He accompanied Gregson to the site of murder, which happened to in another secluded house in Serpentine Avenue. He cast a nostalgic glance around, remembering how he and Holmes had come here to retrieve the photograph from Irene Adler. It felt like a sick joke that the sites of some of their most memorable cases in London served as the places for these unfortunate happenings. The thick fog seemed to follow them around. Lestrade had stayed back to continue further investigations from his front.

Watson went in, feeling bile creep up at the back of his throat at the scene. It seemed that there had been more of a struggle, as some specks of crimson decorated the floor, and there were some marks on the body, and the clothes had been ripped and bloodied in some places. However, none of the wounds seemed fatal. They were incredibly shallow, enough to sting and draw blood, but none to kill.

A lone finger was clutched in the right hand of the body while another gripped a knife. It was another female in her late twenties, her eyes open in terror and mouth in shock.

"Looks like she was a fighter, not bad," One of the officers murmured appreciatively.

"This is the most amount of evidence we have ever found of the murderer," Gregson began enthusiastically, trying to desperately look on the bright side of things, "If we can perform a proper test, then we can catch them fast."

"But how do you even expect to perform tests on every single person in a conceivable radius? Is there even a suspect pool?"

Watson's skeptic words seemed to make the man deflate and he sighed.

There wasn't much to see and he made his way back to Baker Street. Night was falling, dark streaking its way across the grey sky, the fog thickening as the cold seemed to increase which made him pull the overcoat tighter around himself, shivering slightly. The cab driver looked slightly put off as he kept muttering about ridiculous inconveniences. The horses looked paranoid as well, evidenced by the nervous shaking of their heads when the cab alighted at 221B Baker Street.

The cab drove away.

Watson rubbed his weary face, letting out a defeated sigh. He turned to enter the apartment, but a shadow caught his attention. It didn't belong to anyone, it seemed like a lone figure in relatively empty streets. It paused, as if sensing that he was looking at it and then skittered away, way too fast to be considered normal.

Abandoning all thoughts of partaking in Mrs. Hudson's delicious dinner, he patted his pocket where he kept his pistol. He had taken to carrying it about, as a safety precaution. After checking that it was present, he slipped a hand into it and followed the retreating shadow at the bend. It led him into the deserted alley by the side of his building, which was too foggy.

He paused, frowning, having lost sight of the shadow. The place was quiet, an oppressed silence, as if wailing voices had been deliberately muffled to nil. Feeling slightly foolish for having followed a shadow, he turned to return, before a whisper at his neck made him jump a feet and take out his gun.

"Have you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat, Doctor?"

Impulsively, he cocked the gun at the disembodied voice, but found no one. He spun around, looking for the speaker, feeling dread pool in his stomach the longer he took to locate the source. A sudden movement at his right side caught his attention, but it was too fast for him to react properly.

Horrified, he could only stand limply as claws dug lightly into his right arm and a set of pointed canines made its appearance at the side of his neck. The index finger of the attacker's hand was damaged.

"GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF WATSON!!!!!!!!"

He was thrown forward, the claws and teeth disappeared and he fell to his knees, gasping from the near death experience. He turned to look at a tall silhouette shielding him from what seemed like a figure rapidly dissolving into mist. Some of the fog shifted out of the alley, which was now quiet except for his ragged breathing.

He nearly couldn't believe his eyes when the figure spun around and a streak of moonlight made the gaunt face and hawklike nose visible. The voice had sounded familiar but this just confirmed it. The edges were blurred slightly, but he had seen enough to recognize his friend.

"Holmes?" He called out faintly, feeling the world go slightly out of axis as he uttered the name, a strange nostalgia gripping his tongue.

"Yes....," his voice was hesitant and the world went blurry, before a well-recognized baritone cut through the haze.

"Watson, Watson, breathe."

He did as was told but still felt slightly dazed. A lingering after-effect of the fog as he discovered later.

"I think it would be prudent to return to the flat, where I can answer your queries and possibly take a slight cover from prying eyes.

He found himself being hoisted up, and dragged to his own place. He ought to be offended at that, but at the moment he could only marvel at the reappearance of his friend who miraculously seemed to be completely unharmed.

Mrs. Hudson was sleeping, which was odd, for she tended to stay awake to wait for Watson to come back. Besides, it was too early to even go to bed, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the earlier scuffle in the alley. His head was feeling slightly clear, and he vaguely remembered how the attacker had seemed to melt right out of mist.

Holmes sat down on one of the armchairs and Watson occupied the couch opposite to him. In the light that the candles gave off, he could see the noticeable changes in him. Holmes was normally pale, but now he looked deathly white with a strange flush. Watson remembered the scars lining his arms and the discoloured thin fingers, but the skin looked strangely pristine. His gaze took him back to his face and he noted how his eyes seemed to gleam slightly red.

"What happened?" he asked. It was a simple enough enquiry, but the complicated answer that he received from Mr. Sherlock Holmes that night in the cold rooms of 221B Baker Street shocked him beyond everything.