Gruesome as the murders were, it only intrigued Sherlock further
Rapidly growing anticipation followed the consulting detective and the doctor like a shadow
End, the ultimate, final void had been the fate of three women, all mauled in a familiar manner
Exactly, to the dot, re-enactments of unsolved murders which raped souls with fear, years past
Now, after a sharp, coincidental observation by John which made Sherlock's heart swell with pride.
White Chapel, dawn a dream, and a hooded figure, a cleaver shining in the light of the lamppost.
In a blink, an attack, slashing of flesh, the blood black in the night as John saves Sherlock's life. Again.
"Nip. Nothing," gurgles John, stoic, clutching his throat. "Stop looking at me like that." Pause. "Clinic"
Gone, yet recognized. Eyes of their harmless postman, gleaming insanity, catalogued in a brilliant mind.