Author's Note:

Forgot to mention in the Prologue… this is completely unedited, save by yours truly. My beta will not be combing it for a while yet.


© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.

All rights reserved.


==Chapter I==

Of Clients and Concerns

One month earlier:

"I beg your pardon, but are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the private consulting detective?"

The tall man halted on his doorstep and turned to see a younger man staring up at him from the sidewalk. Early twenties, only child, wealthy, banking trade, steady and sensible, slightly romantic, played rugby in university, lives in West Norwood, engaged to be married. And he wore deep mourning.

"I am. And your name, sir?"

"Victor Savage." The youth hastily tipped his hat. "Mr. Holmes, may I speak with you? It is quite important."

Sherlock Holmes unlocked the door, opened it, and gestured inside. "Do come in, Mr. Savage. My condolences on your recent loss."

"How did you know it was…" Young Savage looked down and saw the legal papers protruding from his coat. "Ah." He looked back up, his cornflower blue eyes holding a faint gleam of amusement. "I see. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to make an appearance. "Mr. Holmes—oh, pardon me, I didn't realise you had a visitor." She hurried forward to take Savage's hat and coat.

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes assured her. "Follow me, Mr. Savage?" Once inside the sitting room upstairs, he settled into his armchair and steepled his fingers. "Now, how may I be of service to you?"

Savage had declined a seat and was now pacing the rug between the fireplace and the table in a state of considerable agitation. "It is my uncle, Mr. Holmes—my step-uncle, you understand. My father has just died, and his stepbrother, Mr. Culverton Smith, desires more than the tidy sum Father left him."

"Surely you would be better off consulting your lawyer?"

Savage shook his pale blond head. "There is more to it than that, Mr. Holmes. You see, I have reason to believe that Culverton is engaged in… less than legal activities."

"Indeed?"

The young man nodded. "Culverton's father was a man who made his wealth in shipping, but most of his fortune was lost to gambling and poor investment. The only thing Culverton was really left with was a plantation in Sumatra. It was quite irksome to him, for he is a profound student of pathology, though he holds no degree."

"Not even a Bachelor of Science?"

"No, he… he hadn't the money to finish university. He's had to scrape together what he could to continue his studies. For a time, it seemed as though his management of the Sumatran plantation would pay off. Then disease struck, devastating his workforce. He got to witness a tropical illness firsthand, but little good it did him. He had to sell off the plantation and return to London. That was a few months ago. Now Father's dead and left him quite enough to live off of, but Culverton isn't content with that."

Holmes held up a hand. "My dear sir, you still have not explained how you believe your step-uncle to be criminally connected."

"I know, Mr. Holmes—I was just coming to that. The fact is, I've heard rumours at my club—from two lads who are courageous or foolish enough to brave the East End just for thrills—that people have been dying there from rare diseases. Of course, in that part of town, it's nothing new, but these cases seem to be isolated and quite acute, killing the victims in just a couple of days. And they did not start until just a little bit after Culverton had returned home. Now, surely, Mr. Holmes, that cannot be coincidence."

"Perhaps, perhaps not, but I do dislike coincidence." Holmes frowned over the tips of his fingers. "You believe Culverton Smith to be experimenting with the immigrant population to study the results?"

Hesitating, Savage grimaced. Holmes wordlessly held out his cigarette case, and Savage gratefully accepted a cigarette and inhaled the smoke once before answering. "Culverton, unlike his father, is a practical man, with a scientific bent that approaches cold-bloodedness. I believe that he would, ha, well, take a pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid himself simply to document the effects properly." He paused in his pacing and glanced sideways at Holmes.

The detective shook his head. "I recognise the allusion, Savage, and that was merely another man's opinion of me. I would never treat myself or any friend of mine in such a manner."

Savage smiled ruefully and gave a little nod. "My apologies, Mr. Holmes. But, you see, I don't really have a reason to disbelieve that Culverton would commit such deeds. Why, even recently, I visited a pub with him, and he said something about London being an excellent place to study Asiatic diseases, far removed from their source. I think he was, well, in his cups, and the drink had quite loosened his tongue."

"Do you remember his exact words? It may be important."

The young man flushed and looked down. "I'm ashamed to say that he was not the only one of us whose judgement was impaired by spirits. That is really all that I can remember."

Holmes's eyebrows drew together. "Hum, that is really too bad."

Desperation flooded Savage's robust features. "Do look into it, Mr. Holmes. You'll be handsomely rewarded if only you can put my mind at ease one way or another. With the possibility of my relative's being a murderer and the reality of his desire for more of my father's estate, I fear for my very life."

