Watson's day had gone amazingly well.

He'd been gifted nearly five hundred pound by a grateful patient (the still-with-child daughter of a sitting member of Parliament and wife of an illustrious lawyer), been chosen in the local businessman's raffle for free lodgings at a lovely hotel and saved the nearly-severed thumb of his latest patient's left hand. The day was coming to a close and he was quite looking forward to setting in his chair with the paper and listening to Sherlock's goings-on. His spirits were high as he stepped out into the snow, ready to make the short journey home as the last minutes of daylight slipped away.

The feeling was infectious.

It left him unarmed when he walked past the group tossing dice in the alley.

Surely one play at the tables would be allowable, after all he'd quite a cushion with which to work. Not until he'd nearly lost it all did worry rumble through his gut. Within the hour he'd turned five hundred pound into a debt of the same.

He'd fix this.

He always did.

He forced the matter from his mind by the time he crossed the threshold and shook the snow from his shoulders. Were he to dwell over something so heavy as how easily he'd succumb to gambling, Holmes would be aware of his misstep in no more than ten minutes time.

Soothing tones pulled from Sherlock's violin floated down the stairs, feeling more like home than any four walls ever had. His feet began the journey to their rooms before he'd chance to think on it, the banister baring more of his weight than he usually allowed; old wounds aching from the London cold. The door was open wide to him.

A fire blazed in the hearth, betraying Holmes ability to light one despite his passionate protests to the opposite. Gladstone was -for once- both conscious and alert, chewing noisily on a scrap of rawhide. He settled into his favorite chair, the music washing over him, and let his eyes fall closed as his fingers laced together.

A knocking brought him to wakefulness with a start. When had he drifted off? He looked down to find his feet freed from his shoes and a warm wrap tucked firmly about his legs and waist, his cane leaning against the seam of the chair where arm meets back.

Two voices floated up the stairs; Holmes familiar timbre and cadence along with the bookie, greasy and swift. He swore and cast the blanket aside, gaining his feet. The detective's steps whispered up the stairs.

"Seems you'll be needing your bag, doctor."

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Holmes delayed him momentarily, demanding Watson wake him when he returned; thinly-veiled worry trapped just behind the facade of cool indifference as he watched him gather his medical bag and hat. If he knew the nature of Watson's relationship to the man downstairs, he gave no indication.

The night was dark and freezing as Watson stepped outside. The man told Holmes of his wife, though the doctor was deeply suspicious of his motives. After a few moments silent walking, hot breath freezing instantly in the frozen moonlight, he decided to face the situation head-on.

"Have you truly a woman in labor?"

The man cast him an incredulous glace over his shoulder before increasing the tempo of his stride.

"Aye, of course I have. She's been at it near two days and the midwife's about given up. Fix this for me and I can fix your troubling financial situation for you."

Ah, so that was it. It was a fitting arrangement after all.

The walk was short and the home well lit and warm. The woman -of far older age than Watson had been expecting- looked as if she could hardly last another hour.

He'd rushed her to hospital when the foetus's presentation was impossible to move and, to his great relief, mother and child were delivered and improving. Several handshakes and congratulations cleared his debt, eased his mind and sent him home to bed.

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The sun was setting behind winter clouds as he left the pharmacy, the London wind biting with cold as it whipped through the streets. The day had been long, and the seven-percent in his coat pocket was warming in his palm. A fire, his pipe and his doctor were all the evening lacked and he was glad to soon be home. He'd been quietly battling a rare bout of influenza that managed to best his sturdy constitution. Presently his body was drawing obnoxious attention to itself with it's aches in his joints and generalized malaise. He dug his fists deep into his pockets and rounded his shoulders against the wind as he trudged home.

The streets were bustling with broad-shouldered men in oil-slicked coats weaving haphazardly between passing carriages. Woman with bread or tobacco to pedal called out their wares as children darted about in play and mischief,at times slipping on the icy streets. His fingers shifted in his pocket, turning the vial in his palm and savoring the weight of it. His mind, always dancing the razor's-edge of genius and insanity, spun with over-stimulation. It diverted his full attention to the object in hand for the span of a heartbeat -a desperate attempt to quell the unending flow of input.

