Thanks so much for all of your reviews! I'm so glad that you've been enjoying the story thus far. Here's Chapter 2!

Mary Watson rushed to greet her waterlogged husband as he was swept into the entryway by an overpowering wind. She was a young, pretty thing with sparkling eyes that showed her uncontainable joy at John's return. John, still dripping, hung up his hat and coat before sweeping her into an affectionate embrace and kissing her.

"How are you, dearest?" he asked, smiling down at her.

"How was the lecture?" Mary smiled fondly at her husband. She could hear John stifle a cough as a chill went down his spine. "Oh, I'm sorry, my darling." Mary chided herself, holding him at arm's length in order to examine his sopping clothing. "You're soaked to the skin. Run upstairs and draw yourself a bath. I'll have something hot waiting for you when you're finished."

"Thank you, Mary." With one last kiss on her forehead, he began to briskly mount the stairs, removing his jacket as he did so. "Oh, Mary." She turned back to face him. "Holmes is planning on coming for tea tomorrow. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, John. You know that."

Sherlock Holmes leisurely turned the page of his newspaper over and glanced up at the clock. It was only about half ten in the morning but he was bored. It had been ages since he'd had a stimulating crime and that tended to make him….anxious. He sighed. What was wrong with the population of London criminals? The mere fact that they were being very uncooperative was displeasing to him. Mrs. Hudson called him morbid for thinking so.

"Mr. Holmes, you've got to eat something." Mrs. Hudson shook her head in annoyance as she picked his plate of ice cold eggs and set it on the tray. "You haven't eaten anything in days. You'll come down with something."

"Mrs. Hudson, I am perfectly aware of my own eating habits, thank you very much." Holmes tossed the paper to the side, ignoring the fact that it hit the floor with a satisfying crumple. "I told you that I will eat when I need to and not before."

"Just because you don't have a case does not mean that you do not eat." She scolded. "How I rue the day that the good doctor left us! He would have been able to make you eat something."

"Indeed." Holmes leaned back in the chair and rotated his aching neck. "But the fact remains that he is not here. And I do not require any food at the moment."

Mrs. Hudson looked as though she was preparing to argue the fact but was interrupted by the doorbell and a few rapid bangs on the front door of the flat. After casting him one last look of indignation, she shook her head and left the room to answer the door.

Holmes chose to ignore her as she left. Odds were good that it wouldn't be anyone of interest; why would it be? Nothing interesting every seemed to happen anymore. It wasn't bloody fair.

"Just a moment, sir. I'll ask Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hudson was back at the door now, one hand on her hip as she gave him a look that plainly said: "Pull yourself together."

"Who is it, Mrs. Hudson? I'm not expecting anyone."

"I think that you'll want to speak to the gentleman, Mr. Holmes."

"Then show him in." Holmes shrugged and reached for his pipe. Why not? He could do with a laugh.

Mrs. Hudson stepped aside to reveal a young beggar. A starved look on his baby-like face suggested that he lived on the street for quite some time but something in his attire seemed to contradict that fact.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes." The clipped, educated accent only served to confirm what Holmes had been certain of a few moments ago. "Could I perhaps beg a few moments of your time?"

"I daresay that you can, my good fellow." Holmes straightened, just a bit, and motioned for his guest to be seated. "Now. Before you begin, might I ask why a son of a lord is masquerading as a beggar in this part of London? I feel like it may be a fascinating tale."

"Not quite fascinating, Mr. Holmes." The young man shook his head wearily and sat down on the indicated chair. "My name is Oliver Kensington. Perhaps you've heard of my father?"

"I do seem to recall reading something about it in the paper." Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "Split with your father because of a row, wasn't it?"

"Yes. How did you know that my father was a lord?"

"You are simply not properly equipped to pass as a beggar. The way you walk would have given you away if your hands had not."

"Do you mean that they do not appear to be a working man's hands?"

"Partially. But you can't deny the fact that your name appears to be written on the inside of your sleeve and the signet ring that you wear is certainly obvious."

"That's incredible. No one has ever noticed my ring before."

"Clearly." Holmes glanced up at the clock on the mantel, fearing that this case would be as dull as not having one at all. "But I generally like to think that I am more observant than the average Londoner. However. I'm sure that you did not call on me to observe my deductive abilities."

"Alas, no." Oliver shrugged his shabby coat from his shoulders and, after glancing questioningly towards Holmes, he began to warm his hands by the fire. He grimaced slightly, holding one hand to his midsection and shaking his head deliberately.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit of indigestion." He straightened his back and offered Holmes a semi-convincing smile. "I would like to report the facts of a murder."

"A murder? Do tell, my good sir. I am most intrigued."

"The problem is that no one else believes it to be murder."

"And you know better?"

"I'd like to think so, Mr. Holmes. You see, I've been living on the streets for almost a year now and I like to think that I know London pretty well. I've seen evidence of something not quite right happening right in our midst." Oliver's eyes appeared to darken as he spoke. "Perhaps you've heard of the recent strains of cholera that have been appearing in the area?"

"I had heard of them. But I saw nothing to believe that foul play was involved."

"Well, I don't have any definite proof." Oliver admitted. "But something tells me that this outbreak of disease is not an accident."

"Oh?" Holmes didn't dare allow himself to hope quite yet.

"We haven't had a widespread bout of cholera since the Old Ford reservoir was contaminated back in 1866."

'There's a man what knows his history.' Holmes thought dryly.

"The filtration of the water was supposed to have put an end to that. So why is the disease becoming active again?"

"Perhaps there is a fault in one of the filtration plants."

"It just doesn't add up, Mr. Holmes. I believe that someone is deliberately spreading the disease."

Holmes sat back in his chair considering. It was certainly a feasible idea, though it would be difficult to prove to the authorities without any sort of evidence. "A serial killer with disease as a weapon…" he breathed, allowing satisfaction to settle over his features.

"I know it seems a bit farfetched."

"Not in the least, Kensington. Cholera would be an effective tool in the hands of a serial killer. He could cause widespread terror in the space of a few days by killing dozens of people. If he knew how to administer the disease."

"So the only thing missing is a motive."

"If what you have told me is true, I suspect that a motive will turn up in time. It usually does."

"I thought that you would think me insane, Mr. Holmes."

'Ordinarily, I probably would.' Out loud, he only chuckled. "I believe that behind your madness, there is a method, if you pardon the cliché. I feel that this case will be very promising."

A few minutes later, Oliver Kensington had left the flat. Mrs. Hudson had followed shortly afterwards; it was her day to do the shopping. Holmes suspected that she had a diabolical plan to get him to eat something and wouldn't be surprised if she turned up with Watson in tow later on.

But right now, he had some thinking to do. The proposition of a secret serial killer thrilled him beyond measure. At last, the criminal population of London was being obliging with a case that he could really get his teeth into!

Thanks for reading!