Mrs. Hudson gave a sigh of frustration as she stirred her bowl of cake batter. Even though the doctor had cautioned her against rich treats, a cake would undoubtedly solve much of their problems. At least it would take her mind off of the terrible events of the past few days.

Mr. Holmes had cautioned her about using the water without boiling it, saying that nothing was to be trusted in these troubled times. And, judging by what she had seen, he was right. She didn't understand what was causing the illness. She didn't understand why it spread. All she understood was that death was running unchecked through the city streets. And it needed to be stopped.

A pain in her stomach caused her to pause and she pressed a hand to her midsection, wincing slightly. But the pain disappeared as fast as it had begun and she shook herself mentally. She was becoming paranoid. Mr. Holmes had also warned her about physiological symptoms. She would immediately know the difference between phantom pains and the real thing. But her paranoia was certainly understandable. Cholera was such a horrible way to die.

She was interrupted in her work by a frantic pounding on the front door. "Mrs. Hudson!" a female voice cried out, sounding panicked and out of breath. "Mr. Holmes! Please! Open the door!" Wiping her hands on her apron, Mrs. Hudson hurried towards the door and wrenched it open. Mary Watson stood on the doorstep, her face tearstained and terrified.

"Mrs. Watson! Are you all right?" Mrs. Hudson gasped in astonishment, ushering her inside. "What's happened?"

"We need Mr. Holmes at John's practice," she gasped out, wiping her face with her filthy apron. "Please, Mrs. Hudson, tell him to hurry. It's Davey Wiggins."

Mrs. Hudson's jaw dropped. She turned to fetch Mr. Holmes but he had already appeared at her side.

"Is he all right, Mary?" he asked, seeming to already know the answer.

"Hurry, Mr. Holmes."

Watson let out a cry of frustration as his patient seemed to have slipped into the final coma. "Wiggins, old thing, hold on!" The words came out in a clenched howl of agony as he worked feverishly to save him. He was running out of stamina, knowing that it was only a matter of time. If Wiggins had waited too long to ask for assistance, there was only so much that he could do.

Wiggins opened his eyes again, offering Watson a weary smile. His face appeared lifeless and exhausted; he seemed barely able to keep his eyes open. "Eh, Dr. Watson? What was that?"

Watson didn't allow himself to feel relief at the sight of his eyes, as lifeless as they appeared. "You should have come to me sooner." He scolded, jabbing the needle into the vein and injecting the healing solution, as if there was much good that it would be able do for the boy now. "You know that I would have helped you in a heartbeat. Why did you wait this long?"

Wiggins moaned softly, attempting shifting his weight into a more comfortable position. Beads of perspiration began to appear on his forehead. He coughed violently for a long period before he was able to get himself under control. "Doctor, I couldn't have come earlier if I had wanted to."

"And why not?" It wasn't often that John Watson lost control. As he now stared down at this boy, he struggled to clear the images that flooded his brain. Blood and disease. Death. Death…now, faced with the death of this bright young thing, it was becoming difficult to stay his temper. He loved the boy as a son. He always had. And now it appeared that he would die because of his trademark stubbornness. Oh, why did this have to happen?

"I've been doing work for Mr. Holmes." Wiggins sucked in his breath as his words sounded disturbingly matter-of-fact. "Trying to get to the bottom of this cholera business once and for all."

"Holmes wouldn't wish this death on you as you are fully aware." Watson swallowed hard at the thought of Holmes. How was he going to tell him what happened? How would the detective react to such a turn of events?

"Dr. Watson, people are dying every day. I knew that I had to do all that I could to stop the fatalities," There was something about the cool gaze of the young man that was disarming. That was one of the worst bits about this disease. The victim will remain fully aware of his condition up until the end. It made a feverous delusion look like a kindness.

Watson swallowed hard and nodded for Wiggins to continue, avoiding his gaze as he wrung out a damp cloth and put it on the boy's forehead. Wiggins coughed into his shoulder, obviously trying to avoid the haunted gaze of the doctor.

"Mr. Holmes told me to look into that old Broad Street business," Wiggins continued. "I have some pals in the area and we reckoned that we'd do a thing or two to see if we could find anything to help us out. Turned out that Broad Street seems to be where the cholera started out again."

"Really?" Watson paused for a moment, considering the words. He must help Holmes 'get to the bottom of the business' no matter what happened to the boy, as much as it pained him to admit it. "Go on,"

"Someone related to Mrs. Sarah Lewis is still living at 40 Broad Street. I took special note of that. Thought that Mr. Holmes might find that interesting."

"Indeed he might," Watson injected his patient with the syringe once more and Wiggins winced slightly. "I'm sorry,"

"Mr. Holmes didn't approve of our recon mission. He told us not to worry about it. Scotland Yard would take care of it, he told us. Don't get involved," Wiggins gave a dry chuckle and shook his head again. "Mr. Holmes and I have been mapping out the deaths. It's taken us ages but I think that we've tracked the disease to the source. He has the map at his flat. You should take a look at it as soon as you can." The uninspired matter-of-fact tone that left the boy's tongue frightened Watson as he pursed his lips.

