*peaks cautiously from behind a convenient rock* Sorry about the wait! I just couldn't make this chapter work out the way that I wanted. Hopefully a few explanations of the method behind my madness will make up for it! Enjoy! ( :

Watson crouched uncomfortably in the puddle of water that Holmes had positioned him next to. Somehow, during the aggravated shuffling that had occurred when the rain had decided to dump what must have been several bucketfuls of water on top of him, he had lost his balance and tumbled into the puddle.

A few hours before, Holmes had appeared on his front step, excitedly pounding a dent into the wood of his door. Naturally, the sound of the knocking had led him to assume that yet another poor beggar was close to death. But no. When he had opened the door, he discovered a strikingly different Sherlock Holmes to the one who had dejectedly left his practice earlier in the day.

The eyes of the detective seemed to glitter with anticipation excitement as he quickly explained the situation: Lestrade had been sent off to track down the killers and he was relying on Watson to assist him. Or so Watson gathered. In any case, he decided that it was time to get his coat and assist his friend.

It had been so long since they had worked on a case together; this was one of the downfalls of his decision to marry. Neither of the friends would admit it but they were relieved to be doing something.

Watson had frankly been worried about his friend ever since the business had begun. Why hadn't he been investigating in the same way that they were used to? It was unlike Holmes to go this long without any legwork and legwork was exactly what they needed in a case like this.

"I am relying on you to remain here and survey Lestrade's work." This was all that Holmes had to offer when Watson inquired why he had been told to crouch behind a barrel near the local fishmonger.

Watson was very familiar with the fact that Holmes had specific methods in place. From what he could gather, Holmes had led Lestrade to believe that he was abandoning the case; he had provided the Yard with the necessary information to nab the criminal. But Holmes wanted more than the capture of the one who had caused the terror. He wanted answers.

"Have there been any developments?"

Watson jumped at the sound of the detective's voice and he turned to see Holmes pulling his cap down over his eyes and his coat tightly around his shoulders. "Holmes. No, thing that I've seen." He could see keen grey eyes gleaming from under the cap, trained specifically on the shop across the street from their position.

The cobblestones of the street shone with rainwater, little rivers flowing between the cracks. Every so often, a rat would scamper across or a small child would skip through with an aggravated mother in tow. At first glance, this street seemed to be like any other. And it was. Except for the house that rose up in front of them.

40 Broad Street was an old house, originally from the late 1700s and it had the architectural problems to prove it. Obviously, nobody had thought to put the maintenance into the structure that was desperately needed. The result was a crumbling mess that dominated much of the street.

The house was supposed to be uninhabitable because of the damage. However, the walls were never without occupants; such a rundown house was the perfect hiding place for anyone who didn't want to be found because no one wanted to venture inside.

"I suppose that you have questions." Holmes didn't take his eyes off of the front door.

"Yes," Watson admitted. "What are we doing here? Why didn't you decide to work with Inspector Lestrade?"

"Because I wish to perform my task in my own way without any outside interference."

"And what task would that be?"

Holmes sighed. "Do you remember when I told you that Oliver Kensington had visited me shortly before he died?"

Watson nodded.

"He came to visit me to tell me of his suspicions. Somehow, before the disease fully took hold of London, he knew that it was being deliberately spread. How could he know such a thing? At that point, there were so few deaths related to cholera that no one had any idea that such an epidemic would take place."

"I see what you mean," said Watson slowly. "So, does that mean that he was in on it?"

"I believe that he certainly played a part in the instigation. Consider the fact that he was one of the first people to die." Holmes released his hold on his cap to glance over at Watson.

"Did he play his part knowingly?"

"Wiggins did a great deal of investigation for me before his death. One of the things that he and the other Irregulars discovered was the fact that Kensington was seen dealing with someone living inside 40 Broad Street. He left the residence with a small jar, presumably containing some kind of culture."

"Was he the one who contaminated the water?" asked Watson.

"No, Watson. Not directly. Kensington was given a job by our murderer. He was to infect a single person with the disease so that our murderer could test out a new remedy, much like a vaccination."

"And the person he infected died. But why would that convince him that the man was trying to start a deliberate epidemic?"

"It didn't," said Holmes. "At that point it would have been easy to convince Kensington that the death was an accident. The remedy was unsuccessful. I believe that our man must have paid Kensington off quite handsomely."

"What makes you think so?"

"The ring, Watson. It shone to perfection. The signet crest was old but the ring itself was new. I am certain that he replaced the ring with a new one, using the money from the murderer."

"Why would he want a new ring? Wouldn't it be simpler to purchase something more practical considering how he has lived his life these past few months?" asked Watson.

"Consider his background," said Holmes. "A man like Kensington would not find it easy to go without the luxuries of his previous life for long."

"I suppose that makes sense," said Watson. "Then the continued deaths related to cholera must have alerted him to the fact that the murderer was…I don't know. Experimenting?"

