Author's note: Sorry for the delay in putting up this chapter, but I went for a holiday and only just returned. To all my reviewers, katanbuilder3, xcoolshamax, kaput, Ashark, Silver Shades of Gray, JWM, thepennameboo, Shin-Ora… and all the rest of you wonderful people, thanks so much for the reviews! They truly give me the encouragement and inspiration I need.

And to Haku's question about whether or not there will be any romance… I am going to add a major female character in the later chapters- but it will not be those sappy, ultra-romantic plots that make the characters out-of-character. One of my principal aims is to keep my characters true to their original selves. But that's all I'm going to be saying here :)

And well, hope you like this chapter, and please review!

Chapter 5

He sank down upon Holmes' armchair.

"Here Lestrade, take this, it will make you feel better," Holmes said, quickly pouring the glass of brandy and handing it over to the shaking inspector. Lestrade drank it gratefully, and a little colour returned to his pale cheeks.

"They're dead. They're all dead," Lestrade mumbled, finishing the drink with a gulp.

"I'm sorry," Holmes said gently. "But I can't really understand you. Who's dead?" Lestrade looked up at us with wild eyes. "Everyone! But mostly criminals… almost every criminal we have put in the London jail has died from a heart attack! And that's not the only issue at hand- other people have been dropping dead all over London, and all with heart attacks!"

Holmes did not say anything, but his face took on that closed, vacant expression he always assumed when doing hard thinking.

"The deaths," he finally said quietly. "Did they occur only in London?"

"Mostly- we do have some reports from the country-side, and the outskirts of London, but the majority comes from London…And all of those people died only within minutes of each other… We have been getting so many reports," Lestrade continued, wringing his hands in despair.

"When did this happen?"

"Oh, just starting yesterday. But the oddest thing is that, the first death was reported late in the afternoon, and continued all the way for an hour or so. After that, the reports just stopped."

Holmes closed his eyes. "That certainly is very interesting, Lestrade. Most of the deaths occurred in the span of two hours, with the majority in the first hour… this information certainly is very useful. Pray continue. Was there any suspicious activity among the inmates in the dates prior to this? Any odd letters?"

"No… no none at all. Some brawls, illness- the usual. Nothing on the scale of these mass heart-attacks!" Lestrade cried.

Although my mind was in shock at hearing of these strange occurrences, I could not help but notice the difference in behaviour between the two men. Lestrade was running his hand distractedly in his mousy hair, the other hand gripping the empty glass. Holmes on the other hand stared almost dreamily at the mantelpiece before him, his indifferent behaviour masking the rapidity of thought in that great brain of his. "Have the doctors examined the bodies for anything unusual? Possibility of poisons, diseases?"

"They have just been sent in for examination."

"Hmm…" Holmes closed his eyes. "I see only a few possibilities, each more unlikely than the next. This is an extremely singular case. Please send me the details of those who have died, and I hope to have at least some semblance of an answer for you in a few day's time."

"It seems like God's judgment has come upon us. I have to get back to office…" Lestrade shook his head mournfully as he got up. "We really are at a loss at Scotland Yard."

As the door swung shut behind the agitated Inspector, Holmes turned to look at me. I was leaning against the wall, hand still clutching the pack of cigars. My eyes were wide and I could feel the many beads of sweat upon my brow. My brain was sagging at the impossibility of what had transpired in this room, at the fantastic statement that had just been brought to the open. Indeed, I was almost expecting to awake at that point in time, so sure I was that this had to be a dream.

"What do you make of it, Watson?" he asked.

"I must confess myself bewildered," I said, sinking down on the sofa. "Never in my life have I ever heard of anything so bizarre. Men and women dying of heart attacks spontaneously… Much as I am disinclined to think it, do you believe that the day of God's judgment upon us all?"

There was a short silence.

"Don't you remember what I said once?" Holmes murmured at last, smoking his pipe thoughtfully. "If all other options fail, then the one remaining has to be the truth, unlikely as it sounds. And now, let us consider the facts. People (who, according to Lestrade, were mostly in the prime of their health) all around the London have suddenly died, being stricken by heart-attack. It's impossible for this to be a coincidence. What mortal man has this sort of power, to inflict such judgment upon his fellowmen?" He frowned. "I have read many books that spoke of the supernatural, but this is entirely new to me."

I felt my heart sinking. "So you are saying that all these… I don't know… killings, are being done by God? Could it not be possible for this to be a carefully organized attack on people by a group of criminals?"

