John looked down at the young boy lying in a heap on the cold floor in the abandoned warehouse. The lad couldn't have been any older than sixteen – his face was obliterated beyond all recognition and he'd been stabbed so many times John lost count. He just couldn't fathom it. Pinching his bottom lip, he just shook his head, never looking away from the boy.

"All right?" Sherlock asked as he came to stand next to John.

"Hm? Mm," was all John could manage. He bit his lower lip and took a 'Parade Rest' stance to help him get a handle on his emotions. "He's just a boy, Sherlock. Who could do something like this," John said waving a hand towards the body. "It's just so…"

"Savage," finished Sherlock.

John finally tore his eyes away from the body to look at Sherlock. "Yes," he said. "Exactly."

Sherlock gently touched John on the arm. "John."

"I'm all right, Sherlock. Really. I just can't believe how barbaric people can be."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with John's answer, and stepped over to Inspector Bradstreet who was kneeling by the body.

"His I.D. says his name is Oswald Spencer," said Bradstreet handing the card to Sherlock as he stood.

"Ozzie?" Sherlock looked back to the body, this time taking in every detail.

"Sherlock, did you know the young man?" asked John.

Even though the boy's facial features were unrecognisable, Sherlock was still able to deduce that the body lying before them was, in fact, Oswald Spencer.

"Yes," answered Sherlock. "He helped me with some of my cases in the past. Last time I saw him he was working in a barrister's office part-time – I helped him to get the job. Before that he'd been living rough since he was a child." Sherlock stared at the lifeless body.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry." John said putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to comfort him.

Sherlock didn't reply, but the gesture didn't go unnoticed.

Bradstreet cleared his throat. "Yes, well… Sherlock, can you tell us anything else - maybe about the killer?"

Sherlock took several moments going over the body and looked around the warehouse, shaking his head and muttering to himself as he did so. Finally, he spotted it - a chess piece, up high in one of the warehouse windows. "There!" he shouted.

"What does it mean Sherlock?" said John.

"I believe the killer is telling us he thought of Ozzie as a pawn – a pawn in whatever game he's playing. I fear poor Ozzie won't be the last."

Sherlock stood very still, thinking for another few minutes. He took one last look down at the young man he'd helped so many years ago, then turned quickly and walked away with John following close behind.

They reached the main road where Sherlock stopped and raised his arm to hail a cab.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine, John. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, it's just – you know? That poor lad. You got him off the street, you must have some feeling for the young man to have helped him like that."

"I was just returning the favour. He helped me first."

A cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door for John to clamber in. As John passed him he heard Sherlock say, "Some favour too…it got him killed."

John slid across the seat. After telling the cabbie their destination he turned to Sherlock. "How do you mean?"

"If I'd have let him be, left him on the street and not meddled in his affairs, he wouldn't have been a target. He'd still be living on the streets – invisible. Like we were before.

"We?"

"Yes. We. He was a clever boy John. Uniquely so. He knew the streets like no one else I've seen since. I was never sure how long he'd actually been on the streets, but from what I've been able to deduce it had been since the age of nine – possibly eight."

"My god," gasped John. "How? How could a child survive for that long, and who would turn him out like that to live on the streets?"

"From what he told me, his family was killed in a home invasion. His mother hid him in a closet and he saw the whole thing. Once the intruders left, he ran and never went back. I tried once to find any family he had left, but there wasn't any and as I said before John, he was a very clever boy. I'm not sure why he took to me though. You know me, I wasn't much different then. Only then, I was high most of the time and angry all of the time. I hated my brother, my drug habit, my life…everything and everyone. Still, this little street urchin took to me. He kept me fed, kept me out of the elements and made sure I knew where to go to stay washed. I think he even pinched and sold my drugs from time to time, both to keep me from using and to keep us fed."

"It's not your fault Sherlock." John grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Whoever the bastard is that did this is solely to blame. You helped Ozzie. You helped get him a proper job and got him off the streets. I'm sure he was very grateful."

"Maybe," was all Sherlock said as he turned to face the window.

The rest of the journey to Baker Street passed in silence.