Author's Note: Hello! I thought I'd try my hand at one of these nifty little "221b" drabbles - they are incredibly difficult to write, much more so than I had previously thought. Anyhow, please let me know what you think.

PS - I don't know why I love putting our dear Dr. Watson in life-threatening positions (or killing him off altogether), but it seems to be developing into a hobby of mine, hehe.


Sherlock Holmes was the best in the business.

The man could look at any crime scene, fingers splayed and hovering over the evidence, soaking up the data, the clues, the essence of the past, and turn on his heel to deliver a brilliant and astonishing conclusion. Gregory Lestrade knew this – had witnessed Sherlock work his magic countless times before.

So when the call had come in for the Inspector to report to Regent's Park and the body of a middle-aged white male – a murder with no leads and nothing to go on – Lestrade was certain he would be calling in some help.

The scene of the crime was a grisly one. There was blood everywhere – painting the lawn brown, staining the victim's fingernails, drying in the wrinkles of his face.

Lestrade stood for a moment entranced, as if he had never seen such a horrifying sight. He drew in a quick breath through his nose and felt weighty tears form behind his eyes because he knew, quite suddenly, that he would be solving this case all on his own.

The body splayed in the grass was John Watson's. And Lestrade knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his days of enlisting Sherlock's Holmes' help were over. This crime scene, this last crime scene, would leave the brilliant consulting detective broken.