"I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all."

-Richard Wright

Time passed. I slipped in and out of painful consciousness and restless unconsciousness. Sleep had no relief for me; waking brought no joy. When I was aware of myself I was in pain, and when I wasn't I was haunted by the memories of things and deeds I would take to my grave.

"Professor? Miss London?"

A voice reached me in the darkness, a voice full of concern and fear. I resisted the impulse to attempt to call back and tell him that I was all right, crushing the human desire to reach out and touch a fellow being. I had been wounded by a Walking Dead. It was highly likely that I could become one of them, if my assistant had not reached me quickly enough.

I cursed my helplessness. I was the Qui Speculatur Monstra, One who Studies Monsters. I should not be exhibiting such weakness at such a small injury.

"Are you in pain, Miss London? Will you be all right?"

I must have said something irritable, because I heard something that might have been a laugh.

"And good morning to you too, Professor. Do you want morphine?"

I told him I bloody well didn't, and if he dared go anywhere near me with such a drug I would have him discharged from my services immediately. There was a chuckle, and then a second voice: "She'll be fine. She's too stubborn to die. Give me the needle-I'll do it, she can fire me all she wants to, I don't work for her."

A pinprick in my left arm. Darkness once more.

*Third Person Perspective*

The sun rose slowly, bathing all before it in golden-red rays of light. That is, everything except the residence of 222 Loketer's End, which shunned the brightness of day as if in defiance of the light. The air without was warming up with heat and the chatter of life as the city woke up again, but within it was cool and dark and silent.

A loud yell of horror sounded from one of the lower floors. And with that, the day began.

"I hate this place," one man grumbled to the other as he entered the building again after disposing of a bucket full of human brains outside, "Every damn time I come here I get nightmares. Tell your boss I'm sick of all the horrible things I find when I'm in her house."

The second man nodded in silent assent. Both looked at the front door and then at each other.

One man was in his early thirties, with reddish blonde hair that swept over his ears and seemed to defy the laws of gravity. His eyes were a hazel color, and had a sneaky air to them...almost as if the man would try to pick your pocket, which he often did. And succeeded.

The second man was slightly younger, no older than twenty-five, and had a distinctly medical air about him-perhaps it was the way he stood, or the way he looked at one, as if analyzing every detail. He also had the slightly weary look of a doctor, the sort of weariness one gets from having to deal with an irascible patient. And who could blame him? He had spent the better part of a week tending to London Black.

"What'd you say your name was again?" The first man asked the second, as if only just remembering that people had ordinary things like names.

"William Watson."

"Like, Doctor Watson? In Sherlock Holmes?"

"Believe me, I have never gone to Afghanistan. I do not intend to, either...who knows what London would get into if one left her unattended for too long?"

The first man laughed heartily. Watson looked pleased, and then remembered:

"So sorry. We've been together for a week and I still haven't caught your name."

"Hale," the first man laughed, "Hale Bishop. Ironic, isn't it?"

"How so?"

"A bishop is a holy man. And I'm a thief!" He threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"That's not something you yell out loud, no matter where you are," A grim voice said behind him.

London Black was awake.

*Watson's Perspective*

London Black has always denied that she was beautiful. In a sense, she was right-the ever-present dark circles under her eyes from long nights of working in the lab took their toll, as did her unfortunate eating and sleeping habits. She was too pale, too thin and angular to be beautiful. Her hair, in its choppy layers, was not glossy or silky, and was rarely pinned up or brushed and yet somehow managed to stay relatively neat. Her eyes were a dark, cobalt shade of blue, and London had a grim set about her jaw. She rarely smiled, and was always sarcastic.

One does not think of London Black when beauty is brought up. And yet she is beautiful, in the same way one can find a raven or a serpent beautiful. Not like I'm nearly foolish enough to tell her, however.

The professor was somehow dressed in her normal attire, which was a white shirt and a simple grey waistcoat. She also wore black slacks, but had only her bare feet on the floor. I noticed that there were raised bumps on the side from the bandages that covered where the creature attacked her.

