The wet night was complete. The streets of London seemed luminescent in the darkness. A tall figure stood out in the light of an electrical standard, a shadow in the lamp.

Sherlock Holmes walked down the boulevard towards his home of 221b Baker Street. Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him. Lifting his walking stick in self defense, "Who's there?!" he whispered harshly. Seeing no sign of anyone anywhere, he continued on. As he continued on, he saw a tall, thin, redheaded man standing at the corner.

"Buy a watch, sir?"

A shake of his head told the man that he was not interested and he continued down the sidewalk.

The man persisted and began to follow him. "How 'bout a set a' tickets to the opera? a map?" He grabbed the detective's arm roughly. "Come on sir, please! I need the money!"

Holmes' brows came together in anger. "Listen, young man. I am in a hurry. I don't know who you are, but I do not want any of your shenanigans, understand?" The detective's usually gentle tone was now rocky with frustration and irritation.

Shocked, the man backed away from Holmes.

Nodding to him then, he made his way down the street again. He had not gone far when the redheaded man caught up with him once more. "Sorry, Holmes, but this is my job."

Holmes turned around at the sound and was punched directly in the ribs and stomach several times. Falling to the ground, clutching his midsection, he reached desperately for the cane that had dropped from his hand when he was attacked but it was too far out of reach.

Holding down his victim's arm, the tall man reached into the coat pocket, pulling a needle from its depth. Holmes cried out, but the deed was soon done. Finishing his task, the man replaced the syringe in his coatpocket and ran around the corner and far from his victim's eyes.

Holmes tried to stand, but his legs and every part of his body felt wobbly and unstable. Clutching his aching stomach and ribs, the detective slowly and shakily made his way to his flat on Baker Street. It seemed to take an eternity to climb the seventeen steps up to flat B. After he slowly turned the knob to the apartment, the rest of his strength seemed to seep from his body. Falling to the floor, he barely heard the heavy steps of the robotic compudroid Watson walking into the room.

"Holmes!" he exclaimed kneeling beside his friend "What's wrong?"

"P- poison," was all he could whisper before falling into the robot's arms, unconscious.