TIOBS III

*sniffle* That's it? Well, you'd better come out with another one soon!

In the meantime...

It was three days after I had left Baker Street. I had found Wiggins and the rest of the Irregulars.

Rat had blinked, bit his lip and asked if it were quick.

The others – Red, Simpson, Harry and Zo – shrugged and looked uncomfortable; Simpson whistled a little between his teeth and shuffled his feet. Simpson always displayed nervous tics in times of emotion.

I blinked again, remembered why my left eye was not clearing, and sat up.

Sherringford seemed to be waiting for something; whether for me to say something or Wiggins to do something, I could not tell.

‘Can I speak to Kit by herself?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I do.’

‘But you're treating me like I'm some exotic animal permamently dressed in evening wear!'

Chapter Twelve: Dandyprat


‘You know, Kit, you’re lookin’ almost fat.’

‘I ain’t!’ I said in alarm. ‘Am I?’

‘Definitely rounder ’bout the edges, like.’ Wiggins grinned, showing his chipped tooth. It was three days after I had left Baker Street. I had found Wiggins and the rest of the Irregulars. The news of Li’s death had come as a shock, but no one had spent long grieving. Wiggins had shrugged and muttered a colourful curse; Rat had blinked, bit his lip and asked if it were quick. I had said that I thought he hadn’t felt much at the end. The others – Red, Simpson, Harry and Zo – shrugged and looked uncomfortable; Simpson whistled a little between his teeth and shuffled his feet. Simpson always displayed nervous tics in times of emotion.

Now, I was under my railings, stretched out on the pavement and enjoying the feel of the hot stone through my shirt. Wiggins was on the steps, peering down at me through the railings. ‘At least you’re getting’ dirtier,’ he added. ‘Them new togs o’ your’s weren’t ’alf cons… conspic… spic…’

‘Conspicious?’

‘Yeah, that.’

I squinted down at my shirt and trousers, both brought new by Mister Holmes. The shirt had started out as blue, and the trousers as brown, but they were both getting darker as the days went by. The shirt already had a stain on it, from where I had run into a butcher’s boy delivering a badly wrapped paper parcel of raw ox heart. ‘Still,’ I said, lifting one foot and sticking it straight up into the air, ‘my boots are good.’

Wiggins snorted. ‘Mine wear better. An’ I got ’em myself. Didn’t no one buy ’em for me.’

‘I didn’t ask him to!’ I retorted. ‘It was me having new clothes or walkin’ around in a nightshirt for the rest of my life.’

Wiggins smothered any beginning quarrel by snorting again – this time with laughter. ‘I’d ’a’ liked to see you in that.’

‘I bet you would.’

We lolled in silence for some time. Then Wiggins said softly, ‘Kit.’

‘Mm?’

‘Was it bad… with Bird, I mean?’

I thought about how to answer this. ‘It was bad,’ I said finally. ‘And I don’t want to think about it.’

‘Say.’

‘It feels strange in some ways… being back here. But it’s good as well.’

‘You miss livin’ at Baker Street wi’ Mister Holmes?’

‘No…’

‘You don’t miss none of ’em? Not even Sherrin’ford?’

‘Sherringford wants to be on his ’lone, I think. But… when I was stayin’ there, it always felt a bit… I don’t know, like bad. Like I was doing something wrong.’

‘Did you pinch summut?’

‘No! It weren’t like that, more like – like going into someone else’s alley when you know you shouldn’t. It felt like that.’

‘Oh.’ Wiggins sounded wise. I frowned at him.

‘What’chu oh-in’ about?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘You were too.’

‘Nothin’ ’por’an’.’

I let it go. I closed my eyes, dozing in the warm sun, feeling the hot stone under my cheek. Half-asleep, I dimly heard Wiggins say, ‘Hey, Sherrin’ford.’

Another voice said, ‘Hello, Wiggins. Hello, Kit.’

I opened my eyes, blinked and saw a dark figure looking down, the sun behind his back outlining him in eye-burning light. I blinked again, remembered why my left eye was not clearing, and sat up. The figure seemed to swirl and materialized into Sherringford. ‘Hello,’ he said again.

‘Erm… ’lo,’ I said.

There was a rather awkward silence. Sherringford seemed to be waiting for something; whether for me to say something or Wiggins to do something, I could not tell. Finally, he fiddled with his jacket sleeve and said, ‘Wiggins… Can I speak to Kit by herself?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I do.’

‘Oh. Well, all right, then.’ Huffily, Wiggins pushed away from the stairs and sauntered off a little way down the street.

Left alone with Sherringford, I could not think of anything to say. My fingers ran over the leather of my boots, smooth and as yet, unblemished. The laces knotted around my knuckles and I tugged gently, feeling the sides of my boots tighten.

‘Kit.’

‘Mm.’

‘Do you… I mean, are you…’ Silence. He tried again. ‘Do you feel…’

‘Spit it out,’ I said, not looking up.

It came out in a rush, like a calf being born. ‘Do you hate me?’

That made me sit up. ‘Lawks, no Sherringford! Why d’you think that?’

He seemed relieved. ‘I don’t know, I… I just wondered. Because, you know… Li died and – and I didn’t.’

‘I lived too, and I don’t hate myself.’

‘I know, it’s just… different with someone else.’

‘Is it?’

Another silence. I sighed. ‘I don’t hate you or nothin’, Sherringford, it’s just difficult, see?’

‘Oh yes, I do see… Will you come back to Baker Street?’

‘No.’

‘But why?’

‘’Cause I don’t live there. I live here.’ I pointed with my chin at the railings. ‘I know it ain’t much, but it works. It fits, and I like it. It’s near Wiggins and Rat and the others, and not too far away from the markets and all.’

‘You like living on the streets more than living in a flat?’

‘Yes,’ I replied simply. ‘It’s too… I don’t know, genteel, like.’

‘Genteel! Baker Street?’

‘Yeah. My dad may have been a gentleman, but I’m not. I’m a street arab, and I likes it.’

‘Do you really?’

‘Yeah. It’s more free. No rules about when you got to do this and say that. When I was at Baker Street, all Mrs Hudson would go on about was how I needed to learn to behave right. I like livin’ this way, and I don’t want to change.’

'Sherlock would stop Mrs Hudson fussing if you really wanted it.'

'I don't want him to stop it. Well, I would, but... I don't want to, I mean, to ask... oh can't you just leave it?'

Sherringford sighed. He sat down on the pavement, his feet in the gutter, and rested his chin in his hands. He watched a cabbie walking a horse up and down further along the street.

'You'll get your trousers dirty,' I said.

He turned and stared at me. He opened his mouth, shut it again. He seemed to be struggling for a moment, then suddenly let it out. 'Do you think I really care about the state of my trousers? Everyday Mrs Hudson nags at me because I've torn something or lost a sleeve stud. You seem to have gotten hold of this mad idea that I'm a prissy toff who cares about nothing except whether his hat is the latest in fashion.' He twisted round to glare at me better. 'I'm always forgetting which fork to eat with and how to greet someone in the street rather than in their home! But you're treating me like I'm some exotic animal permamently dressed in evening wear!'

I snickered. His scowl deepened, his eyebrows gouging a line across his forehead as though it had been drawn there with ink. 'Get it through your head, Kit. I can still beat you at marbles and I bet you a ha'penny I can lay you flat quicker than Wiggins can.'

'That,' I scoffed, 'is very unlikely.'

Too late, I unfolded my knees to get up. Sherringford seemed to spring up like a jack in the box; he grabbed my shoulders and slammed me down against the pavement. 'Hah!' he crowed.

'No fair!' I cried, wriggling. 'I weren't ready!'

'Then you've got to be. Still think I'm a toff?'

'Well...'

'I won't let you up until you say I'm not.'

'Alright, alright. You're not a toff.'

He released my shoulders and I sat up sulkily. Sherringford shook his head, grinning suddenly. 'Kit, you...'

'Me wha'?'

'You dandyprat!'

'Same to you with knobs on!'

Sherringford laughed. 'I'm still not a toff. You said so.'

'Doesn't count. You made me say it.' He made another lunge, but this time I was ready and leaped up and away. He chased after me, and I ran down the street, tearing past a donkey cart, startling a crowd of pigeons, sending a ragged cat streaking for the cover of a nearby alley. Someone shouted, a woman cursed, but I was laughing. Sherringford grabbed my arm, but I shook him away and came to an abrupt halt, swinging around a lamp post, panting and grinning at him.

He grinned back. 'Still a toff?'

'Say!'

'I never understand why people say that. What's it mean?'

'Do you know why you don't know?'

Sherringford, suspecting a trap, asked, 'Slang?'

'It's 'cos you're a toff!'

He caught a handful of my shirt as I darted away and hauled me back. 'I am not!'

'You are!' I sang out. 'A ruddy toff!'

'I can still beat you at marbles and still beat you up and still catch you -'

'No you can't!' I leaped away from him and ran again.

Sherringford ran after me, shouting, 'You still owe me a ha'penny!'


FINIS

I'm not sure what to say: amazing! Kit's introspection and the difference in her names, the description of London--so vivid and real after the relative safety of Baker Street, all of it, just brilliant, darling.

Chapter Eleven: Fair Play

Bird was dead.

The news left me feeling cheated, somehow. I had wanted to see him brought before Mr Holmes and the police in rags and chains, sentenced to a lifetime in jail, being made to suffer for the rest of his days, which I hoped would be extremely long. Bird had hurt me in ways that I didn’t want to think about too closely, in ways that I had never thought I could be hurt by. I had thought that seeing Bird brought to justice would have lessened the pain a little. Knowing that Bird was being hurt would have helped my own hurts.

Bird was the worst person I had ever known in my whole life, and it was sort of fitting, I thought bitterly, that he should live up to that right to the end of his existence. He couldn’t even make up for the wrongs he had done by going to prison. He cheated justice and ruined everything by committing suicide.

To the police, the case was finished. Bird had done them a favour and saved them time by killing himself. Sherringford was back at Baker Street. There was nothing more to do, no loose ends to follow up.

Sherringford had told us his story; how he had been taken to the old castle at Dover and kept there with only Bird and the two grey-suited men as company. He had been locked in one of the castle rooms and left alone, with only enough food and water to keep him alive. Then one day, the food had stopped coming. He had waited and waited, but no one came, and he had almost resigned himself to die there when the police arrived. They found Bird and the two grey-suited men a little way out of the castle, all with bullets in their head; obviously self-inflicted, Lestrade had said.

I left Baker Street a few days after Sherringford came back. With him there, the flat seemed too small, with no privacy whatsoever. There was no space to avoid anyone.

Early that morning, I got up, dressed, folded the blanket neatly on the couch, tied the laces of my boots and quietly slipped out. Outside, the street was peaceful and subdued, but I could hear the day’s traffic beginning further away. I made my way out of Baker Street, into the main road. Costermongers were wheeling barrows or driving donkey carts, shouting their wares.

‘Rabbits! Two a shilling – fine rabbits!’

‘Ham sandwiches, one a penny, a penny, a penny, ham sandwiches, one a penny!’

A blind man was selling bootlaces underneath a lamppost, holding out his box with one hand and steadying himself on the post with the other. A hansom rattled past, the cabbie shouting, ‘Make way, there! Out of the way!’

‘Oysters! Fresh oysters!’

‘Herrings, dry herrings, twelve a groat!’

A rat catcher crossed the road, a dozen rats swinging by their tails from his long pole. A man in a long, greasy overcoat walked by on his way to Leadenhall Street, a wire cage containing two white ferrets slung over his shoulder. I passed a small girl selling Lucifer-boxes and another selling ribbons.

‘Pretty pins, pretty women!’

‘Hot wardens…’

‘Oi, Brassy, cool him!’

‘A doogheno or dabheeno, Rab?’

‘Soles, a penny a pair, penny a pair.’

‘Plaice alive, alive, cheap.’

‘Oranges, two a penny!’

The cries filled the air, tumbling over each other in their urgency to be heard, yet somehow managing to remain separate and coherent. I drew a deep breath and smelled fish, smoke, dirt, iodine, fruit, rotting rubbish, flowers, spilt beer and horse manure. This… this was home, in a way that Baker Street was not. Even though I had enjoyed it there, now that Sherringford was back, I knew that could not stay there permanently. That was the Holmes’ house, and I was a Moriarty. That thought surprised me for a moment. I was a what? I dodged an old woman with a basket of russets who was shrieking out, ‘Apples, apples, apples, apples, apples, apples…’over and over again.

Moriarty. Katherine Moriarty? The name brought back unpleasant memories and I clenched my teeth together, trying not to remember. Not Katherine Moriarty. Kit Moriarty. Kit is short for Katherine… but it’s not the same. Katherine means that I’m… that I can be hurt. Kit means… what?

‘Cod alive, two penny a pound!’

‘Buy a pound crab, cheap.’

‘All large and alive-o, new sprats!’

Kit is different. Kit is a bit like I was before… before Bird. If I can be Kit, and not be Katherine… maybe I won’t get hurt again.

