Friday; November 9th, 1888:

Unable to assist the investigating police force with the diabolical act committed by 'The Ripper', Dr. Watson returned to his flat of 221B Baker Street and his patient. The rain had finally stopped during the night but the streets were still damp and the air smelled of the trafficked water of the docks. The poor weather had caused Watson's limp to intensify but on that day his pain had been ignored as the good doctor's mind was focused solely on his injured friend, Sherlock Holmes.

As Watson entered the eerily still flat Mrs. Hudson scampered down the stairs and grabbed ahold of Watson's arms. "Oh, doctor! Thank heaven you've returned!"

"Mrs. Hudson?" Watson swallowed the fear that was creeping up his throat. "Has something happened to Holmes?"

"He's been muttering and fidgeting quite awful in his sleep. I worry he has a fever!" The elderly landlady was anxiously wading a used towel in her shaking hands as she spoke.

Watson patted her shoulder reassuringly as he made his way up the stairs and into Sherlock's private quarters. From the opened doorway Watson could see how pale Sherlock's face had become, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow and dark circles under his closed eyes. The injured detective appeared to be in the throes of a terrible nightmare, his bandaged hands balled into tight fists would uncontrollably lash into the air at the unseen foe.

Cautiously approaching the bed Watson carefully but firmly grabbed ahold of Sherlock's arms as he spoke reassuringly to the hallucinating man.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? It's alright, you're safe."

Even in the depths of his delirium Sherlock recognized the voice of his most trusted friend and colleague. "Wat...son?" His speech slurred with pain and exhaustion.

"That's right, I'm with you." He felt Sherlock's tense fists begin to relax.

"Watson?" His eyes slowly opened, the glazed intelligent eyes struggled to focus. "Am I...home?"

"Yes, you're in your bed on Baker Street." He patted Sherlock's arms with relief.

Sherlock's unfocused eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the hazy room and attempted to collect his thoughts. "I was...attacked."

"I know." Watson pulled back the covers from Sherlock's chest to examine the loose white bandages. "But you will recover in time."

"The Ripper." Sherlock suddenly gripped Watson's hand in fear. "It was The Ripper who attacked me!"

"I... I know." Watson didn't want to think about his friend being attacked by the same man who killed five women in increasingly brutal manners. "But you're safe now."

"No, Watson." Sherlock tried to sit up but Watson pressed him back down by the shoulders. "I saw him!"

"You... You know who he is?" Watson felt an odd sensation of amazement and dread.

"No. But I saw him."

"You'd recognize his face?"

"No. His eyes." Sherlock sighed in pain. "His eyes were all I could see, all I could focus my memory upon." His speech became clearer as his senses began to clear. "Never before have I seen such eyes, and I pray to God himself that I will never see their likes again."

Watson sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and turned his back to his friend. "Describe them please. I must know."

Sensing that Watson had witnessed something that he hadn't Sherlock obliged his friend's request. "His eyes were empty of humanity, Watson." He sighed and gripped at the deepest laceration that stretched across his chest beneath the bandages. "What I saw could only be described as the fiery hatred and rage that burns only in the depths of Hell. He is not a man, only a slayer of man."

"Holmes..." Watson knew Sherlock had the right to know about the latest murder. "There was another..." He sighed and turned to look into Sherlock's eyes. "There was another murder last night."

Sherlock tried to sit up again but Watson held him at bay against his pillow. "When?"

"Last night. She was discovered this early afternoon by a passing friend."

"I take it her death mirrored the previous four?"

"Yes and no."

"Do explain." Sherlock's curiosity had been piqued by Watson's somber reaction.

"She was undoubtedly slain by The Ripper, but her death was more brutal than we had ever seen. The way the fiend mutilated her body, and the blood... so much blood..."

Sherlock placed his pale hand on Watson's tense shoulder. "Watson, there was nothing that you nor I could have done to prevent her murder. I was laying, dying in the street while you saved my life."

"I know that Holmes, but you didn't see what I had seen." Watson rubbed at his eyes as if the very memory of the scene was still laying before him. "All the death that I had witnessed, all the death I had experienced, all the madness I've endured, this death is the death that will haunt my dreams for the rest of my days."

The desire to solve the case was too powerful, too fresh in his mind for Sherlock to lay idle and wait for a break in the case. Forcing himself to sit upright at last, he leaned forward and clutched at his aching chest. "Watson, I need my files."

"Holmes, don't strain yourself. You must rest!"

"My files, please Watson!"

Submitting to Sherlock's request Watson retrieved the case files that had been scattered about the detectives quarters and desk. "Here you are, now lay back." Watson tried to force Sherlock back down but the stubborn detective didn't budge.

Sherlock threw open the files and stared with great intent at the photographs of their main suspects. He focused on their eyes, trying to find a sense of familiarity from the night of his attack and the faces that started back from the photos.

Watson watched with great admiration as Sherlock's eye darted back and forth from photograph to photograph, his face stern and concentrated. The sweat on his brow increasing and dripping down the sides of his paling face. Watson's medicinal instincts kicked in and he pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

"Holmes, you're running a fever. I must clean and dress your wounds to prevent further infection."

The ailing detective didn't respond to his friends concern or to the hand pressed to his forehead.

"Holmes? Are you listening?" He retracted his hand and pressed his fingers to Sherlock's wrist. "Holmes?"

Sherlock's face paled further and his pupils dilated. "Watson! I believe I figured out The Ripper's identity!"

...to be continued...