The whole affair took place six years ago, to begin with. February 14, 1874, to be more precise, back in my university days. I had been awake the whole night before, thoroughly analyzing every book, article, and any other form of data I had managed to collect on the new element dubbed "gallium," which had only just been discovered earlier on in said year, I recall. My research was hardly even halfway through when the sun began to rise. Even I had to admit that on this particular bout of my researching-mode, I had actually become quite weary once morning came. Subsequently, by the time I had gotten dressed, cleaned myself up, shaved, and for perhaps an hour at the most slumbered in dreams of the crystalline, silver-white metal, it was nearly nine o'clock. So, grabbing my hat and ignoring my stick, I headed out the door of that cave which passed for my dormitory, intent on going to chapel.

Despite the fact that my parents had the good grace to have my brother and I baptized into the Roman Catholic church, I am by no means what one would label as "devout." My attendance of the masses had mostly been out of habit rather than worship. (Although, as any shrewd man will know, there are no atheists on nights preceding the exams.) So, perhaps there is some sort of "higher being" pulling on the strings of our humble universe here and there to make certain we don't bring an apocalypse on ourselves. But even if this is true, then why the deuce should I let any one or group of people tell me the proper way to go about revering it?

But I do digress. I found the services to be most calming when I did go on Sunday mornings. There was also a service on Saturday evenings that I very rarely went to, as even I, as friendless as I was, still had better things to do on a Saturday evening than spending it in church. Sundays were most unpleasantly stagnant, (some things do not change), and I found the artwork, organ-playing, and overall air of peacefulness of that building to work miracles (no pun intended) for my overly-cluttered mind on some occasions.

There was also the walk to and from the little chapel itself. To get from my hall of residence to the chapel, all one had to do was walk roughly a block along a paved sidewalk, but I invariably found an alternative route for myself. I would simply exit by the front door and walk around behind building, where there was a somewhat obscure, fairly narrow dirt road encased in thick woods on either side of it leading to the same place. It took slightly longer than going via the paved road, but I would be rather dishonest if I said that I did not relish in taking... "the path less traveled," shall we say?

It was perfectly tranquil, as well. Hansoms could never travel by it, obviously, and I don't think I ever met another person strolling along whilst I was on it. Or at least, not until that noteworthy morning...

I was very much lost in my thoughts as I strode down that narrow path, but distracted as I was, I began to come to the conclusion that taking this particular route on that day had not been the best idea. It had rained the previous night, and consequently, the dirt road had molten to one of mud with fairly deep puddles dotting it the whole way. And I knew they were fairly deep because whilst in my lapse of attention, I had put my foot right into one and soaked a good three or four inches of my trouser leg along with my shoe in cold, muddy water (and swearing a diverse folly of words that would have surely landed me in the confessional box before the mass even started.) Needless to say, I kept myself in reality as I continued on in a significantly less cordial mood than I had been in when I left my room.

As I jumped over one gigantic water-hole of a puddle, pondering over where I could obtain a sample of this so-called "gallium," something of a quick, scuffling noise coming from behind me caught my attention. This being highly unusual, I turned around and initially saw nothing. After hearing a loud, gruff bark, however, I instinctively dropped my eyes to move my field of vision to the ground. Only then did I realize that there was a fairly large and angry-looking dog running directly towards me at top speed.

Surely, my eyes went wide and my mouth gaped in terror as I pivoted back around and sprinted as fast as my legs were capable of carrying me. If I knew one thing about animals, particularly dogs, it was that they did not, for some unfathomable reason privy to the beasts, like me at all. The dog was still very much intent on hunting me down even after I had been running for a good three or four minutes. I heard it voice its ugly bark once again, and turned my head quickly to get a look at it once more. I immediately observed that it was in fact a bull terrier from the homely, queer, egg-like shape of its head.

I was beginning to tire, and apparently the one second I had turned my head for was a second too long. I fell down onto one knee, from which I recovered quickly enough, but it was enough to give the dog the advantage. It sprung forward like a kangaroo and clamped its gaping jaws onto my right ankle. The inertia from the abrupt stop and the force of the beast barreling into me was more than I could compensate for, and I fell, going face-down into the muck.

Strangely enough, at that moment of hitting the ground, the rush of panic shooting through me was not due to the monster with its teeth sunk firmly into my ankle, but because I realized I was drowning. My whole body took such a shock from the impact that for a second, I felt unable to lift my head from the pool of filthy, freezing, water it was currently at least halfway submerged in.

When I did recover at least some use of my muscles, I immediately jerked my neck up and blew out the mouthful of mud and grit before sucking in as much air as my lungs could possibly hold. Then, all at once, it hit me—the excruciating rush of delayed pain had begun raging its fury upon my nerves, and only intensified by the second as the animal continued to wrench its head back and forth in a seeming effort to detach my foot from my leg at the ankle.

I struggled to roll over on my back to try and shake the beast off or kick it or something, but found attempting to move around in the freezing mud absolutely useless. Only then did I cry out in distress, (loud enough to be heard in Dartmoor, I might add.)