Covent Garden. Baskets of flowers surrounded by flower-girls in shabby coats and too short aprons; men loading cabbages and leaks into donkey carts and hand carts; crates of pea pods overflowing onto the ground; people shouting and calling to each other. Dimly, I was surprised that I had come this far from Baker Street already. The church loomed up behind all the bustle and crowd of the market like some great majestic mother, gazing affectionately at the doings of her children as they bought and sold and carted and traded. Pushing my way through the crowds, I went and stared up at the huge pillars, feeling their unresisting chill under my hands. The church didn’t change. It had always been here and always would be here, just like the market. Just like London itself.

Kit can still be hurt, but not in the way that Katherine can hurt. These thoughts were getting too complicated, going round and round in circles that I didn’t know how to break. But I needed to think them. I pushed my forehead against the cold, hard pillar and stared at the dull, mottled brown pattern of the stone; my eyelashes brushed against it and made me blink. Katherine was hurt. Kit can be hurt. If I’m Kit, then… the hurting isn’t so bad. Kit is part of Katherine; if I’ve been hurt that way, then… how else can I be hurt? Nothing else can matter in the same way. I know what can happen, I know why it can happen, I know that it can happen to me. So… in some ways, it doesn’t matter.

The stone under my forehead was giving me a headache. I stood up and took a few steps back, looking up again at the top of the church, with its carved curves and decorations. A pigeon flew over, a black silhouette against the blue sky. I sucked in a lungful of air – smelled smashed fruit and crushed flower petals, unwashed humans and dirty cobblestones – and went down the steps, out of the market and went to find Wiggins.

*frowns at Lold* Anyway, one thing I noticed. Some chapters, you used a double quotation mark, and sometimes a single.

Le wow. A little late to comment, but that was awesome.

I think all I can do is quote gyrfalcon:

1)

Aha! *dances for joy* Yay, chapter, yay, chapter!

YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(and the pink elephants)

‘Zinc dust?’ Watson looked up in alarm. ‘Oh no, not that again. Last time you mixed those two, you singed the ceiling and Mrs Hudson broke her best pie dish.’

‘You cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,’ Holmes said placidly.

*blinks* Gee, I'm seeing pink elephants...

P.S. I certainly did not see it coming!

YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chapter Ten: Marengo


‘Where do you put your fingers?’

‘Here. You do not always have to use the bow – you can use your fingers to pluck the strings as well.’

‘But you use the bow.’

‘Indeed I do.’

I ran a careful finger over the hard, glossy brown of the violin’s body, feeling the edges of the curves under my fingers. ‘Where did you learn to play it? Who taught you, I mean?’

‘My mother.’ Mr Holmes smiled a little. ‘She was very musical.’

‘Weren’t she French? Or no, that was someone else…’ I tried to remember. ‘It was in The Greek Interpreter…’

‘Oh, not those tales of Watson’s,’ he said lightly. ‘The man will insist on dramatising the most mundane of events.’

‘I think they’re fine,’ I retorted, a little protectively. I never liked the way Holmes had of sniping at Watson’s work, which I ranked on a par with Dickens. He smiled, seemingly reading my thoughts, and I repeated, ‘Was she French?’

‘Yes, she was. My grandmother was French, and her daughter married my father.’

‘So you’re half?’

‘Yes. I suppose I am.’

I put my head on one side, interested by the idea of Holmes being part French. From what I knew, the French ate frogs and talked in the strangest way I had ever heard – excepting the words that a dark-skinned ballad-seller had shouted, after Wiggins had nearly pinched his snuffbox. Mr Holmes held out his hand and I gave the violin to him. He tucked it under chin and, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, plucked a few strings and made them pop. I grinned. ‘Sounds like rain.’

‘In a puddle.’ He rested the violin on his knee and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘It has possibilities.’

I looked out of the window. We were in Holmes’ bedroom, me on the bed, and he on the chair next to it. The sky was hanging heavy with clouds, grey and gloomy, cutting off what little light the sun was giving before it even reached the street. The air was humid, smelling of smoke and rubbish. We could either have the window closed and half suffocate from the stuffiness of the house, or have it open and half suffocate from the smell of the street. We were suffocating at present.

Mr Holmes followed my gaze. ‘Not the pleasantest of days, is it?’

‘It’s bloomin’ awful.’ I dug my finger into the pillow and scowled at the deep dent it left in the feathers, suddenly fed up with everything. There had been no news of Bird at all. He seemed to have vanished; there was no sign of him in London, no sign of him outside London, no sign of him anywhere. The police were baffled, but that, as Mr Holmes said, was nothing to write to the newspapers about.

I had stayed at Baker Street, even when I was ‘better enough’ to leave. Neither Mr Holmes nor Doctor Watson had said anything about my leaving. Mrs Hudson, although she fussed and told me that I should brush my hair more than once a week, had – for the first time in her life, I wagered – remained silent too. I liked it at Baker Street; I watched Watson prepare his medicines, watched Holmes play with his chemicals, slept on the couch and tried not to think of the rest of the Irregulars. How long was it since I had seen Wiggins? Or Rat? Too long. But how can I see them again? Li’s dead, and I – My thoughts trickled away, not wanting to confront that particular point. What am I? I don’t even know what happened with Bird... I had a nasty feeling that I could remember perfectly well if I chose, but I didn’t want to. So what? I can not think about it if I want to.

A cool, bony hand touched my own. ‘Bird will be found, Kit. The police are fools, but… Do you think I’ve forgotten what he has done?’

I glanced up and met his eyes. It was like touching clouded ice; I looked down again almost immediately.

---

I awoke from an uncomfortable dream of a costermonger boy banging my head against the floor. I yawned and realized that the thumping noise was someone at the door. Scratching my head, I sat up and rested my chin on the back of the couch. Watson came out of his bedroom, blinking and wrapping a coat over his shoulders. He went to the door, opened it and Lestrade bounced in like a cork loosed from a bottle top.

‘Where is Mr Holmes?’

‘Lestrade?’ Watson swayed, yawned and gazed at the other man blearily.

‘Wake up, man! Where is Holmes?’

‘In bed,’ I said, and Lestrade looked at me as though a dog has suddenly told him the time of day. I had never liked Lestrade.

‘Well, wake him up! There’s news.’

Watson was suddenly wide-awake, and I scrambled to my knees, staring. Watson reached for Holmes’ door, but it opened before he could reach it, and Holmes himself emerged. ‘What?’ he demanded.

‘We got a report in from one of our stations down near Dover. They found a body washed up on the beach and it’s been identified.’

‘Bird?’

‘No, Jude Footney, a fisherman. His widow was most distressed, but she told the police – we were cabled the basics – that he’d been acting mighty strange these last few weeks, always going up into the cliffs and staying away till all sorts of hours. We are following it up and searching the coastline...’

‘And how exactly does this relate to Lester Bird?’ Holmes asked in a dangerously patient voice.

‘Mrs Footney showed us the money her husband had been bringing back – he said it was from the market, but a fisherman does not get over twenty pounds for a few herrings.’

‘So he was involved in something not entirely above board, what of that? Lestrade, if you have knocked me up simply to babble of dishonest fishermen…’

‘Mrs Footney said –’

‘Mrs Footney may be an admirable woman, but –’

‘She saw her husband taking three men and a boy up into the cliffs near the ruins of an old castle!’ Lestrade slapped his hand on the tabletop. ‘It could be them, Mr Holmes, and if it isn’t, then what is there to loose?’

Watson’s head had been swivelling left and right during this exchange, and I had had to make an effort to stop myself from doing the same. Mr Holmes’ eyebrows drew together, making a dark, bushy line above his nose. ‘Then do what you suggest, Lestrade, and follow this thing up. Inform me of any developments.’ With that, he turned and stalked back into his bedroom.

Lestrade stared after him. ‘What’s got into him? I thought he’d welcome the news.’

‘It’s not certain news. Holmes only deals in certainties.’

I thought that was very well put, but kept quiet until Lestrade had left. Then, as Watson pushed open the door to his room, I said, ‘Do you think it’s them, Doctor Watson?’

He turned back. For a moment, he said nothing, then he shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Kit. It could be…’

‘Mr Holmes doesn’t seem to think it is.’

‘He is… very anxious that it should be true. He does not want to think it true and then be disappointed.’

‘Oh.’

Watson went into his room and shut the door. I chewed the back of the couch for a moment, and then slumped back down again, tasting wood polish and cushion fuzz on my tongue.

---

It was a few days later. The clock had just struck six. Watson was sitting in the armchair, writing in his notebook, Mr Holmes was at his table, measuring some grey powder out of a twist of paper. A bottle of something yellowish stood next to a rack of test tubes. I was watching Holmes.

‘What’s the yellow stuff?’ I asked. It looked less sinister than the grey.

‘Sulphur.’

‘What’s it do?’

‘It should react to the zinc dust.’ He jerked his head toward the little grey pile on the paper.

‘Zinc dust?’ Watson looked up in alarm. ‘Oh no, not that again. Last time you mixed those two, you singed the ceiling and Mrs Hudson broke her best pie dish.’

‘You cannot make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,’ Holmes said placidly. He eyed the zinc dust critically.

‘Does it explode?’ I asked, a little warily.

‘I would not go as far as to say that, but –’

A knock at the door, and Mrs Hudson scuttled in. ‘Oh, Mr Holmes!’

‘Do not fear, Mrs Hudson, the quantities are less than they were last time. Less than an eighth of zinc dust to –’

‘Mr Holmes!’

He looked up impatiently and began to say something, but then someone else pushed their way past Mrs Hudson into the room. Two people. One was Lestrade.

The other was a very thin boy with a bruised face. His hair was as dark as crow’s wing, brushed back to show a distinct widow’s peak. What I noticed most though, was his eyes. Sharp grey eyes that were as dancingly alive as a storm at sea. He seemed breathless, his pale face was flushed and he gazed first at Mr Holmes, and then at me. His eyes – those steel grey eyes – were wide and staring, almost hungry. His lips moved. ‘Sherlock… Kit…’

It was Sherringford.


-----

Like no one saw that one coming... :roll:

Proper critique:

“Tell me tomorrow,” Mr Holmes had said. So I did. When I woke up, Doctor Watson was drawing back the curtains. Holmes had gone.

I felt better than I had for days, but still painful.

I was wearing an old nightshirt that had had the sleeves and hem trimmed so I didn’t drown in a mass of flannel

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up for the first time in weeks. It felt like months.

Taking a step forward, I felt my mouth curl into an idiotic grin.
“I’m up!”

“I’ll do it for you,” Holmes said. Watson and I both looked at him in surprise. He raised an eyebrow and made a little movement of his head that seemed to show contemptuous loftiness for our amazement. I hid a smile.

I sat down on the chair, the nightshirt hanging around me like a sack and hanging down almost to touch the boards.

Holmes took the blanket from the bed and laid it on the floor. Then he began combing my hair, gently teasing out the knots and snarls. His touch was light and his fingers deftly parted my hair, avoiding the bruises still there. It was very quiet; the only sounds were the traffic outside. A dog barked, and someone shouted, “Warnuts, warnuts, warnuts, fine war-r-r-r-nuts!” but they were muted, faraway. The house was quiet and still, and the comb made very tiny rustles as it made its laborious way through my tangles.

Telling it, it sounded much less horrible than it had been. It was as though mere words, knowing they could never capture it properly, watered it down and made it lighter and less real, so they could master it after all.

“Kit,” he said slowly. “Did Bird… ”

“What?”

“… hurt you?”

I turned around and stared at him. “Sir?”

Mr Holmes closed his eyes and took a small breath. Then he opened them again and muttered, “Delicacy. A fate worse than death hardly covers it.”

“Pray be more specific,” he said, so sharply that I flinched.

“What’s that smell?” I asked as he came back in.

“Your hair. I’m burning it.”

And so on, towards the stars from the mud.

YAHOO!!

Don't you dare stop! This is way too cool! (And I'm scared about Sherringford. I don't want him to be dead!)

Aha! *dances for joy* Yay, chapter, yay, chapter!

But I thought you said Bird committed suicide? I do like Holmes cutting her hair, and the baggy nightshirt. Shall be back later for a proper critique.

Chapter Nine: In The Eye of the Beholder


“Tell me tomorrow,” Mr Holmes had said. So I did. When I woke up, Doctor Watson was drawing back the curtains. Holmes had gone.

“Good morning,” Watson said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” I replied, sitting up, and he looked surprised and pleased at my response.

“How’re you feeling today?”

Normally, I replied to this with a non-committal, “Alright,” but today I said, “I’m hungry.”

“Good!” Watson looked as pleased as though he’d won a bet on his favourite horse. “I’ll get your breakfast.”

“Can I get up?”

“When I get back.” He went out the door. I rubbed my forehead. I felt better than I had for days, but still painful. Doctor Watson was soon back with a tray which he placed on the little table beside the bed, under the window. He set the spoon beside the bowl and said, “I’ll just look at your back while that’s cooling.”

