Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Neverwhere: those rights belong to the respective owners.

A/N: Hello! Welcome to my newest project, a cross over between BBC's Sherlock and Neil Gaiman's wonderful novel Neverwhere. There will also be a lot of original ideas of mine added in, such as the mysterious organization known as The Web, and the powers of the three Holmes brother's. I won't spoil too much now, but if you do have some confusion in parts, I promise to clear up stuff in the story as soon as I can. Please enjoy, and drop a review if you like what you read. Cheers!

Down Once More

Chapter One: World's Collide

Wind's in the East, mist comin' in

Like some thin' is brewin' and 'bout

to begin

Can't put me finger on what lies in

store

But I feel what's to happen all

happened before.

"I 'eard they was after ya', Mister 'olmes– y'know, The Web."

The man's scratchy, mothball voice echoed along the wet walls even as he whispered to the whip thin shadow that was cast by ruddy candlelight; flickering and dancing where the walls oozed some thing green, and slimy. There was a faint drip-drip-drop sound in the distance– broken pipes leaking into the quagmire of the sewers.

"Do you think they know where I am?"

His voice, deep and sonorous, held a hint of desperation– barely discernable unless you knew him as well as Wiggins did. The man in question shrugged, his deep-set eyes tracing the frantic dance of his employer's shadow as he paced through the water around their ankles; sloshing and rippling it just enough to make a whisper of sound.

"I'm not sure, sir... but, if'n I was you, I'd not be stayin' in one place fer too long. Gets dangerous."

The light sputtered and wavered on the brink of existence, as the shadow stilled. He emitted a weary sigh, fingers idly caressing some thing in the depths of his coat pocket. After a beat of silence, the shadow resumed its frantic movement while he replied,

"Then I shan't dally here much longer..." he drew in a sharp breath and added begrudgingly, "and thank you, for informing me. You must have given up some thing quite valuable, to gain information like that."

Wiggins smiled sheepishly, ducking his head and scratching idly at a dry spot behind his ear. "Twas merely my duty, sir– tis always an honour to serve." He looked up, eager for his Master's praise— only to find he was now quite alone.

—

John Watson vacantly stared out into the black abyss; watched as the lights burst into life and died just as quickly– like falling stars. He sat amongst the morning crowd on the Tube train that would spit him out a few blocks away from St. Bart's, and he pondered briefly on how his life had become so dull.

He wondered if it all began when he was shot, and then honourably discharged– discarded back out into a life that no longer suited him... or, perhaps, his life had always been this dull, and he was too blind to see it. In the end, the why and how did not matter. What mattered, was the empty feeling in his bones and the deep, overwhelming melancholy that had pervaded his very being– right down to the roots of his soul.

The tube slowly came to a halt, and the passengers all began milling themselves out into the world once more. John sighed, using his cane to stand, and hobbled his way after them– the static voice that intoned, "Mind the gap," fading away while he integrated himself back into the masses.

—

"I see we've got a fresh one today, Molly." John smiled as he unsteadily made his way over to the young woman who jotted down her thoughts onto her ever present notebook and clipboard. She looked up after a moment, and her face brightened when she caught sight of John.

"He came in only a few minutes ago. Name's Michael Harvey, age 33– apparently he's a victim in that serial killer case that Greg is working on... he's supposed to stop by later, once I determine cause of death and the time." Molly blushed, and shyly toyed with the pen in her hand.

"Oh Molly," John sighed fondly and gave the young woman a knowing look, "you know Lestrade is separating from his wife right? You should do some thing about that age old puppy crush, and ask him out for coffee some time– heaven knows, he could be just as interested in you, as you are in him."

Molly's blush darkened and she hid her face behind her clipboard to conceal it as she mumbled, "It's not decent... you know, they still could work things out; and I don't want to be the 'other woman' in the picture. 'Sides, I doubt Greg even see's me like that." With that soft, and rather sad admission, she returned her attention back to the cold, lifeless body set out on the examination table.

"I... I know you're only trying to help me find happiness John– and I really appreciate it." Molly exclaimed after a few moments of silence, as she catalogued the information she gleaned from examining the corpse. "But, you should focus on yourself more John– find some one or some thing that makes you happy."

Some thing in John's expression tightened briefly, before he replaced it with an empty smile– that didn't quite reach his eyes, and made his statement of, "I am happy," sound incredibly hollow.

A no-nonsense look in place, Molly replied, "Don't think I haven't noticed the apathy in your eyes– the blankness of your smiles. No matter how you try to brush it off, reassure me that every thing is fine, I know it's really not. You're far from happy John, even if you pretend otherwise." She had placed one of her slender hands upon John's shoulder, and squeezed just once; a gentle, barely there touch.

John's throat tightened uncomfortably at her concern, and he blinked the tears that threatened to spill, away. He breathed deep, and placed his hand over Molly's. "Don't worry about me," he finally replied, voice soft and a little defeated.

She pursed her lips, obviously holding herself back from arguing the point further, and merely nodded; letting the matter drop for now, so they could focus on the task at hand.

—

"Thanks for gettin' this done so quickly, Molly."

