A/N: Sorry for the wait folks! Thank you again to absolutely everyone who reviewed, alerted, enjoyed, read or even skimmed the story thus far. And enormous thanks to the wonderful Rairakku1234 who helps me out so much in between her own fantastic writing.

Onwards!


Chapter 7

Pain. Thundering, pounding, inexplicable pain. Distant sounds and incoherent thoughts. Light was trying to penetrate the blackness, but it wasn't succeeding just yet. Had John been lucid enough, it might have reminded him of when he awoke on Westminster Bridge a few short weeks ago, or maybe even when he was wounded in Afghanistan. But all the time spent in adapting to a somewhat less violent civilian life, and the banal episodes that accompanied it, had eroded his ability to handle this level of pain.

With his blood pounding viciously in his ears, John slowly regained consciousness. He groaned and tried to lift his head, though he ceased the effort when it intensified the throbbing. He took time to breathe deeply, willing the pain away in his attempt to block it out. He tried to move again, this time bracing his body and tensing his muscles in preparation for his movement. After several attempts John managed to stumble to his feet, leaning his shoulder against the nearest wall for support.

He tentatively opened his eyes, unsurprised when dense grey patches obscured his vision. The throbbing pain made it clear that he needed to get back to Baker Street quickly before he collapsed again. He thought he could hear traffic nearby and moved forward, and through the grey patches he swore he could see that he was still in the alley. John's mind raced worriedly, wondering just how long he had been unconscious.

Despite all the fears plaguing his mind, one goal overruled all of them. It was this alone that gave John the determination to stop himself from falling back to the ground and cradling his head. Baker Street, he thought furiously, I must get back to Baker Street. No matter how much pain he was in, how exhausted he felt, he could not fail this undertaking. He had to get out of there.

With this mantra to keep him going, John wandered through street after street with only a vague idea of what direction he was traveling. Unsurprisingly, no one offered to help him. His head and hands were covered blood, his clothes and face dirtied from the pavement and stumbling around incoherently. John knew he looked like a figure to be avoided at all costs.

After stumbling around for some time, perhaps about half an hour although John couldn't be sure, he saw the white street sign of Baker Street above him. He almost sobbed in relief, knowing that his body was very close to collapsing in exhaustion. His muscles were already trembling with the exertion and would soon give out. John suspected that he was on the verge of blacking out again; he didn't have much time left.

John finally found the door to 221 and his exhausted body, moving on autopilot, put his key in the lock without conscious effort. As he entered, leaving the front door open behind him, he staggered over to the stairs and clutched onto the banister tightly, holding his body up despite his protesting legs. As he puffed and panted, the grey spots were ever increasingly obscuring his vision. John's stomach began to give threatening lurches, as he bit back the bile that was forming at the back of his throat, resisting the urge to wretch.

Knowing that he was unable to climb the extra flight of stairs to his room, John decided that the sitting room couch would have to suffice. One flight of stairs, he could do that surely. His hands gripped onto the banister and anything else he could reach for support, and he made slow laborious progress up the stairs, nearly resorting to crawling on all fours.

When he made it to the landing outside the living room, John gingerly relinquished the banister, which had served him so well. He made for the closed living room door, bumping into the wall on his way, his breath became more laboured as he did so. John groaned in frustration at the few seconds it took him to find the door handle. He could have sworn that he heard some movement on the other side of the door, but quickly ignored it. The only sense he trusted at the moment was his sense of touch, which was screaming at him to relinquish the aching pains of his body.

The door finally swung open and John lurched through it into the sitting room. He made out a tall lean figure standing at the fireplace with his back to him.

"Ah John, at last. I was wondering where you could have gotten to as I perceive that you did not spend the night here. I have finally been released by those ignorant fools who call themselves detectives."

John's lungs let out an involuntary gasp, a faint wheezing sound, in return, and he felt his legs give out underneath him. It seemed the floor would have to make do instead of the couch.

"John!" Sherlock's voice grew far more anxious, and John heard footsteps approach him, his vision having given out entirely at this point, like his legs.

"Are you alright? Answer me!"

