The police had wanted her to stay, give a statement of some sort, but she'd demurred, urging them to hurry and send help. A friendly, concerned constable with gentle Irish eyes had tried to persuade her to at least let him call a doctor for her, but she'd smiled sweetly at him, patted his arm and then left before he could try to press the matter further.

And really, it was only a few bruises and the odd scratch. She'd had worse in her time; there'd been that time she'd misjudged a mark and got a knife in her back for her troubles, and there was the bullet that had clipped her side back in Georgia. She'd been lucky to get away with a slight concussion, a cut to her forehead that looked far worse than it actually was, and a bruise to her cheek, really. The doctor had taken the brunt of the blast, shielding her with his own body. As for Sherlock...

She'd seen his hand trailing from beneath the rubble. Fallen to her knees, unheeding of the cold hard stone; taken that limp hand between both her own. It had been cold, so cold; she'd thought him dead at first until she'd heard a faint moan. Unbelieving, she'd felt for a pulse - it was weak, fluttering against her fingers through the frail flesh like a butterfly beating its wings against the cage of his skin,but there nonetheless.

She'd tried then to lever the fallen wall off him, but hadn't the strength. Struggled with it, fingernails scraping and snapping painfully on the bricks, unable to shift the immense weight that held him trapped. Reached through a gap in the rubble to twine her dusty fingers in the blood-soaked hair. Fought back tears of frustration over her inability to free him. Leaving him lying there, helpless and wounded, had been harder than she had expected, but the police would be better able to help him than she could. She'd glanced back as she'd moved away reluctantly; that thin pale hand lying limply upon the stones had looked like that of a corpse.

She hurried through the streets, trying to ignore the strange glances she attracted – her dress torn and dusty, still a few traces of blood on her face despite the hasty attempt at wiping it away with a damp handkerchief at the station, her hair tousled and dishevelled, her cheek bruised. She wondered what had happened to her hat. Irrationally she felt tearful at its loss; she'd been moderately fond of it with its cerise-dyed ostrich feather trim and the pretty silver embroidery around the brim. She set her lips firmly; she would not cry over the loss of such a frippery.

The Concierge rose to his feet as she bustled into the foyer of the Swan Hotel, but she paid him no heed as she ran up the stairs heading straight for her room. Her hands fumbled briefly with the key, her hands trembling; once inside, she shut the door and locked it before turning and placing her back against it. She drew a deep shuddering breath, then strode away from the door, pulling off her coat and starting to strip out of the constricting dress and corset as she made her way to the bathroom. She turned the hot water on full and threw a handful of jasmine and rose-scented bath salts into the water, watching them swirl and dissolve in the steaming water as she slowly peeled off her stockings then slipped off her silk chemise. She rubbed her bare arms distractedly as she watched the bath slowly fill. She needed to wash all the brick dust and detritus off her skin and out of her hair.

Maybe she could scrub away the feelings of guilt along with it. Somehow though, she doubted it.

She looked at the traces of his blood still on her fingers, and finally she gave way to tears.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth; it looked much the same as the last time Watson had been there, on a similar errand to this – except that time he had been doing the bidding of Holmes, and this time it was in search of Holmes himself. Striding up to the door of number 3, he noted the house was as shabby as ever. A cacophony of barking erupted the moment he banged on the door.

He had to knock for some time before there was a glint of candlelight behind the blind of the dusty window upstairs above the door which was raised so a lanky, lean old man with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck and a pair of blue-tinted glasses could peer out at him. "Go off with you, you noisy lout!" he cried, shaking a fist.

"Ah, Mr Sherman!" Watson called up. "Exactly the man I wanted to see!"

Sherman peered down at Watson curiously. "Do I know you?" he asked. "Wait, wait, yes! Now I recall! You're that doctor fellow, Mr Sherlock's friend!"

"The very same," Watson assured him. Sherman waved a scrawny hand at him.

"Wait there, wait there; I'll be down directly!" he cried as he ducked back inside. A moment later there was the rattling of bolts being withdrawn, and the door opened. "Come in, come in! Mr Sherlock will be wanting Toby again then I take it?"

"The very same," agreed Watson. He followed Sherman down the narrow pathway between the cages, careful to avoid the stoat as it gnashed its teeth at him from its hutch, and inching cautiously past the badger (having been warned about its proclivities for biting before). The light was as dim and uncertain as before, and glancing, glimmering eyes peered down upon him from every nook and cranny.

"Here he is sir; here's old Toby. Getting on a bit now, but his nose is still as keen and true as ever!"

Watson accepted the lead of the cross-breed mutt; half spaniel and half lurcher, long-haired and lop-eared, Toby was hardly the most handsome of dogs, and his clumsy waddling gait was not one to inspire confidence in the white and brown dog. But the greying muzzle sniffed the air eagerly enough, and the liquid brown eyes were keen.

Toby sniffed his hand carefully, and his long shaggy tail began to swing happily in recognition. He was quite happy to waddle along by Watson's side, and the doctor led him back out to the waiting hansom.

"Corner of Commercial and Lowell, driver!" he called. The cabbie looked concerned. "That's the Ratcliff, sir; are you sure you want to be going there?"

"I am," replied Watson as he settled himself into the cab, Toby curling up comfortably at his feet. He rapped his cane smartly upon the roof, and with a resigned shake of the head the cabbie snapped the reins and they were off again.

Upon arriving back near the wharf, Watson walked the dog over to the pile of rubble. Toby willingly jumped up onto the rubble, sniffing around eagerly. He thrust his nose at the bloodstains then looked up at Watson, his great tail swinging as he cocked his head expectantly.

"Go to it, Toby!" urged Watson. "Find Holmes!"

Toby bayed in response, then with one further circuit of the pile of rubble he was off, straining eagerly at the leash, and Watson was hard-pressed to keep up. The dog made directly for the main road, and after sniffing here and there around the edge of the road, he gave a lurch to the left, pulling Watson off westwards down Commercial Street.

The hunt was on.