Author's Note: So, this is my first Sherlock Holmes fanfiction and I hope that it turns out as good as it sounded in my head. This story takes place sometime after GOS. Feed back would be greatly appreciated, and I apologize in advance if Sherlock seems a bit OOC. Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, solely my own OC's.

My throat burns, and every breath I take fuels the flames in my lungs. I lost feeling in my legs a couple of blocks ago, but my arms ache as I pump them furiously. A cramp in my ribs is almost enough to have me doubled over. I need to rest. I need some water. I need help. But fueled by adrenaline, I push on, putting as much distance between myself and him as possible.

I don't know where I am. I can't remember how I got here or how long I've been here. Its dark, cold and wet. The sound of my feet against the cobblestone ground seem to be getting slower in tempo, and I can hear those of Him behind me getting closer. No. Not now, I cannot slow down now. But I am. I am slowing down, and in turn, speeding towards my death. I cannot run from him, and I already know that hiding is useless. If there is one thing that this whole ordeal has taught me, it's this; You can't run. You can't hide. You can't escape The Night.

It was with a jolt that Henriette Colt awoke, in cold sweat and shivers. She breathed heavily, struggling to catch her breath. Just another nightmare, she assured herself. It had been the third one that week. After a minute or so of trying to decrease the pace of her breathing, her erratically beating heart slowed to a somewhat normal pace. Calmed down, she rolled over in her bed restlessly, and peered about her bedroom. What time was it? Curtains were draped across her window, allowing not the slightest amount of sunlight into her dark room. With a frustrated groan, she rolled, or more so fell, out of her bed. The hardwood floor was colder than expected, and she cringed as her feet touched down. In nothing but a nightgown, she padded across the room, shivering as a cool draft swept through the room. She knew she should have taken Jack up on the offer to fix the insulation in there. But this was one of the last original, untouched rooms in the house, and there was nothing Henriette loved more than old things. The girl pulled apart the heavy, velvet curtains and winced as her eyes were met with the blinding, midday sunlight. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but finally she pried open her eyelids. It was later than she expected, noon at the least.

A fresh layer of egg, white snow blanketed the grounds, sparkling and glittering under the bright sun's rays. The crescent shaped, cobblestone drive, once an impressive collage of greys, beiges, and even the slightest hues of violet, was deemed dangerous as it was covered in a slick coat of ice. In the centre of the front lawn, just by the bend of the curved drive, stood a beautiful, granite fountain. It too, looked magical, glossy with ice, and the smallest layer of snow dusted along the top. It was a beautiful day, gone was the overcast sky of the past week, replaced with a blue, sunny winter's sky.

As she admired the oh so familiar view of her front yard, a violent shiver shuddered through her body. A fresh round of goosebumps rose along her arms and she rubbed them in an attempt to ward off the chill. Looking down, she realized exactly what the source of the cool draft was. Ajar, just an inch or so, was her window. She hadn't even noticed that it was open. With one arm, she absentmindedly pulled the window pane closed and latched it as she usually left it.

"Strange..." She muttered under her breath. She could have sworn that it was closed when she went to went to bed the evening previous.

"What's strange?" A nasally and distinctly french voice asked from behind her. Who knocks these days anyway? With an exasperated sigh, she turned away from the window and faced the voice that could only belong to Madame Marie Colt, her mother.

"Did you open the window?" Henriette asked, gesturing over her shoulder to the now closed window. Her mother, a tall woman with grey streaked, black hair, wound into her signature high, tight wound bun, moved from her stance in the doorway over to an oak wardrobe on the other side of the room.

"No dear, why?" Madame Colt asked as she shuffled through a rather impressive collection of dresses, the metal hangers making a series of clicks as they collided with each other.

"Because I suspected that perhaps, a luminous fairy man with the intent of stealing my virtue, may have attempted to enter my room through said window. Why do you think, Mother?" She sneered. She hadn't forgotten her mother's outburst about her table manners at supper last night, and in front of Jack of all people!

"Ettie, don't. Sarcasm isn't very becoming of you." Her mother droned on, still rummaging through the dresses. Henriette rolled her eyes defiantly and smoothed out her bed covers. Her mother was right. Or at least she used to be. Henriette wasn't always this way. There was a time when she wasn't sarcastic. A time when she could sleep without the door locked. A time when she wasn't consumed with fear in her every idle hour. Before, she could rely on music to get her through each day, but now, not even music could numb the pain.

"Ah, here we are! This will be perfect." Ettie turned to face her smiling mother. It appeared that she had finally picked an outfit for Henriette.

"Mum, I am not wearing that." She objected, staring at the dress with mild disgust. Looking slightly offended, her mother peered down at the dress and pinched a bit of the material, velvet Henriette assumed, between her long fingers.

