Dib07: How long has it been? Sorry all, but work has had me buckled and imprisoned for pretty much the last few months, of which this very story has been one. Well, here is the new chapter, enjoy! And apologises for the massive delay! *_*

Valiant Wolf: Hope you enjoy this new chapter too! And thanks! :)

Snickerdoodle Black: Hahaha, I am very lazy too, so I will message you here instead, if you don't mind! Yeah, I am glad the spelling is okay, and though I proof-read my work, I am always impatient with my own writing, so I tend to overlook mistakes easily. As for you not wanting Holmes to die…hmmm. You do know that I am a notorious character killer, right? Right? I shall say no more!

LadyCibia: Wow! You have touched me so much, I am serious. I am chuffed at your words, and I am so very pleased and humbled that you consider my little story to be your favourite. I hope it will continue to do so! :D You are too kind! RDJ and Jude are such clever actors I agree, and if it wasn't for them I would never have touched this franchise! Thank you again, LadyCibia, I hope you are still reading, and if you are, I shake you by the hand! ^_^

NoFFAccount: Oh gosh, I kinda made you wait at least 3 or even 4 months didn't I? I be bad! Sorry! Yeah, cliffhangers suck, and I am one of the reasons why they suck because of the poor speed of which I update! I doubt even Watson himself would be impressed! Anyway, I am so very happy you are thrilled and kept on the edge of your seat. As a reader, I look for this kind of nail-biting material also, and strife hard to re-capture it. Thanks! :D

Sherrlilyn: Glad you are enjoying! Sorry for my terrible lateness! But thanks for staying with me and reminding me, it was very thoughtful of you, and here I am letting you down. You are too awesome.

Carlchas: Tough request there! My fics generally are depressing! There are some that aren't but my fics aren't all stars and rainbows, sorry! Reality is often a horrible place to live, hence why my stories reflect such pain because I've been there, and it isn't nice. BTW Irene is just support, not a nurse, and yes, a miracle would be nice for Watson and Holmes both!

Paula Rushing: I hope you got my message on the top of my profile page, if not, then not to worry! :) Thanks for the on-going support and loving reviews! You really have prompted me, and here is your answer! Enjoy…and the conclusion…well, how good it is depends on the reader! I am but the messenger!

Chapter 10: Dark Defender

My final chapter was coming.

I knew I had very little choice about its outcome.

I never gave Death much thought. Death was always the Great Mystery, a thing that was pushed to the far reaches of my mind, a dark thought; a brief acknowledgement, a fact of life, and all of that which is born, must end. As a detective, I saw much of men who had committed great atrocities, cardinal sins, great, harrowing errors that they tried to cover up. You see, Jack Silver was no different. Though I remember his face, the way he walks, his hunch, his bellow, his speech, the rest of the man I find, I cannot recall much else, let alone of Murtle and his girl chained to the bedpost before a vulgar portrait of a mad man's devotion.

Jack left many an impression on me, of which will be recalled later, much to my indignity. Jack may have outwardly looked like the lewd, heathen creature that ruled the circus of London – for he was indeed one of the monsters you'd chance to frequent at a carnival of horrors, in the mirror mayhap, or in the maze of blood and screams. He was in fact, my drug dealer in times still invariably recent. I met my Dr. John Watson in 1881, seven years ago, and before we met I went to Bart University to study basic anatomy. Never a stranger to the needle, Jack was a close University student, and it was he who showed me how to boil heroine and how to dose it. Always been hooked on the drug himself, he demonstrated to me how invigorating it was; how soothing and how liberal it was!

And indeed it was. It provided artificial stimulation when nothing in life gave or inspired me, and when London was as flat and as plain as the country air. Jack helped me, as much as poisoned me. And in the dark cavern of my heart, I craved, accepted and lived for drugs. It unlocked solace unimagined and what the common man cannot, or ever understand.