But John was too tired to answer, much too tired. As consciousness left him once again he thought he felt nimble lean arms enclose themselves around him. He hoped that he wasn't just imagining it; it was a nice feeling. And as he had thought earlier, the only sense he trusted right now was touch.


Several hours later John awoke in his bed with the covers tucked tightly around him, and his mind actually registered what the world around him was. He was cocooned in a pleasant warmth formed by his body and the bed sheets. John allowed himself to revel in it for a few moments before groggily opening his eyes. Using his elbows, he shifted his body weight and sat up awkwardly on his bed.

"John, you're awake. Drink this."

A cool glass was put to his lips and he drank tentatively as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting of the room. Sherlock's face materialized beside him, long limbed fingers holding the glass in place. When John was done he placed it on the bedside table and then turned back to him.

"I should have known that there was something wrong when you did not arrive home earlier, it is unlike you to remain out at night. Had I been paying attention I also would have noticed your difficulty in climbing the stairs. I… I..."

John looked almost amused at Sherlock's confusion. "Are you trying to apologize? What for?" he croaked, voice gruff and weak from lack of use.

"I am not… apologizing as such. I merely wish to acknowledge my failure to... be observant when it was required."

John felt remarkably touched by Sherlock's statement, because despite Sherlock's protests it was an apology, or as close to one as John would ever get. He tried to cover that emotion and the sudden drumming of his heart by snorting. "You couldn't have known. They'd just released you from that godforsaken prison. It's not your fault that I passed out in an alley somewhere."

"I would hardly think that it was merely 'passing out'."

"What do you mean?" As he spoke, John noticed that some blood lined Sherlock's palm and fingers, which were resting beside his own on the bedcovers. He clutched one of the hands in his own, examining the skin for any sign of injury. He started when Sherlock gently stilled his fingers by covering them with his other hand.

"Allow me to help take care of you before you begin to worry about me. The blood is not mine; it's yours. I carried you up here after you fainted. There was a significant amount of clotted blood at the rear of your skull, which I attempted to clean away with some success. Luckily your skull is not fractured and you have suffered from short-term memory loss and nausea from the combined effects of blood loss and the blow itself. The consequences were evidently serious enough."

John raised an eyebrow. "I made it home in one piece, didn't I?"

"But you might not have," said Sherlock with quiet intensity. "Mark my words John, whoever did this will suffer severely, make no mistake. No one attacks my blogger and fails to reap the consequences of it."

John cleared his throat awkwardly, highly surprised by how forthcoming Sherlock was suddenly acting. Sherlock was usually so uptight and emotionally closed off around him. But right now he could see a much more emotional side to Sherlock, a side that only ever came out when it Sherlock's friends were hurt or in danger. He supposed that the shock of seeing him come home battered, covered in dirt and blood had tipped Sherlock over the edge. John could feel a plethora of emotions threatening to choke him, so he decided to continue on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"So er, when did you get let out?"

"Approximately three o'clock this morning. A double murder took place and even the Scotland Yard inspectors realized that I couldn't be in two places simultaneously. Although I'm surprised that they were able to come to that conclusion independently," Sherlock said with a derisive laugh. "I was released and have ensured that I am allowed full access to the case as compensation. It seems that my imprisonment has worked in our favour."

Although John vaguely registered his use of 'our' and felt a warm glow at being fully included in the case again, his mind had short circuited at the mention of the murder. He gripped Sherlock's hand instinctively.

"When were the murders, and where?"

"One of the victims, Catherine Eddowes was found in Whitechapel around a quarter to two in the morning. Another woman, Elizabeth Stride was found earlier at one o'clock in Whitechapel. I was about to go find out more about the crimes when you arrived and I postponed my examinations."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he saw that John's eyes had widened and he looked deathly pale. "John? Do not strain yourself, it will be of no bene-"

"Listen Sherlock, no, listen," he said adamantly. "Oh god, Sherlock. Sherlock. I think I - I'm remembering things now. I think – I – I was-"

Sherlock took his shoulders, sensing that John was close to having a panic attack. "Close your eyes and try to remember everything. Breathe deeply," he commanded. It reminded John of the night when they were searching for the graffiti at the railway tracks. It was unfortunate that he didn't have a camera phone full of evidence on this occasion.

