Friday; November 9th, 1888:

Robert watched from the opened doorway in silent admiration as Dr. Watson carefully cleaned, stitched and bandaged the many lacerations that disfigured Sherlock's chest and abdomen. The detectives arms and hands were covered in small defensive cuts and bruises from his attempts to fend off the Ripper. A single deep, bruised stab wound on Sherlock's right shoulder had surely damaged the ligaments and would require additional medical attention.

Sherlock seemed to be resting comfortably in his bed as Watson checked the large bump on the back of the downed detectives head.

"The fiend didn't receive enough satisfaction from the blade alone." Dipping a clean rag in clean, cool water Watson pressed the compress against the swelling contusion that may have fractured Sherlock's skull. "If the damned Ripper compromised his brain function I will dedicate the rest of my life to finding him and extricating justice myself!"

At these words Robert felt a sense of dread. "Doctor? Is he..."

"No, no!" Watson remembered that Robert was still with him. "He should recover fully, but it'll take some time."

"I see..." He anxiously rubbed at his chin.

A quiet knock on the doorframe drew Watson's attention. "Mrs. Hudson, can I help you?"

"Doctor, I heard voices talking, it's almost three in the morning, what's going on? Who is this man?" She looked Robert up and down and tightened the shawl around her shoulders.

"Mrs. Hudson this young man in Robert O'Shay. He was of great assistance in... Well, bringing Sherlock back to the flat."

Her eyes widened. "Mister Holmes? What has happened?" Her gaze focused on the bed.

Watson swallowed nervously. "He was... attacked, Mrs. Hudson. But he will be on the mend quite soon."

"Oh, dear. What can I do?"

"At the moment, nothing. Please, get some rest. I will stay with him until morning."

Reluctantly Mrs. Hudson backed away from the room, she took one last look at Sherlock over her shoulder before she disappeared into her own private quarters.

"Robert, I believe you should get some rest as well." Watson tried to give him a reassuring look but it didn't fool the sharp, young man.

"With all due respect doctor, I feel as though I should stay for a while longer. With Mr. Holmes gravely injured and your leg giving you pain, if the devil were to come back you'd be unable to defend yourself."

Watson just smiled and looked at Sherlock's sleeping face. "I'm a doctor first and soldier second, young man. After the time I've spent in Afghanistan I'm more than capable of defending myself, as well as the life of my patient and friend."

Robert laughed a little as he realized that his presence was no longer a necessity. "Very well then, I'll take my leave. But before I go, could I ask a small favor?"

Nodding Watson agreed to his request.

"When Mr. Holmes wakes up, could please tell him that William O'Shay lived and died a free man thanks to his investigation."

"Of course, but who is William?"

"William was my father. Arrested for a crime he didn't commit. My mother came to Mister Holmes eight years ago and he was able to prove my father's innocence. I never had a chance to thank him then, so I want to do it now."

Watson smiled. "I will deliver the message, Robert."

"Thank you. Goodnight doctor."

With that simple acknowledgment Robert disappeared from the room and locked the door behind him as exited the flat.

Placing a second, fresh compress on Sherlock's forehead Watson leaned back in his chair and continued to watch his injured friend as he slept. The night's events left Watson feeling exhausted, physically and mentally. He didn't want to sleep just yet, Sherlock still needed to be watched but the temptation of sleep was too great to resist. Within a few moments he had fallen into a deep slumber at Sherlock's bedside.

A loud knocking on the front door startled Watson awake. He looked about the room in a daze before the events of the previous night crept back into his memory. Instinctively he pressed his finger's to Sherlock's wrist to check for his friends pulse. He was still alive, he survived the night. Pulling his watch from his trouser pocket Watson counted Sherlock's pulse and noted the time: 11am.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the doorframe, a constable was standing behind her. "Doctor."

Watson looked up at the dear sweet landlady and the visibly shaken constable that towered over her. "Yes, what is it?"

The constable took off his hat and stepped inside the room. "I'm most sorry to disturb you during this dire hour, but there was another murder last night."

"What?" Watson couldn't believe it. Even after the brutal assault the Ripper committed against Sherlock, the deviant still had the gall to attack another. "Where?"

"The address is 13 Miller's Court, just off Dorest Street of Spitalfields, sir."

Sighing heavily, knowing that his powers of deduction were only a fraction of Sherlock's skill, Watson was reluctant to accompany the constable to the scene of the crime and leave Sherlock unattended. "The victim, was female, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir." The constable looked ill as he began talking about the crime. "The pattern of attack and... mutilation..." He seemed to struggle to get the very word out of his mouth. "is consistent with the Ripper."

Looking toward the landlady Watson asked with his eyes if she'd stay with Sherlock until he returned. She of course obliged and leaned over Sherlock's prone form.

"Mrs. Hudson please keep a cool compress on the large bump on the back of his head. I shall return soon."

The journey to the scene of the crime seemed painfully slow for the exhausted doctor. His mind was preoccupied with Sherlock's health and keeping him alive, it was of little concern for him to deal with someone who was already deceased.

Details of the scene, as told by the Constable, seemed to fit the pattern of past slayings, with one exception. This attack occurred inside the victim's residence rather than out on the street or in an alley. The carriage came to a halt, the escorting constable motioned for Watson to enter the isolated building, explaining that this victim had been found by a friend who came by for a visit. As Watson stepped into the room the sickening aroma of blood and death instantly turned his stomach.

The scene itself seemed to have been the work of Hell itself. The walls were soaked in the victim's blood, the floor was more blood that boards. The victim, who was identified as Mary Jane Kelly by a friend, had her face hacked away leaving only a tattered remnant of her former appearance. Her throat had been cut clean to the spine, her abdomen emptied of all her internal organs and her heart was taken from the scene by the Ripper.

Covering his mouth to quell the building nausea and to hide his horror Watson stepped back out of the bloodied room, but the abhorrent scene had already been engraved his mind. He looked at the investigating detectives, who were just as sickened at he was. "What kind of madman could perform such an act?"

Detective Lestrade had secured the scene. "That my friend, is a question that can only be answered by Jack the Ripper, himself."

...to be continued...