A/N: Yep, here we go again. I've got another massive story. And this was my 2012 NaNoWriMo project. This thing started as a little 50-75k project and has turned into more than twice that.

Here is where I offer my most sincere apologies to any and all reading this. I thank you very much for taking the time to read this. However, it has taken far longer thanks to some RL issues that have taken priority the last few months. Now, as I am finally getting a real start on the new year I hope to dedicate some serious time to working on this.

This project has taken on a life of its own and will likely wind up being one of my first two published works. The series I have now dubbed Amelioration (Parts I-V) will be the first. It is currently being revamped. When I return to this in the next few weeks (early March), there will be new chapters added that were not a part of the original work. They include interludes from the characters' pasts that will help enlighten us all to how they became what they did in these stories.

I hope I have not disappointed anyone too greatly with the delay. More than anything, I hope what I will be adding in the weeks to come will make up for the delay. Thanks again to everyone reading.

Prologue: July 1880

Holmes dragged his weary feet back up the stairs to his pathetic excuse for a room on Montague. He vaguely wondered that these mildewing walls and rotting floors had not collapsed yet. Tonight he could not care less if the whole building collapsed with himself and his demonic landlady included, so long as he was allowed to sleep through the event. It had been yet another long and unfulfilling case interspersed with work and his ongoing studies. The combination of activities had left him no time for personal contemplation or mental exercise he used to keep him going when taxed so physically. Were it not for his desperate need for money, he would never have even considered such a simple, yet time-consuming case.

However, as he now entered the dilapidated room he presently called home, he wasted no time in making himself comfortable. He never stopped thinking that one day he would find something bigger and better. But, for now, this disgusting reminder of his lack of clientele and funding was enough to motivate him into accepting anything. Every once in a while he entertained the idea that one day he would take his cases to a more public venue. Perhaps he would even establish himself enough to approach those bungling idiots Scotland Yard called inspectors.

Now divested of his outer wear and into a comfortably shabby dressing gown, Holmes approached the one window this room possessed. The stifling early July air heavy with the scent of decay all around him did little to settle his already exhausted thoughts. Lighting his pipe now containing the last of his tobacco stash, he spared a brief thought for the beautiful idea of watching this little piece of misery burn. Of course, just as quickly the crushed that idea thoroughly. It would not do for a man attempting to uphold the law and bring criminals to justice to have a secret life of crime started in his own home, such as it was. Though, he had to admit, the idea had merit.

Snorting at his own ridiculous thoughts, he finally curled into the mouldering chair beside his window hoping to at least sleep for a few hours before sunrise. His last thoughts before drifting off into slumber were the return of his elder brother's admonishments that he would never make anything of himself in this ridiculous excuse for a profession. As his dark brows furrowed briefly in defiance of that memory, he could not help a wordless feeling of vague concern that perhaps his brother was right.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade was no rookie when it came to gruesome sights. In his relatively short career as an inspector with Scotland Yard he had seen many of the various forms of cruelty human beings could inflict on one another. Though he was not inured to these sights, each one had a way of leaving a mark on his soul that only further disheartened him. Times like this, however, left him wondering if there really was any hope for humanity. In the early July heat, even at this time of night, he found himself restraining the urge to gag. Turning away from the horrific scene of the mutilated body of some unloved, abandoned street urchin, he briefly wished to just go home and wrap his arms around his own children and remind himself that there still was good in the world; even if only in his own home and heart.

Taking out his little notebook, he jotted down his observations of the scene with little hope and even less enthusiasm. He knew, deep inside, he had been handed this case to prove a point. He was not the most successful Yarder, nor even very high in the chain. He was just another overworked representative of law enforcement. A case such as this was bound to come along sooner or later. And the fact that it was such a meaningless waste of time made it all the worse in his mind. He did not doubt for one moment that the killer would go free. He would never catch the man, unless it was in the act of mutilating one of these children.

This was the third such scene in a month. At least once a week the body of some unwanted little brat was found in an alley or abandoned shack with all his appendages cut off and then carefully sewn back on. From the absolute lack of blood, the killings had not taken place where the body was found. It was easy enough to guess that the child had been awake through at least some of the mutilation. It was a brutal job of hacking away at the digits with some object that was likely blunted from long use. Then, the sewing back on of the smaller and larger parts, obviously took place after the child was dead.

Lestrade could not decide what was worse. The idea that the child had been alive for the initial act, or the fact that they bothered to take the time to sew the child back together. He could not fathom the kind of mind that would do such a thing. It was not surprising that they had all been children. Children on these dark streets were rarely missed. Most of them had no families to miss them. It made sense from the perspective that the killer would have plenty of time to complete his gruesome project without anyone raising a cry in search of a child. Though, the same could be said of most of the adults that wandered these streets as well.