"A-A-A-AGH!"

To this day, I do not think I've ever willingly let such fear be clearly defined in my voice, and that was apart from the very real physical agony I felt. If somebody was going to be so kind as to assist me in getting this hell-hound off of me, they certainly had to hear me first.

I continued to yell as I tried with all my might to shake the dog off, when I realized that to my instantaneous horror, the trees, the sky, the road, all the colors around me—were beginning to run and fade like a saturated painting. Even in my half-conscious state, I knew that I would probably not be alive if I were to pass out right there and leave that beast to have its way with me.

"Heel, Percy... Heel!"

I just barely managed to distinguish a human voice giving the command. Almost as soon as it was given, I felt as if an enormous pressure had been removed from my ankle. The pain was still there and prominent as ever, of course, but something in my subconscious alerted me to the fact that the dog's mouth was no longer clamped down on my foot, and my eyes closed. Even at this, however, I was still somehow aware of a hand on my shoulder, and felt that I was being turned over.

"Sherlock?"

I believe my mind had snapped for a moment, for I was thoroughly startled by the thought that the person kneeling over me was somebody I knew, judging from the concern in his voice and his use of my Christian name. In that very instant, however, the mystery was cleared. I had no friends in college, and since most people found their few, brief encounters with me to be as instantly forgettable as my surname, I had been dubbed and mainly known throughout my classes as the curious phenomenon known only as "Sherlock."

Regardless of the name he called me, I found myself unable to respond to him other than perhaps giving a strained moan.

"Sherlock!" he persisted, frantically tapping the side of my face a few times in an effort to drag me back into consciousness. Once again, I could not respond. I then felt the person grab my shoulders and pull me up into a sitting position. This was enough to smack me back into my senses, and I opened my eyes, only to immediately shut them again at the blinding whiteness of the overcast sky. I was awake, though, and attempted to assist the person who was now in the process of hauling me to my feet. After a minute or so, I was standing upright on one foot, my arm hanging around someone's shoulder and his 'round my back, and leaning on them heavily. I felt I was once again loosing the battle between standing and fainting, and my head hung down listlessly for a moment as we stood there.

"Sherlock?"

I lifted my head and turned to look at my companion for the first time. I found myself staring into a face that was fair, as youthful as my own, and clean-shaven, with blonde hair and pale blue eyes. I recognized him instantly, for he sat behind me in my psychology class.

Oh, God, what is his name...?

"Vic...Vi—Trevor?" I stammered.

He nodded once.

"Come on, we need to get you to a hospital right away."

As we spun around to get me to the place, which was, thankfully, only at the street corner, I realized that I could not put much weight on my injured foot without fairly collapsing from the pain. And so we started, Victor more or less dragging me, back up the little dirt road, his faithful mutt keeping a good five or six paces behind us. Neither one of us spoke a word. I believe that internally, we were both aware that I did not want to hear his apologies any more than he my impassioned threats to have that vicious mongrel destroyed.

A few minutes after we had begun to move, I began to feel extremely cold. Not that I hadn't been before, but it was as if my body temperature was beginning to plummet by the second, and I had started to shiver uncontrollably. I looked down at my one limp, aching, frozen hand to discover that it, indeed, was sporting a few small patches of blue, near-frostbitten skin. No doubt my feet and lips had already begun to turn the same shade, as well, for once Trevor stole a glance at my face, I noticed he had become quite alarmed and began putting in every effort to pull me along more quickly.

Well, even at the speediest pace we could both possibly muster, it took us a good twenty minutes or so just to reach the end of the road and get to the sidewalk. By that time, the combined forces of pain, exhaustion, and hypothermia had drained me once again to some half-coherent state and just barely able to keep myself from falling asleep right then and there.

Prying open my eyes and raising my head once more, I saw that there were a number of my classmates, probably just leaving the House of Red Leaves for breakfast, heading towards us. Catching sight of me, they froze. Some even pointed and laughed, for indeed, being absolutely coated in mud on my whole front side and drenched on my back, I certainly must have made quite the spectacle. As we drew closer, however, those who chortled were silenced when they realized my condition. They became serious and (surprisingly so) quite concerned, offering to help carry me and to alert a doctor of my arrival. One chap even slung my limp arm over his shoulder and locked his own 'round my back, taking much weight off of Trevor's load and making it so that I did not have to plant my injured foot on the ground. Even to this day, however, I still don't know who the deuce the fellow was...

I looked up and saw about four or five others fairly yanking a doctor out the front door of the hospital and pointing to me. He was a tall, pale-skinned man with thick sideburns and tight, curly hair of a chestnut tint, middle-aged. His eyes widened ever so slightly upon first sight of me, but his face soon dropped to an expression that could only be described as the epitome of disappointment. He gave a visibly heavy sigh, and it took no great deductions to see that I was going to be a piece of work and a half.

Trevor and the unnamed other hauled me up the six stone steps to the door, and I finally lost the battle, passing out right at the man's feet.

A/N: So, how are we doing? Anybody curious yet?