Sherlock took off running down the alley, her topcoat flapping behind her. She shouted to the shorter woman behind her to keep up, and was met with an answering yell of “Not all of us wear trousers, you bloody great grasshopper!”
Sherlock turned and ran back. She pulled out her Bowie knife and slit up Jane’s skirts, ignoring the other woman’s yell of protest. She spun on her heel and continued her pursuit, not hearing the muttered “well that’s one solution” behind her.
The two women pelted off through the night, in pursuit of a serial attacker of workhouse women. He had been apprehended by Scotland Yard at the flat he let in a back alley of Clerkenwell, and had taken off running at the moment Sherlock and Jane had arrived to assist Gregson. Sherlock, being her usual impetuous self, took off after him, and Jane had no choice but to follow.
They finally cornered their prey near Drury Lane, and the man looked wildly about him to find a way out of the dead-end street. Sherlock, her Bowie knife still in hand, stalked toward him menacingly.
“I wouldn’t suggest moving,” she hissed. “It’s a long night ahead for you once the Yarders catch up to us.”
He snarled at her, and pulled a gun from his inside coat pocket. He cocked it and made to aim at Sherlock, but before he could fire, another shot rang out and he dropped to the pavement. Sherlock turned to see Jane slipping her revolver back into her waistband before trying to straighten out her slit skirts. Sherlock stared for a long moment before Jane looked up and smiled, meeting her eyes.
“What would you do without me?” She asked, twinkling. At that moment, the bells from the Actors’ Church as well as churches all over London rang out, announcing midnight.
Sherlock smiled radiantly. “Lucky for me, I’ll never have to find out.” She kissed Jane once, lightly, before pulling away again. “Happy Christmas, Jane Watson.”
“And to you, Sherlock Holmes.”