Having gathered all he needed from this miserable, filthy little alley, he put away his notebook and turned away. He barely spared a thought for the rest. Others would be taking care of the cleanup and disposal. This was not the real crime scene. No one had yet figured out where that was. Lestrade could not help wondering if this would go on indefinitely. It would not be the first time a killer had stalked the less-fortunate of these city streets. Nor would it be the first time a killer with such a twisted mind wound up disappearing back into the fog from which they had come; their crimes remembered only on paper and in the minds of those unfortunate enough to have to investigate that inevitable lack of evidence.

Not for the first time, Lestrade wondered why it was he did this to himself. He wondered what had become of that conviction that he could make a difference. Either alone or with others, he had always wanted to bring justice to those who deserved it. As he turned his feet back in the direction of Scotland Yard, he wondered once more what held him to his course. Nights like these used to inspire his convictions. He sighed heavily at these doubts, and wondered if there was any point to any of this.

~o~o~o~

At the other end of the city in yet another trash-strewn alley a child of not much more than eleven years sat huddled in a corner. He was of no particular importance; just another nameless, faceless little boy with nowhere to go and no one to care for him. Despite the balmy night air, he sat shivering in his little shadowy nook between two buildings. It had been weeks since he'd been able to sleep. There was a darkness prowling the alleys of London looking for him. It stalked the night coming for those unwary enough to sleep too soundly.

Three weeks the other kids had been whispering about it in the shadows. A tall man, well-dressed with a kind face and gentle hand would make little children disappear. When they were again found, it was a sight that set every child screaming into a waking nightmare; and not a few adults as well. He would appear from the very shadows that had sheltered and protected them from the eyes of the adults who would hurt them and leave them broken. Their once safe-haven amongst the shadows of the alleys had come alive and turned against them.

Wiggins had heard the screams in the next alley over just two nights ago. He had heard the man take Lucas. But, as with all the others, Lucas had been hidden too far away and too well for anyone to reach him in time. No one ever saw the man well enough to tell him or any others what he looked like. So every tall, thin man that walked these alleys was suspect. And all they could do was pray that running fast enough would keep them alive.

Burying his head in his knees, Wiggins wondered once more at the unfairness of it all. It was hard enough trying to pick the occasional pocket or team up with a beggar for a day just to have something to eat. He wasn't even old enough to find real work. He hadn't been old enough to fend for himself when he parents had been murdered. If Lucas had not taught him how things were done and how to stay safe and unseen in these shadows, he would not have survived the first winter. Now Wiggins was a veteran, and his adopted brother was dead.

Wiggins resisted the urge to give in to those tears that burned unshed behind his tightly closed eyelids. Instead, they became a slowly burning ember in his gut. The hollow feeling of having not eaten disappeared completely as he considered how even the safety of the shadows had turned against him. It just wasn't right. Perhaps he could not make it right, being that he was no more than a kid himself. But it still did not mean he had to accept it helplessly, either. He was too exhausted to even think of what he could do beyond staying alive through one more terror-filled night.

Maybe some day he would be big enough to make a difference. Maybe some day he and the others would not have to live this way. Maybe some day...

Wiggins gave a humorless bark laugh into the knobby balls of his knees. No, he was a nobody. He never would be anybody. Nobody cared about him or the other children that had survived so many years on these cold, dark streets. And nobody would care. They were throwaways in a heartless world of adults where even other adults starved and died in their helplessness. What could a single child do on his own?

Feeling himself dozing off, Wiggins jerked himself back awake with a gasp. For one terror-filled moment he listened to every rat moving in the trash in the alley wondering if it was footsteps. Would he be next? How many more would die before it was his turn? The nameless, faceless children that he saw each and every day whispered more and more fearfully that they had heard other screams, longer screams. The screams of the dying children as they were hacked and cut apart. One even claimed to have heard the man singing a lullaby while the screams mixed into his chorus.

His arms wrapped tightly around his legs, Wiggins listened to the pounding of his heart as the night dragged on forever.

~o~o~o~

"Get your hands off me you wretched little—oof!" A stout, little foot planted just below his ribcage cut off whatever he was about to say.

Holmes could not believe this was happening. Even as the filthy rag was stuffed into his mouth serving as a gag that made his stomach turn unpleasantly, he felt his arms being wrenched up behind him in a most painful manner. Meanwhile, a dozen or so other hands and bodies forced his legs to stillness as they began to tie him up with whatever they had available. Fight as he would, there was no way he could escape his present circumstances without inflicting injury on the lads. He had not come here in search of a fight or to be picked clean. He had hoped that his presence as a gentlemen would establish himself above the other ruffians of these alleys.

