DISCLAIMER

I do not own "Sherlock Holmes" or any characters presented in this story (except a few originals of my own creation), they are rightfully the property of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle.

Author's Note

I have tried my best to keep content accurate between the dates 1888 and 1891. Some information regarding "Jack the Ripper" is fictionalised for the purposes of the story. If you find any mistakes please let me know and I will rectify the mistake in later chapters. I hope you enjoy this story. Constructive criticism is most appreciated.

1st October 1888

The sun shone over the chimney tops of Whitechapel. Although it brought none of it's warmth. The general public were on edge as the double murder of two women had been committed the night before, believed to be the work of notorious serial killer "Jack the Ripper". Scotland Yard had been working tirelessly since April and as of yet found no new leads. A young girl was sitting under the window in her bedroom. She was rather small and skinny for her age, had thick dark brown curly hair that fell to her shoulders and brown eyes which resembled autumn leaves. Her legs were pulled up to her chest, her head resting on her knees and her arms were wrapped around her legs. A floor board creaked. The child shuddered, unexpected noises made her nervous. Noises during the day are rational but when you are child home alone it is quite different. The front door opened and she heard the door slam. The girl stiffened. Slamming of the door was never a good sign.

"AMELIA? GET YOUR BACKSIDE DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!" Obediently Amelia rose from her sitting position and proceeded down the stairs. She opened the door to the kitchen where her father was and stood stock still waiting. "Where is my supper?" The voice was calm and thankfully sober. Amelia immediately felt as though she had been doused in icy cold water, she had completely forgotten about her father's supper.

"I…I…forgot." She said timidly. She didn't look her father in the face whilst she talked to him. For this was forbidden, so instead she looked at the floor.

"You forgot?" He inquired calmly. His calmness scared her, as she was uncertain of his actions. She fiddled with the bottom of her dress, waiting. His chair scraped and he advanced toward her. Amelia took an involuntary step backwards, fear overwhelming her. Silvery tears slid down her cheeks.

"I'm…I'm sorry sir…I…I…"

"Silence!" She fell silent immediately. There was a moments pause and he slapped her around the face, sending her reeling. He grabbed her hair and dragged her toward a small cupboard under the sink. He forced her inside and shut the door. Amelia heard the lock click and heard her father's voice whisper through the door. "Now you will be silent you worthless bitch or Mister Ripper will get you next." She shuddered, crying silently and rubbing the top of her cupboard was dark and unwelcoming. She felt a steady dripping on her head, the cupboard was damp and cold but she couldn't rearrange herself into a more comfortable position as the cupboard was small and unable to accommodate a seven-year-old.

"I want my mummy back." She thought and repressed a sniff, "Will I ever be happy? Or will I have to live with him forever?"

The sun was starting to set over the terraced houses of Baker Street. A chilly breeze rippled through the street, although no one was out to feel it. Sherlock Holmes was frowning, chewing the tip of his pipe. He wasn't confused, more like stuck at a dead end of a never ending maze.

"And what does one do when they are stuck in a maze? Get out the pliers and cut through the hedge." He set down his pipe on the already cluttered table, so it just slipped to the floor instead. A muffled whine from the Bull dog issued from the corner. Gladstone was demonstrating the effects of ether. He didn't mind. The Whitechapel murderer had successfully murdered four women from right under his nose. Hours Holmes had tirelessly worked until he had finally given into the fight against exhaustion. Was he losing his touch? He had inspected the bodies himself. The two women who had been murdered the previous night had died of what Watson determined to have had their throats cut and then had their bodies mutilated. All that Holmes could gather "Jack" had used a simple silver blade on his victims and on the scene of all "Jack" related murders there was a chalk mark near the bodies of his victims. As though he wanted to mark the spot. On the body of Elizabeth Stride there was a sticky substance in her hair that Holmes could not fathom. It was not blood it was more yellow in colour and thicker.

"Holmes?" Watson clicked his fingers in front of Holmes' face and he was jolted back into reality.

"Yes Watson?"

"Would you care to explain why you have been experimenting on Gladstone?"

"He is currently demonstrating the effects of ether…" He could see the anger rise in Watson face, but just as he was about to say something there were three knocks on the door and Lestrade entered the room looking tired. As did most at the Yard nowadays. "To what do I owe this pleasure Inspector?"

"I wondering if you had any new leads on the Whitechapel case?" Lestrade wasn't hoping for much. It seemed to him if they were to have caught the serial killer they would have done in April. Holmes' face fell slightly and Watson's anger drained from his face. Holmes didn't answer but simply pulled a letter from the cluttered table and gave it to Lestrade;

Holmes,

I am surprised you have not found me yet. You disappoint me. Perhaps the work of Jacky has stumped the "great" Sherlock Holmes. Losing your touch. Watch out Holmes, I still have more up my sleeve and I wager you will find me sooner or later, so it's goodbye Whitechapel hello everywhere! Be seeing you boss.

Jack

Lestrade reread the letter several times. After a moment he saw the letter was written in red ink; slightly smudged. Or was it ink?

"It's blood." Holmes said, not looking at Lestrade but out the window.

"I'll keep this for evidence." Holmes nodded absentmindedly. He heard two sets of footsteps approach the door and heard it open and shut. Gladstone was whimpering in the corner the effects of ether wearing off.