He sat down on the bed and felt my forehead, prodding gently with his fingers over my left eye. He pressed with his thumb and I winced. “Doctor Watson?”

“Yes?”

“I’m… not going to see out of my eye properly, am I?”

Watson was quiet for a long moment. Then he drew his hands away and said, “No. You won’t. You’ve damaged your brain up there where you can feel it hurting. It’s affected your left eye and you’ve lost the sight in it. The infection didn’t spread to your other eye though, and I think it’s as healed as it will ever be.”

A long silence, during which I pinched bits of the blanket between my finger and thumb. Half-blind. That was what it ended up as. “Half-blind.”

Watson put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not as bad as that, Kit. It shouldn’t affect your life too much; you just need to be careful of your left side, that’s all.”

“I’m still half-blind,” I said dully. “Fat lot of good that will be, being careful of my blind side.”

Watson looked at his hands and sighed. “Sit forward a bit.” He ran his hand up and down my back, asked, “Does this hurt?” several times and then thumped his fingers against the bandaging around my ribs. I was wearing an old nightshirt that had had the sleeves and hem trimmed so I didn’t drown in a mass of flannel, and Watson lifted the back of it to look at the healing whip marks. I tried to crane my neck and see them too, but Watson said, “Sit still. Your back is mending nicely. You’ll have a few permament marks, but your ribs should give you no trouble.”

I shivered, feeling the cool air on my bare back, and Watson smoothed the nightshirt back down again. “That’s done. Now, eat your breakfast.”

I did so, and afterwards, when Doctor Watson came to take the tray away, I asked him again, “May I get up?”

He smiled, his moustache twitching. “Yes, you may. Just wait a minute.” He disappeared with the tray and was soon back. “Gently,” he admonished, as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up for the first time in weeks. It felt like months. I swayed a little, my arms stretched out to the sides to keep my balance. Taking a step forward, I felt my mouth curl into an idiotic grin.

“I’m up!”

Watson grinned. “You are. And I think you’d better sit down before you tire yourself out.”

“Oh, I’m not tired!” All the same, I sat down on the bed again, pushing back the sleeves on the nightshirt to reach up and scratch my head. At the same time I noticed something. “My hair’s got long.” I felt it in surprise, and saw that it was almost on my shoulders. “Too long.”

“It needs cutting.” This was a new voice, and I looked up to see Mr Homes in the doorway. He grinned at me. “You’re up, Kit, that’s good.”

I grinned back at him, a little hesitantly. “It’s nice.”

“I’d say your hair was an improvement,” Watson said, eyeing my head critically. “What do you think, Holmes?”

Holmes said nothing, only shook his head, still smiling.

“I like it short,” I said firmly. “Can I have some scissors?”

“I’ll do it for you,” Holmes said. Watson and I both looked at him in surprise. He raised an eyebrow and made a little movement of his head that seemed to show contemptuous loftiness for our amazement. I hid a smile.

“Very well,” Watson said. “You can use the blanket from the bed. I’ll be off now, I have a few patients that need seeing too.” He went out, and I heard him go down the stairs, greet Mrs Hudson and close the front door.

Mr Holmes brought a chair in and began rummaging in a drawer. “Sit down, Kit,” he said, dropping handkerchiefs, bits of paper and a pipe onto the floor. I sat down on the chair, the nightshirt hanging around me like a sack and hanging down almost to touch the boards.

Holmes took the blanket from the bed and laid it on the floor. Then he began combing my hair, gently teasing out the knots and snarls. His touch was light and his fingers deftly parted my hair, avoiding the bruises still there. It was very quiet; the only sounds were the traffic outside. A dog barked, and someone shouted, “Warnuts, warnuts, warnuts, fine war-r-r-r-nuts!” but they were muted, faraway. The house was quiet and still, and the comb made very tiny rustles as it made its laborious way through my tangles.

“Tell me what happened when Bird took you.” Mr Holmes spoke so quietly, his voice seemed as tiny as dust mote dancing in a ray of sunlight. “Tell me, Kit.”

So I told him. I told him everything; how Li and Sherringford had come to find me, how we had been caught, of the whippings, Sherringford’s disappearance, that last, terrible beating, Li’s death and how it had ended. Telling it, it sounded much less horrible than it had been. It was as though mere words, knowing they could never capture it properly, watered it down and made it lighter and less real, so they could master it after all.

After I had finished, there was a long silence. Mr Holmes laid down the comb and took up the scissors. Bits of dark brown hair fell off my shoulders and into my lap. “Kit,” he said slowly. “Did Bird… ”

“What?”

“… hurt you?”

I turned around and stared at him. “Sir?”

Mr Holmes closed his eyes and took a small breath. Then he opened them again and muttered, “Delicacy. A fate worse than death hardly covers it.”

“Oh.” I looked at my hands and began matching up my fingers with each other. Left thumb with right thumb, left first finger with right first finger. “I don’t… think so.”

“Pray be more specific,” he said, so sharply that I flinched.

“I don’t think he did.” I said carefully. “I forget.”

“How can - ” He broke off abruptly, and there was a small, tense silence that I was not sure whether to break or not. I looked down at the stray snips of hair on my knees and reached up to scratch my head. My finger encountered a bruise, and I snatched it down again. “I’ve nearly finished,” Mr Holmes said, and he began cutting again. Neither of us spoke until my hair was cropped short all over my head.

“It’s all short.” I ran my hand through it curiously.

“That was the point of cutting it.”

“… and clean.”

“That is a novelty.”

I peered around at him. He blew a few loose hairs off the scissors and placed them back on the table. I got off the chair carefully, stepping around the clips of hair on the floor, and sat back on the bed. Mr Holmes rolled up the sheet with its bundle of hair and went into the sitting room. I heard the rattle of the poker, and then a strong, strange, burning smell.

“What’s that smell?” I asked as he came back in.

“Your hair. I’m burning it.”

I leaned back against the wall and looked at the ceiling. The bed creaked as Mr Holmes sat on the edge. “What happens now?” I asked, still looking at the ceiling.

“Now?”

“Now that I’ve told you what Bird did.”

Holmes face was impassive as ever, but his eyes were cold shards of steel. “Now we find Bird.”



---


And so on, towards the stars from the mud.

Sorry my first post was so stingy; I hope this makes up for it!

An ocean of confused voices and half heard sounds

Then I was hot and breathless and the air I breathed was stale and stifling.

A prison. No, a sanctuary.

"Did it not enter your addled brain that he might have left London?"

"Mr Holmes..."

"Leave this house and don't come back until you have something sensible to tell me!"

Voices. Swirling through my mind like dry leaves in the wind. Shouting. Cracking my head open like an eggshell. Voices shouting knowledge that twisted my heart like a garrotter's wire.

A lion roaring and ravening for its prey.

A bird gathering its young beneath her wings and covering them with her feathers.

War. Tearing the land apart, men falling and women grieving. Battles. Battles for a boy's mind and a man's heart. The struggle for a friend's sanity. A father's death and his children's misery.

Tears fall from my eyes. "Afraid..."

Afraid.

Afraid.

Afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid...

The shadows reach out to me again, clutching and grasping. Afraid... they whisper. Afraid to your heart.

He sat slumped down, his head lolling forward as he half-dozed. Always thin, he now looked gaunt and colourless, the bones at his wrists sticking out harshly. His dead white skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, making his features look as though they were cut out of paper, with painfully straight edges and sharp corners.

Doctor Watson gave me awful looking, awful smelling and terrible tasting medicines to take

"But they wanted you to know, Kit. Sherringford especially. He wanted you to know that even though he's dead, he is very well, thank you." Bird held out his hand and I looked. He was holding something white and shiny, and he offered it to me. It was a skull, glowing white in the dark. Its empty eyes looked at me, and its wide mouth smiled and moved. "Hello, Kit," it said.

"Sherringford..."

"Yes," said the skull. "I'm Sherringford." It grinned at me, teeth shining, and Bird moved it forward, holding it out.

I threw back my head and screamed. It was as though that scream had been locked inside for years, and now it stood for all the times I had wanted to scream and cry but hadn't. It kept on sounding, high and shrill, and I couldn't stop it. The skull sat and smiled at me, but Bird's hand began to shake. His fingers opened, and the skull fell through the air. It hit the floor and broke into pieces, and the force of my scream blew the pieces to dust.

Huge, tearing sobs ripped out of my chest and my tears burned as they fell.

*blubbering sobs!!!*

*sniff, sniff, sniff*

Chapter Eight: Valley of Death

Swimming. Swimming in dark and light. An ocean of confused voices and half-heard sounds; odd flashes of faces and scenes appearing and disappearing without any warning. At times I was cold, so cold that my teeth seemed to be chattering themselves out of my head. Then I was hot and breathless and the air was stale and stifling.

Lies... all is lying and vanity. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass...

Lying in a coccon of soft sheets, helpless and unmoving. A prison. No, a sanctuary.

The name of the Lord is a strong tower...

"I tell you, we searched everywhere! He isn't there - no one's there!"

"If he isn't in his house, then where is he?"

"I don't... we have men on the case, Mr Holmes. They're combing all of London for Bird and - "

"Did it not enter your addled brain that he might have left London?"

"Mr Holmes..."

"Leave this house and don't come back until you have something sensible to tell me!"

Voices. Swirling through my mind like dry leaves in the wind. Shouting. Cracking my head open like an eggshell. Voices shouting knowledge that twisted my heart like a garrotter's wire.

Darkness and light. A puddle of blood on the floor. Sherringford's blood. Li's blood. My blood. A lion roaring and ravening for its prey. A bird gathering her young beneath her wings and covering them with her feathers. War. Tearing the land apart, men falling and women grieving. Battles. Battles for a boy's mind and a man's heart. The struggle for a friend's sanity. A father's death and his children's misery.

A boy sitting with his dog on the stairs leading up to his home. He looks up at me, his hazel eyes clouded with worry. His little sister is in the room behind me, whimpering with the pain from her broken leg. She is a year or so older than me, but I feel as though she is the young one. I saw her cry with pain and writhe away as her mother and my guardian, Old Bet, tried to soothe her. Now I look at her brother and wonder how he sees his sister. Does he marvel at her naive delusions of the world being a fair place? She cried at her pain, and was surprised by it, thinking it unfair. Does she not realise? Does she not see? The world is unfair. The world is cruel.

"Holmes, you must rest. Holmes! Answer me."

"I can hear you, Watson."

"Holmes, it will not help Kit or Sherringford if you collapse. At least drink something. Here."

"Watson."

"As a medical man..."

"As a medical man, you should understand."

"That's no answer!"

"I gave it as such. Take it as it was meant."

Light. Warm golden pools of it. They swim and swirl, confusing themselves together in a giant whirlpool that goes around and around and down and down. It goes down to the heart of infinity, deep into the chasms of the world and sucks me down with it. The darkness there is mingled with the smothering shadows that nightmares are made of and the endless dark blue that cloaks the sky after sunset. The walls of the whirlpool gleam dully, valiantly trying to light the way on my journey through the darkness. The black, moving shadows reach out and stroke my face, then retreat before I can beat them away.

Lies. The whisper echoes off the walls and rumbles in the deep. Lies...

I try and ignore the voice, concentrating only on the dim golden light of the whirlpool, but it seeps into my mind, spreading like a cloud of ink through water. Lies and death. Death stalks the land and you are helpless. What do you matter? Why should you matter? You are simply the tool of hurt. You killed Li. If he had not come to look for you, he would still be alive. You killed Sherringford. If he had not come to look for you, he would still be alive. And now, if you wake...

I turn and look back the way I had come, through the golden maelstrom of light. I see the world, the cruel, harsh, unforgiving world.

If you wake[i], the voice whispers, [i]you will simply cause more pain. You have to tell Mister Sherlock Holmes that you killed his younger brother. And then you will die anyway. Die now, without waking, and he will never know. And then you will be free.

Free.

And then you will be free. Knowledge is a curse. Do not inflict it upon someone else.

I look at the golden swirl of light, then at the heavy, twitching darkness beyond. I can feel my heart beating, even though I am not breathing.

Be free.

The voice sounds familiar. It is my own voice. My hands are shaking; my whole body is shaking. A whimper slides up my throat and out of my mouth, but it makes no sound.

Be free.

Trembling, I whisper back, "I'm afraid of the dark." My words fall into the shifting dark before me, and are reflected back, magnified and multiplied. "Afraid... Afraid... Afraid..."

Tears fall from my eyes. "Afraid..."

Afraid.

Afraid.

Afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid, afraid...

The shadows reach out to me again, clutching and grasping. Afraid... they whisper. Afraid to your heart.

"Yes!" I cry to them. "I'm afraid! I can't do it! I can't! I killed them both, and I can't tell him, but I can't do this either! I can't do it! I can't do anything!"

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee..." A new voice, a new whisper. Quietly slipping into the space between the light and the dark, it is like hot food after days of hunger, like comfort from the mother I never had. It comes from beyond the light. A voice I know from far away and time past.

