Thank God for the rain.

As Sherlock Holmes sprinted after the speeding carriage carrying away that woman, a beautiful and terrible thing happened. As the vehicle sped around a slick corner, it overturned and skidded into a building. The detective dropped his beloved violin to the cold cobblestones and made his way to the collapsed cab, just in time to see two of the thugs who kidnapped her in the first place stumble away, cursing. Holmes paid them little attention; they didn't matter at this point. As he picked his way around splintered wood, he saw the third man.

He was bruised and bleeding and his skull was broken in several places. He wasn't breathing. Holmes sighed, but a sick realization crossed him. Irene was nowhere to be seen, which only meant she was under the broken carriage. He couldn't quite remember, the lingering haze of the drugs deluding his usually keen memory, but he thought he had seen her handcuffed.

No amount of alcohol or drugs could ever make him work faster as when he struggled to save her, the woman, the soul of his existence. Sherlock dug through broken wood and leather, only the two black horses proving that the world hadn't in fact stopped altogether. It didn't take long to find her.

She was bleeding and unconscious, her hands bound behind her back as she lay curled on the cold stone. Irene had bits of wood in her auburn curls and splinters in her arms. Holmes only stood above her for a moment, unsure of what to do, before he carefully and silently scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Sherlock Holmes did the only thing he could, amidst the shock.

He ran, his feet landing in rhythm with the shallow breathing of the only woman he ever loved.