"Quite so. Very well, Mr. Savage, I shall look into your problem for you, and I think I need not warn you to be on your guard. Be quite conscious of all that passes to you in food, drink, and post. Poison is a woman's weapon, but your relative may be ample proof that the device is not exclusive to the fairer sex."

"I shall take the utmost care," Savage said determinedly, lifting his chin. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I feel quite better already, and it really is an honour to meet you." He offered his hand, which Holmes shook. "I first read of you in Beeton's Christmas Annual, and I've been following your career ever since. I must confess to being a great admirer of your work—Emily, my fiancée, jests that I am obsessed, but, really, it is quite marvellous. To think that it is possible to deduce a man's life story merely by his clothes and appearance!"

Holmes felt his face flush with pleasure. "It is nothing, I assure you. Quite a shallow trick that anyone can learn if they apply themselves."

Savage smiled faintly. "I've been applying myself for three years, Mr. Holmes, and I trust I am no duller witted than the average Londoner. You, sir, possess a gift, that the rest of us poor mortals simply don't have."

Holmes said nothing, but a small smile flitted across his lips.

"Well, I shall be going, then." Savage slapped his card down upon the table. "Good day, Mr. Holmes, and good hunting."

Holmes remained in his chair as the client departed, and took his cherry-wood pipe down from the mantle. He contemplated using it for a few moments, then decided against it and stood. He lit a cigarette instead and hurried downstairs and outside without pausing to grab his greatcoat. The Irregular on-duty today was little Kelly, and he scampered over from the nearby shoeshine stand when Holmes called.

"Oi, Mr. 'Olmes, yew be wantin' Wiggins?"

"That I do, my lad, and tell him he's needed immediately."

Kelly's green eyes went wide. "Cor, is it murder, Mr. 'Olmes?" He had been with the Baker Street Irregulars for but a year, being only nine years of age.

"Quite possibly. Now scarper!"

"Yessir!"

Holmes shoved one hand into his pockets and watched the boy run off. It had been ten years since he'd literally stumbled across Davy Wiggins and hired him as an informant. Then it was the boy's brother, then the brother's friend, then Davy's two friends, and, in the space of half a year, Sherlock Holmes had acquired a young detective force that numbered a full dozen.

The Twelve Apostles, the Yarders called them, following that upstart amateur the same way the real Apostles had followed Christ.

One corner of Holmes's mouth pulled back. Not quite accurate, but amusing. The moniker stuck, still applying to the original twelve Irregulars who were now all grown to manhood. Three were in the Scotland Yard Constabulary, four were apprenticed out to tradesmen, two were cabbies (and swung around Baker Street often in hopes of transporting their former employer), two more drifted about and did odd jobs, and the old ringleader… Well, Davy Wiggins outshone them all, as everyone knew he would.

Wiggins still held his position as Holmes's lieutenant, overseeing the operations of the current Irregulars, which now stood at forty-nine boys aged from eight to twenty-one years. Wiggins aspired to be a private consulting detective himself, though his focus was solely and realistically set on aiding the members of his own class. He himself had risen, through education out of Holmes's own pocket, to speech and manners that would indicate the middle class, but his heart lay with his people. He well knew that Scotland Yard simply did not have the men and the resources to bring light to the darker parts of London, so there he was determined to traverse to bring justice to those who could not be protected otherwise.

He was swift and cunning, and he had learned well. Holmes knew that his protégé would go far in life.


An hour later found Wiggins in the sitting room of 221B, studying a particular entry in one of Holmes's many commonplace books. "Smith, Culverton," he read aloud. "Quit University of London, etcetera, etcetera, monographs on Asiatic diseases—cor blimey, sounds like you—amateur student—of course—further etcetera…" He looked up at his employer. "This is our potential murderer?"

The affected middle-class inflection was impressive—only the astute observer would realise that Cockney was the boy's native speech. "Quite so," said Holmes past his cherry-wood pipe. "You have not heard of him, then?"

Wiggins shook his head and looked back down at the book. "13 Lower Burke Street," he mused aloud. "I'll get Wilkins, Thompson, O'Neal, and Saunders to watch him." He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "But I s'ppose you'll want my adult contacts, too."

"Certainly—anyone you can get."

The boy nodded. "Right, then." He shut the book decisively and stood. "Are you bringing the Doctor aboard this time?"

"I shall ask him if he knows anything about Smith, but, beyond that, I shan't trouble him. 'My practice is never very absorbing,' he says, but winter is coming on and sickness with it—no exotic diseases need apply. I shall be surprised if I can see him at all."

"But you'll let him know about the case, at least?"

Holmes frowned, to all appearances innocently puzzled. "Is there a reason why I should?"