He had thought wrong.

The moment he had approached one of the filthy little urchins with a kind word and the offer of a small amount of coin he had been overwhelmed. Out of every shadow, window, nook, and cranny had come a screaming mob of children. The terror in their eyes even as they took him down to roll around in the muck of the alley had been obvious to him. He could not help admiring their courage. Now bound and gagged and thoroughly helpless, Holmes allowed himself to be picked clean hoping the beating to follow would at least not leave him in a position to require the services of a doctor, as he could not afford one at this time.

"That's enough!"

Holmes' gray eyes immediately sought out this authoritative voice. It had been the same voice he'd heard only moments before the ragged little bunch of brats had attacked him. To his surprise, the lad could not have been more than eleven or twelve in Holmes' estimation. But he carried an authority that spoke of experience in these dark quarters. A harshness behind those dark eyes and face twisted in fury told a tale of long days spent on these streets, and even longer nights.

"Return his stuff!" the boy barked, never breaking eye contact. "We'll not take from an evil murderer."

"But—"

"I said put it back!"

To Holmes' surprise, the children did as they were told. The boy nodded as if satisfied before barking further orders.

"Al, go find Lix and tell him we got one. Neil, go find a constable. The rest of you scatter. We'll regroup in the second location. Those who don't know, pick a partner. Now go!"

By this point Holmes' previous admiration for the collective group taking down what they obviously thought was the murderer Holmes had been hoping to catch was multiplied exponentially. These children obeyed the orders of their declared leader even as he faced down the one thing that could spark terror behind those hardened eyes. And, even in his terror, the boy maintained control and kept his head as he stared back into Holmes' gray eyes.

Once alone, the boy squatted down just far enough to be beyond reach. Even as his arms and legs trembled with barely contained fear, the boy refused to break eye contact.

"We're not helpless anymore," the boy said calmly with a voice possessed of iron. "We will not wait for you to hunt us down one by one. Now it's our turn."

For one, brief moment Holmes' eyes widened as he considered the implications of that statement and the obvious threat behind it. Holding the boy's eyes with his own, he tried to speak around the gag. Thankfully, the expected knife that would slit his throat never materialized. Instead, the boy crouched where he was, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps. By this point, Holmes was downright unnerved. It was bad enough he'd been taken down by a bunch of children, but now he would be arrested as a suspected murderer. And, when the boy stared him down, knowing he could be the one brutally mutilating those children, he refused to back down with his cold stare.

Holmes was relieved to hear the coming footsteps of a larger person. He had begun to wonder what would happen if the constable turned out to be some older, more experienced leader. However, hearing these footsteps as well, the boy rose to his full height. Clenching his fists, he glared down at Holmes as if he were the filthiest piece of muck in the whole alley.

"You tell them."

And, with that, the lad was gone. He ran down the opposite end of the alley leaving Holmes to face a bemused constable by himself. As the constable's bemusement turned into a wicked glare, Holmes only barely managed to refrain from pounding his head on the pavement.

This was so not going to end well.

~o~o~o~

"What is all this bloody ruckus?" Lestrade shouted as he stormed down the corridor of the cells. "What is he on about?"

"Sorry, sir," one of the younger constables present stammered quickly. "He's demanding to see the Inspector in charge of the—the murders of—of those...kids."

"You mean those little brats I—"

"Children, Inspector!" a new voice demanded his attention through the little barred grate at the top of the door. "They are children. Despite what you may think, they deserve your respect as human beings, if nothing else."

"And just who are you?" Lestrade asked, wondering what kind of man would speak with such arrogance from within a gaol.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, a private consulting detective."

Lestrade snorted. Rather pretentious, he thought to himself.

Crossing his arms in an unconsciously defensive gesture, Lestrade dismissed the other constables. "And just what is it you want, Mr. Holmes? I've been told you were arrested on the suspicion of attempting to take another victim."

"That was an unfortunate misunderstanding," Holmes replied coldly. "I am, in fact, attempting to locate the murderer; as you lot seem entirely out of your depth on this case."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Arrogant, too.

"By the looks of things, I would say it is you who are out of your depth, Mr. Holmes. As I understand it, that was the case when Constable Williams found you in that alley. Or would you like to tell me that was a misunderstanding as well?"

Holmes snorted. "That is irrelevant to the situation. I am offering my services to assist you in this case."

Lestrade barked a laugh. He's mad!

"I'm to just let you out and then employ your services as a 'private consulting detective'—whatever that may be—when I already have you here on a suspicion of murder?"

