Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. This is for entertainment purposes solely, I make no money from this.

An argument had started with Mary during breakfast. It seemed to happen every time I even mentioned Sherlock Holmes. I had simply mentioned my worry as to whether or not the man was occupied with any new cases. Otherwise, I feared that he would continue his unhealthy use of cocaine.

Eventually, my wife and I reached a truce- as we always did- and the day continued. But I found that, even as I worked, my thoughts were occupied with the same worries of the morning.

So, I ended up I traveling to 221B Baker Street to check up on my old companion, and put my mind at ease.

I approached the familiar building, and soon found myself knocking against Holmes' door.

There was no answer. If he wasn't there, than he was probably out on a case, which fulfilled my reason for coming.

With a sigh, I turned, as if to leave, but stopped abruptly at the sight of blood on my knuckles. I stared at it. It was a faint smudge- it had come from something else, no doubt.

Slowly, I turned back to the door, hoping that I wouldn't find what I feared I would. But I did, and a chill ran down my spine.

Momentarily, I felt a sense of astonishment that I had not noticed it sooner. I saw that both the doorknob and surface of the door- slightly lower than chest level- was smeared with fresh blood.

My mind flashed to an image of a bloody, staggering Holmes leaning against the door, struggling to open it.

I pounded on the door with my fist.

"Holmes!" I shouted in panic.

I heard a muffled rustling.

I tried to force the door open. It took a fair while, but I finally managed to get in.

My heart seemed to skip a beat at the sight that was before me.

Holmes had, evidently, only made it a few feet from the door when he had come in slightly earlier than I. He was sprawled out on the floor, his limbs at odd angles, blood pooling around him.

I sank to the floor next to my friend. Carefully, I turned him to face me, to see the extent of his injuries.

I was further startled. Holmes' right shoulder was the worst of it, having been shot, no doubt. His shirt had been sliced to reveal a few blade-inflicted cuts running across his chest and stomach. A deep wound sliced his left side. I turned his hand over and saw that his palm had also been cut. I looked to his left hand. It was smeared in red, but I saw no wound.

"Good evening, Watson," Holmes slurred, barely conscious.

Sorry, the first chapter is really short. More will probably be coming soon, though. Oh, and I will be changing the title sometime in the future... as soon as I can figure out a good one...