A/N: This is based off a strange off-handed comment in Hopkins' section of the 'Minor Sherlock Holmes characters' wiki, and a plot bunny that jumped at me during a subsequent conversation with AdidasandPie. I blame her for encouraging it.

Since my publishing of many of the later cases of my companion Sherlock Holmes, my readers have expressed curiosity over many aspects of the stories. One question that I have met with surprising frequency is why Holmes, not exactly known for a personable or encouraging attitude, yet admired and had high expectations for the young inspector Stanley Hopkins. For a time I wondered the same thing, and I found the answer - unfortunately for the public, that information can never be published, and so they are left to wonder and theorize on their own time. A few interesting theories have been put forth, but none are so strange and scandalous as the truth, however little of it even I know. The full details of the matter are only known to two people in the whole of England, and it is their prerogative to keep or share it as they wish.

It was during a stormy week in '94, only shortly after Holmes' miraculous return to life, that we first met the boy. At the time he was stripped to his shirtsleeves, soaked to the skin, and smelled rather peculiar, due to having just dived into the Thames to fish out an unconscious constable. Certainly an auspicious start, if not the best of first impressions. He greeted us with a grin and an apology that he would not shake our hands, and then fell back to let us speak to Lestrade, who introduced him shortly as the new Inspector and then got down to business. Inspectors came and went, and we thought little of the matter.

A few days later we met him again, when Lestrade called us to a house in Brimsdown, on a matter of little note when compared to the affairs that have graced the pages of the Strand. We would not have even gone to the scene, and rather allowed Lestrade to consult Holmes in the sitting-room the next day as his telegram suggested, but that we'd solved another case over a fine late supper and the night found Holmes in a good humour. Suffice to say that at the onset the matter concerned some mysterious sounds that had awoken the housekeeper, and that the young daughter had been found missing. The muddy ground had produced a set of footprints leading up to the house to the kitchen window, which had been forced open, but there was no sign of anything going the other way.

Hopkins was outside when we arrived, stock-straight and with a hand on his chin as he scrutinized the hard concrete of the front walk. We were more than a dozen yards away when he spun and rushed to greet us, good-natured energy in every motion despite his puzzled state. Though he still smelled faintly from his unfortunate swim, he looked a good sight better, and it could now be seen that he was a trim and handsome youth of good grooming and alert manner, which was almost promising but for the lack-lustre look in his gray eyes. He led us to the house and announced our presence to Lestrade. Though he stood aside again while Lestrade explained the details, I could see that the lad had fallen back into thought, his head sunk down and his fingers absently brushing his moustache.

Holmes did his usual pacing about the place, closely inspecting the window-ledges, the floor, several items about the living-room, and the wall by the fireplace. He questioned the housekeeper and the worried parents about the girl's habits, about the history of the house, about anything valuable in their possession. Before long he came to rest again in the front hall, with such an affected boredom to his expression that I knew he must have solved the case, and found it much less interesting than he'd hoped, so that the only entertainment he would glean would be from the reaction of the unfortunate inspector who'd taken up his time. He had just opened his mouth to begin his no doubt scathingly obvious revelation, when the most remarkable thing occurred.

"He can't have left," Hopkins spoke up for the first time since he'd stepped into the house. Lestrade and I both expected Holmes to snort and continue, but instead he stared at the Junior Inspector, shut his mouth, and waited. The boy looked up at us, the glassy look of his eyes replaced with an excited fire, and he repeated his declaration. Then he was off like a shot, speaking at a mile a minute about the layout of the house, the habits of the family, and the character of the burglar, which was all quite hard to follow when also trying to keep up with him dashing off into the kitchen.

We arrived just in time to see him grab hold of a section of kitchen floor and toss it up. Two shots rang out, whistling through the air where the enthusiastic young inspector had been standing just before Holmes bore him out of the danger zone with a hurried tackle.

"You forgot the boots - recent ex-military, likely to be armed," my friend quipped, helping Hopkins back to his feet.

Between Lestrade, Hopkins, Holmes, and myself, the unfortunate burglar was apprehended and the girl recovered without anyone being damaged. She had not been harmed but was quite shaken, having awoken in the night and surprised a burglar on her way to a glass of water, and been taken hostage to keep from raising the alarm when the housekeeper came to investigate. It hardly even needs to be said that the criminal was indeed a retired corporal and armed with an army revolver.

The Inspectors escorted the man off the premises to the tune of many thanks from the family, while I turned to Holmes and suggested that perhaps, in this case, they actually deserved to get the credit.

Holmes nodded absently. "Perhaps," he murmured, and then looked to me with an expression I could not read, except to say that his mind was not entirely within the present. "My dear Watson, would you mind overmuch if we took a detour by the Yard offices on the way home?"