"Come now, Inspector. We both know there is no evidence—"

"No evidence, against this accusation, you mean."

Holmes clenched his teeth as the little man on the opposite side of the door trying to reign in his impatience. "Inspector—"

"That's enough, Mr. Holmes. I don't have time for these. These little rats have wasted enough of my time. I have more important—"

"Do you hug your children when you go home at night, Inspector?"

Lestrade blinked in surprise.

"Do you tell yourself better those children than your own daughter, perhaps? Is that how you sleep at night?"

"How dare you presume—"

"I presume nothing, Inspector Lestrade. I know."

Lestrade was about to turn his back and walk away, perfectly satisfied to find whatever evidence he needed at this point to pin those murders on this man. Something in those gray eyes boring into his own spoke of sincerity, however. There was a feverish passion behind those eyes. A desire to prove himself. Lestrade felt as if he were looking into a mirror of a younger version of himself. This man sincerely believed in what he was doing, what he was saying. There was a coldly calculating cunning behind those eyes that glittered with a desire to bring justice to those others thought beneath their notice.

As if a memory from another life, Lestrade could almost remember what that felt like.

Taking himself in hand, Lestrade cocked his head questioningly as those eyes continued to bore into his very soul.

"Just who are you, Mr. Holmes? And what is your interest in this case?"

"As I said, I am a private consulting detective. I offer my services to solve crimes and petty problems when asked by those in need. In answer to your question of the case: Have you yet noticed that the murderer possesses little or no knowledge of human anatomy while very deft and neat with a needle?"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed dangerously. "And just how would you know that?"

"Your last victim was found in the East End. I was there that night when you were taking your little notes, completely missing every relevant point."

"You're not making your case any less suspicious, Mr. Holmes. What credentials have you?"

Holmes waved a hand dismissively as he stepped back from the door. "I have neither the time nor the patience for this, Inspector. If you wish to establish my whereabouts on the night the actual murder took place—which was Tuesday of last week, by the way, in a warehouse near the Thames, possibly in the Wapping area, though I would have need of a closer view of the body to be certain—inquire with a Mycroft Holmes. I was at the Diogenes Club, with my elder brother and several witnesses."

The fact that he had been all but begging a meal off his elder brother was not something the little inspector needed to know.

"I'll await your return to release me. We can speak more of these matters when you have come to the inevitable conclusion that my services would be of inestimable value to you."

Lestrade humped in disbelief. Whoever this young man was, he could already tell he was going to be a bloody nuisance, if nothing else. Though he was not familiar with the name Holmes, something told him he soon would be, much to his displeasure.

~o~o~o~

Three days later Holmes found himself once more prowling the alleys of London. His first encounter with the official forces of the law within this city had not gone well. The insufferable little inspector had spurned his offers of assistance. He still did not know what Mycroft had told the man, but he could easily deduce it was not what either of them wanted to hear. Instead of being suitably impressed, the little inspector had treated him as little more than a common criminal before expelling him from the Yard.

"Parlor tricks,"Lestrade had sneered at Holmes' display of his talents. "You are a trickster and a troublemaker, and I'll have no more of you or your tricks. If I find you are interfering in my investigation, I will have you locked down with your brother's blessing."

Holmes had ground his teeth until he was sure they would crack. Summoning his remaining dignity, despite his disheveled and disreputable appearance, he calmly took himself back to his depressing little abode on Montague. For a time he simply paced like a panther ready to leap upon anything that moved. After wasting some time plotting his petty revenge against his brother, he had finally settled on a plan.

Now, he was on the hunt again. This time, he was much more wary. Where he saw one child, he could hear others. No longer did these children give the appearance of being alone in his eyes. Now he knew what to look and listen for in the shadows. It was clever, bold, and courageous. And he knew beyond a doubt, would serve them in good stead in their hard years to come. But, for now, he only wished to avoid bloodshed, as he had no doubt that is what this little display of defiance on their part would eventually escalate. Sooner or later many of them would be hurt. And, if not them, it was only a matter of time before those cold, dark eyes decided to take things a step further.

"I am unarmed," Holmes called out, sensing movement behind him.

Raising his hands above his shoulders so as to be easily visible in the dim light of the little alley, Holmes slowly turned around. He was pleased to see those dark eyes once more. Cold and hard as they now were with the promise of dire consequences, they sparked with wary intelligence.

"I warned you."

"I am looking for you."

Despite the flicker of fear behind those eyes, he never wavered. "I told you we would not be hunted like dogs anymore."

"I am hunting, though you were not my target. You are correct. There is someone out there hunting you and murdering you one by one. I am not that man."