"Experimenting, Watson!" Holmes clapped his hands together and exhaled sharply. "You have hit the nail directly on the head. In essence, that it why they have all died. Kensington alone was a deliberate cold blooded murder."

"So, our murderer must have killed him to keep him quiet about the experimenting. But why start experimenting to start with?"

"As a medical man, you are very aware of the fact that diseases mutate to adapt to their surroundings," said Holmes. "Cholera is now a very different disease than it was in the past fifty years. Our man is also a man with medical knowledge. He understood that the disease is different and that it warrants further study."

"So he planned to infect the entire population of London?" asked Watson in disbelief. "That seems a bit farfetched, Holmes."

"Not the entire population. If you recall, the flare-ups have been strictly random."

"And they often burn out as fast as they occur," mused Watson.

"That is as merciful as a serial killer can often get. His sole intention was to study the effects of the disease and what methods could be used to control it. Once he determined whether or not a population was good material to test his theories out on, he could act appropriately and cut the disease off at the best possible time."

"But how could he hope to monitor so many people? Surely someone would notice if the same person turned up at all of the breakouts of disease."

"Ah, but that is the beauty of this case, Watson," said Holmes. "Because our killer is one of the many faceless people who walk through London on a daily basis. The ones that we see and we feel comforted by their presence. But we never see their faces. They patrol the streets, protecting us and making absolutely certain that no trouble is caused. And we never once give a thought to their outside identities," He paused, cocking his head to listen to a rustle from inside the house. "Shhhh!"

Watson froze obediently, willing the sound to clarify in his addled brain. Someone was moving about behind the window.

One of Lestrade's plainclothes men came up whistling up the street, twirling a gold tipped cane as he went. His eyes met Watson's and the man nodded. He had heard the sound as well. The man looked to Holmes and nodded again. Lestrade knew that they were there.

This wasn't particularly surprising; Lestrade certainly wasn't thick enough to believe that they had abandoned the case on a moment's notice. He had counted on their being there.

The man had now gone past the house and out of sight. The board was set and they were now prepared to wait. They didn't have long.

The door opened and a thin, scrawny looking man stepped into the mist, clutching a briefcase to his chest. He closed the door behind him, his face concealed behind a heavy scarf and hat. He stepped into the rain, walking with quick, light steps and looking very deliberately down at the cobblestones.

Watson barely stifled a gasp as Lestrade put his hand on the younger man's shoulder, one finger on clenched lips. One the man had gone past their hiding place, the three men slowly stood up.

"Follow him," Lestrade mouthed, waving for his men to do just that.

"Go on ahead, Lestrade," said Holmes, looking thoughtfully at the house. "I will meet you back at the Yard tonight."

"Are you sure Holmes?" said Watson, looking after the disappearing plainclothesmen.

Holmes simply nodded and Lestrade took a deep breath of exasperation before following his men.

Once Homes and Watson were inside the house, Watson felt a certain relief now that he was not in the rain again. However, that relief was short lived as the full impact of their surroundings managed to sink it.

They were standing in the foyer of the house. The tattered decorations must have been fine at one point. The once richly colored paintings were faded to greys and blacks. The tapestries were threadbare. The rugs, formerly embroidered with gold now appeared torn and dirty. Faded grandeur.

Venturing inside one of the front rooms, they could see that all the furnishings had been removed except for a single straight backed chair and simple wooden table. Culture jars littered the table and the floor, sporting sickening greens and reds. In the corner, an open box contained a change of clothing. In another corner, something seemed to be huddled on the floor. And then the stench reached their noses, causing them to gasp for breath and cover their noses in horror.

Moving closer, Holmes struck a match to reveal a decaying corpse, seemingly devoid of moisture. A cholera victim that the murderer had obviously been studying. Apparently, the stink of decaying flesh did little to deter him from his mission.

"Poor beggar," whispered Watson.

But Holmes had already lost interest in the corpse, moving now to examine the contents of the box. "You wanted to know how our murderer was able to examine the results of his experiment unnoticed, Watson."

He held up a black uniform. In the light of a second match, Watson was able to make out the brass buttons and stitching that is unique to the uniform of a London constable. Of course. Who else could wander the streets of London and no one thinks anything of it? Quite ingenious, really.

Holmes folded the uniform again and replaced it in the box. After one last look around the room, he got to his feet and looked over at Watson.

"I think that it is time to leave, Watson. We have everything that we came for."

Watson nodded slowly, casting another glance at the corpse in the corner and the moldy jars on the table. "Yes. I think that you're right. Will Inspector Lestrade be able to catch the killer?"

"Oh, I have complete faith in the abilities of Scotland Yard," said Holmes grimly. "In this instance, I prefer to allow them to do the legwork. I simply wish to speak to the man once it is over."

"Of course, Holmes."