Foolish, foolish Sherlock, he thought as a muslin sack dropped over his field of vision and pulled uncomfortably tight about his throat. In his distraction he'd noticed them a second too late; taller than Watson with more girth beneath billowing charcoal coats, a dragon tattoo along the forearm coming at him from behind the rubbish bins. He threw a blind punch, his fist impacting a solid sternum. He felt an answering constriction of his trachea. His gut clenched and the wind burst from his lungs. Blindly he reached, muscles ringing with years of memory, and grabbed hold of the boot that a fraction-of-a-second ago impacted with his abdomen. His balance was lost from an answering blow to the temple. He fell sideways to the ground, landing soundly on his shoulder.

The fabric of his coat bunched painfully under his arms as he was roughly yanked once, twice, three times to gain enough momentum to be properly dragged. His hands struggled with the still-binding fabric of the sack about his throat; oxygen at this point would be helpful. He kicked out suddenly, twisting his body in an attempt to dislodge the grip on his scruff.

The man at his head swore as he disrupted the forward momentum. Rough hands caught him up by the knees and under-arms. Light pin pricked along his vision as he gasped desperately at the air.

The struggle had been calculated, swift and silent and he thought the odds too long that someone had observed a moment of it.

With a great twist of his body Holmes lurched to the left, kicking down with all his might as his elbows drew in. His knees remained elevated in a vice grip while his arms and shoulders slipped free of his attacker. He fell hard to the ground. The back of his head rebound off the cobbles as his shoulder impacted with the street for a second time in a brilliant, painful flash of white. It gave a sickening crack and he knew it to be dislocated. It was hardly the first time the ball had left its socket and the detective merely cataloged his injury and ignored the shredded glass sensations running the length of his arm.

Though the sack remained over his head it loosened from his neck. Greedily he pulled at the air, filling his lungs as he kicked out in hopes of freeing his legs. His shoulder would have none of it and roared to life, nearly paralyzing his arm. It was his undoing. The world shifted off its axis as he was hoisted haphazardly over a shoulder and lifted into the air. The groan of old hinges was followed with a swift disruption of icy wind and he knew they already had him inside.

The men's footsteps echoed in a way that indicated a large, rectangular space. The air was nearly as cold inside as out; drafty, reeking of mold and rotting fish.

His teeth jarred together as he was unceremoniously dumped into a chair. Men at each arm fisted the upper sleeves of his overcoat and pulled the fabric towards his back, effectively destroying any leverage he might have had with his arms. His wrists were bound behind him, splashing red across his vision as the muscles of his shoulder torqued. They lashed his wrists with twine before releasing his arms and pulling the fetid sac from his head.

Dank, frozen air settled across his cheeks as he blinked in the low light. Three figures stood center and flanked to where he sat bound. Only three of them then -all of average build save the larger one- to submit him. Perhaps Watson had a point where the needle was concerned.

The lantern flame danced as biting wind cut through broken windows. The tallest man -with the dragon tattoo- looked every bit the thug he was; hardened and callous with cold, dead eyes. The man to his left was older and dreary, looking positively bored with the whole thing. To his right, a stocky man with several scars running the length of his face, chewing the end of a repulsive fingernail, his eyes darting every which way.

The creaking of door hinges at the opposite end of the room alerted him to exits he could not see in the shadows. Rust-yellow light spilled in through the newly opened portal as snow and debris swirled about the man's finely-booted ankles. The details cataloged themselves as he approached: nearly Watson's height but nowhere near his athletic physique, right handed, uptown clothes rimmed with cheep-side dirt. He stepped into the light and Holmes immediately knew him, that strangely manicured appearance with a wind-beaten face.

"Ah! Our last meeting was considerably more civil even when taking the lateness of the hour into account." he said, bright as ever, cocking his head to the side and fixing his eyes on his captor.

The man smirked as he pulled supple leather gloves from his clean hands. His suit and coat were well tailored, though the deep lines in his face hinted to a rougher existence than his attire would imply. He'd pegged him a bookie when he'd knocked on the door and demanded Watson accompany him the night last.

He watches as the man glanced over his lackeys before taking a half-seat on a crate nearby, as though he were not in the habit of keeping a well tailored suit clean.

"Yes, well. You see your good doctor owed me quite a debt. A substantial amount that, even for a man in my profession, was generous to cover in his time of need. Last night, he was afforded an opportunity to settle that debt with his medical services," his voice broke over the last word, his poised composure crumpling. The change was so sudden it managed to take Sherlock by surprise. He schooled his features as he watched the unstable man.

The bookie grabbed his hair in fists and screwed his eyes shut for a moment, every inhalation shallow and wild. It took less than a minute for him to slow his breathing. He blew a breath out slowly through pursed-lips before his eyes snapped open.

