A/N: This is my first attempt at a Sherlock Holmes story. If any of you read my Young Justice, you won't be surprised by the angst.

The rain came down in small, scarce droplets.

"Hurry up, Watson, or I shall leave you behind!" Holmes called ecstatically. It was the case-ending euphoria that possessed the detective to act in such a childishly excited manner. Watson struggled to keep up behind Holmes, staggering and limping with great difficulty due to the absence of his cane.

"I do promise you, dear Watson, that the culprit lies just beyond! The very man whom has plagued so many who have touched this case is soon to be caught, like a rat in a trap!"

It seemed to Watson that, the more difficult and grueling the case, the more excited and anxious Holmes would become as their efforts brought the manner to a close. This particular case had involved many dead-ends and mistaken identities, since the culprit himself had many "wing-men" under him, wing-men who bent to his every whim and desire. It's hard to move forward when it seems that the whole world is hell-bent on pushing you back.

After an exhausting week of running into constant henchmen, and getting significantly beaten and bloodied each time, Holmes and Watson had managed to latch onto a real lead, which had led to the invaluable piece of information of which they were now pursuing. The man himself, a Mr. Collin Bradford, had left one damning scrap of evidence behind at the location of his latest kill. Holmes identified the evidence, a scuffmark of a boot and a snag of fabric from a tweed jacket, and used it to tie all of the previous events to Mr. Bradford. However, since catching the man was an endeavor of utmost importance, Holmes decided to seek him out himself, and dragged Watson along with him. Though finding the location of the murderer had led them into one particularly nasty fight, the result of which left Watson without his cane, the injuries sustained were minor compared to what the henchmen went home with, and Holmes and Watson pushed onwards.

Holmes stood by a tree, waiting for Watson to hobble his way towards him. The rain had picked up its tempo somewhat, so that it was less of a drizzle, yet not quite a downpour. The park path that they had chosen to approach the quarters of Mr. Bradford did offer many trees for cover, though, and the two were nearly untouched by the precipitation. However, the weather had left a significant chill in the air, a chill which seemed to settle on the bones. As Watson staggered painfully towards Holmes's location, the detective couldn't help but soften a bit at the sight of his friend's troubles. He sighed. "Watson, old chap, are you sure you are fit enough to make the trip? The air has gotten colder with the coming of winter, and I know how your injuries bother you so. Even more without your cane."

Watson came to rest against a tree next to Holmes, sighing with relief as he rested his weary muscles. He turned to his comrade. "Holmes, do not worry. I am fine. While the absence of my cane does trouble me, I wish for nothing more than to see this case through with you."

"Are you sure?" Holmes asked, even though he knew that the doctor would only say what he thought would put Holmes at ease.

"Yes. Go on, and I will be following shortly. If we do not act soon, Bradford will surely make his escape."

Holmes nodded and proceeded forward once more. After a moment, Watson pushed himself off of the tree he had been using as a crutch and followed. After a slow and painful journey of only a quarter mile, Watson came upon an obstacle. A large stone staircase led upward to another road. After quickly surveying his surroundings, Watson saw that there was no other way to climb the rather steep hill on which the stairs were mounted. Halfway up the staircase, Holmes climbed quickly, taking the steps two at a time. While the stone menace before Watson seemed to pose an impossible feat for him to climb, he wanted to see how the case would play out. He stepped out from the cover of the trees and into the rain, which had, once more, increased its force. Slowly, Watson placed his foot on the first step and clutched the railing for support. Each step seemed to only take him farther away from the endless staircase before him.

Finally, Watson could see the road at the top of the stairs. He reached forward to grip farther upon the railing and pulled himself the final feet to the top. Farther down the road, Holmes stood, waiting once more for his companion. Watson leaned heavily on the rail, breathing heavily from the strain climbing the stairway. The pains from his war wounds plagued him, and he felt depleted. Holmes noted Watson's ragged breathing and hunched stance. He started towards the doctor when a shadowed figure emerged from a side alleyway. The figure blocked the path from Watson to Holmes.

The human mind is an interesting thing. The habits and tendencies, those second-nature impulses that define a man's personality, are unfaltering in their consistency. However, if put under extreme stress or agony, and if influenced by habitually altering substances, a man's personality can become severely remodeled.

Collin Bradford had been drinking, that much was clear. Obviously, one of the henchmen who had been in the previous fight had managed to warn the man of Holmes's and Watson's intentions. The stress clearly brought him to drown his anxiety and anger in alcohol. The staggering, blundering, mumbling mess of a human being obstructing Holmes's way to Watson was the result. His clothes were completely drenched by the rain, which had crescendoed into a full-out downpour. The raindrops thundered on the stone pathways and buildings, forcing one to have to shout to be heard. Bradford shouted.

"You meddling, miserable, good-for-nothings!" He screeched, waving around a half-full bottle of whiskey. He turned to Holmes first, and then Watson, since he stood in between the two. "How dare you!" He lost his footing for a moment, barely catching himself from falling. Holmes stood still, not wishing to draw unwanted attention from the burly drunkard. Bradford continued in his rant, stumbling and slurring as he turned again and again, making sure that Holmes and Watson both caught wind of his anger. Neither man felt that Bradford was much of a threat, seeing as the man seemed to content himself with ranting and swinging his arms around.