Years went by, and I met Watson, who was introduced to me by my former colleague, Stamford. We lived together. We became friends on a deep level, and Jack was forgotten. Only until we crossed paths yet again did I see what the drug had done to him. He had challenged, risked and survived to gain vaster sums of money, and pawned it over for sex or drugs. No stranger to fornicating men, he became a sombre bully who embraced his own shadow, yet would never find love or peace in his heart. I could have followed the same path. You may find it hard to believe. I, Sherlock Holmes, to live the life as a conventional criminal? Pshaw! But often the sides on the chess board; white and black, are as similar as they are different. Firstly I had no moral ardour. When a man or woman eluded their case to me, I gave little feelings to the murdered/kidnapped persons involved. I was only interested in the case, and the intricacies involved. So I was rather a heartless individual, a side of me Watson does not admire.

Secondly, I lived only for the game! The chase! Whatever enveloped me with interest I could soar forever, such was my eccentric, selfish behaviour. Jack would have pulled me in, and I might have accepted, following blindly into the underworld like a demon under the spectre of haste and darkness, where I would become my own doppelganger, if not...for Watson. He changed my course, my nature, and I became a champion of sorts, helping the law, however injudicious. But I found something more important. Finding a friend. John became my world, and when he finally left my sphere of comfort for Mary, everything fell apart and my drug-induced stupor sent me reeling back into Jack's arms like some insubordinate pup.

To reward my indiscretion, my final battlefield was here, not in a dungeon, a hall for nobles and King's, or in Moriarty's own chambers. It was in a miserable home, a beastly dwelling made up of shadows, faces, blood, sweat, horror and mutilation. I was not innocent, but I was bound for this road of redemption. I sternly reproved of their ways. They made me slice off an innocent's fingers. They filled me with their hatred and bane, sullying my person like sordid, wild fiends.

The stage was revealed on that rotten Friday morning. Jack Silver and Murtle had already left, but not through the front door. I believe it was the attic they had ascended through, using a negotiated, reliable and plotted path across the many roofs of Victorian London that combed across the town like a circuit of easy access. The buildings melded like bricks, allowing easy passage to Dorset, King Road or Oxford without having to cross roads and take long ways around. You were in short; like a London pigeon flittering from one location to the next without being seen and rarely heard if one was practised and careful enough.

I awaited my assailant in the bathroom. I had been dumped there after Mandy's cut hand had bled like a severed neck since last night, and I lay, shattered and exhausted. The cold, bare floor beneath my savagely beaten body was a cool comfort, and somehow, despite the pain, the fear and the seclusion, I slept. My dreams were loose, hot and mottled with groping fingers, seething slashes and molesting embraces. Sometimes I'd awake in the ghostly light of the tiny slanted window, the iron bars ghosting chalk lines of black against my alabaster visage as the moon grinned, wide and opaque in a feverish black. Then sleep would have me again.

Patrick was taking his time. First he would prepare his escape before he'd butcher me. Jack had undoubtedly left with Mandy as insurance that Patrick would carry out his last little task. I believed deep inside that Mandy had died. Injury to the hand is unimaginable, the pain unspeakable...and the blood loss. He'd carry her in bundles I presume, across the rooftops, then dump her in some disused factory chimney where she'd burn the next time someone stoked a fire. Patrick would be none the wiser; he was the fall guy, I the lamb. I didn't want Jack Silver to get away, but I had no choice. His hunt I would leave in Lestrade's incapable hands.

When dawn came on the third day, Friday...I sat up, massaging my stiff, cold shoulders and shivering as the blood returned to my veins. Patrick would not use a gun. A retort would alert the close neighbours and give Patrick less time to get away. And that vile man would make a mistake; he'd assume I am weak, given up. Left for dead. A knife would do the trick. No struggle. And he'd leave, silently like a cat. And that was where he was wrong. I still had fight left in me; whether my body would carry out my last wish is another matter entirely. I suppose it's no use worrying. It won't help me any.

I hear him sharpening the knife now. I ignore the whale-bellied arm sticking over the bathtub as if someone is primed to get out. I shall never be able to bathe alone again.

