A/N: Yes, finally, I can stop studying for today... oh, sorry. Frankly, I'm surprised I got this posted at all, with midterms (ugh) coming up!

DISCLAIMER: If I owned the characters, I would be dead.

I looked at the man who had just opened the door. He had slumped down onto the floor, and I quickly snapped to Holmes to help me get the man to the sitting room.

"I... was walking down… Baker Street… suddenly…. felt ill… remembered… you were a…doctor… and where ….you lived…" he gasped, as if the very effort of breathing was hard.

I noted with some puzzlement that his skin and the whites of his eyes were an ashen grey. His eyes were glassy. I stiffened. I had never, in all my years as a doctor, come across any disease that could turn the whites of the eyes grey. And as for his skin, he looked like he was already dead. He was running a high temperature.

"Holmes, get some cold water and some washcloths. Now," I ordered him, my voice hard as I focused on the sick man. Labored breathing. Grey skin and whites of the eyes. High fever.

I quickly applied the cold cloth to the man's skin as soon as Holmes returned. The man's skin and eyes seemed to turn greyer with every minute. The man started to cough.

Despite my best efforts, the fever was stubbornly refusing to break. As I watched, the man's breathing grew more and more labored, and now the whites of his eyes were a dark grey.

Suddenly the fever spiked even higher, so high I knew the man could not possibly live. Just as the fever reached 109 degrees, it rapidly dropped. Had it broken? No.

Suddenly chills replaced the fever, and the man began to cough up blood. In that exact instant, the whites of the man's eyes turned pitch black. I noticed that his eyes, a dark green, were now paling in color. In five minutes, the man's temperature was 95 degrees. Coughs racked his body, and dark red specks were visible. Five minutes later, it was 90 degrees. His eyes were a pale green. The man had gone from dying of a fever to dying of an extreme chill. I moved the man closer to the fire, trying to warm him up, but I knew deep down it was too late. The man's eyes were now a mixture of white and black, with red veins standing out with stark contrast to the white iris. The man's temperature was still dropping! I now got warm water on the cloths, and attempted to warm up the man. But it was out of my power, and at exactly one in the morning, the man breathed his last, labored, breath.

I lowered my head in defeat.

"….Watson?" Holmes asked tentatively. "What… what was that?"

"I've never seen anything of the like!"

"Do you have any ideas?"

"No, the symptoms matched none I have ever encountered or read of," I replied, puzzled.

"Where are you going, Watson?" Holmes asked two days later..

"A couple other doctors and I have decided to meet to discuss the strange new illness. The one we saw two days ago," I added.

I called a cab; half an hour later I was talking with three of my fellow physicians: Dr. Bartholomew Grey, Dr. Harold Mason, and Dr. Edward Sound.

"I've had two cases, one two days ago and one yesterday. In both instances the whites of the eyes were grey, there was labored breathing, hemoptysis, a high fever, and upon death the whites of the eyes were black and the irises white," Sound commented.

"I have only had one case, a man who came to my flat two days ago. He had a high fever, but about an hour before his death it switched to severe chills. His body was 85 degrees when he died," I input.

"I have had much the same symptoms. I have had three cases, and in all three the symptoms were as you two described, Watson and Sound, and I must say, the eyes are the most disturbing part," Grey said.

The other three of us suppressed a collective shiver at the thought of those black, vacant, eyes.

"I have had one case; a small girl. Her temperature was 80 degrees when she died," Mason added.

I suddenly had an idea. "You recall how Dr. John Snow made a map of the cholera cases and found the Broad Street Pump as the source?" I asked.

There were murmured assents.

"What if we start with a map, it is better than no data and all, and it might help us identify the source."

The others nodded. We agreed to meet in four days, but sooner if any major developments came up.

The next morning, an irregular rushed in.

Wiggins opened the door, supporting an unconscious Luke. "Wiggins! What happened?" I asked, accepting Luke and laying him on the couch.

"Oi… Oi don't know, Doctor. 'e just collapsed, like, and I brought 'im 'ere," Wiggins said worriedly.

