Watson wrung his hands together as he listened to the shouting coming from the room opposite his chair. Holmes had entered the room about fifteen minutes earlier and then the quarrel had commenced. He knew exactly why they were arguing; he would have thought that Lestrade would have been able to figure out what Holmes wanted before he entered.

"I am simply asking for permission to visit with him for a ten minute period, Lestrade."

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but I simply cannot allow anyone to see him yet."

Holmes, so unlike his usual collected self, sounded absolutely furious, almost as if he could spit fire at a moment's notice. Even Lestrade sounded angry, though his anger was tainted with an almost silent sadness.

Scotland Yard had proved to be on top of their game when it came to the arrest of the serial killer. He had been in handcuffs not long after Holmes and Watson had peeled off. The inspectors at the Yard couldn't believe their luck when they were even fortunate enough to catch him in the act; he had been apprehended trying to poison the water supply of a small neighborhood, mostly home to those who had no home.

It had all gone so perfectly. But now, Lestrade was forbidden to allow anyone to visit the prisoner at this time. Conferences would only be allowed to take place once the trial had been scheduled. Watson was fairly certain that this was a ruse. The Yard simply didn't want to allow Holmes access.

In some ways, he didn't really blame them. The high and mighty officials were very aware of what had happened to Wiggins; Watson would hate to be in that man's shoes. Not only had he decimated a large fraction of London's population in the space of a week, but he had also proved to be the murderer of a friend. Holmes hadn't said it outright, but Watson was fairly certain that Wiggins's death was deliberate and cold blooded.

The door to Lestrade's office opened and he looked up to see Holmes and Lestrade looking quite grim. "Is everything all right?"

"I can allow you ten minutes with him, Holmes, that that's it," said Lestrade, ignoring the question. "If it gets out that I let you see him, the chief inspector won't be pleased, I can tell you."

"I understand, Lestrade." Sherlock was already gathering his hat and coat from the hook next to Watson's chair. "I will be brief."

"I do hope so, Holmes," said Lestrade quietly.

Holmes was standing outside of the door to the cell, waiting quietly as one of the officers on duty went to fetch the key. The door was one of many that lined the hallway. The stones of the floor were the color of sand and had once been polished to perfection but now they were dusty and spattered with brown specks from years of use. A window at one end of the hall provided a burst of sunshine that came streaming through the panes.

The officer returned with the rusty old key in hand. Holmes considered stopping the man from opening the door for a moment, as an unfamiliar feeling swept over his body. It was more than mere nervousness. It was fear. But fear is so akin to rage that he crushed it beneath his boot and said nothing.

The door opened and he stepped through into the cell. The door closed behind him and he mentally took a deep breath as he faced the occupant.

The prisoner was sitting on the stiff, wooden bed with his head in his hands. On the splintery tabletop next to him was an untouched meal of meat and potatoes but the water cup was dry. The atmosphere of gloom was so thick that Holmes could have taken it in both hands and snapped it in half. How fitting for the situation.

"Do you know who I am?" He chose his first words slowly and carefully, tasting them on his tongue as he spoke. It would not do to become angry at this stage.

The man slowly looked up and Holmes could take in his full appearance. He was dressed in the same ratty suit that he had been arrested in and what little hair he possessed was filthy and stood on end, making him appear quite monstrous. The gleam that he would have expected to see in the eyes was absent, replaced with a dull sheen.

"You're that bloke the rich kid went to see," The accent was educated and Holmes was fairly certain that he detected a slight Scottish brogue.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he said in the same careful tone.

"You're the one that put the police on my back." It was a statement, not a question. The man was not quite as stupid as he appeared.

"Why did you kill them?"

"Why are you asking? You already know." His eyes seemed to go from black to green as he straightened his back and shook his head slowly. The educated accent was slowly being replaced by the Scottish undertones that he had detected. "You see, I've heard about you, Mr. Holmes. I know you're a clever man. So go on, then. Impress me with your powers of deductions."

"I know that you were acting under orders," said Holmes.

"But the police don't, do they?"

"No," said Holmes firmly. "And they aren't going to until I am ready to tell them."

"Are they really so stupid as to think that I arranged all this on me own?" The man laughed out loud at that. "I may be a doctor but I'm no criminal mastermind. But you don't know who I was working for, do you?"

Holmes bit the inside of his cheek to keep his temper under control. "That's why I'm here."

"You think that I'm just goin' to tell you?" The laughter seemed to increase in depth. "Well, they didn't tell me you were stupid too."

"I didn't expect you to tell me. I want to know what it was that my boy came across that meant he needed to be killed."

"Was that the one who was coming about at all hours with a band of kids? Why did you go and set kids on me trail anyway? I thought you were better than that, Mr. Holmes."

"Wiggins was not a child," Holmes said, gritting his teeth. He could feel fury beginning to rise in his chest but he forced it down.

"I'd recommend checking your high and mighty map, Mr. Holmes," His face must have changed because the man allowed a grin to cross his face. "Don't think that I haven't been keeping my eye on you. Once I found out that you were on my trail, I started watching you. I know all about your map. I also know that it directly incriminates my boss."

"And you don't care?"

"Why should I?" The man shrugged. "It was just a job, like any other."

"I would call a job murdering innocent citizens a job 'like any other'," said Holmes dryly.

"Maybe you don't, but there's plenty that would. That map was quite clever, even for you. Something that charts all of the killings, showing that they converge upon a single point. Well done, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes chose to ignore the praise. "And what exactly does that mean? There are criminal rings in London, yes, but what would make yours different?"

The man studied his face for a long moment. "I know that you think you know who it is. But it's certainly not what you think. He would have been cleverer than this. But that's the genius of this project: it's so simple that we wouldn't be suspected."

"Then what was the real purpose of this? You're not telling me that you wanted to be noticed."

"Noticed? Certainly not. We've been around longer than you have and we wouldn't want to be dissolved, now would we?" He shrugged. "All we wanted was to play a bit of a game with you. Wouldn't want to you to be bored. And we could do a bit of research in the interest of science at the same time. Golden combination."

Before the man knew what had happened, Holmes had grasped his throat in one hand, the other clutching at a revolver that was now pointed at his chest. He gasped, half in surprise and half in need of air at the movement that had been so fluid that he had had no idea what was happening until it had happened.

They stood like this for a long time, staring into each others eyes: the mad and the sane, but which was which? One set of eyes held a mix of fury and determination. The other was challenging and mocking.

"You wouldn't shoot me, Mr. Holmes. You'll swing for this. The mighty inspector knew that something like this would happen if you were allowed to see me. He knew that you wanted me dead."

"I want justice," said Holmes through gritted teeth. "You may be convicted but it's unlikely that you will get more than accomplice to murder."

"And that's exactly what I am. I'm just a puppet. It's my boss that you want."

Holmes tightened his grip on the throat and the words were cut off. "You may not have planned it but you killed those people. Including someone very close to me."

"We all lose people that are close to us, Mr. Holmes," the man sneered, one hand clutching at the fist at his throat. "Even the immortal detectives that reign over the rest of us. It proves that you are actually human."

They locked eyes again, predator and prey. Two hands, one from each man, grasped at the barrel of the gun, twisting the aim from person to person. A finger slid around the trigger, stroking it with unutterable tenderness. One man raised an eyebrow in a challenge. The other man gritted his teeth.

Holmes took a deep breath, sucking air back into lungs that had forgotten to inhale. Realization hit him like a ton of bricks and he swallowed hard. He would have to do it.

"May God forgive me."

*BANG*