(I own none of Doyle's creations. I just like to manipulate them to my amusement.)

Very, very strange. That was all that came to mind at the moment (and damned eloquent of him, too. London, no, perhaps the *world's* best mind), and that was it. No logical thoughts, or reasons why. Sherlock Holmes passed a hand over his brow. His room was dark, save for the softly haunting moonlight filtering in. He could feel his body trembling, and he very quietly cursed himself. 'Weakness, eh, Holmes? Calm yourself, man. *Why* did you wake up in a fit?' A dazed recollection of dark figures, a silvery, hard glint of steel. Pain in his abdomen, warm wetness spreading over it. And nothing more. Excecpt for the high, heart -racing feeling of ardrenaline/fear. A phantom play, patch-worked together for his own mind's morbid amusement.
Once again, he passed a hand over his brow, and this time he glanced at his palm. Redness. Holmes's dark brow crinkled. Red? His dazed mind refused to function. The moon had reached it's zenith, he saw. Too early for thinking. Hold, a minute. This wasn't too early. It was never too early, not for him. He flopped back in his bed. Sweat was not red. It had no color, at least none on a healthy body, and certainly not the coppery smell that had come away on his palm. 'Come on, man, THINK. For God's sake, give your mind a good push.'
He was sweating blood.
The reaction from mind to body was instantaneous this time, and he jerked, scrambling out of bed. A queer, logy feel has settled on his limbs, and his head felt all at once disconnected from his body, and like a leaden balloon. His stomach lurched, and he staggered. The table was farther away than his unconsious callculation, and his faltering hand swiped air. He landed heavily on his side. Holmes panted like a horse run too long, trembeling.
A small, cool, detatched part of his mind was watching his body with a sort of supercilious contempt. 'You're Sherlock Holmes. You can't be acting like some poor, common fool. You know what pride is. It's that invisible stick that keeps the neck held at a flat angle to your spine.' But that was only a small part of his mind. The other large majority was occupied with trying to focus his eyes and get back into the habit of breathing. 'Too bad for you. That part isn't working too well.'
The room seemed too close, too thick. He shuddered, drawing his knees close to his elbows. Holmes couldn't keep his eyes from rolling back into his head, and he grasped weakly at his throat. His chest seemed to grude him for trying to heave another breath. The room gave a fantastic whirl, and he felt his head land on the floor with a distant thump, and every thing faded to a dull gray haze, and then to black.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I must have woken with the sun, for I didn't hear the first birds. A greyish pink dawn crested the horizon. A light fog haloed the tops of the London denizens. The scene should have brought tranquility to my newly awakened senses, but I felt something. Something off. Being a campaigner, and a doctor, I knew when to trust my intuition. And my intuition was slightly faltering, if only slightly. The hallway was quiet. A kind of restful quiet, one with nothing to hide. No noise came from the room of my friend's, across the hall from mine. But I still felt the slight disturbance. A slight ripple in the serene pond.
So breakfasted alone that morning. It wasn't uncommon, since Holmes had more than once overslept after a long, grueling case. The case he had just finished left him tired, but a kind of triumphant tired. Like one who has known he has accomplished a difficult, satisfying task. So I sat in my chair, reading the morning paper. I had gotten absorbed in it, and hadn't noticed that my friend had still not emerged from his rooms. The clock chimed nine o'clock before I had really given any notice to my friends absence.
As I stood before his door, the percieved silence was broken with harsh, sterterous breathing. Once again, my instincts rose. "Holmes?" Nothing but silence met my ears. I knocked, saying again, "Holmes?"
Once again, pure silence marked only by the harsh, gasping breath. Now I was more than worried. I felt the chill edges of terror creeping into my soul. I pushed open the door. The long, thin figure of Holmes lay prone on the floor. His chest rose and fell irregularly, and his head lolled from side to side. A faint, pinkish sheen covered his forehead, and his long, thin, pale hands twitched.
My hand slipped off the brass doorknob. I stared at the ruined man before me, and then numbly stepped forward. Fo the third time, but this time my voice sounded thin and disbelieving, I called his name. "Holmes?"