Luke's skin was an ashen gray, and he had a high fever. Bracing myself, I opened Luke's eyes. I drew in a sharp breath, and heard Holmes intake a sharp breath behind me. The whites of Luke's eyes were a pale grey.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "Luke…"

His fever was high, and at my nod Holmes ran to get some wet, cold, cloths. I began working fanatically, pressing the cold cloths onto his skin.

I heard the unmistakable racking cough, and the boy's temperature began to reverse. This was worse than the other man, Luke was only a boy and more susceptible to illness.

Luke began to cough harder, his body temperature dropping rapidly. I moved him closer to the fire. Unfortunately, while this warmed him up some, it also served to worsen the cough because of the smoke. Scarlet drops began appearing with each cough.

"You can't die, Luke," I murmured as I worked. "You can't die."

With each cough, the lad's face scrunched up in pain, and the Irregular's temperature was still plummeting. To my horror, the whites of his eyes were a stark black, and his pale blue eyes were even paler.

The coughing stopped at noon. Fifteen minutes later, he breathed one last, labored, time, and I reverently closed his eyes for the last time.

Wiggins rushed through the door. "'ow is…. Oh, no…" he breathed, his gaze resting on his friend's body.

I stared in shock at the telegram. I had not heard from my orderly in so long… but here he was, in London.

DR WATSON WOULD YOU MIND IF I STAYED AT YOUR FLAT WHILE I AM IN LONDON STOP LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN STOP REGARDS DAVID MURRAY FINAL STOP.

I quickly sent a responding telegram in the affirmative, after asking Holmes if it would be all right.

"Doctor Watson!" David Murray greeted me warmly, a wide smile on his face. He clapped me on the shoulder, taking care that it was my uninjured one.

"It's wonderful to see you, Murray," I said amiably, returning his smile. Holmes stood in the doorway, looking awkward. "Murray, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, David Murray," I introduced them.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I have read about you in the Strand."

"A pleasure, Mr. Murray," my friend returned. "I must thank you," he added.

My orderly looked puzzled. "For what?"

"For Watson," Holmes said.

I awoke from my nightmare of the war, startled, and still not quite sure I was back in London. This was supported by the cry from the sitting room of: "Doctor! Look out!" Murray, I realized. I was not the only one who was plagued by Morpheus by the terrors of war.

I went downstairs. "Murray," I whispered, before realizing that my voice was the last thing he should hear if he was dreaming about the war. He shot up straight, a look of alarm on his face. He saw me, and quickly whispered: "Doctor Watson- the wounded- we need to… Oh," he said, realizing that we were thousands of miles away from Afghanistan. He looked embarrassed.

"Don't feel ashamed; I was having much the same dream," I said. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No- nobody underst- sorry, Doctor. Of course you understand… It was the Ghazis… this time; the whole damned army was made up of them. Then the sun turned into a giant Jezail rifle. This time, you were wounded in the chest. As I opened your bag, trying to save you, I was hit in the back of the head by a bullet… then I woke up… I must admit, your face was not the face I was expecting to see," he added ruefully.

I winced in sympathy. "Seeing my face probably did not help, either. You must have assumed you were back in Afghanistan," I commented.

"Would… would you like to talk about your dream?" he asked tentatively.

"I… I was dreaming about the retreat…" I said. Suddenly I laughed, causing Murray to think me mad, judging by his expression. "I never thanked you properly for saving my life, did I?"

"There is no need-" he began, but I cut him off.

"You could have saved your own skin. There was nothing requiring you to risk your life to stay by my side. So thank you," I said, knowing any thanks I could give would be inadequate.

We continued talking, making up for the years. I told him about the strange new illness that was attacking London, and we spent the next while talking about what it could possibly be. That is how Holmes found us the following morning, deep in conversation.

My face paled at the frantic knocking at the door.

"Doctor Tyler!" The young doctor was pale, and his skin was almost grey. I froze. Not another!

