Watson and Sherlock, after removing their hats at the same time as a pair of twins would, returned their eyes to the events ensuing below. Together, they analyzed the scene. Sherlock quickly rushed off before a concrete plan was made against the harsh protesting whispers of Watson. Rolling his eyes and heaving a great sigh of frustration, Watson dusted off his gray trench coat, grabbed his cane that he had previously leaned against the stone railing, and scurried after Sherlock, praying he didn't either make a fool of himself or die in the process.

Sherlock emerged from behind an immense pillar on the lowest level and, walking casually up behind the hooded men, bludgeoned each on the head with two nightsticks with complete ease. He was, quite obviously, well versed in the art of fighting and defense for not one hit ever so much as grazed Holmes's body. However, this is not such an entirely amazing feat for a man who, in his free time, was boxed into a ring with another shirtless sweating man, throwing punches for money.

Just a moment's pause was enough for Sherlock to notice that the chants still continued and the young girl over whom the man was chanting was pointing a long thin dagger at her own heart. She convulsed violently, coming close to stabbing herself. Sherlock coolly but swiftly leaped up beside the woman and grasped her arm firmly as she began to pull the dagger downwards. Watson had taken the liberty to complete Sherlock's unfinished business with the remainder of the cloaked strangers. The girl dropped the dagger and fell motionless when the hooded man stopped his chanting to ridicule Holmes for not waiting for the Scotland Yard. The hood was removed, revealing none other than the infamous Lord Blackwood, known practitioner of black magic and, now, known serial murderer. His deep brown eyes and crooked-toothed smile echoed an evil that tainted his soul fully. He did not seem to fear Sherlock Holmes, Scotland Yard, or even the rope to which this villain would certainly be headed. Watson's fury soon took control. He dashed toward Blackwood, full intention of bashing his head in with his cane blazing in the doctor's once kind blue eyes. Sherlock stepped in front of Watson as Blackwood turned to smirk at his attack. Holmes latched onto Watson's arm with a vice grip. "Watson!" he shouted, "Don't!" Watson stopped just short of the end of a transparent pike of glass extending from Blackwood. Watson, realizing that Holmes had just saved his life, panted with horror. "How did you-?" Sherlock tapped the glass with his nightstick, shattering the lethal weapon instantly. "Because I was looking for it." Sherlock explained.

The Scotland Yard officers soon rushed out from the entrance and overtook the criminals like ants on sugar, cuffing them and shoving them out to the carriage. As Lestrade, Holmes, and Watson spoke, no one noticed the single cloaked figure that slipped out a back door, dashing for quick freedom. The figure ran through a long brick-laid hall, lit only by one torch and climbed a winding staircase. A large plank of wood covered completely with dust and cobwebs that was soon revealed to be a cellar door blocked off the stone stairs. The man pushed the doors open and stumbled out onto the cobblestone of a lonely alleyway. He closed the doors, gently so as not to alert the Scotland Yard, and crept softly down the wall.

He was halfway to freedom when, from behind a pile of crates, a hooded creature materialized and sprinted towards the man. Startled at the creature's speed and agility, he did not run. Rather, he leaped up and began climbing a rusted iron ladder that hung above for the purpose of fire escape. After climbing the first rungs, he suspected that perhaps he had been imagining things and the creature did not exist or perhaps the creature was merely an animal. Still, he scaled the ladder believing that this was his ticket to escape. However, his dreams of freedom crashed when he felt vibrations move from the ladder into his palms and a tight squeezing grip upon his foot. He turned to look downward only to be met with the same creature he had hoped he'd escaped. It was incredible. Even as he struggled to continue upward, the character on his ankle seemed to have absolutely no trouble at all. Their grip neither tightened nor loosened and their breathing remained steady and soft. Was this a demon? What was this being that looked human but whose abilities were so fantastical that he feared he was dreaming? If this truly was simply a dream, he felt like crying out for someone to awaken him. Yet as he continued thrashing about, he felt the grip loosen slightly. He took this chance to kick at the person and finish his mount to the top of the wall. He cared neither to wonder if the being was still on the ladder nor to wonder why his left shoe felt so loose. He had escaped. That was all he cared about.

After shooing a photographer away for the third time, Sherlock and Watson began making their way towards the exit of the hall. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped, threw his arm in front of Watson, and placed a finger to his chapped lips. Silence. Then, a soft distant thud. Holmes and Watson's eyes met, communicating their suspicions. The two raced to the opposite end of the hall, Lestrade shouting after them, confusion evident in his voice. Down the back hallway and up the stairwell they ripped and tore open the cellar doors, nearly tearing them from their places on the hinges. They stood together in the seemingly empty alleyway. Both knew just what had happened. Watson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, completely frustrated. Sherlock began his curses more at himself than anyone else. Suddenly, the pair heard a small sound, almost like a newborn's sigh.

