Thursday; November 8th, 1888:

Calm yet heavy, evenly paced footsteps echoed off the stone pavement with a soft splash as the enigmatic figure in the dark approached the lone detective. In the soft glow of the street lamps a glint shined from the small scalpel grasped in the unknown mans gloved hand. As Sherlock continued to eye the crime scene for more clues a sudden knot of dread in his stomach instinctively warned him of the encroaching danger.

Turning quickly Sherlock realized in an instant that he had finally come eye to eye with the very madman he had been trying to identify. The man's face was concealed behind a thick scarf, a tall dark hat was pulled low over his face obstructing his features and his long black coat's collar was pulled up high, shrouding his face even further with shadows.

Before Sherlock could react to the Ripper's unexpected presence, the fiend plunged the blade of the scalpel into Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock let out a sudden gasp of pain and clutched at his injured shoulder as the Ripper pulled the weapon from the bleeding wound. Sherlock attempted to step back but the Ripper was swift and precise with is attacks! Again and again the Ripper sliced through the air, the blade cutting away at Sherlock's now tattered coat as the cold steel met warm, exposed flesh. Sherlock grabbed ahold of the Ripper's hand and used his adrenaline fueled strength in an attempt to restrain the murderers frenzied assault. The blood dripping from the wound in his shoulder, more crimson drops fell from the multiple lacerations that marred his chest, arms and hands. Sherlock stepped back off the curb of the street and lost his footing. Through the heavy drops of cold rain that continued to fall, Sherlock himself fell hard on his back onto the rain soaked street.

With little way to defend himself against the vicious assault Sherlock struggled to focus on his attacker's face to identify the Ripper's through the haze of the pain that was wracking his body. If he managed to survive he could later name his attacker, but the darkness of the night and heavy clothing concealing the Ripper's face made an accurate identification impossible.

The Ripper's eyes were large and bright with madness as he stood over Sherlock as a predator stands over its wounded prey. Sherlock struggled to pull himself away from his attacked but the slick road and injuries rendered the attempt moot. The Ripper kneeled down over Sherlock's face, his stagnant heavy breath sickened Sherlock as he stared into the eyes of the lunatic. Using his knee the Ripper pinned Sherlock's injured arms down onto the street as he continued to slash away at the detective's prone form. Sherlock struggled helplessly beneath his attackers surprising strength, his voice unable to call out for help.

A shrill police whistle suddenly filled the chilly air of the bloodied street, followed by a barking order. "Stop! Police!" A patrolling constable happened upon the scene of the attack. He ran as quickly as he could toward the brutal act, calling for attention and ordering the maniac to stop.

The Ripper stopped for a moment and looked Sherlock directly into his red, pain filled eyes. Placing both of his hands on either side of Sherlock's head the Ripper slammed Sherlock's head down with great force against the rain and blood coated street before standing up and running off into the distant darkness. The poor lighting and drifting fog made it impossible for the constable to track the culprits location.

Sherlock's ear were ringing from the tremendous impact of his own skull slamming against stone. Darkness tunneled his blurring vision and his eyes closed heavily as he knew no more of the world around his conscious mind.

The rescuing constable slide to a halt and kneeled down next to Sherlock's unconscious form. "Mister Holmes! Mister Holmes!" He gently patted Sherlock's face but was unable to provoke a response.

Thanks to the distinct whistle that sounded off as soon as the constable spotted Sherlock being attacked, a small crowd of onlookers exited their homes and began to converge on the scene. When the curious gathered mass recognized the bloodied face of Sherlock Holmes laying in a puddle of his own blood a good Samaritan ran off toward Baker Street to inform Dr. John Watson of the situation that had just transpired.

In the meantime Watson was still awake and awaiting to return of his colleague. Pacing the length of the flat on Baker Street, Watson passed by the glow of the roaring fireplace for the hundredth time as he pulled the small watch from his from his trouser pocket. Midnight.

Friday; November 9th, 1888:

Willing to submit to Sherlock's stubbornness Watson walked down the stairs and toward the large doorway to retrieve his coat before walking out into the night to search for his long absent friend. Just as his hand touched the cold, brass texture of the large door handle an abrupt knock on the heavy wooden door startled the preoccupied doctor.

Opening the door quickly Watson spied a young man, drenched from head to toe in rain and sweat with a panicked look on his face anxiously staring back at him. "Yes? What is it young man?"

"Doctor Watson?" The man's voice was shaking with a thick Irish accent.

"Yes."

"You must come with me quickly sir, it concerns Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock?" Watson felt his heart skip a beat as dread set in. "Has something happened? What has happened to him?"

"Come, I'll explain on the way!" He stepped away from the door and focused his eyes on the dark, wet street from whence he came.

The poor weather exasperated Watson's limp, he struggled to follow the youth as he led the way to where Sherlock still lay on the stone street. Continuously falling cold rain and seeping blood created sickly puddles that soaked into the tattered fabric which chilled the wounded detective to the bone.

Sherlock remained still.

...to be continued...