Then Murray and I helped him onto the couch. Murray looked in my direction, his expression clearly asking if this was the mysterious disease. I nodded.

Dr. Tyler's clear blue eyes were paling, and I shook my head sadly. Murray and I worked together as of old, but to no avail. His eyes were almost black. The young doctor finally died.

"Murray, would you like to come to the meeting?" I asked him several days later.

"Will I be welcome there?" He answered with a question of his own.

"If the others do not welcome you, I will leave," I replied.

He nodded, and we both got into the hansom.

A short time later, we arrived at the meeting. "Murray, meet Dr. Bartholomew Grey, Dr. Harold Mason, and Dr. Edward Sound. Doctors, my orderly in the war, David Murray."

"I have had two more cases, one of Holmes' Irregulars-" here there were murmurs of sympathy, "and one Dr. Philip Tyler."

Sound froze.

"Philip Tyler?"

"Yes."

"He was my best friend…" He didn't speak a word for the remainder of the meeting. The meeting broke up early, none of us wanting to dwell any longer under the shadow of death.

When Holmes woke me up, I knew something was urgent.

"Can't your client wait?" I groaned, looking at the clock. "It's one in the bloody morning!"

Holmes looked grim. "It's not a client. It's Murray."

I was now fully awake.

"Murray? Murray, look at me!" I ordered him, shaking him by the shoulders. His eyes were glassy and beginning to turn grey.

"Get water and cool cloths," I told Holmes tersely, my heart dropping down to the floor. I turned to Murray. His breathing was harsh, and it pained me to listen.

Holmes returned with the cloths, and I set to work, my jaw set in rigid determination. Murray would not die. I would see to that. He had saved my life, and it was time to return the favor. But his fever was rising, and he had started to cough up blood.

"Murray! Don't die on me!" I pleaded with him, all the while trying to bring his temperature down. It would work. It just had to.

Scarlet drops rose up from his throat with each hacking cough. His face was contorted in pain. His fever was now up to 105. I shook my head, setting my jaw and gritting my teeth.

He will be okay, I repeated my silent mantra over and over. He will be okay. I didn't allow myself to even consider the alternative. I could not bring myself to look at his eyes. It was too hard. Suddenly his temperature began to drop. Had it broken? No, I was kidding myself. With each passing second, Murray's chances grew slimmer and slimmer.

Murray started to shiver, and I desperately tried everything I knew, but to no avail. He was dying. "Murray, listen to me. You can pull through…"

His body went still. "Murray? Murray, breathe, damn it! Breathe! That's an order- breathe! Now! Oh, God, Murray, don't die on me!"

"Watson…." Holmes began.

I ignored him, and started to shake Murray. "DAMN IT! You stubborn fool! You saved my life, why can't I save yours? You damned, stubborn, fool!" I punched the wall in anger, which left my hand throbbing, but I barely felt it over the pain in my heart.

You're a total failure, John Watson! You call yourself a doctor? It would be better for everybody if you never practiced your art again, because look at what good it did. Your orderly's still dead. The voice in my mind made me realize the full impact of what had just happened. Murray was dead, and I had been unable to save him. I went up to my room, not wanting to lose my composure any further in front of Holmes.

"Watson…. You should see this," Holmes said from the doorway.

I looked up. Holmes handed a slip of paper to me. On it was a note, scrawled in a bold, precise hand.

That was a warning, Mr. Holmes. If you investigate- or if Dr. Watson continues to meet with the other doctors- then more than Dr. Watson's orderly will die. I will personally make it so that either your brother or Dr. Watson, or both, die. Consider yourself warned.

C. S.

I stood up in anger, and started to pace. My orderly was dead, and they had called it a warning? Whoever did this was a sick, twisted…. C.S. C.S. Culverton Smith.

Holmes saw the look in my eyes, and nodded. "Smith. With Scotland Yard's usual lack of competence, it was probably easy for him to escape, and- Watson?"

I had strolled to my revolver, and was now cleaning it.

"Smith is mine, Holmes," I spat. "Smith is mine."