A/N: Woot, chapter 3! I apologize for the lack of activity that occurs on weekends, but the computer I have access to on Friday-Sunday has done nothing over the past year to earn my trust. Now, this is the first of a three-part series, so more to come very soon ... Enjoy the ensuing nightmares! -SWS


All is dark along Deadman's Walk. The lamps which light the streets of nighttime London always shun the narrow passageway – its history is too melancholy for anyone but the prisoners who are led down the Walk to their deaths.

Dogs can be heard barking from a house on Ludgate Hill, and drunken lyrics sound from a public house on Warwick Lane.

No sound nor movement comes from Deadman's Walk. Those who have heard the legends know enough to stay away – especially in the hours of darkness.

Inside Newgate Prison, two cellmates are still awake, whispering to each other in aristocratic accents which one would scarcely think to find in such a hellish place. Those people have undoubtedly forgotten that wealth can quickly turn to greed, and greed to murder, that idle hands are the devil's playthings, and that money is the root of all kinds of evil.

"I've sent the signal," says the one, pacing by the locked door of the cell. He turns to his companion, who sits in the corner, face obscured by shadows. "You do think he'll come?"

By the dim moonlight which shines through the barred window high upon the wall, the man in the shadows observes that his friend's pallor is practically translucent. In fact, his own hands are clammy. "He's never let us down before, Holmes."

A sigh from the taller man, who continues to pace restlessly. "Watson, never have we been trapped in Newgate Prison, awaiting a death sentence."

The man in the corner has lost his stiff, military posture. He runs a weary hand through his hair. "If Lestrade doesn't come –"

"- Then nothing shall keep us from the hangman's noose."


Outside in the darkness and shadows, Inspector Lestrade has seen the light of the candle held up in the window of the cell. He knows that this is the signal, for it has come at the appointed time, and it looks as if it's the correct window as well.

He begins to move towards the building, out of the alley in which he has been hidden for so long.

A hand reaches out of the dampness and grabs his arm. "Shall I come with you, Inspector?" he whispers through the darkness.

"No, Bradley, stay here and watch," hisses Lestrade in reply as he yanks his arm free and begins to advance once again.

Young Constable Bradley holds his breath as he watches his superior disappear into the menacing night. Once he is left alone he shivers and tightens his dark woolen coat about his person. He jumps spectacularly when he hears the howl of a dog somewhere closer than Ludgate Hill.

Deeper in the alley a dark shape begins to take shape. It is darker than the night – carrying the bridled darkness of hell. It grows into a more realistic shape, large paws growing sharp, grimy claws, tail forming a point, and mouth opening to reveal frothing jaws and a fire burning deep back in its throat.

It growls, a low, demonic sound, and begins to slowly stalk the silhouette of the frightened constable.


In another half of the city, a teenaged girl has fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, waiting for news from Lestrade.

She had stayed awake for hours, pacing the hearthrug and checking the time. It is far too late … the signal should have been sent by now … she should have heard something …

She worried until it exhausted her, and eventually she collapsed into the armchair before her legs completely gave out, carefully folded the appendages under her heavy skirt, and drifted off immediately, face turned to the warmth of the fire.

Now she sleeps fitfully. Her dreams are full of the worst case scenarios she can never help but imagine.

They have found the evidence they need to prove that the warden is guilty of the recent murders in Newgate Prison. But it is more than conspicuous when these two prisoners are searching for answers, when the others derive pleasure merely from hearing about the horrible crimes.

Though perhaps it was not the best idea to put them under admission in the prison as murder suspects themselves – for now they are scheduled for execution in two days.

The warden comes to fetch them in the morning, and finds the cell a bloodbath. He smiles, and remembers what a pleasure it was to end their lives early.

And somewhere outside the window, lurks a grimy, shaggy black dog. He growls, bares his teeth, ears pricked forward and the fire of hell burning on his tongue.

Emily jerks awake, out of that fearsome sense of reality, breath coming hard and fast. She sees that the last dying embers of the fire are cooling more by the second, but she does not make a move to stir them.

She leans forward in her chair, resting her head, damp with sweat and tears, in her hands, attempting to steady herself and regain composure.

After a few moments, she takes a shaky breath and stands up. She walks as silently as possible down 17 stairs and fetches her cloak from the stand in the hallway. She pulls it over her shoulders and silently slips out the door into the cold night, hoping Mrs. Hudson will realize where she has gone.


Constable Bradley feels a presence as the beast silently slips past him. He hardly has to look down, as the creature is unusually large. Then he sees a figure, skinny and underfed, blacker than the night. It turns its head and fixes its glowing red eyes on him before walking on.

Bradley knows not what sort of curiosity has piqued inside him, but it is enough that he follows what has appeared to be the creature's beckoning.

He follows it through a curving, twisting labyrinth of mews, and it turns its head now and again to see if Bradley is still keeping pace.

The Constable wonders who is going to die.

The creature of shadows leads him down an old set of crumbling stone steps into an ancient antechamber near St. Paul's Cathedral.

He stands in the dark, the beast's eyes seen glowing in the farthest corner.

Bradley shakily and clumsily lights the lantern he was smart enough to bring with him. He shines it around the room. Immediately three letters scrawled in blood on the wall catch his attention: YOU.


Holmes has not ceased his pacing. His hands are clasped behind his back, fists clenching and unclenching in agitation.

The Doctor, still sprawled in the corner, is by this point far too weary to acknowledge much. "How the devil did you get us into this mess, anyhow?" he asks, voice slurred with exhaustion.

"A clandestine investigation from an inside view. No one was supposed to pick us for execution over all the murder suspects here."

Watson pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "It couldn't be forgery, could it?"

Holmes lets out a breath, one which contains a hidden note of despair. "You do know who recommended us for the stroll down Deadman's Walk?"

Watson nodded grimly, his silhouette barely visible. "Warden Andrews."

The men both jump as the lock on the door of the cell clicks, and the door creaks open.

Watson jumps up to stand beside Holmes in the center of the stone floor.

The Warden leans casually against the door frame, smiling pleasantly as he twirls his nightstick. "So you know, Mr. Holmes."


A/N: Ooh, a cliffhanger! Well, it's a three parter for a reason! Pleasant dreams ... Mwa-ha-ha ... -SWS