"I went out to see you," he paused, trying to remember what had happened next. "But… I'd forgotten to check to see that my watch was right. I asked someone, and it turned out that it was actually past midnight. I was walking back home when I heard a noise. I couldn't see anything but eventually I saw – there was a woman's body lying in an alley. I didn't go over straightaway because… I can't remember why. But I did go over eventually and she had her throat slit, but it was fresh, like it had only been cut just before I arrived. Then… I remember feeling worried that I had somehow moved into a trap, but before I could get up someone hit me, hard. The next thing I remember is waking up but not knowing what had happened." John paused again, realization beginning to sink in. "It was him, wasn't it? The killer?"

Sherlock said nothing, instead digesting this new information. John opened his eyes again. "Sherlock, was it him? Oh Christ, I could have stopped this. I could have helped her if I hadn't been such an idiot and waited around for nothing –"

"Your behaviour was irreproachable," said Sherlock sharply, brought out of his thinking by John's self-reproaching speech. "You thought of your own safety first, which I insist you continue to do. As soon as that woman entered the alley she had no way of surviving without some extraordinary good fortune. Furthermore, as you did not see the killer, the woman's throat must have been slashed before you even entered the alley. Do not trouble yourself on that account."

He stood and surveyed John. "You need to stay here and rest. I shall be back later when you have slept."

John protested and tried to push the bedcovers back and extract his limbs from their cocoon. He was firmly pushed back down into a horizontal position by Sherlock. "You suffered head trauma; you will stay here and gather your strength. Do not make me tie you down to the bed, which, I assure you, I will do if necessary."

Sherlock swept out of the room leaving a pure crimson John behind him. As the ex-army doctor settled back into the warmth of his bed he wondered why it was that he couldn't help acting so oddly around Sherlock all the time. John had always been impressed by his intelligence. And he felt protective of him of course; who else was going to help him when the idiot got himself into trouble? He thoroughly enjoyed his company and felt more comfortable when Sherlock was nearby. But that was merely because of their circumstances. Wasn't it?

But John began to think, to really think. And he came to the realization that some echo of this feeling had been present since they met; it had merely intensified as the two men spent more time together. He noticed more things about the detective now too. Objectively speaking John knew that Sherlock was attractive. His dark skin contrasted with alabaster skin and the remarkable cheekbones he himself had commented on. And his tall lean figure was enviable. But this was purely a detached observation. Wasn't it?

As John felt sleep beginning to call to him and he allowed his eyes to drift shut, his own words came back to him. 'I'm not gay.' That sentence which John found himself using instinctively never convinced the person hearing it. And now for the first time, even John began to truly doubt its truthfulness. Before when he had asked himself, 'Could I be attracted to Sherlock?' he had always instinctually answered 'no'. But now he was uncovering something deep in his being that he had suppressed up until now. And as it was slowly coming out, so to speak, John was beginning to realize what his behaviour towards the detective and the half-veiled feelings for Sherlock meant. And that they could potentially change everything.


It was not until the end of the following day after boring hours of bed rest and a concerned landlady that Sherlock allowed John to get up and sit with him in the sitting room. Even then Sherlock moved the typewriter away and called for tea, insisting that John was not allowed to work until he was fully recovered. Nor did he allow John to get changed from his comfortable worn pajamas, instead fetching him a thick dressing gown and forbidding him to remove it lest he catch cold with his weakened immune system.

John picked up a paper from the table, grumbling about being treated like a baby, though secretly flattered that Sherlock was taking such pains and precautions over his wellbeing. The feelings that he had started to sort out the previous day were appeased by this concern, making it hard to suppress a smile. Out of the corner his eye he thought he saw Sherlock scrutinizing him, although when he looked up he was merely sporting a smug grin.

John turned back to his paper with a huff, noticing that the letter from the killer was also printed here. "Oh," exclaimed. "Of course, this is why I went out the other night. I found the 'Dear Boss' letter and I was going to bring you a copy. I assume you've read it by now? This is probably a forgery isn't it? Probably some journalist trying to sell papers."

"Yes. Although it's significance is somewhat startling. This is the letter that sparks the famous 'Jack the Ripper' name."

