Friday; November 9th, 1888:

"What? Are you sure?" Watson was of course relieved at the prospect of a potential identity for The Ripper but didn't want to get too excited, after all, Sherlock was still recovering from a brutal assault and could have a compromised sense of judgment.

"Positive my dear Watson." Sherlock sighed heavily and flinched at the burning pain in his chest. "Fetch Lestrade, will you?"

"Better yet..." Watson laid Sherlock back down into the bed and replaced the cold compress that had tended to Sherlock's head injury. "I'll stay and tend to you and ask Mrs. Hudson to fetch Lestrade."

Mrs. Hudson had walked into the room with a fresh bundle of clean towels and overheard the request. "Oh, I see Mister Holmes is on the mend, that's wonderful. I will send for Inspector Lestrade and then make a fresh pot of tea."

Taking the towels from Mrs. Hudson Watson prepared to change Sherlock's bandages. "Until then I think its best to check your wounds. I will not allow you to succumb to something as silly as a fever."

"You're too kind Watson."

Just as Watson finished cleaning and redressing the bandages that concealed the many painful lacerations that marred the resilient detective's body, Inspector Lestrade entered the room with Mrs. Hudson at his side, a tray of tea in her hands.

"Holmes, good to see you're still among the living." Lestrade seemed genuinely surprised.

"I could say the same to you Lestrade, after all you've been patrolling the streets for a madman without the slightest inclination as to whom you should even be looking for." He answered with satisfying sarcasm in his voice.

"You've made a break in the case then?" Lestrade stood at the foot of the bed at full attention.

"Indeed." Sherlock sat up straight and rubbed at the sore bump on the back of his head. He watched quietly as Mrs. Hudson sat the tray of tea on the small table next to Sherlock's bed then took her leave. "You see Lestrade, I had the 'pleasure' of meeting this so-called Ripper face to face. Only through this particular meeting can one identify such a fiend."

"By God man, who is The Ripper? Get on with it!" Lestrade was anxiously chewing on his bottom lip awaiting Sherlock's answer.

"Here. This is the man you must lock away immediately." Sherlock grabbed a photo out of the pile of suspects and slid it to the end of the bed for Lestrade to see before taking a sip of tea. "This is the man who attacked me."

Lestrade picked up the photo, eyed it suspiciously and read the name that had been labeled at the bottom of the photograph. "Aaron Kosminski?"

"Yes. He is the man who had ambushed me in the dark, after killing four woman and before killing the fifth."

"How can you be certain, Holmes?" He tossed the photo back onto the bed.

"His eyes. I'll never forget those eyes for as long as I continue to draw breath." He placed the cup back on the tray.

Lestrade shook his head. "You know as well as I that this degree of identification will never be enough to convict."

"No, it won't. But it gives probable cause to have him shadowed by police until the proper evidence comes to light."

Sighing Lestrade made his way toward the door. "I doubt even the testimony of the great Sherlock Holmes will convince any judge in his right mind to put a shadow on a suspect with no evidence to substantiate the claim."

Watson couldn't believe what he had just heard. "Lestrade, you have to do something! If Holmes is correct in his identification, and I believe he is, then Kosminski is surely to attack again and you can prevent this, today!"

"I'm sorry Watson. There is little that can be done without physical evidence. I will report your claim Holmes, but I cannot promise you any results. Good day, gentlemen."

As Lestrade slipped out the doorway and disappeared down the stairs, Sherlock and Watson exchanged looks of disbelief. "I believe you, you're never wrong."

"Correction Watson, I'm almost never wrong." Sherlock laid back down against his pillow and shut his eyes. "Almost."

"What is our next course of action?" Watson sat down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed.

"Next, I sleep and you return to your own quarters to do the same."

"How can..." In all the years he had known Sherlock, he had never seen the stubborn man simply give up on a case. "Why are you giving up?"

Sherlock opened one eye and focused on Watson. "I'm not giving up, I'm simply putting the case on hold. One day, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next year, The Ripper will be positively identified. With a name to go with the face, the most heinous murderer in all of England will lose his power of fear and every man, woman and child will sleep easier once his name is shouted for all to hear!"

Sighing Watson conceded to Sherlock's plan of action. "Very well. Goodnight Holmes." After checking Sherlock's pulse and fever one last time, he rose from the chair and walked to the opened doorway, shutting the door behind him.

"Goodnight Watson." Kosminski's photo lay discarded and forgotten on the floor.

Saturday, November 10; 1888:

Sherlock's recovery was slow but steady. Thanks to Watson's expertise in medicine Sherlock's fever and subsequent infection had been treated properly assuring a complete recovery within a few weeks.

