Not even the lingering stink of the sewers could hide the scent of blood. Holmes found himself hesitating as he reached the Maria, not wanting to look farther than the evidence of Watson's blue suitjacket on the floor, not wanting to acknowledge the damage that would have rendered it unrecognizable to a less perceptive man. The lining was ripped open, frayed edges of the silk feathering out with scarlet-stained tips from the crumpled ruin.

Before he could breathe, the figure sprawled along one of the benches stirred sluggishly. "Don't fret, old cock," came a tired voice. "It's just a scratch."