"I'll worry about maps after you are well, Wiggins."

The failing boy chose to ignore the last statement. "Me and me lads were closing in on the culprit, Doctor." He said passionately, trying to sit up against Watson's scolding hand and slipping into his native Cockney accent in his excitement. "We heard 'em in their 'ouse. They was goin' on about it like they was proud of it. It was just like me and Mr. 'olmes thought. It was where theys crossed."

"Who was, Wiggins?" asked Watson frantically. "What do you mean?"

Wiggins gave a cry of pain as he doubled over, his face contorted with an uncontrollable agony. Cursing furiously, Watson removed the syringe from the boy's arm and desperately tried to suck more of the solution up from the bowl. Wiggins cried out again, his eyes squeezed shut against the hurting.

The door flew open with a great bang and Holmes appeared, moving from the doorway to the bedside in a matter of a millisecond. "Wiggins, speak to me. Are you all right?"

Wiggins seemed unable to articulate words as the muscle spasms grew worse. The only sounds that could be heard were his frantic gasps and cries of pain as the disease ravaged his rapidly failing body.

"Wiggins!" Holmes cried out in alarm, taking the boy's hand and looking helpless. He seemed rapt with the horror of the situation. "No!"

Wiggins gave a final cry before succumbing to unconsciousness. "Watson?" demanded Holmes, casting a pleading look at the doctor over his shoulder. "Can't you do anything?"

"I can try." Watson plunged the needle into his skin but he knew that it was too late. He had never felt this helpless, not even during his years as an army medico. There was absolutely nothing that they could do. And both he and Holmes knew that fact all too well. Why was this happening to them?

Over the next few hours, he and Holmes worked feverishly to save the young man but they both knew that it was useless. It had always been terrifying to consider that cholera could kill a healthy, grown man in a matter of hours. Wiggins had always been a strong man but, as they sat next to his bedside, they both knew that there was no hope.

Finally, Wiggins yielded to his unrelenting illness, his pulse growing thin before suddenly becoming nonexistent. Davey Wiggins allowed his lungs to take one last breath before he left this world.

For a long time, all they could do was marvel in horror at the lifeless body of this great man. How many times had Wiggins appeared at their side, ready for anything, as the leader of the Irregulars? Surely more times than either of them could count.

Together, they had seen Wiggins transform from a scrawny street boy into a handsome young man willing to do anything they asked. This man, this…hero had given his life in order to save London. But Watson could only wonder if the information the boy had been able to pass to him would make this sacrifice worth the pain that they felt in their very bones.

Holmes could only stand there numbly because he knew that it was his fault that this bright young man now lay dead before them. And he felt incredibly guilty. Because he knows that this is one mistake that he will never be able to repair.

"He was trying to say something." Said Watson, his voice barely above a whisper. "Right before he died. Something about your map, I think it was."

"Map?" said Holmes distractedly, not taking his eyes off the boy. Who cared about maps at a time like this?

"Yes. He said that he and the Irregulars were closing in on the culprits. He had actually heard them planning out their next move."

"Where?"

"He said that it was….where they crossed. Right where you thought they did."

"Were those his exact words?"

Watson was silent for a moment. "Yes."

Holmes dropped his gaze to stare at his shoes. "Oh Wiggins," he murmured softly. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to put you in this situation. Surely you knew that."

Watson watched the pain of this great man as he held the hand of the dead man before them. Sherlock Holmes had always been strong; Watson had often thought that nothing could faze him. What had this epidemic done to his dear friend?

Holmes struggled to his feet, his strength appeared to have given out entirely and he nearly toppled over as he began to rise. Watson had to lunge to catch him and keep him from falling. When Holmes was able to steady himself, Watson left him to pour his friend a brandy, hoping that the liquid would help return his friend to the land of the living.

Holmes reluctantly took the glass and downed the brandy in a single gulp. His entire body shuddered and he looked at Watson with a sadness that the other man would not have believed possible. He seemed unable to speak but there was no need for words.

Holmes hurried away before Watson could offer him any comfort. He had never seen Holmes like this. Watson could only imagine the emotions that were going through the detective's mind, perhaps emotions that he was unfamiliar with.

Mary appeared at his side as he closed the door of his practice room behind him. Her beautiful face was deathly pale as she put a trembling hand on her husband's shoulder. "What happened?" she asked softly, even though she knew the answer just by looking at his face.

He just shook his head numbly, unable to speak, staring at the whitewashed wall. Mary swallowed hard, pulling him into a silent embrace. "Oh John," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

In her loving arms, he finally allowed the tears to fall. They slipped down his rugged cheeks as he simply let her hold him, banishing all other thoughts from his mind.