A/N: This is the original of two versions of this story. I wrote this one first, but after watching the wonderful BBC show, Sherlock, I decided to try to rewrite it in the same modern style as the show is written in. The result is two stories where some parts are exactly the same, and others are completely different, either because of the times or tiny differences in characters. It was marvelously fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it! Both parts are nearly done, so there shouldn't be that long of a wait. Enjoy!

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

Holmes was moving around already downstairs when I woke, though I believed it was because he had been up all night, rather than that he had risen early. Though he was not on a case to my knowledge, so I had no idea why he had forgone sleep. I sighed when I looked at the time, but since I was already awake...

I got ready slowly, for my old injuries were throbbing rhythmically- the snow outside was not doing anything for me- before limping down the stairs.

Holmes was bent over his chemical table, which at least explained why he had not slept, and made no acknowledgment of my entrance. I ignored him in turn; my conversation before breakfast was scanty at the best of times, and made my way over to the table. Mrs. Hudson had left a coffee pot. I lifted the lid, as was disappointed when no steam rose. It was evident that this was the pot that had kept Holmes going through the night, and as such had gone cold a long time ago. I ran my hand over my face in frustration.

"Holmes," I said. He did not move.

"Holmes." I said a little louder. This elicited a grunt. "I'm going to ring for breakfast."

I waited for a response.

"If that is alright with you, of course?"

Still nothing.

"I'm also planning on joining the traveling circus juggling walking sticks. I think I could make quite a career out of it." I looked at him, scribbling away at complicated notes, and formulae. "Holmes!"

"Hmm?" Oh yes, of course Watson." He said distractedly. Then my full statements seemed to sink in, and he turned to me. "What?"

"I was asking if you wished me to ring for breakfast." I said, laughing. He waved an impatient hand at me.

"If you must," He said, and turned back to his work.

I chuckled, and called down to Mrs. Hudson, who came up moments later bearing a large tray of scrumptious looking eggs, toast and sausages.

"It looks delicious, Mrs. Hudson." I said, sitting down at the table. She left with a warm smile at me, and an exasperated head shake in the direction of Holmes. I unfolded my napkin, before calling to the man.

"Are you planning on actually eating at any time today?" Holmes responded with an impatient wave.

"I'm far too busy at the moment, Watson. Do go on without me."

I rolled my eyes.

"If you really can ignore such a wonderful smelling meal, then I do feel sorry for you." I picked up my fork. "I plan, however, to thoroughly enjoy my breakfast." I raised a laden fork to my mouth.

No sooner had I done this, the doorbell rang. Holmes looked at my crestfallen face, and laughed.

"Of course, someone would call…" I muttered, rising to see who it was. However only Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room.

"A letter for Mr. Holmes, gentlemen." She said, and brought it forward. Holmes actually turned from his precious chemicals to peer at her as she brought it in.

"Which Irregular was it who brought the letter, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, his gaze sweeping her. She wrinkled her brow.

"How did you—oh never mind. It was young Alfie; I gave him a scone for his troubles." She smiled fondly.

"Of course," Holmes said, and snatched the letter from her outstretched hand. He ripped it open and scanned the contents. As he read, his face became thoughtful.

"Hmmm, how very singular…" He murmured. Mrs. Hudson and I exchanged a glance.

"Well? What is in the letter, Holmes?" I finally asked. He looked up at me distractedly, as if he had forgotten that we two were still here.

"Huh? Oh, Watson. It is a simple matter, but one that may perhaps prove interesting." He rose, stuffing the letter into his trouser pocket, stripping off his dressing gown, and heading into his room.

"And I suppose you aren't going to tell me about it?" I called, sitting back down to my cooling breakfast. Mrs. Hudson returned to her kitchen with a shake of her head, just as Holmes reentered pulling on a jacket.

"All in good time." He said briskly, "I shall be back within an hour or two."

I will admit to feeling a slight tug of disappointment.

"You won't need my assistance then?" I asked.

"My dear fellow, if I had your assistance, then the case would be over within the half hour! Now we can't have that, can we?" He finished buttoning his great coat, and threw a scarf around his neck (for good reason, for it was as cold as we had seen in those parts in long years) and turned to me. "Besides, I couldn't pull you away from your writing. I know you've been planning on this morning to scribble out our last case."