"You may leave now, Hale," She said sharply to the other man, "Jewels don't steal themselves, after all..." The man bowed, shook my hand, swept his hand off the hatstand and left. The door slammed shut with a reverberating thud.

"That takes care of him," London said briskly, "And now to attend to business. You burned the corpse, I trust?"

I affirmed that I had.

"Good," she sighed. "I shall have to apologize to my colleague later today. Where is my tea, doctor?" I turned away so that she could not see my smile.

"I'm getting it, Professor."

The professor was just beginning to relate the fantastic story of the monster when we heard a knock at the door. A small frown creased her brow.

"I don't recall anyone making an appointment. Is that the milkman?"

I barely suppressed a smirk. "No, Miss London. The milkman refuses to come around until you agree to refrain from leaving severed limbs in full view of the front.

"He has a long wait ahead of him, then," London retorted, "Go see who it is already!"

When I opened the door and readied to greet the newcomer, I was met with a horribly pale man, gasping and sweating. He had clearly been running for quite some distance.

"Is this the residence of the American, London Black?" He spoke with a British accent.

"Yes," I affirmed, surprised, "Might I ask-"

But he had already rushed past me into the parlor. Following him, I heard the professor say "For heaven's sake, man! Whatever is the matter?"

"Miss Black, Miss Black..." the man moaned. London grew impatient.

"Yes, I am she. What is the matter, sir?"

"I was told...I have to give you...oh, please, PLEASE help me," he screamed. London took a small step back and instinctively covered her injured side.

"I tell you the truth, I cannot help you if I do not know what is wrong," she said coldly, making sure to remain out of reach should the newcomer prove to be a madman.

"He said you had the antidote, and that you'd give it to me if I delivered the package...oh, please hurry, I can feel it starting! My head...this is the end..." He moaned, sinking to his knees and clawing at his chest. There was something wild in his eyes and mannerisims that can only come from sheer terror.

"A glass of water, Watson," the professor said quickly, and I obeyed. Instead of offering the man a drink, however, she dumped it over his head. The man's mouth fell open in a perfect, comical O.

"What poison?" she demanded sharply, "What did he give you and how long ago?"

"The...the first of the month, I think..."

"Last month?"

The man threw his head back and let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a howl. "THIS month, THIS month, I would hardly be alive if it was last month!"

"What were you poisoned with?" I marveled at the woman's ability to remain calm. I myself was feeling panicked.

"Tipota! The man said it was Tipota!"

London blinked, and something imperceptible crossed her face.

"Tipota, you say? Are you quite sure?"

The man howled again. "I think I'd bloody well know what I've been poisoned with! YES! Tipota, that comes from the Follis tree on the Isle of Demons!"

Something else crossed London's face. Grim understanding. And was that anger?

"Of course. Watson, remain with our guest while I fix up the antidote. Alert me at once if his condition changes!" And with that, she entered a back room. I could hear the pans and vials clattering, as well as a Bunsen Burner start up.

The man was now becoming rather well acquainted with the parlor floor.

"Oh, this is the end," he moaned, "I can feel my heart exploding! The darkness...it's closing in on me...I can feel myself fading away..."

I assured him it was not over yet, and that he was going to be fine. He moaned again in response.

London bounded into the room with a syringe half full of some greenish liquid, and knelt to the man's side. Jabbing a syringe into the man's neck, she pressed the plunger down slowly and smoothly removed the needle. The man groaned in relief.

"Thank you," he moaned, "Thank you..."

"An unfortunate side effect of the medicine is that it puts the taker to sleep," London added, "Do you know the name of the man who poisoned you?"

"Oh, yes...how could I forget?"

The professor stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "What was his name?" she asked in a low voice.

"Fane Steele," The man answered before dropping off to sleep, and I saw the horror in which London looked at the man, as if he carried the plague.