My curiosity at this strange question prevented me from saying anything but yes. We thus caught a hansom, and my companion remained in a brooding silence for the trip, shedding no further light on whatever was occurring in his remarkable brain. Nor did he see fit to enlighten me once we'd arrived. In fact, I would almost say he had completely forgotten me, which meant this was a most grave matter indeed. I could not begin to fathom why.

Hopkins was quite surprised when we stepped into his office, his eyes widening as he looked up from his paperwork. He rose and smiled despite his uncertainty. "Mr. Holmes! Doctor! Didn't expect to see you again so soon. What can I do for you? Is it about the case?"

"No, nothing like that. Just a friendly visit - I work often with the Yard, after all, and it is to my benefit to know the men I work with."

I fought to keep a bland expression covering my disbelief. Several new inspectors had been promoted during the years I had known Sherlock Holmes, but he had never before gone out of his way to meet them. In fact, he was usually scornful of the 'new blood'. I considered that his three-year absence had changed him more than I'd suspected, but this was entirely unprecedented.

While I was struggling to understand just what my friend was playing at, Holmes had engaged Hopkins in a lively conversation, which had just turned from character to family. "I believe blood contributes just as much to a person as their upbringing," Holmes was saying. "You're from a military family, aren't you?"

Hopkins nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes, that's right! My father was a Major."

"Came into good fortune, but fell on hard times soon thereafter?"

The inspector, rather than be scandalized by this examination of his family life, only laughed. "I'd read of your powers, Mr. Holmes, but I must admit I never thought I'd see them in person! How did you know?"

"The daguerreotype," Holmes said, pleased by the admiration of his audience. He tapped the open folding case that decorated Hopkins' desk, within which was a picture that indeed bore the distinctive mirrored surface of the silver process. "They are quite expensive, but widely renowned as the most beautiful photographic process, and this one appears to be some years old. The happy young couple could not be anyone but your parents. And yet, rich men do not let their sons join the Metro."

Hopkins laughed again and settled into his chair. "True, true, you have me there. My father earned a considerable inheritance when an uncle died, but invested in a bad business and lost it all. Hardly his fault, sir, and there's no shame in the telling of it."

"Surely not. I must admit, you don't seem to take after him much."

"Hardly at all. I'm square on my mother's side in looks, though she says I've got my father's energy."

"Does she?" I perceived a momentary flash in my friend's eyes. "You know, looking at that photograph, I could swear she was the sister of a friend of mine in college. What was her maiden name?"

"Romilly. Myrna Romilly, but you're mistaken there, she never had a brother."

"Hm, you may be right, the name doesn't strike any chords. Perhaps a cousin. Well, we've taken enough time from your paperwork. It was nice to meet you, Inspector Hopkins - I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again soon."

Holmes did not speak of the matter again that night. He remained quiet through breakfast, then settled onto the settee with a lit pipe, a glassy look in his eyes that forewarned a melancholy mood. Whatever it was, it troubled him greatly, and yet he would not volunteer the information and I was not quite ready to press it out of him. Instead I picked up the Times and noted, "Hopkins has made the front page." My friend stirred slightly at that, so I went on to read the glowing review, and when I'd finished a ghost of a smile graced his lips.

"You know, Watson, I think that boy has real potential," he mused.

I smiled too as, quite suddenly, the pieces fell into place. "Of course he does," I said, and with a sideways glance added as casually as possible, "He has his father's eyes."

It was well worth it for the start that Holmes gave, his pipe falling from his lips as he sat bolt-upright. His eyes were wide when they focused on me. When I only smiled, he relaxed, chuckling sheepishly as he fished the pipe back out of the folds of his dressing gown.

"I must remember that you are more observant than you appear, my friend. When did you figure it out?"

"Just now," I said, folding my paper. "I wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't confirmed it. The idea of you as a father seems nearly fantastical."

"It does, doesn't it?" He sighed, laying back once more. "I suppose you'd like an explanation."

"If you wouldn't mind. It is a rather private matter, though."

He drew a long draught from his pipe and contemplated the bullet-pocks in the ceiling, taking his time before he answered. "I was barely into manhood, reckless, and charming. She was a few years older, intelligent, and passionate, but lonely with her husband away in the army. It lasted only two months, from the time I met her to the time her husband returned, then it was over. I never saw or heard of her again until last night." He took another puff. "We all make mistakes in our youth, my dear doctor.

"Perhaps, with a little encouragement, mine will come to some good."

Sherlock Holmes, Stanley Hopkins, and company do not belong to me, no matter what strange theories I might put to pixel.

P.S. Please don't hate me.

P.P.S. As always, reviews are appreciated and adored, and other good 'A' words.