"Right then, Silas?" the scarred man to Holmes' right quarried.

"Yes, now how 'bout we not use names here 'round the detective? You'll be tasked with erasing his memory then, Thatch." The man named Silas dramatically enunciated the lackey's name. Silas shifted off the crate in his agitation, revealing a bill-shaped lump in his side pocket. He was paying these men, by the thickness of the stack.

So it would be violent, then.

"Mr. Holmes, let us return to the subject at hand. Your doctor's medical skills are as lacking as his gambling ones and my wife and child have paid the price for it."

Watson could know nothing of this, he was sure of it. Had the doctor lost a mother and child, no matter to what fault, he'd have been self-flagellating with guilt. No, no, his oft illogical Watson would have been a mess for days, weeks given the right circumstances, as he was prone to blame some imagined failure of his person.

"As I am a man of my word, his monetary debts are settled as he did render his medical services. However, my family is cooling in the morgue as we speak and I can think of no other way to rend the heart from doctor John Watson's chest than to take one Sherlock Holmes apart, piece-by-piece. That way he will know, while he kneels in the puddles of your blood, what it is to grieve."

Hot rage spiked through his gut on Watson's behalf. How dare this man.

Silas' voice became higher and brittle as he raved on, his teeth clenching. He began to pace, his fine leather boots coming progressively closer to Holmes, who tried to rise. His assent was met with firm hands, arresting his upward momentum. He collapsed back into the chair; head pounding, clear-eyed and staring unblinkingly at his captor. He would not let the mania in the man's voice cause him to panic. He would not let the icy-hot shock waves of fight-or-flight cloud his higher thinking.

Silas made a sudden and unexpected move to strike him. Holmes' boot was in the air without thought, catching the man strait in the gut with such force that Holmes was unseated, the chair toppling backwards onto his bound hands. The bones of his fingers gave way to the combination of awkward angle and pressure, breaking with little firecrackers of pain and sound.

Instinctively he rolled away, coming to rest like an inch-worm with chin and knees to ground. The pain left him with promise to return once the adrenalin receded. He gained his feet with difficulty, mourning the use of his hands,and moved backward with all the clumsy grace of a feline. The man called Thatch was advancing at an alarming rate.

He'd left the pool of sick-yellow light and found himself with his back to the wall in the hazy dark. It took no time for the man to catch up to him. Thatch threw a hay-maker that Holmes barely managed to avoid. His solar plexus roared to life, agitated from the previous blow. Pain exploded at his jaw as his head snapped back, pulling the tendons of his shoulder and making his head scream with piercing agony. The uppercut struck home and the follow up to his groin sent him to his knees, gasping for breath.

He was encircled by powerful arms that hoisted him recklessly into the air. The room dipped and swayed with spinning nausea. Suddenly he was falling. His breath shot from his lungs for the second time as he hit the floor, head cracking soundly against the stones. He rolled to his side to vomit, toes curling with the agony of retching. A burning he hadn't felt for an age flared to life as someone extinguished a cigarette against his shoulder blade. His scalp stung as his hair was fisted back, exposing the delicate curve of his neck. With his vision swimming, head pounding, ears ringing and stomach heaving; he spat.

A snarl and shocking back-hand followed. He lay there panting, willing the world to slow the devil down so he could see.

"I only wish I could see your doctor's face when he comes to find you, Holmes." Silas growled under his breath, so close it stirred the sweat-slicked curls at his forehead.

"It does me some good," Holmes panted, "to know that a child won't be subjected to fathering by the likes of you."

Silas was going to suffocate the arrogance out of him. Steel fingers closed in a vice grip around his throat, encircling it's above-average girth easily.

Remain calm. Remain calm. At least two minutes left, with physical activity, before succumbing. Calm.

His broken fingers struggled at the bonds as his fists ground into the stone and his lower back. His teeth ground together as he struggled, strong legs kicking to unseat his assailant.

Remain calm, Holmes.

He could find no purchase. White pin-pricks started dancing at the edges of his vision. He loathed suffocation. He was thrashing.

Sherlock, stay calm.

His mouth worked for air despite himself. The bonds would not give, he knew, but could not stop his fingers bloodying themselves in attempt at freedom. Inky black was spreading across his vision as his heart nearly pounded from his chest. His back arched and his feet kicked across the floor, scrambling for purchase that would not be had.

He was infinitely glad Watson was not here to see such a brazen display of panic.

The lights flashed and dimmed as his hearing faded. His last thoughts a dying prayer it would not be Watson who found his body.

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