Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no profit, except my enjoyment in writing.

A/N: This is an excerpt from a novel I am writing that details what really happened to Watson during the Great Hiatus. I won't describe it here, for it would take too long and I won't be finished with it anytime soon. I chose to publish this part because today I went through many of the emotions Watson experienced in this scene, and this is my way of dealing with it...

Content edited December 2013.

Unexpected

"Faster!" I screamed to the driver of the police hansom, my voice sounding shrill to my ears. I sat forward intently, looking out the window as the cab raced around a bend in the road, nearly overturning. As I watched the buildings pass rapidly, my mind replayed the events of only minutes before.

When the officer had banged on my door and bluntly told me what had happened I could hardly believe it. I had run from the house, forgetting my suit jacket and medical bag. The latter I may need.

I had taken the hansom the officer had come in and ordered the driver to the scene. It only now occurred to me how uncharacteristic it was of the man to oblige me without argument. This only made my fear greater, and I could feel my heart quicken its pace, matching the speed and intensity of the horses' hooves on the cobbled street.

The vehicle rounded another bend, and through the window glass I saw the signpost for Baker Street, and the horses whinnied in protest as the driver yanked them to a halt. I tumbled out of the cab as it was slowing, grunting as my bad shoulder impacted the ground. I rolled back upright without even a pause to assess my injury and ran to the cluster of people beneath the dim light of the gas lamp.

Sudden realization hit me and I slowed to a walk when I was within ten feet of them all. The crowd parted for me and I briefly took in their faces. All were grim, and some of the ladies' were stained with tears. I looked on to where the focus of the light hit the ground.

I caught my breath at the sight of the still body and the two men beside it. I took in the face of the uniformed man, and as he met my eyes I saw his breath catch in his throat. I slowly shifted my gaze down to the kneeling man. His face was set in the coldest, most detached look I had ever seen. He raised a bloody hand to beckon me forward.

My feet felt like lead as I moved into the dim glow of the lamp, the sensation of entering a foreign world coming over me. I peered down at the prone figure, my eyes narrowing at the sight. There was not just one, but three bullet holes visible to my eyes, and a mass of bruises on the visible skin. There was also far too much skin visible, the clothing even shredded in places from clear signs of struggling. It suggested a type of torture that the mere thought of caused my blood to run cold.

I finally stopped next to the body, a piece of bloodied clothing brushing against my shoes. I looked across into Lestrade's eyes and then down into those of Mycroft Holmes, a question in my eyes.

"Nothing could have been done," Lestrade said brokenly, and Mycroft stood and moved next to him, a silent assent to my need to say goodbye. After nodding my understanding, I knelt and finally looked into the lifeless face.

"Mary?" I looked deep into her pale blue eyes and saw no spirit within them. "Mary?"

My voice cracked with the useless plea and I sank against her body, still warm and soft. I buried my face in the one unbloodied part of her chest and sobbed without restraint.

In my mind I thought over the past few weeks, and especially the past few days. I wondered if I could have done anything different, if a single decision or action could have saved her. But in my grief I could think of nothing but the feeling of her body slowly growing cold and stiff under my hands.

I stroked her hair, still beautiful beneath the damp bloodstains. And her face...beneath that look of bewildered shock and resignation...and beyond the bruises and blood on her face, she was still beautiful. My Mary...

How long I lay there weeping I do not know. But when I finally raised myself and took in the world again, the crowd had gone and only Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes remained.

I took my handkerchief from my sleeve and tried to compose myself, uneasy under their stares. I glanced between them through bleary, burning eyes.

"She was alive when you found her?" They both nodded. "Did...was she afraid?"

Lestrade seemed to be ill and merely grimaced in answer. Mycroft offered me a hand up as I stuffed my soiled handkerchief into my trouser pocket. Some drops of Mary's blood were transferred from his hand to mine and I stared at them, transfixed as he answered.

"When I reached her she was gasping her last breaths. She was dying..." I grimaced and new tears filled my eyes. He must have noticed, for he softened his tone as he continued, "She was dying. But she knew me and seemed to relax in my presence."

"She didn't appear to be in much pain Doctor," Lestrade choked out. As I stared at the blood drying between the creases in the skin of my hand, I had difficulty believing him. But true to his word, her eyes didn't hold pain. Just death.

"I have some of my forces tracking them already..." I heard Mycroft say, but I was lost in her eyes. And her hair. And her young, ethereal beauty. Why oh why did it have to be my Mary?

I continued staring down at her, taking in all the abuse she had taken. I wanted to remember everything they had done to her, down to the smallest bruise or scrape. Because I wanted to do the same to them.

"They left her here. It was a message," Lestrade's voice registered vaguely in my mind. Oh yes, it had been. If they had been trying to lure me into action, they had succeeded.

The villains who had done this would not go unpunished. They would pay for her death at my hand, even if it cost me my life and freedom.

I was resolved to the idea and blocked all other thoughts from my mind as the police ambulance finally arrived to take her away. I didn't go with them, but looked to the memory-filled building behind me where I could begin to put my plan into action.

They had taken my life. So I would take theirs.