"I will fear no evil while I trust in thee."

"How?" I clutch at the air where the voice is. It leads me to the edge of the golden whirlpool and leaves me hovering.

The voice calls again, "Lo, I am with thee alway, even until the ends of the earth."

It leads me through the golden whirlpool to the other side. Here it is dim, with a soft dimness like that under a blanket. Again, the voice whispers, "Kit. Come back, Kit. You can do this. Come back. Be free."

And I know the voice.

I open my eyes.

---

The pale grey light of London early morning seeped through the gap where the curtains had not been drawn properly. It washed over the floor like living water and touched the haggard face of Mr Holmes, sitting in the chair next to the bed I was lying in. He sat slumped, his head lolling forward as he half-dozed. Always thin, he now looked gaunt and colourless, the bones at his wrists sticking out harshly. His dead white skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, making his features look as though they were cut out of paper, with painfully straight edges and sharp corners. The room was quiet, still.

My head hurt, and it seemed as though I had something covering my left eye. I tried to raise my hand to remove whatever it was, but the movement pulled at my side and back, and I jerked, a tiny, quivering cry leaping from my throat to disturb the quiet of the room. Immediately, Mr Holmes was up and bending over me. "Kit?"

I looked into his grey eyes, identical to Sherringford's and I felt a huge lump knot itself in my throat. I tried to swallow it, to push it down, but it hurt so much. "Mr Holmes," I managed to croak.

"Lie still Kit," he said in a gentle voice I had never heard him use before.

He went out of the door and I heard a low murmur of voices in the other room. Then he was back and Doctor Watson was with him. He smiled at me and took up my wrist, counting time with his pocket watch.

"My eye hurts," I whispered.

Doctor Watson placed my hand back on the sheet and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. "Lie quietly." He, too, sounded gentle. "Go back to sleep and rest. Then you can talk."

---

Gradually, bit by bit, day by day, I got stronger. After a few days I could sit up, and after a week I stayed awake for the whole day. Doctor Watson gave me awful-looking, awful-smelling and terrible-tasting medicines to take, and told me they were helping me get better. Personally I doubted it, but I said nothing. I did a lot of that; saying nothing. It was safer that way. If I kept quiet and asked no questions, then maybe I could stop the questions coming to me. I could put off the moment when Mr Holmes would ask, "Kit, do you know what's happened to Sherringford?"

Night was the worst time of all. Sometimes I hurt so badly that all I wanted was sleep to block the pain out, but if I did sleep, I kept on remembering. My mind wouldn't let my memories alone; it kept on prodding them, as though they were an itchy sore that wouldn't heal. The rememberings happened over and over. I would see Bird's face, hear his voice, feel his touch on my skin. I would see Li, cold and still in death, the blood drying on his skin. Worst of all were the times I remembered Sherringford. Sherringford grimacing with pain. Sherringford collapsed on the floor, the blood runing from his broken back. Sherringford dying. Sherringford dead.

Whenever I dreamed of Sherringford, it always ended up with me waking myself in my efforts to scream. Sometimes Watson would be there when I woke, trying to hold me still as I thrashed in my nightmares. Then there would come a drink of something nasty that burned on my tongue, and it would send me back to sleep again, however hard I tried to fight it. I couldn't explain that I was terrified of sleeping again, in case the dreams came back, so I swallowed the medicine and said nothing.

Whenever Holmes came in, I pretended to be asleep, or if that didn't work, I answered him shortly, turning away so that his eyes couldn't meet mine. I couldn't face him, I just couldn't. If I looked at him, then I feared I would loose all control and simply tell him everything, anything to ease the despair etched in every line of his being.

---

I had been back for two weeks. I still couldn't see at all out of my left eye, but I was getting stronger. My hurts were healing, but slowly, and my nightmares weren't getting any better. Watson shook his head when I said I didn't want the sleeping medicine one night. "Kit, sleep is what you need now. It gives your body time to heal."

But I can't sleep, I wanted to say. I don't want to go back to the dark and see... But if I said that, I would have to say why, and that was something that I couldn't do. I didn't want to say why about anything, or how or what. By not talking about it, I could almost pretend that it wasn't as bad as it really was. That what I had done wasn't really my fault. That somehow it would turn out all right, after all.

I didn't know if Watson would understand this anyway, so I sighed and swallowed the medicine, then lay down carefully. Watson drew the curtains and the room grew dim and shadowy. I creased the sheet between my fingers as he went to the door, said, "Goodnight," and left.

The whole house was silent. I knew Doctor Watson would be sitting in the main room. Holmes was out. Mrs Hudson was rarely allowed in, for which I was glad. She was a kind lady, but a touch peppery and inclined to fuss. I drew the sheets up under my chin and tried to breathe quietly so as not to bring on the pain. My eyelids were growing heavy and although I struggled against it, sleep came and dragged me down.

This time it was worse than ever. Bird's face loomed above me, smiling sadly. He put his hand on my wrist and began to run it up and down my arm. Up, down. Up, down, in the old familiar motion. I heard the canary singing in the background, its song rising high and sweet, going on for eternity, while Bird's hand went up and down, up and down without slowing or stopping. I tried to move away from him, but I couldn't, and every time I tried, pain shot through me like a bolt of lightning.

"Sherringford," Bird murmured, leaning over me, his breath warm on my face.

"Please," I begged. "Please..."

"Sherringford is dead. The albino too. There's just you left, my Katherine. Just you. Only you."

"No, he's not dead! He isn't! They aren't!"

"You saw them die, Kit. Don't you remember? You saw them both die."

"No!"

"Yes, Kit."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No..." I was sobbing the word out again and again, Bird's hand touching me and stroking my skin. I couldn't get away; I never would be able to. "No... please, no..."

"Yes, my Katherine."

"No!" This time, I screamed it, and suddenly I was sitting up in bed, gasping, my side and back on fire with agony. Panting loudly, I clutched at my ribs and hung my head forward as I struggled to catch my breath.

"Kit."

My head snapped up. Bird was in the doorway, smiling his sad, thoughtful smile. "Hello, Kit."

"No, please!"

Bird took a step closer and put his hands on the iron rail across the bottom of the bed. "I just thought you might like to know, Kit. I'm with Li and Sherringford now. They both send you their love."

"Please," I sobbed. "Don't. Go away."

"But they wanted you to know, Kit. Sherringford especially. He wanted you to know that even though he's dead, he is very well, thank you." Bird held out his hand and I looked. He was holding something white and shiny, and he offered it to me. It was a skull, glowing white in the dark. Its empty eyes looked at me, and its wide mouth smiled and moved. "Hello, Kit," it said.

"Sherringford..."

"Yes," said the skull. "I'm Sherringford." It grinned at me, teeth shining, and Bird moved it forward, holding it out.

I threw back my head and screamed. It was as though that scream had been locked inside for years, and now it stood for all the times I had wanted to scream and cry but hadn't. It kept on sounding, high and shrill, and I couldn't stop it. The skull sat and smiled at me, but Bird's hand began to shake. His fingers opened, and the skull fell through the air. It hit the floor and broke into pieces, and the force of my scream blew the pieces to dust.

"Kit!"

Someone caught my wrists and held them. My eyes flew open and abruptly my scream stopped, leaving me gasping for breath and shaking all over. Mr Holmes was sitting on the side of my bed, his face a pale blur in the dark. "Kit," he said softly. I stared at him. Gently, so gently it hurt, he touched the side of my face. I drew in an aching, shuddering breath and began to cry. Huge, tearing sobs ripped out of my chest and my tears burned as they fell. Mr Holmes pulled me to him, and I cried into his jacket, clutching at its fabric, as though to keep it there with me always. He rocked me back and forth, stroking up and down my back. His hands were like soft feathers, soothing all the hurt away as I cried and cried. I cried for Li, for Sherringford, for all the hurt, all the pain, all the guilt I had carried so heavily for so long. Mr Holmes held me, murmuring softly. Amidst my wild crying, I realized he was singing.

"L'Eternel est mon berger: je ne manquerai de rien. Il me fait reposer dans de verts paturages, il me dirige pres des eaux paisibles."

His voice was like a bird singing in the evening, clear and quiet, with layers of pureness behind it.

"Quand je marche dans la vallee de l'ombre de la mort, je ne crains aucun mal..."

My sobs were dying down now. I hiccupped and sniffed, took a deep breath. Mr Holmes laid me down again on the bed and drew the sheets up. "Oui, le bonheur et la grace m'accompagneront tous le jours de ma vie, et j'habiterai dans la maison de l'Eternel jusqu'a la fin de mes jours."

I sniffed again and whispered, "Mr Holmes..."

"Tell me tomorrow, Kit." He rubbed my shoulder gently. I closed my eyes and slept.


---

May I stress just *how* worried I am about this chapter? *stresses until blue in the face* Oh, and a minor note here: Holmes sings strong tenor/light baritone.

Li Dies???? Arrrghh! I liked that little guy.

I still can't figure out Bird yet either and it's bugging me, he's weird, definitely not like any villain I've read before. Is he insane or something?
The stream of consciousness (is that the right term?) style this is in is somewhat annoying to me but then I have always disliked it when people write this way. It fits the situation well though, the fading in and out.

*WAAAAIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLSSSSSSSSSSSSS*

(will have more comments when I can stop crying )

Chapter Seven: Stormy Petrel

Li died late the next day. He never awoke from his coma, but as the light from the window faded, and the blood on his head dried his hair into sharp little points, his breathing slowed and then stopped. Opening my eyes with difficulty, I stared into his face. His pale skin was mottled all over with bruises, and there was a bright smear of blood across his cheek. His broken head lay awkwardly on the hard floor. His eyes were closed, his fine white lashes curling upwards on his cheek, his eyelids almost transparent, delicate as a butterfly’s wings.

Slowly, very slowly, I lifted my hand, still tied to his, and touched the side of his face. He was as cold as china, frozen and still. Dead.

Dead.

Dead. I tried to think what that meant, how it affected me, but my mind would not focus. Li was dead. Then he wasn’t in pain anymore. But was he? Was he? He had left here, so there could be no more pain that he would feel. No pain could be worse than the pain felt here.

Jealous. Li had gone away from the pain. Why couldn’t I go too? I wanted so much just to let go, to get away from it all. The agony, the misery of living. Good wasn’t strong enough. Bad had killed Li and it would kill me. It was all a lie. The bad of men was stronger than the good. It was all lies.

---

‘Kit. Wake up, my Katherine.’ The voice intruded into my mind, lifted me from the darkness. Bird. Dully, I gazed up at him. He was standing close to my side. Too close; his shoes almost touched my shoulder.

‘Li…’

‘The albino?’ The shoes moved, and one of them prodded Li in the back.

‘Li…’ The words came stumblingly, lacing each breath I took with pain. ‘Li’s… de-dead.’

‘Oh. Are you sure?’

I could not answer. He shrugged. ‘No matter.’

A pause. Bird bent down, sitting on his heels. He put his hand on my wrist, where blood had started to clot around the leather cord, and lightly, slowly, ran it up my arm and down again. Up, down. Up, down.

‘Where… Sherringford?’

His hand stopped half-way, and he looked at me thoughtfully. Then he asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I do, I… I just…’ Pain was stabbing through my side, and my mouth wouldn’t form the words because it hurt too much.

Bird went to the canary cage. It cheeped at him, and he whistled softly to it. Then he came back and gazed very intently into my face. He put out a finger and brushed the cord around my wrists; it came away bloody. He looked at it curiously, then put his finger to his mouth, touching it to his lips. He sighed, then said offhandedly, ‘Sherringford is dead.’

Long, long pause. ‘No.’ I managed to slur even the one syllable.

‘Yes, he’s quite dead.’

‘No…’

‘Yes, he is. He is.’ He sounded petulant.

Lies, all lies, whispered my heart. Lies, lies, lies… My sight blurred painfully, my left eye throbbing. Empty lies. Lies. ‘Lies.’

‘It’s not a lie, Kit. Sherringford is dead.’

I could not take anymore. I closed my eyes, but the darkness there morphed into images, and I saw what had happened. Saw Sherringford dying. Saw Sherringford dead. Saw Bird ordering his men to beat Sherringford to death, saw Bird pulling back Sherringford’s head and running a knife over his throat, laying it open, spilling red blood onto the floor, letting it bubble bright with life as it left Sherringford’s body.

Dead. Li and Sherringford. Both dead.

As Bird touched my arm again, his hand playing up over my shoulder and neck, I wished with my whole heart that I could die and join Li and Sherringford - wherever they were.

---

A thumping, a hammering at the door. The sound hit my head like a blow and a sighing moan escaped my lips. Bird rose and went to the door. I heard his voice, low and soft; the voice of the other man there, a panic-filled plea.

Suddenly Bird was there again, bending over me. ‘Kit. Kit. Kit, I’m talking to you.’

‘Yeh…’

‘Some friends are coming, Kit. Good friends. They want you, and they want me, too. Have a nice time, Kit. Thank you for having me.’

