Watson poked the toe of his shoe at his double, an eyebrow raised. It was rather eerie to see himself with a bullethole through his temple. "He is a good shot," he said, rather appreciatively, as he bent to finger the bullethole carefully. "At least if I had died, it would have been at the hands of an artist."

It was a dark thing to say, a cruel thing to say, and yet he found he needed that sort of gallow's humour, in that moment. He rose again, and went to the sideboard to pour out brandy.

"I never asked you where you've been," he said, quietly.