"I have considered that possibility," said Holmes, brows furrowed in thought. "And yet, the more I think about it, the less likely it seems. A mass killing of this scale, and of individuals in different corners of London- the impeccable timing, the ruthlessness of the act- it is extremely improbable that a large organization is behind this. Someone would have definitely talked, or I would have gotten wind of such a group from my network of spies all across England. And according to Lestrade, there were no odd notes or any change in behaviour in the inmates prior before they died. So where is the motive? How would killing criminals and civilians help anyone, if he just remains in the shadow? Hence, eliminating that option, it seems to me that it must be either the work of a supernatural being, or the work of an individual gifted (or should I say, cursed) with such destructive powers, who is keen to impose his idea of a just world."

"However," Holmes frowned. "If this is really the work of an individual, I must say he has a curious indifference towards the killing of his own kind."

"Might it not be one of our enemies, out to weaken our country by killing our fellowmen?" I tried.

Holmes shook his head. "Unlikely. Don't you find it interesting that it is mostly the criminals who are being killed? And they are all British? I think we can safely say that the killer, if he is a man, currently resides in England, and very likely in London itself. I can almost guarantee that when Lestrade sends his report to me, all of those unfortunate people would have been associated with some crime or another. It seems that the killer has brought it upon himself to administer justice, to rid our country of crime. All things point towards the act of a supernatural being, and yet, and yet… I doubt it. The killer's power is limited. Why were not all the criminals in London killed? Why were some chosen to die and some not?"

"And also, why all the secrecy? Does he want us all to believe that he is God?"

Holmes started to pace the room, head bowed and hands clasped tightly behind him. "If the man can really control deaths- why did he choose to kill them at a particular time in the afternoon? To claim credit for all later heart attacks occurring at that time? Another plausible reason could be that he wanted to go public- sure that the newspapers would report by today the sudden surge in heart attacks. However, it seems that the police managed to keep quiet the deaths in prison, and the killer did not kill that many civilians to garner mass concern. If that is not the case, then what is his motive? Why the sudden move?"

"And the way in which the criminal chooses his victims- I have a feeling that we are dealing with someone relatively young. Who, but the young, would have the passion and desire to use such power for such means? He is likely to be a British citizen, with a, however warped it may be, strong sense of justice," he mused.

There was a small pause.

Suddenly, in a fit of temper, Holmes struck the table a mighty blow. "But by God!" he cried. "All I have are merely theories- I need facts to build my case! What I have now are but mere bits and pieces, and all my hypothesizing is useless without concrete evidence to substantiate them!"

Then, with a sudden force of movement, Holmes caught hold of my arm with his eyes boring into my own. "Watson." His voice trembled slightly. "I fear that we are facing some dangerous and ruthless criminal, in the guise of justice, who will be willing to kill any that gets into his way. You have a wife to take care of, while I have only myself. It would be selfish on my part to ask you to bear with me this burden, to see this killer to the gallows. Anytime we may ourselves be victims to this man's curse. So if you wish to not join me in my investigation, I understand."

I was shocked, although a little touched, to see my friend's eyes (so usually expressionless) full of emotion as he gripped my arm.

"Holmes," I began, and then stopped. Ashamed, I saw in my mind's eye the worried face of my wife, and the feeling of impending danger and death that would come should I take up this case with Holmes. My soul longed for the comfort of my home, in which I would be free from such worries and be safe in ignorance. And yet, I am the only man in this world whom Holmes would readily trust, his friend. How can I shirk away from my friend, and still call myself a gentleman of honour?

"Holmes," I said firmly. "I have never once rejected you in all the times you called upon me to be your companion, and I am not about to start. I swear upon my honour that I will follow you and help you in whatever way I can in this case."

"Thank you, Watson. Thank you." Holmes voice was thick with suppressed emotion as he drew his hand away. "I have never doubted that I could count on you."

Then, with customary ease, Holmes instantly changed back into his usual self, eyes dark and shielded, and his voice brisk. "Now we must wait for Lestrade's report before we can do anything more. I suggest you come back here tomorrow morning at nine, Watson." He gave me a small smile. "And I think it is best you spend some time with your wife now, and prepare her… I do not know whether you, or even I, will come out of this alive," he said blandly.

I took my leave from his apartment, and hailed a hansom home. As the horse clopped dully onwards, I must confess that for the first time I felt utterly desolate- how could we fight against such a criminal, with his unthinkable powers?