I shuffle around the blood that has spilled like clotted ruby onto the floor in a perverted waterfall. Shuffling is no good, I curse myself, and attempt to stand. The floor staggers in rhythm to my stumble, and I clutch the revolting arm by accident. I shamble backwards, hitting the plaint wall. Patrick must have heard me. The long, shivery strikes of the blade on hard leather stops, soon to be followed by pounding footfalls across the kitchen floor. My leg jerks downward, followed by my reluctant left. I resist placing my hands on the wall to guide me. I had to pull up all of my last shreds of strength for this; every strand! If I were to die, in this grotty, damned hell, I was going to take Patrick down with me. Let this be my last mantra; the wounded wolf to the wicked lion. My teeth will gorge into your hide, and I will not let go until your strength hath failed!

He was climbing the stairs cautiously. No matter. He was full of overconfidence; the most obvious signs being how the shadow of the knife preceded him; a silly thing to do, and how heavy his footfalls were. He was like a boxing champion entering the arena that coaxed in weaklings and beginners.

I knelt down behind the boarding – a stiff shaft of wood acting like a banister on the landing as the stairs ended. It was a brazen place to be, a location so involving that it would hopefully throw the killer straight off his mark. But I was weak. My hands were shaking on the piece of broken bone I had gathered at the base of the bathtub. Jack had combed the rest of the area for anything that might be used as a weapon, and thankfully he had overlooked human remains.

Patrick was climbing the last of the stairs. I could hear his heavy breathing, the scuffle of his boots on carpet. For the briefest of moments I thought of reasoning with him. Patrick was not like Jack. Mandy was a hostage, and Patrick's hands were tied; him being not the veil of evil that had concentrated us all here. He was but a doer, a maker of a devil's work. But no! I shunned the thought right out of my mind again. My negotiation would leave me open; unguarded, and my advantage lost forever. He meant to kill me. That was that.

I drew the shaft of bone towards my thigh, ready to deliver it up, the heel of my other hand on the base to act as a hammer, hoping to wedge the bone into his neck, or better; his eye. My aim had to be critical, or else miss and leave myself open. I was concussed, my vision blotchy, enervation wasting me away. Patrick was a heavy man, full of meat, sinew and some muscle beneath that rotund flab. His stockiness, combined with his weight, would make a meal out of my agility and frenzied, barbaric attack. I hated my ability to summarise every situation, knowing how impossible it all perceived when I was crippled like this.

He came up to the top of the stairs. I flashed upwards like a dark wolf flashing his teeth, and drove the stick of bone into Patrick's unsuspecting face. For a moment I had the advantage, for in that flare I saw his eyes swivelled to meet mine, and they were open with flocking panic and surprise, the knife a glittering, dark comrade in his huge right paw. But either because I was a fraction too slow, or because I didn't have my full cool, calculated energy, Patrick swerved the bone away with an amazing feat of speed, and hit it out of aim with his free hand. I went forwards, fully expecting my weight to be behind my sword of human femur, and over tipped my balance, landing him the advantage in but a helpless second.

He drove the knife towards my stomach. I cut to the right just in time, using my own fall as a ways of tipping away from him, only to fall against the wall. He reached me in but a single footstep, his giant size creaming any possible chance I had. I fell down; feeling and hearing the knife sink into the plaster board where my head had been but a singular moment ago. The knife briefly out of play, I swiped my elbow into his liver from my lower position, and as Patrick was confused, half wanting to purge the blade from the wall, one part wanting to manhandle me, and one part wanting to hold his liver, he was but a tumble of useless hands and groans, so I elbowed him again in the same spot, scrambled to my feet and made a dash to the stairs. He reached out like a bear yearning for an embrace, and snared me. I snapped backwards, crashing into him as his free hand hooked out the blade. We fell down, me on top of him. "Tosser!" Patrick yelled, the word not familiar to me, "You cunt! Hacking off Mandy's bits like that! I'll drive this blade into your poisoned chest and slash the shit out of you!"