Greg Lestrade, detective inspector down at Scotland Yard, patted the young morgue attendant on the back; his smile lop-sided and slightly roguish. John could practically feel Molly melting at that...

"U-um... i-it wasn't a problem," she mumbled, casting her big, brown eyes to the floor.

Their chemistry was palpable, and it took almost all of John's military discipline, to keep his nose out of it. If he had things his way, he would have slapped the two upside the head, and ordered them to go grab coffee and talk. He kept his mouth tightly shut though, and pretended to be scarce as he sewed up Michael Harvey's chest after the autopsy.

Molly and Lestrade continued to chat about tox reports, and tissue damage– the two huddled together almost intimately. The adoring look in Greg's coffee hued gaze did not go unnoticed by John Watson. It made him smile, to see two of his dearest friends falling in love.

As was usual these days, however, the smile disappeared far too quickly. The little voice that hated John, whispered words that dripped with ugly, black pitch in his head. "Look at that– they're falling for each other. Where does that leave you, then? If they start dating, they won't have any time for you... you'll be all alone again, and that thought terrifies you– doesn't it?"

John did not realize how much his fingers had started shaking; the scalpel slipping, and slicing open his palm. "Buggering fuck," he swore, trying to keep his voice down so as not to bother his friends– especially now that they seemed to be conversing about some thing other than corpses for once. The bright red line trailed down to his wrist, and pooled around the rubber edge of his latex glove. John watched it, numb and strangely fascinated as the sounds of wounded men screaming, echoed through his head.

"Oh John, does it hurt?" Molly's worried and urgent tone brought him back from the hell inside his mind. John blinked surreptitiously for a few seconds, before his attention turned to his friend's– troubled expressions on both their faces.

"I'm... I'm fine. I'll just go bandage this up now," he tried not to wince at the twinge of pain that set fire to his nerves, and the listlessness of his own voice. John smiled thinly when the anxious lines in Molly's and Greg's faces did not abate; before he turned, and made his way to the closest medical kit to bandage up his wound.

—

He sucked in giant lung fulls of air while he ran– ardently trying to ignore the painful clenching in his chest as his body struggled to obtain more oxygen. Blood trickled down from the gash above his right eyebrow, and it stung some thing fierce as it dribbled into his eye. His worn, leather shoes made dull squelching noises as he waded through the foul, slimy sewage amassed before a drain pipe.

"C'mon mister 'olmes, I know you must be tired by now. Why don't ye let me take care 'o ya'..."

"Don't antagonize him Hope, only the spider is permitted to play with flies."

His pursuers laughed at their little joke, the sound bouncing off the walls to echo and layer over itself until it was an unbearable jumble of noise. It made his blood run cold, especially once he realized that he had hit a dead end.

He pressed his shaking frame against the wall, trying to make himself blend into the darkness and shadows. The rattling wheeze of his own breathing would not still, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood in an effort to cage in the sound. His eyes clenched shut, and he strained his ears to hear even the faintest whisper of sound; it was hard though, to hear anything over his pulse pounding in his ears.

Close by— too close, he could hear the male, Hope the woman had called him, start humming to himself. He recognized the tune, the one about a spider and a water spout; a nursery rhyme for the children who lived Above.

With a burst of adrenaline, his eyes opened wildly– and that's when he saw them, the metal rungs that made a make shift ladder. His gaze followed it, all the way to the top and to what he knew lay beyond. He cursed under his breath at his ill luck, but launched himself at the ladder none-the-less. In the end, there was nothing for it, not when his only choice was to go up.

—

The damp, frigid air settled uncomfortably in John's chest that evening. After he had witlessly sliced his hand open, Molly had refused to let him keep working until he went to go stitch it up properly. In the end he only had to use a few butterfly stitches and some bandage gauze to stop the bleeding, but Molly deemed him ill enough to go home, and get some rest. He was indignant at first, until he caught sight of his pale, pinched pallor in the overhead mirror.

The bags under his eyes were rather heavy, and his whole demeanor seemed wane; like a gust of too-strong air could knock him to pieces. With a brief embrace for both, and shaky goodbye's, John left Molly and Greg to their own devices, and decided to go grab a bite to eat.

After he finished his spaghetti at Angelo's, John went for a walk through the empty London streets; cane always at his side to help guide him along. The nasty weather cast a sluggish grey hue over everything, and it was why– John supposed– that he was the only one out at this late hour.

The wet chill was starting to make his left shoulder ache, and he grimaced at how weak his body had become after the war. In fact, John had half a mind to quit being stubborn, and board the nearest tube train home— when the distressed sound of a man shouting, caught his attention. He looked around frantically for the source of the noise– and then, through the hazy fog that had begun to set in he saw a tall, lean figure dash unsteadily through the line of trees in the nearby park; two silhouettes following close behind.

He stood rooted to his spot on the pavement for a moment, his hot blooded and courageous side warring with the dark voice that murmured, "What do you think you could do, hm? You're broken... you're not worth what you once were..."

John cursed, and shoved those thoughts aside as he started limping as fast as he could toward the man who might very well be in trouble. Another deep, panicked cry rang out, making John break out into a slow run.