Suddenly, Bradford reached a break in his anger, and instead dropped his bottle. The bottle shattered, the alcoholic substances mixing with the rainwater. He brought both hands to his face and sobbed. "You… you ki-killed Jimmy! My brother, my friend, my friend…" he mumbled.

Both Watson and Holmes adorned expressions of confusion as to whom "Jimmy" might be. Bradford dropped his hands from his face and whirled in Holmes's direction. "You killed Jimmy!"

Jimmy was one of the "henchmen" that Watson and Holmes faced on numerous occasions in the past week. He had met a sad fate after one brawl, when all of his comrades had been taken down. Jimmy had fled in fear of capture. He had not watched where he was going, continuously glancing backwards to make sure he was not pursued. He had tripped upon the cart of a vagabond and impaled himself on a fencepost. This gruesome memory would not occur to Holmes, revealing the identity of Jimmy, until much later.

"Well, Holmes," Bradford said, as he stumbled away from the detective and towards Watson, "You killed my friend." Bradford pulled a pistol from his coat and aimed the barrel for Watson. Watson paled, weighing his options. Holmes said, in a forced hiss, "Watson, move."

"It's only fair!" Bradford's voice rose an octave. The staircase behind Watson held no safe escape. The only way to avoid the bullet, if one were to be shot, would be to lunge to the side. But, would Watson be quick enough? And, if Watson were to jump now, before the shot, would such a movement elicit a quicker response from Bradford?

"That I…" Bradford's finger closed around the trigger. "Watson, move!" Holmes shouted as he ran to attempt and stop Bradford. He slipped.

Time stood still. Quietly, Bradford whispered the last two words. "Kill yours."

The gun went off. Holmes screamed. Watson jerked as the bullet entered his chest. He fell backwards, hands reaching for a place to hold. His hand had been resting on the rail, and he closed his hand tightly around the metal pole. However, the rain had slicked the metal and stone, so neither the rail nor the stones offered any grip to which he could hold.

Watson's head hit the stairs first. Graciously, he blacked out before the rest of him could tumble down.

Holmes found his footing and launched himself at Bradford, knocking the large man to the ground. He wrested the gun from Bradford's now slack grip and hurled it away. The force of his head against the pavement knocked the man unconscious, and Holmes quickly ran to the stairs. A few feet from the base lay Watson's crumpled body. Holmes hastily ran and slid his way down to the base of the stairs, slipping to a halt a simple foot from Watson. Anxiously, he felt for a pulse in the other man. Thankfully, there was one. One weak, faint, fluttering pulse that seemed to hold all hope for the world in its mere existence.

"Watson!" Holmes shouted. The bullet wound was in the center of Watson's chest. Holmes placed both hands over the wound, trying to staunch the blood. He ripped off a piece of shirt and wadded the cloth to place against Watson's head, where there was a wound from the impact of the stairs. The doctor was covered in bruises and gashes, but most were minor, or at least not as serious as the bullet wound or head wound. The blood mixed with the water from the diminishing rainstorm, running into the storm drain. "Watson!" Holmes cried again, wishing to whatever greater power that may exist that his one friend would make it. "Watson!"

Behind him, the Inspector and his men came thundering through the park. "Holmes!" Lestrade shouted. "What has happened?"

Holmes didn't speak, but still attempted to tend to Watson's wounds. Lestrade and some of the men balked at the sight of the bloodied doctor. After gulping back his fears, he called for assistance from one of the officers who was familiar with basic medical practices and ordered him to do whatever he could to help the doctor. He sent a few men to send for an ambulance from the nearest hospital, which was thankfully only a couple of miles.

Lestrade approached the detective. As he laid a hand on Holmes's shoulder, he said; "We have help. Please-"

"Let go of me!" Holmes shouted, throwing off Lestrade's touch. The inspector did not attempt to touch Holmes again, but hovered nearby. The officer with medical knowledge knelt beside Watson, quickly examining his injuries and taking the proper measures. Though Holmes tried to keep anyone else from touching Watson, he came to his senses and let the medical man do his work. Holmes still did his best to stand by his friend, constantly asking questions about the treatment and extent of the wounds. All inquiries stopped, however, when the men arrived with an ambulance. In an instant, Holmes was pushed aside by a doctor and his assistants. Holmes reached forward, trying to find his friend in this group of strangers, but he was constantly pushed back. "Let-me-through!" Holmes grunted. "He's my friend!"

The medics ignored him, ushering Watson into the ambulance. When Holmes tried to hop onto the back, he was, once again, brutally pushed back. The doctor watched Holmes with pitying eyes. "Sir, I assure you, we will do all we can to help him."

Holmes jumped up once more. "Let me see him!" he stepped into the back of the ambulance. One assistant attended to Watson. Holmes reached for Watson's hand, fingers brushing the clammy skin. Watson's eyes fluttered open, trying to focus on his unfamiliar surroundings. He caught sight of Holmes, the desperate and tragic expression on the detective's face cutting straight to Watson's soul. He tried to call out.

"H-Holmes…"

A rough hand grabbed Holmes and thrust him from the ambulance. He landed roughly on the stone. The ambulance drove off.

The rain stopped.

A/N: Reviews are welcome and appreciated.