His shoes sounded on the floor; I felt each footstep through the boards. The heavy scrape of the door being shut and locked. Then all was silent in the room.

I tried to shelter in the darkness of unconsciousness, but it would not come. My body hurt too much to be ignored. Too much; it was all too much. Every part of my mind and body felt broken and dirty. Lies, lies, all is lying and vanity…

A thumping. Not on the door, this time, but still close by. Getting closer. Bumps below the floor. Voices. Thumping outside. Something hitting the door; the voices getting louder.

Then a sharp crack, and a bang that shattered inside my head. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I heard the voices. Familiar voices.

‘Quick, man, tell Lestrade we’ve found them!’

‘Should we-?’

‘No, wait! Don’t move them like that, let me…’

People by my side. Voices above. Hands holding me, something cold cutting through the cord around my wrists. I could no longer feel the icy touch of Li’s skin against mine. Someone lifted me up, carried me in their arms. Moving. Out of the room where the canary still sang, into places where footsteps echoed off the walls. Down some stairs; hearing other voices.

‘Mr Holmes! You found them?’

‘Not Sherringford.’

‘I say, they look a sight. Are they still -’

‘Lestrade, I shall be taking your cab to Baker Street. If you can bring yourself to do something useful, you might inform your superiors of the results of our search. Watson.’

‘Are you alright with her, Holmes?’

‘Come, Watson.’

Outside. Chill air biting into my body. I felt as though I were burning. Lifted up, laid down, covered with something rough and warm. I was cold, freezing cold, shards of ice imbedded in my bones.

The cabbie: ‘Hup, you.’ The cab rattled and shook as the horse started off. At long last, I sank down, down into the wonderful blank darkness of oblivion.

---

Flames, crits, blighting and pestilence et al.

Thank you both!!

Shireling wrote:I have forgotten how old Kit is and was wondering how she is able to disguise her voice as well as she does, especially in any yelling and screaming.

Shireling wrote:What is Bird's reason for keeping them? Why beat Kit and not ask any questions?

I get the feeling of vastness, like a warehouse for some reason. I don't know if that is right or not.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How can you do this two me, twit, I mean how?

Anyway, a couple small comments:

Sherringford gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Don’t ask for a description, Li. It would involve a lot of unintelligible sounds and unprintable words.’

‘I don’t care! Hang grammar, hang bigwig sentences and hang the man who invented the whip!’

He’s stringer than any evil men can think up.

Wow, cool chapter.

I thought Kit was great, I especially liked this passage.

ئ twit ئ wrote:Whistle, crack. As the tingling numbness hit me again, I remembered the word I had been searching for. Spartan.

ئ twit ئ wrote:Now it creeping up again, the pain softly stroking my raw and bloody skin. My shoulders were stiff, and very movement I made seemed to pull at my back.

ئ twit ئ wrote:‘God can do things that we can’t even imagine. He’s stringer than any evil men can think up. He’s the good that keeps this world going. Sherlock tries to stop criminals, and that’s like proof of God.’

ئ twit ئ wrote:‘Leave ’er lone!’ Li screamed. He tore out of the short man’s grip and hurled himself on Bird. He tore at his face, and Bird toppled over in surprise. Li hit him, and then he was fighting like I had never seen him fight before.

Chapter 6: All Flesh Is Grass

Sherringford was able to sit up without too much pain the next day, and he had eaten his breakfast with a show of good spirits. Then there came the sound of the door being unlocked, and his face immediately went taut, as though a shutter had been slammed down over his emotions, so no one could see them. I looked at him, then at Li, not knowing what to do.

The door swung open, and the same two men as before stood there. One of them stepped into the room, and then he took hold of my wrist and pulled me to my feet. Too surprised at this to do anything, I let them lead me out, and the door was locked again. They pushed me between them, each took hold of one of my arms, and started off down the passage way.

All at once, my heart was beating very fast, so hard I could almost hear it. Bird… they must be taking me to Bird, I thought numbly. Bird. The one who had killed his own cousin and whipped Sherringford. Sherringford, who was never scared of anything, was scared of Bird. What had fully happened to him, I still did not know, but it had broken more than Sherringford’s back; what Bird had done had broken something else inside of him as well. And they were taking me to him. My heart was thumping somewhere near the bottom of my stomach, and I felt sick. My feet stumbled on the rich carpet, but the men pulled me up again.

The door we eventually stopped at was of a very thick wood; light, honey-coloured wood, with dark knots like eyes staring out of the panels. When one of the men knocked, the sound seemed to loose itself in the sturdiness of the wood and then get trapped in the hinges, making them vibrate.

‘Come!’

They opened the door and led me in with them. My first thought was that the room was a study, for there were two chairs by one wall, and a cabinet next to them; a canary in a cage hung from the ceiling near the opposite wall. It was plainly furnished, though, compared to the richness of the first room I had seen. The walls were bare of paper and there was no carpet on the floor. It reminded me of a word that I had read somewhere; what was it?

‘Hello, Kit.’

I jumped at Bird’s voice. He had been behind the open door of the cabinet, and I had not noticed him. He rose, shutting the door with a tiny, complete clack of wood on wood, and came over. I stared at the floor, at my dirty feet, noting their brown against the brown of the floor. Looking at anything but that aristocratic face with its gentle, excited blue eyes…

‘Kit.’

Silence. My stomach hurt. Sherringford’s back, rising and falling with each new breath, the blood tracing a soft, darkly red trail across his skin…

‘Kit.’

His hand lifted my chin and for a moment, I was staring into his eyes. Then I hastily looked away and Bird removed his hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod to the two men, and then he went back to the cabinet.

The men turned me around and stretched my arms out to the side, each grasping my wrist, and pulling so tight that it was hard to breathe. Standing spread-eagled like this, I heard Bird behind me; a rustling of paper, and a long, almost sad sigh. Then a pause. What was that word again? I thought desperately. That word for plain and simple. Harsh. Not pleasant. Stern.

A thin whistling noise, the slap of impact, and I cried out in shock and pain. A white flash of immediate agony, and then my back was left throbbing as the whiplash recoiled.

‘Does it hurt, Kit?’ Bird’s voice was genuinely curious, with no trace of mockery. Gasping, felling the ache still tingle over my back, I did not answer.

Whistle, crack. This time I gritted my teeth and determined not to answer. Whistle, crack. It was as though a lit match had been run over my skin. My back arched in agony, and I thought I felt a warmth start from my shoulder. Whistle, crack. The lash flicked my shoulder and sent a drop of something wet and sticky onto my cheek. Whistle, crack. As the tingling numbness hit me again, I remembered the word I had been searching for. Spartan.

---

‘Does it hurt bad, Kit?’ Li asked hesitantly.

Sherringford gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Don’t ask for a description, Li. It would involve a lot of unintelligible sounds and unprintable words.’

I grimaced in agreement. When the men had first brought me back, then pain had almost ceased, leaving me just feeling numb, as though the blood had drained out of my body and down my back to form a puddle on the floor. Now it creeping up again, the pain stroking my raw and bloody skin. My shoulders were stiff, and every movement I made seemed to pull at my back.

‘Lie on your front, Kit,’ Sherringford advised, ‘and try not to move.’

‘You’re right chipper now that someone else has had it done to them as well,’ I commented venomously, following his suggestion and carefully lying down.

‘I’m relieved, that’s all. You said he didn’t ask you anything, and he didn’t whip you that much -’

‘It was much, too!’

‘That sentence was atrocious.’

‘I don’t care! Hang grammar, hang bigwig sentences and hang the man who invented the whip!’

Li squinted at me, but said nothing.

‘I’m sorry, Kit.’ Sherringford was suddenly repentant.

‘I don’t think as ’ow you needs to worry, Kit,’ Li said quietly. ‘Sherrin’ford’s been called, then you. My turn next.’

With a pang of conscience, I realised that this had not once crossed my mind. ‘He might not,’ I offered feebly and untruthfully. Li gave a sickly smile that showed he was not taken in for a moment.

---

It was hard to sleep that night, lying on my front with my head on my arms. It was cold, and I shivered. My back was hot and cold all at once, and throbbing painfully, as though there was a swarm of bees trapped in the lash marks, trying to break out.

I could vaguely see Li and Sherringford; Li was stretched out on his side, his breathing deep and peaceful. Sherringford was still sitting upright, and I could just make out the distinct lines of his profile. His lips were moving silently. In surprise, I watched him for some time, the whispered, ‘Sherringford? What’re you doing?’

His head whipped around and he stared at me in the dark. ‘Aren’t you asleep?’

‘No.’

He was quiet for a moment, then he whispered, ‘I was praying. We could never get out of here, Kit. Bird could kill us. We could die.’

‘But he won’t kill us! We’re hostages, well, at least, you are, but he hasn’t yet, has he? If he wanted to, wouldn’t he have… What’s the good of praying, anyway?’

‘God can do things that we can’t even imagine. He’s stronger than any evil men can think up. He’s the good that keeps this world going. Sherlock tries to stop criminals, and that’s like proof of God.’

‘How’s that?’

‘That there’s good people to stop the bad. That bad doesn’t always win. That there’s a God in heaven who cares for his people. He won’t let them go to dust.’ There was a pause, then Sherringford said, ‘You know Father was a minister?’

‘You said something about a church?’

‘Yes. There was a psalm that Father always really liked. He’d use it in his sermons a lot. Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul. O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me…’

Vaguely, a verse learned and half-forgotten from my time in the dame school came to my mind. ‘O my God, I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent. What type of god’s that?’

‘That’s because David -’

‘Oh, stuff it. Your verse don’t apply anyway, as I don’t trust in God. He sounds too choosy, only helping those who trust in Him.’ I resisted the urge to add, ‘So there.’ Instead, I buried my head on my arms, showing that I didn’t want anymore talk. I heard Sherringford ease himself down to the floor, but did not hear the slow breathing that meant sleep.

When I woke the next morning, Sherringford was gone.

At first, I simply could not believe it. It was a trick of my still sleep-fuddled brain. He couldn’t be gone. Then I finally realized what this could mean, and in a panic, drew my knees up under me and called, ‘Li! Li, wake - ow!’ This, as I sat upright and a meaningful jolt of pain shot through my back.

‘’smarrer?’ Li opened one eye.

‘Sherringford’s gone!’

Li immediately came awake, sat up and stared about the tiny room. ‘Wha-? ’ow’s ’e gone?’

‘He’s gone! Use your loaf, Li! It was him, he took him, and now he’s… gone.’ A horrible fear was growing in my stomach. If he had taken Sherringford away, then there was one blinding reason why.

Li must have had the same thought. ‘They wouldn’t kill ’im, Kit, not Sherrin’ford. He’s the main reason we’re ’ere at all.’

‘But he’s a maniac, he might not be bothered enough to keep him…’

‘We’re the ones wot’re fillin’ up space, If Bird was going to get rid of any of us, it’d be me or you ’e’d start with, wouldn‘t it?’

This reasoning left me silent. I wanted to believe Li, but I couldn’t help thinking, Li’s not met Bird. He doesn’t know what he’s capable of, the way he speaks and thinks.

The key scratched in the lock, and the door opened. The grey suited man was there as normal, but behind him were the other two men; the ones who had come for Sherringford, then for me. Like stone statues in a graveyard, they stood motionless while the grey suited man handed out the bread and butter. I gulped mine down, swigged from the jug, then while Li was drinking, I took a deep breath and asked, ‘Please, where is Sherringford?’

Li looked at me over the rim of the jug, his eyes wide with apprehension. I waited, but none of the men answered, or even looked my way.

‘Please,’ I began again, but the grey suited man turned and before I could dodge, gave me a vicious backhander that made my ear ring and my eyes water. He took up the plates, removed the water jug from Li’s hand, while I looked at the floor and rubbed my stinging cheek.

When he had finished, the other two men beckoned to Li to come, and he did so. Then one of them pointed to me as well, and with a kind of dull horror, I got up and came to them. Even as I did so, my mind toyed with the mad idea of making a break for it. The thought was discarded. There wasn’t anywhere I could get to, and it would only result in a punishment. The men shut the door and shepherded Li and me between them, marching us along the passages, back to that heavy wooden door with the knots like eyes in the glossy panelling. Back to the room where he was. Where he created pain and revelled in it with a sad and melancholy pleasure.

The knock, the pause of about five seconds, the command to enter. Inside the room, hearing the canary sing for pleasure at being alive, seeing him sitting in one of the leather cushioned chairs, seeing him rise, come forward, hearing him say, ‘Hello, Li. Hello, Kit.’

I stared at the floor, suddenly very conscious of the burning stripes on my back. Beside me, Li stiffened, and I risked a glance up. Bird was eyeing Li with a disgusted curiosity, his gaze flickering over Li’s white hair and squinting, watery-blue eyes.

‘So,’ he said finally. ‘You really are one of those… anomalies.’

Li said nothing.

‘Why did you bring Kit? I only wanted Li.’

For the first time, one of the men - the smaller one - spoke. ‘He asked where Sheringford was. Twice.’