The moment he burst forth through the line of hedges and trees, John witnessed the rather tall man getting a tire iron smashed into his knee. The man roared in absolute agony, before he fell to his knees, and then rolled out of the way as the short, middle aged assailant swung the tire iron at his head.

"Be careful Hope, we want him alive, remember?" A soft, accented voice hissed nearby, drawing John's attention to the other attacker. She had not moved yet to hurt the young man, but the Asian woman did have what looked to be a dagger, in her hand.

"I'm just 'avin a bit 'o fun," the man replied, swinging his weapon toward his prey with a manic gleam in his eyes; only to miss again, because the young man rolled to the side just in time. " 'old still ya' wee bugger, I needs to brain ya'!"

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" John screamed, finally alerting the three to his presence. He was sprinting forward now, cane in his hand and ready to be used to defend himself if necessary.

The man and the woman shared a confused glance. "He notices us..." the woman finally murmured to her partner, and he gave John an intensely puzzled frown.

"DON'T!" The desperate, and shouted plea stopped John in his tracks, and he looked over at the young man; confused and panting. "Please... just turn around, and go home– I promise, you'll forget that you ever witnessed this."

The man that the Asian woman had called 'Hope' sneered, grabbing his prey by his dark, greasy curls and tugged sharply. "Ye should listen to 'im, one who resides Above— unless ya' fancy yerself a life of pain and misery."

"Let him go!" John snarled, and stepped forward; menacingly holding his cane like he would a sword. His focus shifted between the Asian woman garbed all in black, to the shabby man who looked like a penniless cabbie– and it finally rested on a young, pale face; the man's brightly colored eyes silently willing John to just run away. His own eyes flicked back to Hope and his lip curled back into a fearsome sneer as he growled out once more, " I said, let. Him. GO!"

Hope barked out a laugh, and nodded to his partner. "Go ahead Shan, kill 'im." Quick as a flash, and with a sadistic smile twisting her lipsticked mouth, the woman named Shan slashed out with her jade handled dagger.

Surprise filled her eyes, when instead of sinking into warm, yielding flesh– her knife blade scraped along the metal of John's cane. She lashed out again, only to receive the same result, and a sharp smack from the end of the cane right in her side. Shan's smile fell into a pained grimace as she spat out, "Looks like the Upworlder has good reflexes."

John's face screwed up in confusion, her words not quite sitting right with him. He side stepped an arcing slash meant to cut his side open, and then back pedaled when she pressed her advantage. The fleeting impression of 'how the hell did I get myself into this?' rattled around in his head, but he did not have the time to really think on that, when he was fighting for his and a stranger's lives.

"Ye lil' prick!" John heard Hope roar, and he narrowly missed getting stabbed in the throat, when he looked over his shoulder to see the young man punch his attacker in the face– breaking his nose it seemed, on account of all the blood.

Shan looked over as well, and John took the woman's moment of weakness to his advantage by bringing his cane down hard enough against her wrist to possibly break it. She howled in pain, dropping her jade-handled dagger out of reflex— and John instantly dove for it.

However incapacitated she seemed, Shan was hot on John's heels, diving after her weapon as well; which led them into an all out grapple in the wet grass, and mud. They rolled, kicked and even bit to gain the upper hand– fingers constantly scrabbling for the dagger's handle. After what seemed like an eternity, John's numb fingers finally closed around the cold handle, and he lashed out with abandon; slicing a nice, clean gash against the woman's cheek.

John scrambled up onto his feet, righting himself quickly and holding the dagger out in case she tried to come at him again, regardless of being unarmed now. Her fingers curled against her cheek, the dark red blood staining her pale skin as she shook with rage.

He allowed himself to look over and see how the young man was faring, and his eyes widened in horror. Before he could scream, or do any thing really, Hope swung the tire iron at his head.

John fell to the ground, his eye sight going fuzzy and the blood rushing through his ears too loud to hear over. The pain radiating through his skull was unbearable– unlike anything he had ever felt before, and he had been shot in the shoulder.

While his vision swam, and his head throbbed, John blearily focused on the face loomed above his. Eyes that shifted from blue, to green and held hints of gold, studied him with unreserved pity. "I'm sorry," the man murmured, his hand pulling some thing from the depths of his navy blue coat pocket.

Before he succumbed to oblivion, John Watson registered cold fingers prying the dagger from his hand and then, there was nothing.

~T.B.C.~

E/N: well, there's chapter one. I really hope you all enjoyed my take on things. I can't really say too much without spoiling stuff, so ttfn!

Story Notes:

–The excerpt at the beginning is from the movie Mary Poppins (though admittedly after watching Saving Mr. Banks, I always hear it in Colin Farell's beautiful voice...). I feel like it sets the tone perfectly, for what I have planned for this story. Plus, Neil Gaiman always puts excerpts of poetry or a quote before his novels, and I thought it would set the tone nicely in that regard as well.

– John works at Bart's in the morgue because I wanted him to be friends with Molly and Greg; but without Sherlock living in London Above, they normally would have never met. I like to think with his medical knowledge, John would make a great Coroner.

– Jeffrey Hope and General Shan are our two antagonists who work for the organization known as, 'The Web.'