It was raining. The rooftops of the London flats were slick as Sherlock bound from roof to roof, shooting at the masked man in dark red. He calls out for Watson to follow, looking back at him. The Crimson Bandit fires back mercilessly, but Sherlock is stronger, and has better aim. That is until the Crimson Bandit manages to get Sherlock at the edge of the roof, and unarmed. Sherlock teeters for a moment, before dazedly regaining his footing, but the disorientation is all the Crimson Bandit needs. He aims the pistol strongly, and then there's a loud cacophonous sound as he shoots. The bullets tear through Holmes' body, jerking him before he has time to react. He drops to the ground like a back of cement, the world swimming around him, black spots cutting in his vision. He weakly calls out for Watson again as the Bandit promptly dives off the building. His breath rattles, his body feels hot as blood soaks his clothes.

Watson carefully kneels to his great friend, pulling him into his lap. Holmes' face is slick with rain and the beginnings of sweat. He's already beginning to show signs of shock and is shaking with both pain and the rainy chill. His eyes are heavy searching, beginning to become distant and glassy.

Watson gently pats Holmes' cheek trying to rouse him, almost panicked. "Come now, my friend, you must wake up. You must get up, I can take....I can take you back to your flat and patch you up...and ...and then we can continue our adventures once you've recovered. Come on....you're strong. You're Sherlock Holmes, you've cheated Death before, you could do it again---"