"What's wrong with it?" Mother questioned, appalled almost. Ettie cocked her head to the side, assessing the garment. It wasn't all that bad really. Made of black velvet that shimmered and shined as it caught the sunlight, black, intricate beading created lacey, flowery designs. It was a floor length gown, the sleeves made of fine lace, raven black just like the rest of it. Overall it would be a beautiful number...for a funeral.

"Who died?" Ettie asked, well aware of her mother's likely response. Lo and behold, her mother fixed her with a deadly glare, but put the gown back on the hanger and into the wardrobe. Ettie stubbornly turned back to the window and traced a pale finger along a crack in the glass.

"Ettie..."

"Mum, I'm just saying, this 'party' is supposed to celebrate the fact that I'm not dead. Something a little more lively, if you would please," she finished, with an exasperated sigh for effect.

Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of red caught her attention. She turned on one heel and noticed the corner of a particularly bold red garment. A piece of the dress, the skirt she assumed, poked out of the dark wardrobe. Ettie made her way over to her mother, who was shuffling through the wide variety of clothes once again, and reached in. Her hand found what she was looking for, a fine silk material, and withdrew her arm, the red gown in her clutch.

It was beautiful. That was definitely the dress. It was made of the smoothest, finest silk, deep crimson in colour. A rather full skirt reached the ground, and the sleeves were short, probably just sitting off the edges of her shoulders when Ettie would put it on. Pretty indeed.

"I wore that dress on the night of mine and your father's engagement," The older woman cooed, reminiscing in the memories of her youth.

"This should work." Ettie stated, clutching the garment to her chest. Her mother nodded in agreement and took the gown from her hands, laying it down on the bed for later that evening.

"Right, now get dressed and meet us in the dining room for tea. There are some matters needing discussed," Madame Colt announced, already making her way across the room to the door.

"Will do." Ettie answered as the door closed with a click. She looked once more at the window, admiring the intricate patterns of frost around the edges, before diving back into the wardrobe.

Henriette choked on her tea and winced as a hot mouthful landed in her lap. She took a moment to be grateful of her decision to ditch the white dress she'd originally hoped to wear for the routine luncheon. Good choice, good choice. "You've invited who?" She coughed, dabbing at her deep blue skirt with a cloth serviette.

"Mr. Holmes ," Madame Colt answered dully, handing her empty teacup and saucer to a waiting maid. The maid, a young girl perhaps no older than sixteen, took them and placed them on a silver tray. Ettie eyed the apron clad girl thoughtfully as a familiar cold sensation froze her stomach. The girl's dark eyes, almost black in colour, met Ettie's for a millisecond, then flickered away. As the servant girl left the dining room, Ettie shook off the odd feeling and stared down into her cup. Paranoia. That's what the doctor had said. It was only expected of her to experience such symptoms after all that she'd been through.

"Why?" She looked at her mother wide eyed, not entirely sure whether her ears were deceiving her.

"As a thank you of course! The man saved your life Henriette, surely you remember," Madame Colt reprimanded, folding her hands in her lap and looking at her daughter sternly.

"Of course I remember Mother, I just don't see why you had to invite him."

Madame Colt sighed and braced herself for her daughter's ridiculous tirade.

"I mean, couldn't you have sent him, I don't know, a 'Thank You' card or something?!"

"Henriette Geneviève-Marie Colt," Ettie's rant was cut short as she recognised the harsh tone of her mother's voice. Madame Colt's glare, the kind that could send the whole Spanish armada into retreat and strike fear into the hearts of the most ruthless, was now turned on Ettie and she couldn't help but shrink under her mother's gaze. "It is called being polite."

"It is called being excessive," Ettie grumbled under her breath, stirring her now cold tea with a spoon. For a moment, the only sound was that of the silver clacking against porcelain, until Madame Colt released a defeated sigh and said, "I don't see why it is such a big deal, Ettie."

"Mum it's...it's...embarassing."

"How so?"

"I don't know, it just is."

At the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, Ettie's stirring ceased and she looked up at her tall mother.

"Whether you agree with it or not, Sherlock Holmes will be attending this evening's dinner party, and as will you," she said, her voice indicating that such matters were no longer up to discussion. As the woman made her way around the long table and towards the heavy oak doors, Ettie called, "I am an adult Mother."

"Then start acting like one." And on that last note, Madame Colt disappeared from Ettie's sight, the sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood floor fading as she made her way through the corridor beyond.

Grumbling a string of exceptionally unladylike, and rather creative, curses under her breath, Ettie tossed her spoon onto the table. It fell with a muffled clunk, and was retrieved by another maid, along with her cold cup of tea and saucer. As the maid disappeared, dishes and utensils clanging against each other on the serving tray, and Ettie became truly alone in the dining room, she slouched back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

Maybe he wouldn't show up. Maybe the detective would have another engagement that would result in his inattendance. Maybe he'd get hit by a carriage or drown in the Thames. No, that was too far. Nonetheless, Ettie found her hopes and wishful thinking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes to not show up turn into prayers.

Damn. It.