We All Fall Down

By Dib07

UPDATE AS OF 27.9.12:

Dear all new and old readers alike, and all 'We All Fall Down' fans out there, I have good news, and bad news. The good news, is that 'We All Fall Down' will become a fully-fledged, completed novel, where the story will be given a fresh perspective, with much of the story redone, with an ending you may not have thought possible. I would like to update the fic to the very end, but that would mean no revenue for me, so if you want the full, restored version, you are going to have to buy it.

However, when it is published, I will upload the first chapter on my fic to show how much the original has been improved and reinstated and perhaps a few extras too. I have not given official notice on the story itself yet, but when I do, the novel will be available to purchase. Thank you for reading! What you are reading below is the old version. Soon it will be changed as an added feature.

Thanks again.

If you have any comments, feel free to contact me via FFN.

Summary: Holmes goes missing and when Watson finds him in a psycho's house, he finds his partner rattled, confused and badly hurt. But with Holmes catatonic, no one knows for certain what went on inside that house. R rated. Warning inside with disclaimer.

Rating: 17+ Teen

Warning: Contains blood, mentions of rape and dark themes.

Author's Note: This fan fiction is purely based of the 2009 Guy Ritchie film with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. I may use quotes from Arthur Conan Doyle's book purely for realism and fun.

I do enjoy Holmes's and Watson's unique partnership. So this story may contain lemon and fluff.

Keep in mind that the characters write themselves! I just tell them when to type!

Added Warning: This story MAY contain spoilers from the film. If you have not watched it yet I have warned you! And if you don't like blood or adult/dark themes then read at your OWN RISK!

Chapter 1: At Death's Door

A raven, its feathers slick and oily black, landed neatly on a lamp in the street, cawing loudly. Watson barely paid it any heed. He was led by Lestrade and another group of police officers stood in a half ring outside the house. The house itself had the same Victorian front as the others but this one was laced with wild ivy while its tiny small front garden was thorny and overgrown. Inside was another horror story in itself.

With the oaken door wide open, revealing a tight, small hallway, it led out into a tiny kitchen and a living room. Both rooms had been soiled with blood and obvious signs of a struggle. Chairs had been pushed over. Picture frames were on the floor. The lamps had been smashed, and a desk so broken to bits that it looked more suitable for throwing onto a fire.

The curtains - an ivory color - had been ripped off and left to flood the floor by windows that had been boarded up with sweaty cardboard.

It was an aftermath of bloodshed and unfathomable shock.

The man - whom they believed to be the owner of the house and the one responsible for kidnapping Holmes and a few other victims in the past, lay dead in the centre of the upstairs bedroom. A pool of dried blood covered the floor beneath the corpse. A kitchen knife was imbedded in his side and what was responsible for his death.

Holmes, though still alive was not much better off. Having somehow miraculously survived Patrick's obsession for blood lust and murder whereas all others had died, was found under the man's bed.

Dr. John Watson was called for immediately. As soon as he could to Earlstone Cross, he got off the cab, paid the driver and met Lestrade outside the very house that had harboured such evil for so long.

It was now two in the morning. Earlier, Watson had been fast asleep in bed when he heard a sequence of unholy bangs on his door. Bleary eyed and a little irate, he went down in his nightgown to answer it. A policeman was at the door. Once the details were known to him, Watson hurriedly got dressed and muttered a frantic goodbye to Mary before he threw himself into the waiting cab.

Watson could not help but feel like he was still having a very bad dream. Having being rushed out of bed, everything gave him a surreal effect as the cab went north down the empty, tomb-like lanes of London. The horse's hooves were deafening as they clobbered along the road and everything around him was black, save for the streetlamps illuminating the road in a ghostly parade.

"It's okay, Dr." Said the officer beside him, "word says that we've finally found Holmes!"

Watson almost jumped at the sound of his clear voice. He had been fearing for Holmes every second of every waking moment. And when he was not awake he had been having the most unpleasant, terrifying dreams of Holmes being butchered, shot or taken away from him. Then he'd bolt upright in bed, startling Mary and awaking back to a world without his partner.

"Do you know if he's okay?" Watson blurted, feeling his hands shake upon his cane.

"Not sure." Replied the officer honestly, sounding dissatisfied at himself for not knowing, "but they called for you immediately, sir."

Let's hope it's not to identify his body. Watson leaned forward in his passenger seat, feeling both full of hope that gave him terrible heart ache but also dread. Please Holmes - be okay -

Not in blood -

But in bond -

Watson was out of the cab before it had even stopped in Earlstone Cross outside a detached Victorian Era house that had two floors. Lestrade and the other officers met him outside. Their faces were pale and grim as if they had been witnesses to a terrible sin too horrifying to put into words.

"Doctor, come with us. I hope you have a strong stomach."

Watson blanched. He had been in the Afghan war! But Lestrade's tone was so low and grave that he merely nodded and followed him into the house.

Like the other police men before him, he was shocked to see the same squander and mess. The blood, bright and cruel, had been splashed in nearly every room.

"This way," Lestrade said tightly, going up the stairs two steps at a time.

Watson noticed bloodied handprints on the peeling wallpaper here. They went upwards steadily like a child with hand paint.

"Who lived here?" Watson choked past a tight throat.

"Patrick Omen." Lestrade said at once, "responsible for the missing persons of Lucy April, Mandy Lustran and a man called Tom Swede. We've already located their dead bodies in the cellar of this house, proof that Patrick butchered all of them. Holmes was to be the next victim."

Before Watson could demand anymore questions out of fear, Lestrade brought him up the stairs and into the bedroom where the dead body of Patrick still lay.

On the floor, very close to the bed on the other side of the room was Holmes. A doctor he was not familiar with was kneeling down and tending to the fallen detective.

Overwrought, Watson sprinted over at once, dropping his cane. "Holmes?"

The doctor looked up at him. He had small glasses and white hair that fluffed the top of his forehead like cotton candy. He was smartly dressed in a white overcoat, even if its front was pigmented by the ugly color of blood. Holmes lay on the floor, eyes closed, his face bloodied and pale. Even from a short distance Watson could see how unsteadily his chest was moving up and down with each languid breath.

"Found him under the bed," the doctor stated quietly as if words too loudly spoken would shatter the world around them, "he's going to St Margaret's Hospital. He has grievous wounds that not even I know how serious they are."

"Internal bleeding?" Watson asked, shaking all over.

The man nodded. "We'll be taking him now. You need to go with him. If he wakes, it's more than likely that he'll be in severe shock. If he knows you're with him, he may just survive."

The officers came up behind them. Watson could not do his own diagnosis. He did not have the time. But due to the appearance of head trauma on Holmes's head by the result of blood matted into his dark, wild hair, it was possible that he was in a coma and would not be waking.

Between two men he was lifted and carefully laid onto a stretcher waiting. This revealed more blood to Watson that ran all across his comrade's groin, stomach region and chest. He could see it blotting his ragged clothes in cruel, startling smears that only threw more fear and agony into Watson.

Bravely, he followed him out after picking up his cane. He stepped over the dead body of Patrick with rage and disgust on his face.

Two cabs were waiting outside this time. One was a hospital cab with a deeper backing that allowed room for a stretcher. Holmes was loaded in. Watson got inside and watched the cab doors close. Despite leaving the effigy of the house, he could still smell the hot pungent odour of blood.

Groping for Holmes' hand in the darkness, Watson gripped it perilously tight and muttered prayers under his breath. At times he changed cadence and urged Holmes to pull through. Wake up and fight. Fight and survive.

Removing his heavy coat he laid it over Holmes's body and sat back, face wet with fresh tears.