Standing in front of his closed window Sherlock stared out at the dark and dreary streets of London. The horrific butchering of the fifth victim had driven many of the good citizens to remain in their homes. The reclusive behavior was a result of the fear, the confusion and insanity that had been plaguing the city for almost two months.

It was an era of unprecedented silence and an eerie quiet which the detective had learned to relish during his time as a reluctant patient.

A knock at Sherlock's door as it opened revealed Dr. Watson holding a small bundle of fresh towels. He noticed Sherlock standing at the window and frowned. "You know, the key to recovery is rest. One cannot rest if they are standing or staring blankly out a window. And you my good fellow are currently doing both."

Sherlock grinned slightly as he filled his pipe with fresh tobacco and struck a match. "You worry too much. I feel much stronger than I had previously. In fact, I feel the need to take a stroll and-"

Watson immediately cut Sherlock's sentence short. "Oh no you don't! Not now, not later and certainly not tomorrow." He approached his friend and carefully pulled him by the arm back toward the bed. "Now, rest. I don't want you physically exerting yourself in your already taxed state."

"Perhaps you're right." Sherlock willingly returned to the warmth of the soft bed. "I suppose I can wait for Lestrade to make a break in the case. He's been to do so sooner or later on at least one case in his career."

Smiling Watson exited the room and shut the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson had been waiting for an update on Sherlock's condition. "Doctor, how is he?"

"Quite fine Mrs. Hudson. He'll be up and about within the week."

"Oh good!" She patted Watson's arm joyously. "I don't think London would ever be the same without Mister Holmes patrolling the streets."

December, 20; 1888:

Another young woman had been found dead in Clarke's' Yard, High Street; Poplar. There was no sign of struggle to either the police or to the eye of Sherlock Holmes. It appeared the young woman, identified as Rose Mylett, was the tragic victim of suicide or had met an unfortunate end due to a drunken stupor.

However with the lingering stench of 'The Ripper' murders still tainting the air, it was widely believed by a jury that her death was in fact murder.

Sherlock paid little mind to the bias opinion of fearful, if not hysterical, citizens.

July, 17; 1889:

Seven months since the last suspicious death had not been an adequate frame of time for 'The Ripper' to escape the city's collective imagination. Alice McKenzie had been killed by the severance of her left carotid artery, and her body showed several bruises and cuts. She had been found Castle Alley of Whitechapel.

Despite the similarities to the previous, confirmed, Ripper murders, the pathologist who had examined three of the five victims did not believe that her murder had been committed by the same man. This death was believed to be at the hands of a copycat, which Sherlock heartily agreed.

September, 10; 1889:

Just over a year since the first victim of 'The Ripper' had been discovered, the infamous "Pinchin Street torso" made her grotesque debut. A headless and legless torso of a murder woman found on Pinchin Street in Whitechapel remained unidentified by investigating police, no one knew the name of the unfortunate victim. It had been concluded, however, that she had been murdered and dismembered elsewhere before being abandoned in Whitechapel.

She was not connect to 'The Ripper'.

February, 13; 1890:

The body of Frances Cole was found under a railway arch in Swallow Gardens of Whitechapel. Her throat had been cut but her body had not been mutilated. A man had been arrested after being identified as the last person seen with Cole, but was later released due to lack of evidence.

Years passed on without a definitive clue to aid in identifying 'The Ripper'. Hope began to fade that the serial murderer would ever be discovered, but Sherlock Holmes remained convinced that the anonymity of the vile deviant would not last forever.

"I assure you Watson..." Sherlock was sitting at his desk reviewing his past cases with his pipe between his teeth. "In years time, long after you or I continue to walk this Earth, new techniques and tests will be created that will bring more criminals to justice faster and more convincingly than we had ever dreamed possible. One day, a day that will bring about long buried memories and replace the darkest of nights with brighter days, the madman known as 'The Ripper' will finally be know. This revelation will strike fear into the heart of the criminal empire when they realize that justice will never stop seeking answers and reveal the truth."

-The End

Author's Note: As of this year, 2014, DNA evidence had been traced from a shawl that belonged to Eddowes that can be traced back to Aaron Kosminski. In 1891 Kosminski had been committed to an insane asylum. Beforehand he lived in the Whitechapel District and suffered from auditory hallucinations, paranoia regarding other people feeding him and would refuse to bathe as well as physically abusing himself. The DNA evidence is still up for debate but this can be argued as conclusive evidence that Kosminski was the infamous 'Jack the Ripper'.

The DNA sample found was his semen, and only a truly crazy person would desecrate a body in such a loathsome manner, and that's my opinion.