"Sherlock, John?" it seemed to say.

Turning to the opening of the alley, they noted a cloaked human hanging from a rung on a fire escape. It struggled to unhook the broken rung that had latched onto the side of their right black lace-up boot. The rest of the body hung limply after reaching for the boot and failing. Watson and Holmes slowly and suspiciously made their way over to the hanging person.

With his long brown cane, Watson pushed the figure's hood out of their face. Blonde braids fell out of the cloth and a familiar sheepish smile beamed up at them. "Evie? What on earth are you doing here?" Watson asked, surprised and slightly irritated at the girl for interrupting their investigation.

She shrugged her shoulders and explained, "I was so worried about you two that I came to help you. Besides, you two can't have all the fun." Her cheeks were quite rosy from both embarrassment at her predicament and the blood rushing to her head.

"How long have you been there?" Watson inquired, genuinely curious. Sherlock interjected, "I'd say about 2 minutes. Her veins haven't yet begun to bulge." Evangeline could not tell if Holmes was infuriated with her or holding in a laugh. He was completely unreadable. This often left Evangeline extremely frustrated and angry. She found it unfair that Sherlock could read others like a book while she was left to guess.

Her silent inquiries about the detective's mood were answered just moments later when Sherlock angrily sighed, "Did we not specifically instruct you to remain inside your home? Blackwood could've escaped and there you'd be – outside, alone, on the streets of London with a serial murderer on the loose that has a particularly keen appetite for young maids!" Sherlock's mumbling grew into a strained growl. The night was quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Then, "Well, you were right about one thing!" Evangeline reasoned, "You let one get away. I tried to catch him for you but he was simply far too quick while climbing this ladder. I would've been able to pull him down had this bloody rung not broken." She irritably kicked the broken rung that clung to her bootlaces. A screech and sudden jerk downward made her squeal in fright. "I'm getting a little dizzy." She iterated in a sort of daze.

Sherlock and Watson eyed each other before Watson began unclipping each lace from the rung that held the woman upside down due to Sherlock's aura of irritation. He was most obviously not about to help Evangeline at all. He'd much rather see her stay upside down all night. She had not followed his instructions and so she deserved the consequences. No one broke Sherlock Holmes's rules. No one.

With a hand on her back for support, Watson released the final lace. Her legs plummeted to the ground like lead weights and Watson held her upright. The impact made her whimper slightly. Her cheeks began losing their rosy coloration and fading into her original paleness. Unbeknownst to her, Watson turned to give Holmes, who had leaned against a wall to smoke his pipe, an annoyed look. Why wasn't he helping? How lazy this man was! Sherlock retorted with a roll of his eyes.

The group arrived back to the gunsmithery. Evangeline ran down the alley between the shop and the home of the little family. There, beneath her window, was a rope made of fabric down which she slipped to escape the suspicions of her brother, Abram.

Sherlock's cheeks flushed with angry blood. "Abram doesn't even know you've gone out?!" he nearly shouted. Not only had she disobeyed his instructions, she had done it right under her older brother's nose. If he were to see them now, he'd believe that Watson and he had helped Evangeline sneak out. The notion that a gunsmith would hold a grudge against them made him shiver. Oh, the numerous ways in which Abram could inflict pain upon him with his plethora of weaponry.

Evangeline waved her hand nonchalantly. "You worry too much, Sherlock. He'll never know I was gone!" Her pride angered Holmes even more. Her mischievous smile taunted him. He hated that smile. But why? He loved that smile for all other occasions in which she had tricked someone or made one feel foolish. But never had she used that smile on him. No, he hated that smile when it was directed at him. He hated being afraid of the consequences for his actions. Never before had he been worried about consequences for it had only been himself and Watson up until that night. Unknowingly, she had involved herself in something much bigger than that alleyway or that rope she grasped in her callused hands or the night or even that smile. Even his hatred for that smile. "What a fool she is. A beautiful, little fool…" Sherlock thought. The two men watched as she awkwardly fumbled through the window, signaling their time to go home.

Bang!

Sherlock heard Watson and his latest patient outside his door, mumbling about the gunfire. The creak of the stairs sounded. The creak was louder and longer meaning the pudgy and slower moving elderly man would be the culprit. He had finally left. Another mumbling caught his attention outside the door. Mrs. Hudson, no doubt. Her high heels clicked about irritably.

Bang!

He heard the two outside jump at the sudden gunshot and smirked. Watson stormed into the room of clutter and disorder. "Permission to enter the armory?"

"Granted. I'm working on a device to silence the sound of a gunshot." Sherlock mused, staring intently at the barrel of his revolver.