"That is true." Not to mention my leg wouldn't let me be an asset to any case at the moment, and Holmes probably knew it as well as I.

He clapped his hands together. "Hah! It's settled then." He leaned forward, and snatched a piece of bacon from my plate. "Do save me some breakfast, there's a good chap?"

And he was gone, leaving the room suddenly silent in his wake. He did seem to have that effect on empty rooms, and I was glad to see him in such high spirits. I smiled, and shook my head, before getting up from the breakfast table. I would spend the morning writing up my notes, just as I had planned. I settled at my desk, and began to write.

(Holmes' POV)

The case that had drawn me out so excitedly that morning proved to be no more than a practice exercise, one that I could have managed in grade school. Why the lady had felt the need to write me was beyond me. I returned with a decidedly lower mood than I had left with.

As I entered 221B Baker Street, I noticed at once an odd silence. I hung up my coat, and hat to dry from their current snow soaked state, and bent to brush the worst of the snow from my boots, with a slight shiver. Whatever had possessed me to brave the icy winter world outside?

This question aside, I realized I had yet to hear of any movement in the flat at all.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I called out, as I began to climb the stairs. I would dearly like some of that breakfast now, for that piece of bacon I stole from Watson was long eaten, and digested. Perhaps some food would also help the headache I felt coming on. "Mrs. Hudson!" I heard no answer, though perhaps she had gone out. She was running low on flour; our thin soup yesterday was testament to that! "Mrs. Hudson?" There was no reply from either upstairs or down, and I felt a thin chill pervade my chest.

I scaled the rest of the stairs, and stood on the landing. The air was cool, as if the fire in the sitting room beyond had gone out. My unease deepened. Watson's coat and hat were still downstairs, so he had not gone out. Besides that, I could not think of any reason why he would want to; this icy weather was not doing him any favors with those wounds of his. Perhaps he had gone to bed, and let the fire go out, and Mrs. Hudson had gone to the market. This fit the facts, and I smirked as I opened the door, pleased with myself.

The smirk turned to a frown, when I immediately saw Watson, bowed over his writing desk. The room looked normal, and there was no sign that I should be concerned…save for the chill. I rubbed my forehead, bemused.

Now why would Watson sit in a cold room when his injuries were already bothering him?

"Watson, it's freezing in here." I said, as I strode into the room. I made for the fireplace, intending on building up the blaze, when several things happened at once.

My nostrils picked up a faint, unpleasant chemical smell, and my eyes swiveled towards my chemistry corner. An instant later, Watson raised his head, and I was startled to see him struggle to focus on me.

"Watson?" I stepped towards him. He gave his head a small shake, and then struggled to rise.

"Hol—"' he startled, before his eyes rolled back into his head.

"Watson!" I made a flying leap over the couch, and caught him about the waist before his head hit the ground. My brow furrowed, I lowered him to the floor, and laid him down with a pillow I seized from the sofa. I was opening his collar when his eyes fluttered.

"Watson, what happened?" I asked.

"Dunno," He slurred, and my concern increased another notch. I noted his dilated eyes, and sluggish movements. Surely not! "Been feelin' odd all day…" He trailed off into unconsciousness. I sat, stunned, my eyes involuntarily glancing towards the top drawer of my desk. He could not have indulged. He would not!

I rose to check the drawer wherein I kept my stash of cocaine, though my heart screamed at me that it could not be so. However, as I did so, the headache I felt creeping up on me since arriving home pushed a particularly large spike of pain just behind my eyes.

I raised my hand to rub at my forehead, before I froze, cogs literally clicking into place. The silence, the headache, Watson's apparent drugged state, the chemical smell…Oh, Lord.

I lunged towards my desk, a feeling of horror surging through me. There! On the burner was the small beaker of clear liquid, the same beaker I had been experimenting with that morning, before being thoroughly distracted by that damn letter. I had left the flame on under an unstable element, and now the noxious fumes had permeated the whole house!

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

A/N: Oh dear, a cliff hanger. Please tell me what you think, and be sure to read the Sherlock version as well!