolver.

He was eager, he found, to lay eyes on this Moran, at last.