"And why should we believe you?" he shot back, defiantly. "No one knows what he looks like. No one who has seen him has lived to tell the others."

Holmes nodded to this. "I came back. I am unarmed, and I wish only to speak, for now."

The boy crossed his arms as if waiting. He fairly radiated confidence and leadership, though he quite obviously quivered inside with fear. "Speak, then."

"Call out the others so that we may speak."

"No. And if you want to keep speaking, you will stay exactly where you are."

Holmes smiled briefly. The child was far from stupid. He could easily see why he had become their leader. He nodded slowly. "Very well, then. I acknowledge your position of leadership here, sir. And I have come to negotiate for your services. My name is Sherlock Holmes, a private consulting detective. I am, in fact, hunting the very same man who keeps you awake at night wondering which of you will be next."

Wiggins' eyes flashed dangerously for a moment as he thought he was being mocked. But as the gentleman continued to speak, something of sincerity came through. Wary though he was, Wiggins felt compelled to trust him, at least enough to listen. He had no desire for bloodshed. And, in his mind, the man had to mad to come back looking for them...unless he had other intentions, more along the lines of revenge.

"Call me Wiggins," he offered, stiffly. "What do you mean by services? We'll not be bought or sold like animals. We're our own protection now, so we don't need you."

Holmes smiled, sincerely pleased. "I had no intentions in that direction, Mr. Wiggins. But you have eyes and ears that reach far in this city. How do you think I was able to find you?"

Wiggins continued to eye him warily. A subtle hand gesture silenced the shifting Holmes could hear all around him. "What do you want?"

"Information, and the occasional errand. You will be paid for services rendered. And, in time, I hope to employ more of you. But, for now, the few of you gathered here will be enough."

"Why?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Why do you care? No one else has bothered to even notice us. No one cares if we're picked off one at a time until there are none of us left."

Holmes' brow furrowed as his expression darkened into something almost sinister. When Wiggins refused to show any signs of intimidation, he again acknowledged the boy's courage. Continuing to address him as an equal, he said, "I do care. The man who has committed these murders is just that, a murderer. The value of your lives is no less than that of my own. I will find him and bring him to justice. With your help, we can take away the nightmare that keeps you children up in the night fearing the next shadow. It is true that others do not notice you. And it is that which makes you so very useful to me. You can see and hear what others would whisper in those same shadows, never having noticed your presence. You know these streets as no others could hope.

"I offer you an advanced payment of—"

"No."

Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow as he withdrew his hands from his pocket.

"There will be no payment, yet, Mr. Holmes—if that really is your name. I have agreed to nothing."

"Of course you would wish to discuss this amongst yourselves," Holmes agreed. "Allow me to leave this alley unmolested and you may do so at your leisure. Should you decline my offer, I will still hunt the man responsible for these murders, and request that you pass my name along to the others. I will, of course, respect your desire to be left alone. However, if would choose to accept my offer, I will leave you my card with my address. Good day, Mr. Wiggins."

Wiggins eyed the card the man had left lying on the ground even as he kept a close eye on the retreating back. Not until he had crept to the mouth of the alley and seen the man strolling at a sedate pace further down the block did he return to stare at that little white square on the blackened ground. He had not yet signaled the others to come out. He spent several seconds wondering at how out of place that bright white little square seemed in this dismal place; just as the man himself had seemed so out of place, and yet...not.

Finally he signalled to the others to come out of their various hiding places as he retrieved the card. Wary as he was, he could not help feeling there was something there worth trusting.

~o~o~o~

Holmes smiled as he walked away from that alley. The boy had thus far performed admirably. He'd given a good account of himself and his position as leader. He would have to wait and see what would become of this possible alliance. For him, the uses were virtually limitless. Even with this limited income, there may be other things he could do. Children in their position would not complain for having a safe place to sleep or education or any number of other things as repayment for their services and incentive to continue their employment. He had no doubts Wiggins would seek him out soon enough.

Who needed infuriating little Yarders with a disregard for human life based on social status? Who needed an army when Holmes had all of London's most unnoticed eyes and ears at his fingertips?

Feeling the thrill of something in his veins singing of the potential for the future and the furthering of his career, Holmes as hard-pressed not to make a spectacle of himself. That tingling sensation of excitement for a hunt practically consumed him. Laughing briefly, but heartily, he swung his walking stick with abandon. The board was set, the chase was on, and he had no doubts he would emerge the victor. And to blazes with the official representatives of the law in this city. The city would be his, and the criminal elements would fear and respect him far more than some ferret-faced little inspector with beady dark eyes.

Inspector Lestrade would never know what hit him.