I will not play tug o' war. I'd rather play hug o' war. Where everyone hugs instead of tugs, Where everyone giggles and rolls on the rug, Where everyone kisses, and everyone grins, and everyone cuddles, and everyone wins.

Shel Silverstein

They were surrounded. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade and even young Hopkins were tricked into this night of black slaughter. All the constables had been lost on the way over to this abandoned churchyard, that fact not known until it was too late. 'Twas a cold night in the cemetery, the stones covered in moss, the walls crumbling like the dirt beneath an old man's boot, it was darker than even the shadows could bear.

Hopkins was leading the group, followed closely by his superior officer and the unofficial detective with the doctor bringing up the rear.

A soldier's ears really were the best.

Which is why it's such a shame that they were assaulted from above, on the rooftops, where the footsteps were not, could not, be heard.

The group scattered as about seven armed men stormed in upon them, guns at the ready yet not a bullet wasted. Just for fun. There had been jabs and punches, ears ringing and gums bleeding. Shouts from who knows who and blood from who knows where.

Between clenched teeth and hardened faces, the four men chose their opponents and began a fight to the bitter black end. The bone-to-bone collisions hurt no less on either side, but none would back down.

It was the moment a hand could be felt at the back of Hopkins collar that for the first time in his life, the young detective regretted not telling his landlady how much actually did love her cooking. He regretted not finishing his toast this morning when Inspector Lestrade strode into his small rooms informing him that 'they had a big one' in tow. Hopkins wished he wasn't here, wished the dangerous men were left in someone else's hands other than his. That way, he could finish every meal and thank dear Mrs. Morris every day of his life for the motherly love he knew she held for him. He thought all of this, and then his brains were scattered upon the rain-slick grass.

It's a shame. He was so young, holding so much potential.

Inspector Lestrade grappled with a man much larger than himself, but a life of being 'too short' taught him that there was no such thing as being overpowered by size alone. Hard knuckles cracked against his jaw, flesh rippled over bone as for a brief moment, all he saw was blinking lights. But he recovered, as he always did, and with two fingers stubbornly thrust out before his fist, his assailant lost both of his eyes. The Inspector ripped the man's revolver from his steely hand and put three heavy round in the man's chest.

He turned to assist Dr. Watson, when he heard a blood-choked grunt following a gunshot. His head snapped to the left, narrowly dodging a bullet himself, only to find Sherlock Holmes sink to his knees and fall over dead.

Doctor Watson didn't know that he had just lost his best friend.

Lestrade sworn an oath so foul he didn't bother to aim at the man who killed the detective. With a spray of bullets, he eventually got him. Holmes was dead, he knew, it was time to move on. He spun on his heel to charge at a taller man dressed in black, when his path was obscured by Watson suddenly darting before him. Did he see, Lestrade wondered? It didn't matter. Well, until he slipped backwards and knocked his head on the ground. Dear Hopkins had tripped his senior officer. What a childish trick.

Doctor John Watson, crack-shot ex. surgeon of the Queens Royal Army, shouted in morbid delight as he shot directly where he intended, just the right spot on the man's forehead to create a satisfying POP sided with a splash of blood. It would seem that the doctor had lost himself a bit in the bloodshed. He must have seen. It would explain why he didn't hear Lestrade's warning about the man sprinting after him with a pistol aimed at his chest. That is, before someone from the far off right shot the Scotland Yarder, silencing his voice with a throat of blood. The reliable chronicler was fast though, for his sake, as the man who shot Lestrade had his chest decorated with lead Medals of Valor.

They were all dead! Every which way he turned, dead bodies lay in perfect stillness, greeting him with smiles and gleaming eyes. Oh look, he thought, there's Lestrade and Hopkins! He chuckled as his eyes soaked in the image of Lestrade's limp body tangled with the young officer's. His gaze trail over each body around him, their hats askew, blood on their coats, blood on the ground, blood in the air and blood pooling from Holmes' chest. He laughs as he sees his friend lying in the middle of it all.

Holmes stepped out way to early in this little game.

But the Doctor has no time to laugh with them all, as he finds himself propelled forward with a blunt pain in his chest. Silly man missed his heart, got the lung instead. He's got time, he knows, just enough time. Ah, good ol' Holmes, always at his side with just what they need to solve a case. Watson struggles over one of the criminal bodies and slowly pulls himself to his friend. The shooter is walking away. No worries, Watson's always been a good shot. But damn the blindness, he has a very difficult time feeling for Holmes' revolver. Oh! Right here, in his hand! Hugging his companion's shoulder for support, Watson levers himself up just high enough to get his shooter in view, and... perfect.

He sighs in relief and rolls over smiling.

"I-I got him, Hhh-holmes. We stopp--ped them."

His head rests heavily on Holmes' stilled back, Lestrade is fallen over a now-faceless Hopkins, and the entire criminal gang is fallen cold and dead.

Looks like everyone won tonight.

This poem has always had an air of morbid humor behind it, I think. I could just imagine it going through someone's head as they were dying and witnessing the chaos still going on around them. Oh, I know. You can slap me for this if you want.

Anyway, I'm sorry to follow up my last story with one that kills everyone off, but can you blame me? AAAAANGST is just so darned easy with these fellows! I'll try to do another jovial story after, to make up for this.