In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes’s pistol came down on the man’s head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend’s wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocketknife.

“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive.

Instead Kirk fell over him, and the Vulcan was hard put to break the Human’s fall. They wound up in a tangle, Kirk’s breath going out of him in a grunting wheeze. And then Spock was rising, the Human in his arms like a child.

- You’ve hurt yourself, Captain. Unforgivably clumsy of me. I will get you to sickbay. One moment now. Hold on…

- Spock! - Kirk roared, although it came out rather more as a gasp. - Spock! he whispered through his teeth, seeing crew members observing them from all over the rec level. - What do you think you are doing? Put me down.

He started to wrench himself free, but he hadn’t really quite reckoned with Vulcan muscles. He never quite did.