‘Oh.’ He looked at the ceiling, then at the canary, still trilling away to itself. Eventually, he sighed and nodded. He reminded me of a man trying to give up a pipe; he struggled against the urge to light up, but was secretly thankful when he did give way. He went back to his chair, brought it up a few feet away, then sat down in it.

I was wondering what he was doing, but then the taller man put his hands on my shoulders. I half-turned, but as I did, his fist swung up and hit me in the side. I doubled over with no breath to cry out with, and his second blow brought me to the floor. Curled up, I tried to shield myself, but he began kicking me, each kick hitting me in a jab of pain, then leaving an ache that was covered up by the next jab. I rolled over, and his foot caught me in the stomach, then again in my side. I heard a sharp crack, and it was like a knife had been rammed into my side. I think I screamed, but the world had turned into a ringing confusion of blows, and a sobbing, tempestuous agony. Then something hit my head, and the world went black.

It seemed only a moment that the merciful darkness was allowed to remain before I was suddenly awake again, gasping, with cold water dripping down my chin. I tried to lift my hand to wipe it away, but the pain dug in its talons, and a pitiful noise like a whining dog spilled out of my mouth.

‘Kit? Lift the child up, I can’t see his face.’

A hand gripped my collar, tugged me up, and I moaned, half-opening my eyes. A face swam into being before me, blurred and out of focus. I tried to blink and couldn’t.

‘Kit,’ the face said.

There was a ripping sound and my shirt tore, dropping me down onto the floor again. I fell all in a heap and closed my eyes again, feeling the darkness hovering nearby, ready to slip back into if I wanted.

‘Kit!’ A different voice this time. Younger, hoarser. Li. ‘Mister Bird, sir-’

A hand touched my face, then my neck. ‘Kit. Kit.’ His voice, very nearby. I forced an eye open and saw him, bending over me. His attention seemed riveted on my ripped shirt front. ‘Kit. Katherine,’ he breathed. His hand touched the base of my throat and stayed there.

‘Leave ’er lone!’ Li screamed. He tore out of the short man’s grip and hurled himself on Bird. He tore at his face, and Bird toppled over in surprise. Li hit him, and then he was fighting like I had never seen him fight before.

But it only lasted a moment. Both men pulled him away, and then they flung him to the floor. As Bird struggled to his feet, both men began to hit Li, and kick him. Bird listened to the muffled thuds of fist hitting flesh, and rubbed his forehead, where already a bruise was forming.

I took a breath that hurt, and whispered, ‘Please, Bir-Bird, sir. Don’t…’

He wasn’t listening to me, only to the sounds of his men beating Li, and Li’s half stifled cries. Finally, after an eternity, they stopped. Li lay very, very still, blood pooling slowly out around his head. It was staining his hair, matting it together. One of the men took him by the wrist and brought him close to my side, so he was facing me. I closed my eyes, tasting blood in my mouth. I felt someone lift my arm, then they tied my right wrist to Li’s left, and my left to his right. The leather cord was wet and cold, almost comforting against my skin.

As I half opened my eyes, Bird bent down and pushed my hair back from my face. ‘You kept your secret well, Kit, and so did Sherringford. Au revoir, Katherine.’

He rose and left with the other men. The door shut softly behind them. The only sounds in the room were the chirpings of the canary and Li’s very faint, very shallow breathing. His skin was icy cold against mine, and blood dribbled down from the corner of his mouth, red as poppy petals.

----------------------------------------

Rather worried about this chapter, especially the beating/whipping scenes. Please shred thoroughly!

^that's all I have to say. *sniff*

MORE PLEASE!!!

Chapter Five: The Flower Fadeth

The room we were kept in had only one window. It was very small and high up in the wall, and only a small bit of light managed to trickle through the tiny pane. Sherringford had paced the room out in the first ten minutes, and Li and I sat and watched him, without offering any opinions.

‘Five and a bit paces wide,’ Sherringford announced, stopping before us, his feet wide-planted, and a falsely bright tone in his voice. ‘And three paces long.’

Silence.

‘Oh,’ Li said politely.

Silence again. Sherringford sat down and began tracing aimless patterns in the thin layer of dust that showed up white against the dark floor. I sat with my arms over my up drawn knees and stared at the peeling whitewash on the opposite wall. My mind was running over all that had happened: the meeting with Li and Sherringford, the henchmen, the - I could find no pleasanter word to use - the kidnapping ; and finally, the Right Hon. Lester Bird. I thought of his pleasant face, his frank manner, and remembered something Mr. Holmes had said in one of Doctor Watson’s stories; something about how going by a person’s appearance was a dangerous argument. The thought crossed my mind that while I had always loved reading about Mr. Holmes’ cases, I had never expected to become one myself.

And how will this case turn out? I thought. Will Mr. Holmes give up the case and get us out? No, he’ll… My thoughts trailed off. The right thing, I knew, was to wish for him to carry on regardless, and ignore Bird’s threats. That was his duty, to be a knight in shining armour for the people, to right their wrongs and see justice done. He should continue with the case.

That may have been the right thing for him to do, but at that moment, I wanted Mr. Holmes to be there more than anything in the world. I wondered what he and Doctor Watson were doing. Have they missed Sherringford yet? That reminded me that I didn’t know what the time was. Noon? Past noon? It didn’t matter, I supposed. We were here, and when you boiled it down, that was the most important thing, really.

---

Eventually, the light from the window faded away altogether, and instead of sitting in near darkness, we now sat in total darkness. I slept, and although Li did as well, I know that Sherringford did not. When I closed my eyes, he was sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall and his hands resting in his lap; when I opened my eyes again some time later, the room was still very dark, and Sherringford was in the exact same position as before, making me wonder if any time had passed at all. Once more I slept, this time only wakening when Li shook my shoulder. ‘C’mon, Kit. Wake up.’

Something was slapped down on the floor near my face, and I opened my eyes, dragging myself upright. The something was a thick china plate, slightly chipped, and holding a slice of bread and butter. Two more plates were given to Sherringford and Li, then the grey-suited man who had brought them, put a jug of water on the floor and left silently, without looking at any of us.

‘Bread and butter?’ I queried in astonishment.

‘An’ white bread!’ Li stuffed his slice into his mouth. ‘Even if there’s only one bit, it tastes grand!’

Sherringford unfolded his limbs and reached for the water jug. ‘But why?’ he mused, taking an undignified swig.

‘Who cares?’ I said blithely. ‘Just enjoy it!’
---

That evening, the man came again, collecting the plates and jug and bringing back a fresh supply. Again, there was only one slice of the genteel fare. As I finished my portion and held out my hand for the water, I felt quite optimistic about the future. Mr. Holmes would find a loophole in Bird’s scheme as he always did. If he could beat my father, the Napoleon of Crime, and still live to tell the tale, then out-witting Lester Bird would be a breeze.

---

The next day started the same as the previous one, only now we were starting to get very bored with sitting and being busy with our own thoughts.

‘Can you walk on your hands?’ I asked Sherringford.

‘No. Can you?’

‘Oh, yes!’ I boasted, and crouching down, swung my legs up into the air. I managed to take three steps forward in the confined space before I toppled over.

‘Let me try!’ Sherringford said eagerly, and tried to kick himself up.

‘Not like that, you’ll fall over and wind yourself. Do both legs at the same time. Here,’ I instructed, backing away to give him room, ‘you want to fling yourself up and - ’

Sherringford’s legs threshed about in the air, and as the door to the room opened, he went over forwards and landed on his back, where he lay gasping. Li and I were laughing at the spectacle he presented, but the men in the doorway were stony-faced. They did not look familiar, and, amused, I wondered how many men Bird had in his pay. They were both dressed the same, in grey suits that were not too shabby and not too expensive. One of them was taller than the other, and they had the look of a team used to working with each other in sticky situations.

The short one crooked a finger to Sherringford and pulled him up, not roughly, but firmly. They led him outside, and Sherringford managed to shoot me a quick smile before the door was shut and locked behind him.

Li looked at me. ‘Where ’dyu think they’re takin’ ’im?’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe exercise? In prisons they let the people out for exercise, and maybe they’re doing that with us, only one at a time.’

‘Yeah.’ Li seemed happy with this explanation, and personally, I thought it the best one. Now that Sherringford had gone, there was more space in our room, and I could stand on my hands without worrying about kicking anyone. With my feet leaning against the wall, and squinting at an upside-down Li, I asked him, ‘Why don’t you do some? It’s not like you can’t.’

‘Aw, I just don’t want to.’ He smiled and ducked his head, making his white hair fall over his eyes; he peered up at me coyly from behind his curtain of hair and pulled a face. I laughed. Li’s grimaces were priceless, and not even Wiggins could match some of them.

---

It was quite some time before Sherringford returned. I had long since tired of Li’s faces, and was sitting idly, when there came the sound of a key scraping in the lock, and the door swung open. The two men were there, and each held one of Sherringford’s arms. His head was lolling around, and the men brought him in and laid him on the floor. Then they turned and went out, their faces never once loosing their expressionless masks.

Sherringford lay on his front; his jacket had been removed, and the back of his shirt had been shredded to red rags. Wait… red rags? I scooted forward and stared in horror at Sherringford’s back. He had been whipped, and blood was still oozing ever so slowly from his broken skin.

Swallowing hard, I touched his shoulder. He raised his head and stared blankly at me for a moment. Then he dragged himself up onto his hands and knees.

‘Sherrin’ford,’ Li breathed.

Sherringford’s eyes closed, screwed up tight in his face as he took a deep breath. He let it out in one gust and croaked hoarsely, ‘Yes?’

‘What did they do?’ Li asked helplessly.

‘C-can’t you see? He… he told them to… ’

‘What?’ I demanded harshly. ‘What?

‘He told them - the two men who came - he told them to… to hold me down, and… he… he did it, and then he… ’

‘He did what? Tell me!’

‘Why?’ Sherringford’s face was contorted into a tangle of rage and pain. ‘So you can laugh? So you can shudder in horror? He held me down and whipped me and talked to me! He hurt me, and - ’ His voice cracked and he fell silent. I could see his body shaking, and I reached out and touched his shoulder lightly, trying to strengthen him through the contact. I had never seen Sherringford like this before. Sherringford was always so controlled, in command of himself. Sherringford was a Holmes, and in my mind, the name Holmes and the word strength always went together.

‘It’s alright, Sherringford,’ I said quietly, knowing how untrue my words were as I said them. ‘I-it’s alright.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Li said. He took my hand off Sherringford’s shoulder, and pointed meaningfully to the far corner of the room. When I frowned at him, he gave a shove and in surprise, I went. Li came and sat down beside me. Although it wasn’t much, this corner was as far away from Sherringford as we were able to get.

‘Stay ’ere,’ Li said to me, in authoritive tones quite new to him.

‘And why?’

He sighed patiently. ‘’member, Kit, when Mister ’olmes found that you’d pinched a purse an’ got them cakes?’

‘He found out because you told him.’

‘When he found out,’ Li continued, unperturbed, ‘you went away to be on your own. You wanted to be private, like.’

‘So?’

A sigh. ‘Kit, that’s ’ow it is wi’ Sherrin’ford right now. So just leave ’im ’lone a bit.’

‘You’ve been spending too much time around Wiggins,’ I said disagreeably, but deep down, I knew Li was right. Sherringford had lain down carefully on his front, and I could see his lacerated back rising and falling with each painful breath he took. The sight was both repellent and morbidly attractive at the same time. Even as I recognized that last thought, I banished it from my mind in horror, and in its place came a purely selfish one instead.

If Bird had done this to Sherringford, the true hostage, what would he do to me, who was merely an unwelcome addition?

---

Sherringford passed the rest of that day and night in obvious pain. Li and I kept away from him, and he made no move towards us. Only the next morning, when they grey-suited man came to bring the bread and butter and clean the chamber pot did he stir. The plate was set down near his face, and after a moment, when the man had left, Sherringford hauled himself up onto his hands and knees. He shuddered, and with a grunt, he sat down stiffly, his back as rigid as if he had swallowed a poker. He took his bread and shoved it down, then wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist.

‘You alright?’ I asked awkwardly. ‘Do you want to - ’

‘Kit,’ Sherringford said, and his tone made me stop. ‘Kit, Bird mustn’t find out that you’re a girl. He mustn’t! Be always on your guard so you don’t give yourself away. He mustn’t find out!’

I stared at him. ‘What? Why? Does it matter?’

‘Yes, it does! Kit, use your head!’

It clicked. ‘You mean he might… try something?’ I asked delicately. Dubiously.

‘Yes, he would! Don’t let him find out! For now, you’re relatively safe, so keep it that way! And Li - keep your mouth shut completely so you don’t let anything slip out.’

Solemn-faced, Li nodded. I looked at the floor, hoping my face did not betray my thoughts. This… reminder of my femininity was disturbing, and not a little embarrassing. The thought that it could get me into trouble had never even crossed my mind before. I didn’t really think of myself as Kristopher-the-boy, and certainly not as Katherine-the-girl. I was simply Kit - me - and I had never let gender get into it. But if Bird does find out… Knowing what he might do did not prepare me for a possible reality.

