Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein.

A/N – Hello, Readers. If I still have any readers. I realize, once again, that there has been a long stretch between chapters in this fanfiction. But I have a good excuse.

First of all, as usual, I have been really busy. Also, I've been having computer troubles. But neither of those are the real reason this chapter has been so long coming. The truth is, it's been a long, experimental struggle to find exactly how, stylistically, I want to tell the story of Bruce Wayne and Sherlock Holmes. In the latest episode, "The Adventure of the Golden Fox", I felt I drifted too far from the style in which I began this fanfic. Too many sophomoric bedroom scenes and innuendoes and way too many anachronisms. I really wanted to get back to the style and heart of both the story and the 1930's setting.

Last year, around this time, I offered a little holiday treat for Christmas. This little holiday gift would fit in better with Halloween. And it's set in the Spring of '36. All the same, I hope you enjoy it, and if you're looking for a little Christmas, you're always welcome to read, or re-read, the episode entitled "A Case of Christmas Fear."

Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne

in

"The Adventure of the Walking Terror"

March 3rd, 1936.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming here," Willy Wiggins said, "after trying to deflower my sister."

Bruce Wayne clenched his fists and resisted the urge to impugn Wiggins' statement.

"This isn't about your sister," Bruce said. "This is about a job."

Wiggins leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk. He looked at Bruce through slanted eyes.

"Why would I want to give you a job? You don't even have a license to practice." He intertwined his fingers and placed his hands on his belly. "Go back to your wealthy mommy and daddy in the States. There's nothing for you to do here in London."

Bruce clenched his fists harder and slowly inhaled and exhaled.

"My mommy and daddy are dead," he said between clenched teeth. "And I came to London to learn all I could about criminology. I'm not leaving until I've accomplished that."

Wiggins sat straight back up.

"I'll let you run a few odd jobs around the agency if that's what you want," Wiggins said. "Mr. Holmes called me and told me he thought you'd be coming. He said I'd find you more than capable."

Wiggins reached out to shake Bruce's hand. As Bruce clasped Wiggins' hand, Wiggins looked at him threateningly.

"But if I catch you anywhere near my sister," Wiggins said, "I swear I'll waste you."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

April 1st, 1936

Bruce had practically spent an entire month running errands for the operatives of William Wiggins' Detective Agency. Many of them, like Wiggins, were former members of the Baker Street Irregulars, or had been employed by Sherlock Holmes for recent operations. They often swapped stories of their most dangerous adventures under Holmes' employ. Hearing the name of the so-called "great detective" made Bruce feel sick every time.

Bruce made fast friends with Ernie Stappleton, however, and Stappleton would often allow Bruce to take part in his cases. He also spent a lot of time helping Bruce look through the agency's case files and special equipment. Unlike Holmes, Stappleton was willing to talk Bruce through the more scientific aspects of detective work, briefing him on all of the latest forensic discoveries. Bruce learned a lot about fingerprinting and hair and chemical analyses.

On this particular afternoon, Bruce was lounging behind Ernie's desk, rereading a paper from two months prior. The infamous Golden Fox had escaped. The same paper contained an obituary for Lady Morgan Barnswallow. According to the paper, Morgan had been fatally injured in a running accident. Bruce was one of the few men who knew the truth. Or, at least, a better version of the truth than the truth the paper contained. Sabrina Smith and her accomplice had attempted to run from Stanley Hopkins. Sabrina had escaped, but Morgan had tripped and broken her neck,

Ernie stuck his head in the doorway.

"Mr. Wayne," Ernie said, a sly smile on his lips, "there's some dame here to see you. And she's a real knock-out."

Ernie disappeared, and a smooth, slender pair of legs appeared in the doorway. The legs led to a black skirt, which led into a simple white dress shirt beneath a black blazer. This in turn led into a smooth neck which led to a dimpled chin. The dimpled chin belonged to a beautiful young woman with blonde hair flowing to her armpits.

"I'm here on behalf of a friend, Mr. Wayne," she said.

Then Bruce recognized her.

"Jamie!" he exclaimed, straightening in his chair and not knowing whether to smile or cry.

"Dr. Watson, if you please," Jamie said coldly. She sat down in the chair Ernie's clients normally took. "And, as I said before, I'm not here for my own sake. Believe me, if I never had to talk to you again, I'd be much happier."

Bruce decided not to cry. He just frowned at her.

"He sent you here didn't he?" Bruce demanded. Jamie looked down at her lap. "Didn't he?"

"He couldn't!" Jamie said. "He's sick. I think he's dying."

When Jamie looked up, mascara was making little blue trails across her cheeks. Bruce grabbed Ernie's wide-brimmed hat and slid it down over his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her.

"What's that got to do with me?" Bruce demanded coldly. "You're the doctor."

"I can't find out what's wrong with him, though!" A loud sob. "I don't know what he has, or what to do about it. He's been in a sort of a fever coma all week. He tosses and turns and babbles incoherent phrases. Sometimes he'll open his eyes and look at his doctors with the most terrible expression! I just can't figure out how to help him. And he keeps calling your name."

Bruce said nothing. He wanted nothing more than to embrace the beautiful young doctor and tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he simply brought his feet up to rest on the desk and slid back in the chair, just as he had seen Wiggins do.

Then the hat was lifted from his head, and he saw nothing but her damp brown eyes.

"You cheeky bastard!" she exclaimed.

Bruce was almost afraid to watch her walk away.

Ernie entered, his eyes following Jamie.

"Some dame," he said. "Cute as lace panties. You've got a way with them, don't you?"

Bruce just groaned.

"So, are you going to take her case?"

Bruce brought the brim of the hat back down over his eyes.