"Well, it certainly has a better ring to it than The Whitechapel Murderer,' John teased, fully aware that it would rile Sherlock up. He continued speaking before Sherlock had the chance to begin a long lecture on the importance of precision and avoiding misleading and unnecessary names. "Anyway, what have you found out? That hasn't been printed in the papers I mean?"

"It appears that two nights ago has been dubbed the 'double event'. Our killer is becoming much more forward and confident. He murdered a woman, knocked out the man who interrupted the killing, and then found another victim only an hour or so later. The woman you found was Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes was the other," Sherlock said, pausing to allow John to remember the names. John gave him a slight nod, telling him to continue his explanation.

"In acting thus," Sherlock continued, "the killer has revealed much more about himself. Although John, I must ask now that you are on the road to recovery, can you remember where in Whitechapel you were when you found the body? "Stride's body was also moved, so it would seem that only you know the original location. Admittedly, I don't know what possessed you to walk through Whitechapel on your way home, a rather foolish decision."

"I – Sherlock, I wasn't in Whitechapel. The woman wasn't murdered there."

Sherlock locked eyes with him instantly. "Say that again."

"Wh- She wasn't murdered in Whitechapel. I was much closer to Baker Street when I heard the noise and went into the alley. Even with the disorientation from the concussion, it couldn't have taken me more than thirty minutes to stumble back to Baker Street."

Sherlock stood and paced the room erratically as John finished speaking.

"Sherlock? What are you thinking?"

Sherlock ignored the question and continued to pace before coming to an abrupt halt. "John, for the past few hours you have been protesting that you are fully recovered. Get dressed and accompany me to this alley immediately. We haven't anytime to lose."

When John looked like he was about to argue, Sherlock startled John by entreating him again before John had the chance to speak. "This has an enormous bearing on the case," Sherlock explained, "I wouldn't go now if I didn't deem it necessary."

"Yes you would."

"Fine, I would," he conceded, "but rest assured that this haste is entirely warranted in this particular moment."

In just under an hour John had managed to get dressed, have Sherlock tie his cravat for him and locate the alley in question. He was initially disorientated and unsure of where he was going, but the problem was ultimately overcome when by chance he discovered the paper he intended to bring to Sherlock on the ground near where he had been knocked unconscious. With a call to Sherlock he moved into the alley, becoming more certain that this was the place as he went further into the alley.

"Here," he pointed to a spot in front of him with conviction. "That's where I found her body."

Sherlock crouched down, muttering under his breath. "From your description she has to have been Elizabeth Stride. And you think she was dead for approximately two to three minutes? Are you utterly sure on that? It is essential that you can say that with absolute certainty!"

"Sherlock, I'm positive. But what does that matter, what's got you so worked up?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock exclaimed, "don't you see what this means? You hardly need be a genius to work this out!"

John shrugged, Sherlock's point still eluding him.

"The second victim, John! The other woman who was murdered! How could our killer have slit the throat of Elizabeth Stride, knocked you out, transported the body to Whitechapel and covered his tracks entirely as well as murdering another woman barely an hour later?"

"An hour is surely enough time? And no one was looking for them, he could have come back after the second murder and no one would know."

"An hour is enough time to kill someone," Sherlock agreed, "and maybe if it was the twenty first century the killer also could have cleaned up after himself. But think of transport John! It just isn't possible in this day for a man to move a body from here to Whitechapel, and then murder another women, and clean it all up on the same night! The killer may have had time to kill the women, but not enough to remove all the evidence. Our killer couldn't have done both."

John looked at Sherlock, his expression asking the unspoken question.

"There are two killers, John. They have similar methods and similar victims but we need to review everything again in closer detail. Our killer knocked you out and murdered Stride shortly before you arrived. But someone else killed Eddowes, someone equally violent and dangerous, if not more so. That's why this case took so long to solve. I was searching for one man when there were two the whole time."

John's eyes widened as he tried to digest this information. "Two serial killers? Bloody hell." His panicked tone told Sherlock everything that his words didn't.


Coming up in Chapter 8: The boys investigate the two killers theory, a parallel is drawn between the past and present with regards to cases, and another interesting letter is sent to the press.