I had an overwhelming urge to put my head on my knees and simply cry until the whole horrible situation had magically vanished away, or until Mr. Holmes came and made everything better.

But crying solved nothing, and Mr. Holmes was not coming. He was not coming, I was sure of it, and that only made me want to cry the more.

-

Ooo, bird agrees with shireling on the descript of henchmen idea.

I agree with Gyr, Lester Bird is fine so far, just make sure that he doesn't drift into the whole 'I am an evil bad guy and I like it' stereotype.

About your henchmen though you could add some more discription, at least in the parts where the heroes are not in sacks that is.

Your edit of the end helped, the last piece of dialogue did taste a bit like mozzarella.

No corny villians. A tad cheesy, but not unbearable. Then again, I am your biggest fan, you might not want to listen to me. But trust me about the villain thing. *hugs*

Chapter Four: The Worst of Times

It should have been raining, with heavy, lowering clouds dropping buckets of rain and soaking everyone and everything in sight. This would have matched my mood perfectly. The fact that the sun was shining, the wind blew softly and the deep blue sky was completely cloudless, did not help my sulky, defiant state at all.

I was in an alleyway that opened directly onto the Thames, my back against the dirty wall, sitting on top of a precariously balanced pile of wooden crates that smelt of fish. The sun poked a friendly finger over the top of the building behind the alley and managed to light up some of the corners, while leaving the rest swamped in shadows. I could see the dust swirling in the sun rays, warming the old wood that I sat on. It wasn’t fair…

It had been three days since that disastrous encounter in Baker Street, and I had not seen Sherringford or any of the Irregulars since. I didn’t know what to think. Part of me wanted to blame Mr Holmes for it all; to say that it was his fault for making me give that stupid promise in the first place. If it was a forced promise, then it didn’t count, so I hadn’t really broken anything at all, so I could stop worrying about it. And if it hadn’t been a false promise, then…

My head dropped forward onto my knees. No matter which way I looked at it, I came out the worst. It’s not fair! I thought, grinding my teeth together in anger. It was a proper, honest promise, and I broke it. I’ve kept it for ages, and then I broke it! All for some blinking cakes that I didn’t need.

A noise made me jerk upright. It came from the end of the alley, where it opened out near the river. I held very still, listening. The noise came again: the scuff of a shoe on the ground. I strained my eyes to see who it was, considering flight. Two figures poked their heads in; I could see their silhouettes, black against the grey walls. One of them bounded forward. ‘Kit!’

It was Sherringford, and trailing behind, shielding his eyes against the light, came Li. I glowered down at them both. ‘Go away.’

Sherringford reached up to the top of the crates, making them wobble. ‘Kit, I’ve been looking for you, and I couldn’t find you anywhere!’

I slapped his hand away. ‘Scat.’

‘Kit,’ Li said. His blue eyes stared up at me, almost sightless in the bright sun. ‘Kit, I-I’m real sorry.’

‘Shut up, white-face!’

Li recoiled, then swallowed. ‘I didn’ mean to make you… I didn’ want Mister ’olmes to find out that… I’m sorry.’

I turned my back on them both. ‘Just shut it and sling your ’ook!’

‘Kit, Sherlock doesn’t…’ Sherringford shook his head. ‘Sherlock isn’t angry with you - ’

‘I don’t care if he is or not! I don’t give a - I don’t care what Mr Holmes thinks!’

‘You’re making a mountain out of a molehill!’

‘Oh, we are poetic!’ I sneered. ‘Just scram, Sherringford. You ain’t a part of this.’ I gestured to his neat black suit, the white collar and pressed cuffs; his clean face and athletic body. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? You don’t belong on the streets - you‘re a toff. Get back to Baker Street and your precious older brothers where you can live as you please!’

Sherringford grabbed the side of the crates, hauled himself up and punched me in the stomach. I gasped, choked and doubled over. Sherringford’s weight pulled the crates over, and I fell on top of him in a pile of wood and dust. He pushed me off and got to his feet. I remained sitting in the wreckage, blinking up at him sullenly.

‘Now who’s a toff?’ Sherringford demanded.

I said nothing, my gaze sliding past him to Li who was staring at the entrance to the alley. ‘Kit…’

Sherringford turned. Three men were standing there; they came forward slowly, with measured footsteps, each movement proclaiming that here was muscle, respect it, or else. Li took a step back as they came and silently looked at us three. I darted quick glances at each of them. They were all dressed in identical grey; one had freckles and red hair, which seemed absurdly unthreatening. The biggest one - brown haired and with grease stains on his lapels - eyeballed Sherringford with the air of a prospective buyer at a horse fair. Get out of here, whispered a little alarm in my mind. Get out now, while there’s still time…

The man stretched out a meaty hand and took a handful of Sherringford’s collar, yanking him close. ‘You Sherrin’ford ’olmes?’

Sherringford remained silent, and tried to prise away the man’s grip. The effort was futile. Very slowly I got to my feet, edging closer. As the man drew back his fist, I met Li’s eyes, nodded, and hit the man in the back of the knees. ‘Run Sherringford!’

Li went for the second man’s ankles, and Sherringford kicked the first man in the stomach. His hold weakened, and we dived for the alley opening. We’re gonna make it! I thought jubilantly. Then the world seemed to whirl upside down. I went flying up through the air and landed with a thump on something hard that knocked me breathless for the second time in five minutes.

For several moments, I struggled to breathe and my surroundings faded into unimportance. When I could finally take a complete breathe, I was already jouncing up and down over the man’s shoulder as he ran out of the alley, the other two men with the boys following close on his heels. Li gave out a loud yell that was quickly stifled by his captor. My brain had slowed down, and only now did I think of resistance. I kicked the man’s face and echoed Li’s shout with one of my own. ‘Help! H-’ The man grabbed my feet in one hand, and clapped the other over my mouth as we reached their destination. The alley met the Thames directly, and there was a large boat moored by the side of the bank. The men slid down the muddy bank and threw us three on board, jumping in after us. More men, already on the boat, dashed to start it up, and before I had got to my feet, the boat was loosed and chugging away from the bank.

The men dragged us down into a rough cabin below, hardly more than a large cupboard, and locked us in. I heard the footsteps on the deck above, the shuddering vibrations of the motor that rocked the whole boat. In the darkness, I heard Sherringford’s voice, ‘Kit, Li, you alright?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Kit?’

‘I suppose.’

‘What’s happening?’ Li asked shakily.

‘We’re… I don’t know. Kidnap? But why?’

‘I think I know,’ I said. ‘You’re Sherlock Holmes’ younger brother. That’s enough for any criminal. You were the target - Li and me just got in the way.’

‘Are you saying I’m a liability?’

‘I don’t know. What’s a liabillie?’

‘A danger to Sherlock.’

‘’snot your fault, Sherrin’ford,’ Li said. ‘an’ they might not be after you anyways.’

Silence. I shuffled to get more comfortable, bumping into Li’s elbows in the process. The wooden floor was warm, but rough, and I sat gingerly, for fear of splinters. I remembered the hard, remorseless grip of the men on my arms, and felt fear trickle like cold water down my spine. This was dangerous. Very dangerous, and I shouldn’t be here. I swallowed, feeling my heart speed up, drumming out a beat of fear high up under my shirt pocket.

Then I felt Li’s hand sneak into mine and give it a small squeeze. I could feel it trembling against my own hand. The fact that Li was as scared as I was gave me some small consolation, and I returned his half-shake silently in the dark. Sherringford was not one for hand squeezes, but his shoulder was braced against mine, and I took comfort from its solid warmth.

- - -

After a long while, the sound of the boat’s engines cut out, and it bumped against something. There was noise above, and in a moment, the door to the tiny room was unlocked, and the men hauled us out. I had only time to snatch a quick glance of our surroundings - a small jetty surrounded by thick green bushes - before something was flung over my head, and I was lifted up and once again bumped up and down over a shoulder. The sack over my head was thick and coarse, smelling of old, damp earth, and the rough hemp fibres that it was woven from rasped against my face, rubbing a raw patch on my cheek.

The man’s footsteps were at first soft, muffled thumps, so I guessed he was walking on grass. Then the sound changed to a crunching over gravel, then a hollow, echoing clop of hard heels on a hard, polished surface. A floor? Marble? Boards? A creak of a door opening, and the footsteps became quieter again, muffled by carpet. I was swung down, dumped onto my feet, and the sack dragged unceremoniously over my head. I blinked and swayed, disorientated for a moment. Sherringford and Li were beside me, and the men were uncomfortably close behind.

I looked around. It was a rich room we were in, with lots of dark polished furniture. The floor was indeed covered in a deep red carpet, and the walls were covered in lots of portraits of people in fancy clothes. Dominating the room was a large desk, very neat and with a few papers showing up startlingly white against the glossy dark wood. Behind this desk was a man, sitting in a matching wooden chair, viewing us three with a displeased frown.

‘Really, Collins,’ he said, in mild reproof. ‘I only wanted Master Holmes, not a duo of street urchins as well.’

‘It were all o’ them, or nothin’, guv,’ Collins, the biggest man said, his hand tightening slightly on my shoulder. ‘If I’d let these two get away, they would’ve peached in minutes.’

‘Oh, very well.’ The man rose and came around the desk; he stood in front of us with his hands behind his back and his head tilted slightly to the side. ‘It will not be entirely in vain.’ He was a very young man, with very fine features, smooth golden hair combed back, and bright blue eyes under feathery golden brows. He reached out a slim hand and lifted Sherringford’s chin with one finger, viewing his features with detached interest. ‘You are very like your brother, Sherringford Holmes. Though not quite as skeletal.’

Sherringford stared back at him expressionlessly, and the man cocked his head to one side. He removed his finger and cast a quick glance over Li and me. I tried to hold that intense blue stare, but found my gaze faltering. His face was solemn, almost regretful. He waved a hand. ‘Remove them.’

Collins grabbed my arms, but Sherringford blurted, ‘Wait! You’re… I’ve seen your picture. You’re a Bird. You’re…’

‘The Right Honourable Lester Bird at your service,’ the man said, almost automatically. ‘Yes, I can see the thought biting at the tip of your tongue, Sherringford.’

‘You’re one of the family that Sherlock was hired by. He was finding out about the murder of - ’

‘You have done your homework, haven’t you?’ Bird’s eyes brightened. ‘Fellstock was murdered, and what does my brother do but call in the greatest busybody in Europe! And he set his little street servants to find out about gambling losses as well. But, he is a man of skill. He knows what needs to be done.’

‘You murdered your own cousin?’ I blurted out.

‘Oh, he has a tongue as well!’ Bird tuned his gaze to me in interest. ‘Yes, I did. He was getting too clever at the gaming tables.’

This careless admission left me flabbergasted. Bird nodded to the men and they frogmarched us from the room. We went through passages, up stairs and around corners until I was completely lost, then finally stopped at a door. This was unlocked, and we were shown in, then locked in. The tiny room was dark, bare and cold; the only furniture was a cracked chamber pot in one corner.

Sherringford stood in a corner of the room, and Li sat limply down with his back against the wall. I soon joined him. Sherringford came and sat on my other side, drawing his knees up under his chin. For a long, long while, none of us spoke. Then Li said, ‘It’s cold.’

‘Yeah.’

‘He did his cousin in?’

‘Yeah.’

‘An’ that’s why ’e’s got us ’ere?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We’re here because Bird intends to use us as leverage,’ Sherringford said. His voice was strained. ‘As long as he has us - has me - then he can persuade Sherlock to give up the case.’

‘But he won’t give it up!’ I exclaimed.

‘I don’t know,’ Sherringford said. ‘The case is important, of course, but… ’

‘’e’ll give it up to save you,’ Li said quietly.

‘But you know what he said. He admitted to murdering his cousin, just like that. That must mean that…’ Sherringford’s voice trailed away.

‘It means,’ I finished, ‘that he’s not going to let us out of here to tell anyone. We’re not going to be leaving this place.’


----

Lovely, as ever darling! I wish, wish, wish I could give a better crit than that, but you have to understand that I read your stories for pleasure rather than to crit them. If you really want me to, I could probably go back and dig something up about the other two....

Way cool! I read through the complete Sherlock Holmes last year and loved most of them. This has the sound of becoming a sweet fanfic. I can't wait to find out more about Moriarty's daughter and how she came to know Sherlock.

I can't give a crit right now because I'm still geeking out about how cool this is and can't find anything wrong right off. But I'll try to get back soon.

Back to Bakers Street!

Shireling

Chapter Three: Promise.

Any jealous fears I may have had melted away during the next few weeks. Sherringford adapted easily to live under Mr Holmes' watchful eye, and even though he was now living like a toff, Sherringford still sneaked out to roam the streets - with, or without his older brother's permission.