"I'll think about it."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"What's wrong with him?" Bruce asked as he stepped into Holmes' bedroom.

Jamie turned immediately at the sound of his voice. Bruce thought he saw a smile on her lips, but it quickly vanished. Jamie turned to a balding man standing beside the bed.

"Dr. Raymond, this is Bruce Wayne. He's a friend of Holmes."

"I've never seen symptoms like these before. Not in Sussex," said the doctor. "Hallucinations. High fever. Complete disorientation."

"What does it look like?" Bruce asked.

"I'd say some kind of hysteria. I'm not sure which. I've never seen the troubles of the mind have such a physical effect on the body. I can try to ease his pain as much as possible, but unless I can find out exactly what's wrong with him…"

The doctor just looked at Jamie and Bruce blankly. He then knelt beside Sherlock Holmes and dabbed his sweaty forehead with a wet wash cloth.

Just then, Holmes' eyes opened. The detective sat up and looked at the three in the room with utter panic in his eyes.

"Keep him away from me!" he cried. "Keep him away!"

"Who?" the doctor asked.

"The Napoleon of Crime!" screamed Holmes, his voice shifting into a high-pitched voice. "Professor James Moriarty! He's trying to kill me!"

Holmes reached for the doctor's collar, but before he grasped it his torso began to wobble around. Holmes collapsed back onto his mattress. His breaths came slowly and laboriously.

"The Headless Horseman," he muttered, and then was silent.

"Is he all right?" Bruce asked.

"He should be," Dr. Raymond said. "He's had these episodes before."

"He always mutters about that Moriarty character," said Dr. Watson. "Or about the Hound of the Baskervilles. Or the Speckled Band. Or the Headless Horseman."

"The first three are from his early cases," Bruce said. "I recognize them. The last one sounds familiar, too, but not from his case."

"Can I talk to you, Bruce, privately?" Jamie asked.

Bruce nodded and Jamie led him into another room, shutting the door behind them.

"I threw away the needle," she said. "I found it beside him when I came to visit. He was laying there beside it, yelling about the Headless Horseman."

"What needle?"

"I got rid of it. He's a good man, beside this one thing, and if it kills him he should be protected from the scandal. His reputation's at stake."

"Jamie, what needle?"

"A syringe, Bruce. I think he was back to his old habits."

"Jamie, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"He never told you? He used to have an addiction to cocaine. A solution of seven percent of the drug and ninety-three percent of water. If he used a different solution this time, or a bad solution, it might have…"

Bruce thought about the comment Holmes had made to him, about the lack of needle marks in Robert Smith's arm.

"It might have killed him," Bruce said. "It wouldn't do this to him. Would it?"

"I don't know. It's the only explanation I can think of."

"Did you even think of examining the syringe? Finding out what was in it? Where is it now?"

"No. And I got rid of it. It's long gone by now."

Bruce groaned.

"Maybe he's not sick, and maybe he didn't relapse back into drugs. Maybe he was drugged by somebody else. What was he working on?"

"I don't know."

"I'll need to get into his study. I gave him back the key to it. And Jamie…"

He looked at her pretty pink lips and wet doe eyes.

"I'm doing this for you, not for him."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce and Jamie entered the study and found the room in disorder. Someone had overturned desks, scattered papers, and completely demolished Holmes' chemistry set. Still, the perpetrator had been polite enough to lock up behind himself.

"No one's been in here since Holmes was found like that a week ago, have they?"

Jamie shook her head.

"Then I was right. Holmes isn't sick. He's been poisoned. And whoever poisoned him came into the study, destroyed or took all of the evidence that implicated him, and locked the door behind him before returning the key to Holmes' pocket."

Bruce scanned the room. His eyes stopped on Holmes' Inverness cloak.

"But he probably missed something."

Bruce walked to the cloak and searched its many folds. Finally, he came away with a tiny piece of paper, on which was written a name, a telephone number, and an address.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce walked briskly down the halls of Oxford University. He stopped and pounded on an office door.

"Can I help you?" said a voice behind him.

Bruce turned to behold a young man, seemingly the same age as he was. The young man had a similar build to Wiggins, only he was even taller and even thinner than Willy Wiggins was. Instead of Wiggins' straw hair, the stranger had curly black locks. He was wearing a thick pair of coke-bottle glasses.

"I'm a student here," the youth said in an American accent, offering a thin, sinewy hand to Bruce. "Actually, I'm a student at Gotham University, back in the States. But I'm studying abroad for the term."

Bruce's heart leapt. All the way across the pond, a fellow Gothamite! Bruce wanted to confess that he came from that same city, and that his father had once lectured at that same university, but he resisted. It was best to keep as low of a profile as possible, after he had gone through all of that trouble to become a high-profile missing person case, with Alfred's help, of course.

"I'm Bruce. I'm a Private Investigator."

"Really? And another Yank! What brings you to this side of the Ocean?"

"I'm studying abroad as well. I'm looking for Dean Dennis Shaw?"

"Shaw's been missing for at least a week now. No one knows where he went. Perhaps you could talk to someone else here. I'm just a student, but…"

"It's pretty important that I talk to Dean Shaw, but thank you, Mr…?"

"Please, call me Jon. Jon Crane."

Just then, Bruce saw a familiar face past Jon, down the hallway. It was Chief Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, talking to an elderly gentleman, who appeared quite disturbed. Bruce excused himself from Jon's company and ran towards the Inspector.

"What's happening?"

"Oh, young Mr. Wayne, is it?" said Gregson. "I'm just delivering some rather tragic news. It appears the Dean of Oxford University's wife just returned from sabbatical, only to find her husband quite dead. An apparent suicide."

A/N – As always, I would appreciate your reviews.