Wiggins' blue eyes narrowed, and Holmes knew that they were about to re-enact an argument that had been nearly two years running. "I think he'd like to keep up with your cases."

"There is no need of it."

"Other than the fact that you're friends? Oh, no, no need 't'all!"

Holmes was not grinding his teeth around his pipe. No, for that would be a sign of irritation, and he refused to be irritated by his lieutenant's tenacity in this difference of opinion. "David Jonathan Wiggins, Dr. Watson has his own life to live, and I mine. I have worked without a partner before, and I am working without one now quite well."

"'Cept for that knife-wound you got, early August," Wiggins persisted. "Did you ever tell the Doc about that?"

Holmes nearly threw up his hands. "No! He had enough to worry about with a child on the way, and then the baby was stillborn! Why burden him with unnecessary concern after the fact?"

The younger man sprung to his feet, all traces of refinement gone. "'E would've wanted t' know! Sherlock 'Olmes, you're not invincible, an't seems 's'if Watson, Lestrade, 'n' me are the only people in the bloody world wot knows it!"

Holmes spent a full ten seconds reining in his temper. "You forgot Mycroft," he said at last, his calm voice belying the undeniable irritation roiling inside.

"Fine, then, Mr. Mycroft, too." Wiggins ran both hands through his golden hair and swore.

"Hold your tongue."

"I ain't—" Wiggins closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out—"I'm not a child anymore." He opened his eyes. "Soon's I have an-y-thin'," he continued in a dull tone, "I'll let you know." Holmes was left staring after an almost slammed-shut door.

He pulled the pipe from his mouth and just stopped himself from doing something childish with it. He and Wiggins had been replaying that conversation ever since the Watsons' wedding. After the initial bout of depression and loneliness, Holmes had recovered and thrown himself back into his work, completing eight cases between the wedding and the incident regarding The Woman. He requested or allowed Watson's presence on many cases in the spring and summer of '89, but it was in the autumn of that year that at last he realised his selfishness.

His dearest friend had a wife and a practise. He couldn't continue to impose upon Watson's time… and he couldn't allow Watson to be wounded again. Certainly not now, with Mary in the picture. The debacle of a counterfeiting case that had ended in a Jezail to Watson's thigh could not be repeated, no matter what deadly circumstances in which Holmes found himself. Watson might not survive next time, and Holmes knew he would not if Watson did not.

"Holmes!"

"Watson, shh, I'm here."

"Holmes…"

"Shh, shh, I'm here, my dear fellow."

"Holmes, please…"

Just the memory of nursing Watson on his presumed deathbed still had the power to rattle Holmes. He glared down at the traitorous trembling of his hands and willed them to stop. Setting down his pipe, he raised his forefinger to his lips. No, involving Watson in a possible poison case was out of the question, but surely no harm could come of visiting Paddington Street? Merely to check up on the Watsons and to ask after Culverton Smith?

Holmes felt his gaze drawn to the armchair opposite his that stood empty so often these days. After nearly two years, he still missed Watson's constant presence, sometimes fiercely so. He shook his head at himself and hurried to depart.

The wind had picked up, and grey clouds rolled across the sky, a promise of rain to come by nightfall. Holmes turned up his coat collar and hurried north for Paddington, hoping that the Irregulars assigned to Smith would have the sense to get out of the rain once it hit. Over the past decade, he had had many cases of sickness and injuries to handle in his detective force, from sprained ankles and broken bones to influenza and pneumonia. As a general rule, now, the Irregulars were required to hurry out of danger's way no matter what. Watson had given the order, and Wiggins had enforced it—the boys reckless with their health and safety were taken off the case or banned from the next one.

Holmes quirked a brief smile, heartened a bit. He had developed an efficient force, and he was proud of it. He was proud of his boys.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder shook the air, and the detective quickened his pace. He sensed that he would be taking a cab home.


Author's Note:

Let's see… what can I discourse on?…

Ah! Victor Savage. Like him? Personally, I like him a lot—he's just a really nice young man. And a Holmesian. ^_^

Speaking of Holmesians… we even have Wiggins in this first chapter! In fact, Wig features as one of the major characters of the book, as well as the series proper. David Jonathan Wiggins, a.k.a. Wiggins, Wig, and Davy. =) He's twenty-one, here, btw.

Finally, "Kelly" used to be a boy's name only, and it's an Irish name. Now, it's used for boys and girls.

Next installment features Mary Watson and all our favorite Scotland Yarders, as well as a couple extra. (Check the latest installment of Tales: "A Night out with the Yarders.") Stay tuned!

Please review!