A wolf I was no more. At the mention of what I had done last night, horrible images I had bludgeoned out of mind came roaring straight back, and as I rushed to stand, Patrick hacking the blade through the air as though it were a meat hook, I saw it. Actually saw it. I froze, the hair on my head stiffening like frost while my scalp tightened and my body went white cold. For a whole moment the world was without motion, sound or breath. For there, standing in the shadow of the landing behind Patrick as he was gaining his feet; was a large, blackish dog with white whiskers, teeth and streaming ghostly eyes. It was staring right at me, unmoving like a giant statue. Then Patrick, with all the grace of a boar, leapt into me and sent the blade into my side. I screamed as I was pushed back, the blade's tip feeling like burning hot fire as I tried to prevent him from plunging it in deeper. Somehow, during the throes of massive, unyielding pain and stark-raving fear, a flitter of instinct took over my diminishing mental state and I grabbed Patrick's knife hand and thrust my elbow into the humeral lateral joint – the point connecting the forearm to his upper arm. My slender hit jammed into his brachial artery, and this was enough to not only dislocate his arm, but cause an instant of paralysis and great pain.

He let go of the knife to hold his injury, and without feeling a thing I slid the blade out of my ribs and jammed it at him like a fencer. He brushed off my attack as if I were but a feather, and indeed there was no weight to me. The blade dropped and he punched me in the stomach, a blow I would feel for some time, and when Patrick went to pick it up, I pushed him towards the stairs. I grabbed the knife; but the rest I can barely recall. Mandy had come up the stairs, I had no idea she was still here, in this building, alive! And perhaps neither had Patrick, for his eyes opened in delight and surprise for an instant despite the ongoing struggle to survive. Her hand – or rather her stump – dripped blood, and she let it sway against her side like a hanging cut of dribbling meat. She had a larger blade in her hand, and while Patrick was looking at her, dumbstruck as well as senile, she stabbed him in the kidney like a witch butchering a choice sacrifice. Needless to say, I stood until I fell, exhausted and already hot with oncoming fever. Her form, reddened by blood and brutality, wavered before me like a figure behind a veil of flame. Then she plunged the knife into her belly and fell down the stairs. The dog I saw again, standing in the same place it had before with its wide, beaming eyes and rotten lips. It smiled at me, and I thought I would die. I backed away, feeling my life fade. The floor and walls moved in a gentle haze as my eyes filled with tears. The dog's image distorted just a little, yet even so, its eyes never lost their jealous ferocity.

I sunk into the bedroom, sliding under the bed hoping that the dog would not be able to reach me, and I was wrong. I heard it thump into the room after me; I could hear its strange, hollow breathing and the smell of putrid meat. I swaggered to the very centre beneath the bedsprings and clutched my bleeding chest, dreading the moment its great, bloodless jaws would lunge for me. I saw its shadow press against the floor as it came, like death whispering across the room. I shut my eyes and willed it away. Time passed, and essentially I fell unconscious, head injury, blood loss, starvation and fever taking its toll. Later that day, evening loomed, and just as twilight inked the fog of London, my dear, dear Watson finally came for me.

Watson had later told me before my condition worsened that their massive clue to find me was all because a woman close by reported screaming, and the sound of two gunshots. A gun was never fired, for there was never any revolver ash on any of the victims, me or Patrick, and no casings or bullets were ever found. I believe that the sounds that the woman heard were not from a gun at all, but from a great black dog of death; barking like a shotgun. Perhaps that was death itself. The muzzle of the gun was the head of the dog, and his barks brought damnation and demise. They say too that Patrick was discovered dead in the very bedroom I had chosen to hide in. The only conclusions I can draw upon was that either Mandy had survived her own suicide and dragged his body to the room, or else the dog had dumped it there. My mind is hazy, and I cannot elaborate any further. Fret not, though, for Watson I leave to be the narrator for the rest of this story, if it can even be called a story. My mastery is no more, and I shall funk it if I continue.

Forgive me.