"Well, it's not working." Watson replied, making his way over to the curtains. Against Holmes's overly dramatic protests, Watson drew the curtains to let in the bright sunlight, only illuminating the mountains of filth in the room. Watson sat down hearing Sherlock's demands for work, going through mail that Holmes had neglected to open and offering up ideas for cases. "Oh! Here's one! Lady Radford reports that her emerald bracelet has gone missing." He tried to act mildly intrigued. Sherlock quickly responded. "Insurance swindle. Lord Radford likes fast women and slow ponies."

Mrs. Hudson shuffled in with tea. Sherlock studied her for an instant before remarking, "I'm more interested in the strange case of the absentee landlord. I've been noting Mrs. Hudson's comings and goings and goings and comings with great interest, and they appear…most sinister." Sherlock whispered the last words mockingly to Mrs. Hudson who gave him a strange look of amusement and boredom. "I've brought tea." She reminded him. Sherlock leaned forward and wrinkled his nose. "Is it poisoned, Nanny?" Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows in amusement at Holmes's accusation and decided to take a jab right back at him. "There's enough of that in you already." She began to pluck objects off the table to make room for the tray when Sherlock proclaimed, "Don't touch! Everything is in its proper place as per usual, Nanny." The landlady turned on her heel and waltzed towards the door. She looked to her feet and noticed a spotted bulldog lying motionless at her feet. "Oh, he's killed the dog. Again." She stepped over the dog and walked out.

Watson sighed in annoyance. "What have you done to Gladstone now?" Sherlock's habitual experiments on a dog that wasn't even his perturbed him to no end. "I was simply testing a new anesthetic. He doesn't mind." Sherlock explained as if the dog had told him those words himself.

"Holmes, you've been in this room for two weeks. I insist you have to get out!" Watson pleaded. Sherlock stumbled over to the window and sat in a chair, staring out of the window begrudgingly. "No, there is absolutely nothing of interest for me out there, on earth, at all…" he murmured dazed.

"So you're free this evening?" Watson asked, hopeful.

" Absolutely."

"Dinner?" Watson proposed.

"Wonderful."

"The Royale?"

"My favorite"

"Mary's coming." Watson added quickly.

Sherlock stopped for a moment. "…Not available."

"You're meeting her, Holmes!" Watson demanded.

"Have you proposed yet?" Sherlock asked, knowing the answer.

"No, I haven't found the right ring." Watson sighed with drooped shoulders.

"Then it's not official." Sherlock concluded with a smirk.

"It's happening, whether you like it or not! 8:30, the Royale, wear a jacket!" Watson commanded. "You wear a jacket." Sherlock shot back like a child. The doctor swiftly made his way out of the room, only to bump into a familiar not-so-perky blonde.

"Oh, good morning, Evie." Watson paused in the doorway, intrigued by the sudden appearance of the girl.

She sighed. "Good morning, Watson." Something was quite strange about her. She had used his last name rather than calling him John. Her usual energetic personality seemed to be washed away by a wave of either exhaustion or disappointment. She stumbled into the room, completely ignoring the confused eyes of Sherlock Holmes, peering from beneath his hat, and threw herself face-down onto a sofa. The numerous blankets hanging sloppily on the head cushion fell onto her, burying her in an abyss of cloth and negativity. Watson and Sherlock exchanged odd glances before both slowly approached her, as if she would leap up and devour them at any moment. With a small coat rack, Sherlock gently nudged her side and drew back at her long drawn out groan. The two looked perplexed as they listened to mumbles and groans from the pillow into which her face was buried that must've been English to her but complete gibberish to them. Holmes let out a sigh and leaned close to the pillow to understand her words. Lowly, he whispered into her ear, "Dear, I can't understand a word you're saying." She quieted and looked into his brown eyes with hazel bloodshot ones. She was most obviously exhausted.

"I just want to sleep." She remarked after a few moments of staring. She propped her chin up on the pillow and grumbled, "You were right, you know. Again. You're always right." Sherlock's ears perked up at this. If there was one this he loved more than a good case, it was being told that he was brilliant. He ran his fingers over her blonde locks, beckoning her to continue. She turned her head and rested her cheek upon the pillow, gazing once more at Sherlock. "Abram was waiting for me in my bedroom last night. I was caught. And I had to stay up and clean every gun in the shop." She had come all this way just to complain about her punishment. Sherlock couldn't help but smile. She had gotten her just desserts. Abram had caught her and if he was lucky, she'd never pull another stunt again.

He touched her cheek with his fingertips, making her look to him, and smiled sympathetically at her. What a child she was sometimes. He gave her cheek one gentle pat and stood, "You'll get over it, dear." A shadow of a smile played on her lips. Sherlock always knew just what to say.