"Sherlock doesn't mind too much," he said. He and I were playing marbles in a quiet corner, and now he knocked one of mine, a small, streaked sphere, out of the chalk circle. I was only using it for the game; all the ones we were using really belonged to Sherringford. I had long ago swapped mine. "He lets me run about, just so long as I come back before dark. Mycroft's thinking about getting me a tutor, though, so I might not be able to come as much."

Mycroft Holmes had indeed run off his usual tracks and made a detour to Baker Street to visit his newly returned younger sibling, and although I understood his concern about Sherringford's education, right now I resented it. "You know enough already. You can read and write, you can add up. You can speak French, and you know about science and chemistry and all."

"Mycroft says I don't know enough Greek and Latin. And he's right; I can't translate English to Latin at all and make it passable. Your go."

I rolled my marble and it clacked against Sherringford's big green, spinning it around so the sunlight struck off its sides and flashed clear sparks. As I watched, I asked, "Have there been any new cases come?"

"Yes, there has, actually." Sherringford put down the marble he had been rolling between finger and thumb. "A Lord! Lord Michael Bird. He came about his cousin, Thomas Fellstock, who was found dead in his bed yesterday. Lord Bird came the same day, and Sherlock went out with Doctor Watson. He found that Fellstock had been strangled." He sighed, frowning. "Strangling seems so much more... brutal than a shooting or stabbing. More personal."

"Has Mr Holmes found out who done it yet?" I asked.

"No. He was up smoking all last night, but he hasn't told me anything."

"Well, he'll find out soon," I said comfortably.

"Hey, Kit!" The shout came from up the street; my head snapped up and I saw Wiggins waving his arm, beckoning. "C'mon, there's a job up 'ere!"

I scrambled to my feet, already running; I yelled, "G'bye!" over my shoulder to Sherringford and followed Wiggins. The "job" was delivering a basket of bread to a house near Mayfair. It was too big for one person, and Wiggins and I took turns carrying the heavy basket on the way there. We delivered it, received our payment of a penny each and departed our separate ways.

The sun was very warm, and the cobbles pleasantly toasted the soles of my feet as I crossed to the other side of the street, my penny tightly clasped in my fist. There was a muffin man leaning against a lamp post near the haberdashery shop, with his tray balanced on his head and his bell in his hand, calling out, "Muffins! Muffins! Fresh hot muffins!"

I held out my penny and he stopped his patter long enough to swing the tray down from off his head, reach under the cloth cover and hand me two of the muffins. They were not as hot as he had proclaimed, but they were still warm, and I tore off little pieces and ate them slowly to make them last longer. Sighing with satisfaction, I wiped my hands on my trousers. What I need right now, I thought, is something to finish it off. Something like that! My gaze wandered over to the baker's window next to the haberdashery, where rows of current-studded buns were laid out, white icing dribbled over their tops and running down their sides. I went and pressed my nose against the glass window, gazing lustfully at the cakes until the woman inside shook a floury finger at me, and I stepped back, almost onto the toes of a man behind.

"Watch it, boy!" he exclaimed crossly.

"Sorry, sir," I uttered automatically, my eyes going to his pockets. They bulged gently outwards. I recognized the telltale signs all too well. The man was already walking away and before I allowed myself time to think, I followed. As he stepped aside to make way for a lady, tipping his hat as he did so, I ran past him, just brushing his coat. He walked on, and I doubled back. Hidden in the safety of my pocket, my fingers opened the man's wallet and went through the coins. I selected a threepenny piece by touch and brought it out.

The baker's shop was hot, and the floury-armed woman inside had a forehead shiny with sweat and streaked with more flour where she had wiped it. I put the threepenny piece on the counter where it shone silver in the light from the fire. The woman fixed me with a gimlet eye and demanded, "Yeah?"

"Three of those penny buns," I said haughtily, pointing.

She dumped them in a paper bag and I took them, ostentatiously flicking away the flour that had come off on my hands. I went outside, and nearly ran into Li.

"'ey, Kit," he greeted me, smiling. "You got buns?"

"Yep." I took one out and bit off half, tasting the incredible sweetness of the icing and currants spreading through my mouth.

"That's good, then," Li said. "Good that you've been findin' enough work. You was looking right skinny, lately."

The sweetness of the bun suddenly seemed sickly. I swallowed slowly and offered Li the bag. He took one eagerly. "Coo! Ta, Kit!"

I ran my tongue over my teeth, feeling the sticky sugar and smelling the aromas of fresh pastry from the bakery; I gulped, almost gasped, "Well, gotta go, Li, see you and..." I shoved the bag into his hands and tore off down the street.

Later, back at my railings, I tried to grapple with my disturbingly active conscience. I never get a treat, never get cakes or sweets or anything! I have to save all my money for food to stop me keeling over. Mr Holmes didn't mean for me to have nothing nice! It's just this once. It's not like I'm going to be stealing again all the time. Next time, I won't do it.

An exception disproves the rule, quoted a small part of my mind. What would Mr Holmes think of that? What would Sherringford, or Doctor Watson think of that? You've disproved the rule, Kit. You broke your promise.

No I didn't! I wailed inwardly. I just...

Broke your promise.

I tipped my head back and stared at the sky, blindingly blue, smooth and forever.

You broke your promise.

- - -

Two days later, and I had almost managed to convince myself that it didn't matter. Mr Holmes didn't expect the world. He didn't expect me to be perfect. It didn't matter.

Then Rat found me, hanging about outside a newsagents, and panted out, "Kit! Mr Holmes wants us again!"

I ran with him to Baker Street, trying to pretend, even to myself, that nothing was wrong, that this was just another opportunity for work.

Joining Wiggins, Simpson, Li and Tobey outside the house; past Mrs Hudson and upstairs; past the sofa and into a line; seeing Mr Holmes, Sherringford and Doctor Watson; failing to meet Mr Holmes' eyes.

"I'm looking," Mr Holmes began, "for information in the rich gambling clubs. I want to know if there have been any serious losses at the tables lately, and I don't mean losses of twenty pounds or less; I am talking about hundreds, possibly thousands of pounds being transferred from one man to another at the and of a game. Find that out and tell me immediately; that you do it quickly is most important. The usual rates. Have you got all that, Wiggins?"

"Yeah, guv'nor," Wiggins replied. "Gamblin' clubs. 'eavy losses. We got it."

"Right. Report to me as soon as you have anything."

We turned to go; I was glad that it was to be over so quickly, but Sherringford caught hold of my shoulder, and asked, "Kit, will you be around tomorrow? I couldn't find you these last few days."

Mr Holmes had slid down into his chair and was lighting his pipe. "Yeah, maybe," I said cautiously. "I might be busy."

"Oh, yes, of course. Have you been getting a lot of work lately?"

"Nah, not much," I replied unthinkingly, then amended it to, "I mean, enough, well... not that much..."

"You've not been gettin' much at all," Wiggins remarked from the doorway, where he had lingered with Rat and Li. I shot him a furious glance that said, Go away, but Li chimed in innocently,

"Oh no, she'd got enough. Y'bought three buns the other day, didn't you, Kit?"

I widened my glare to include Li as well.

Sherringford looked a little confused, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr Holmes straighten and felt his gaze on the back of my neck. I looked up to meet it, then quickly stared at my feet.

"Kit." Mr Holmes' voice was cool. "Have you been at your old business of lightening people's pockets again?"

"No! I mean - but, I didn't mean... " I stuttered to a halt, and the silence that followed was loud enough to hurt my ears. I dared a quick glance up and I saw Mr Holmes looking at me. He was not angry; it was even worse than that. He was disappointed. I gave up and burst out, "Yes! I did do it! I stole a wallet and I... I'm sorry!"

With that, I shoved Rat out of the way and ran out of the room, down the stairs and out into the street, my vision blurring with hot, angry tears, my heart pounding a hard and painful beat against my ribs.

^This is all that need be said. That and >

Chapter Two: Double Take

"Yes I am," the boy exclaimed. "I'm Sherringford Holmes. How did you know?"

"Your... no, never mind, I'll show you. C'mon."

"Where?" Sherringford asked suspiciously. "I don't know who you are. I don't even know your name!"

"My name's Kit." Then, to see if it made any impression on him, added casually, "Katherine Moriarty, but forget the Katherine bit."

"Moriarty?" He stared at me as though I'd grown an extra head. "Moriarty?" After a pause, he said, "Alright, I'll come."

I grinned at him and beckoned. He followed, and I led the way out of Lerant Road. Sherringford walked briskly, stretching his long legs out in a way that I was used to seeing in his older brother. The thought of Mr Holmes having a brother, and being a brother himself was a new thought, and I spent several moments silently adjusting myself to this new fact. After these mental gymnastics, I asked, "You been in London long?"

"A bit less than a month."

"Why didn't you go to your brothers before?"

He didn't answer for a moment; then he said, "Pride. In a nutshell. What're you smiling at?"

"You sound so much like your brother." It was true; he had the same clear, almost high-pitched voice, the same precise way of pronouncing his syllables. He even rolled his "r"s in the same way as Mr Holmes did.

We remained silent until we got to Baker Street; once there, I pounded on the door until Mrs Hudson opened it.

"We need to see Mr Holmes," I said. "Hurry up."

She bristled, but before she could protest, Sherringford chipped in. "I'm sorry," he said soothingly, "but you see it's very urgent, and we need to be quick."

"Oh, well, in that case..." She let us in, and we went up the stairs and around the landing. I rapped on the door with my knuckles. Doctor Watson opened it and when he saw us, he smiled widely, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. He held the door wide open.

"Come on in, Kit; how have you been? Holmes is in his room. You know, he - "

"Doctor Watson," I interrupted.

"Yes, Kit?"

"This is Sherringford."

Doctor Watson stared at Sherringford, and his mouth dropped open. "Is...?" he gaped, and Sherringford nodded, his eyebrows tightening a fraction. Watson took a deep breath and called, "Holmes?"

After a pause, the irritable shout came back. "What is it? Tell them to come back later."

"Holmes, you must come and see this. If you do not, then I shall come and bring you forcibly."

"Oh, very well," Holmes said testily. "Nothing can be hurried. I'm coming."

I had felt Sherringford tense when he heard Holmes' voice, and he shot a glance at me from the corner of his eye. I nodded reassuringly, and gave a half shrug as the door at the other side of the room opened, and Mr Holmes came out in his long grey dressing-gown, looking surprisingly young with his hair sticking up, and sleep in his eyes. As soon as he saw Sherringford, he froze stock still in the middle of the room.

I was struck by the striking similarities between them both as they stared at each other in disbelief. It was more than the grey eyes and dark hair; it was the alertness, almost wariness of the way they held themselves, and the expression of shock mirrored in both their faces.

Mr Holmes spoke, his lips barely moving. "Sherringford."

"Sherlock."

At the sound of his younger brother's voice, Holmes took a step forward, and he smiled. A beautiful smile that lit up his face, as though a candle of joy was shining out behind his eyes. "I never thought... I mean..." Then the smile died as his brain started working again. "What has happened?"

The smile that had flashed across Sherringford's face in answer to his brother's, went out. "Father's dead. He was ill, and we couldn't contact you. He couldn't manage the church, and... the creditors came. I had to leave."

Mr Holmes closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he stared at Watson and me as though he had never seen us before. He jerked a hand at the door. "Get out."

My mouth opened to form a hurt protest, but Watson took my arm and steered me out the door. Once in the passage outside, he shut the door and said gently, "Holmes and Sherringford need to have some time together, Kit. That's all. He didn't mean to be quite so brusque."

I stared at the potted plant on its stand against the wall, seeing the fine tracery of veins etched on the green leaves. "I s'pose so, but..."

"But what, Kit?"

"Nothing," I muttered.

----

Postpostpostpostpostpost!

I havn't written it yet!! It's in progress, but I've got the next chapter fully planned out, and the next one sketched out. And the whole story... I think this one is going to be my favourite. I have a weird streak in my personality.

Where is the rest!

But you must! Even if it doesn't pan out, it'd be tooooo delicious to see Sherlock's face when he realizes.....

Now it's my turn to "EEEEK!!!"

Don't worry, I've got the timeline all fixed up (well... sort of) and as the date of Holmes' birth is debatable I've tweaked it to my purposes without being outragous. Hey, writer's prorogative!

As to Kit and Holmes junior junior.... I'm still debating that point. *starts pulling petals off a flower* Shall I? Shan't I? Shall I? Shan't I?

Thanky for reading!

*deep cleansing breaths*

Okay, okay. Well, first, I was of course delighted when I saw there was another one of these gems (seriously, darling, you need to do something with these). I'm still trying to recover here--it's loverly, trust me, but I'm trying to figure out the math. I suppose it depends on how old Holmes is when you're writing this, because I was given to understand that Mycroft was some years older than our dear Sherlock, and I'm just wondering if his parents would still have been able to have a fourteen-year-old child. Hmmm.....maybe I'm worrying too much.

Anyway, loverly as usual, darling. (Now, of course, we must arange a romace between Kit and young Holmes, mwahahah)

EEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (it's a delighted "eek", trust me)

How-what-who-jeeba!