Hi guys!!! This fic involves implied Hotson and character death. Definite Mary/Watson, and lots of lovely angst. Because I can't write happy things... maybe I'm warped? Ah well. This doesn't belong to me. Well the fic does. The characters on the other hand are not mine. Sadly. Please read and reveiw, and suggest titles. I am also always open to suggestions for storyline don't assume I'm organised enoug to plan that before starting writing XD. Anyway... I think that's all. Enjoy!! And read Santaii's stuff as well she is amazing!!

Mrs Hudson sighed to herself as the doorbell caused her to drop yet another stitch. She had not made any progress with her knitting that day to a series of unfortunate interruptions, one of which being that fool Holmes setting fire to his own shirt during an experiment she had not been brave enough to enquire about, and now the insistent ringing of the door bell was beginning to get on her nerves. She stood up and hurried tpo the door. 'No need to ring four times… If this is someone calling for Dr. Watson again I shall be furious… four this week… honestly, he hasn't lived here for almost two years now, you'd think people would… anyway….'

She stopped ranting as she reached the door, composing herself before opening it. She smiled falsely,

'How may I he….' She stared at the man leaning on the door post. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his clothes dishevelled. His cheeks were red from running, but the rest of his face was pale and gaunt. Mrs. Hudson did a double take, as she realised who the man before her was.

'Dr. Watson!' She exclaimed.

'Whatever has happened… Are you quite alright?'

Watson was breathing heavily, one hand on his right thigh, the other on the door frame he was using for support. He shook his head, speaking quietly.

'No time… I need… Holmes.' He spoke slowly head still bowed. Mrs. Hudson nodded briefly before turning into the house and going up to Holmes' room.

She knocked sharply three times.

'Mr. Holmes?'

'One minute, nanny !!' came the reply.

'I am on the edge of a brilliant discovery!!'

She cleared her throat,

'Doctor Watson is here to see you. He says it's urgent…'

The door opened, and Holmes poked his head around it.

'Tell Watson if he needs to speak to me he can come…' Holmes stopped speaking as he saw his friend's ashen face, and desperate expression.

'Coming.' He closed the door for a moment before opening it properly and running down the stairs, revolver in hand, coat on.

'Where are we going?' Holmes asked as they sat in the back of a carriage.

'You said 151 Queen's street… Who lives there?' Watson rolled his eyes, but spoke quietly.

'I do.' His voice was eerily calm, calmer than usual. Holmes had been expecting the usual

'I've lived there for two years now Holmes, I thought you were good at noticing things…' This calm voice was unexpected. Wrong. Something had happened. He looked over his friend, trying to find something, anything, to explain this uncharacteristic silence. He started at the top.

Head: No hat. Probably left in a hurry, no time to get it. Hair ruffled, not as neat as usual, something more important than personal appearance made him forget. Possibly ran to Baker Street.

Face: Eyes wider than usual, blinking rarely. Trying to appear calm, not allowing self to express emotions. Mouth twitching slightly, yet more evidence of concealed emotions. Perspiration on forehead. Must have run here.

Clothes: Less neat than usual. Still in morning dress at three in the afternoon, must have gone home after an appointment, then left in a hurry. Something happened at home. Mary? It could have been an argument, but then… He wouldn't want Holmes to come over. He looked out of the window, watching the spectrum of browns and greys that were London pass them by. He hadn't said he wanted Holmes when he was talking to Mrs Hudson. He'd needed Holmes. And it was urgent. Was Mary sick? No. Watson was a doctor. Holmes couldn't help with that… So Mary was… His eyes widened, not quite trusting his instincts.

'Holmes?'

Watson's quiet voice brought him out of his head, and he looked back at his friend. Watson sat perfectly still, watching Holmes, his hands were clasped in his lap, and he was wringing them nervously.

'Watson I…' Holmes spoke arkwardly, still not trusting himself entirely. Watson raised an eyebrow.

'You…?'

'Watson, I think I know what… Mary… is she…?' Watson flinched as he heard his wife's name… He remained silent for a moment, breathing in slowly. He exhaled, his breath ragged, before closing his eyes, and saying

'Yes. If you mean is she…' He trailed off as the carriage stopped outside his house. He climbed out of the carriage, and unlocked the front door, but instead of carrying on into his house he paused waiting for Holmes to go in first.

'She's in there.' He murmured, still not going into his house, gesturing to the second door on the left. Holmes opened the afore mentioned door, expecting the worst.

The scene before him wasn't the devastating blood bath he had expected Mary lay on the sofa, perfectly still, almost peaceful, but her skin was deathly pale. As Holmes moved closer he saw bruising around her neck, and oblong bruises around both her wrists. Finger marks. He breathed in slowly, unsure of how to react. He began to look around the room, checking every corner for evidence of a struggle. He was so engrossed in what he was doing he failed to notice Watson walking into the room. His friend sat down slowly in an arm chair beside the hearth, facing away from the sofa. 'Holmes?' his voice wavered slightly as he spoke, betraying his true emotions, 'I need to hire you…'