A/N: I'm pleased to announce that I was able to make this a continuation of the first chapter! I hope you enjoy! -Ell

December 2nd: Sherlock Holmes is not who we thought.

From: Book Girl Fan

Late upon the next night, the door of the Baker Street sitting room was flung wide open, and two damp, freezing men appeared, one of whom was incredibly flustered.

"Holmes, you told me your family were nobility! You claimed to be an esquire!"

"Watson, Watson, I gave up parading the fact around years ago - some time before you moved in. It was Mycroft who told you everything you know about our childhood."

Both of the men shed their wet coats and scarves and drew near to the fireplace, which had been kept up by Mrs. Hudson in anticipation of their return. They took a moment to warm their hands and rub feeling back into their cherry-red noses before either continued.

"But you -" Watson protested, throwing Holmes periodic glances full of shock and wonder.

"My good man, simply because we were once respectable enough to earn such titles does not mean we were always wealthy and able to keep our noses from the dirt." Holmes sighed and turned around to warm his back half. "When I was eleven years old, my father fell in with the wrong sort at a horse track, and wound up owing a very fishy man a lot of money. He had to pay, of course, there was nothing that could be done about that at the time. We lost our fortune and reputation for a time, and had to let go of most of our servants. We nearly lost the house, only we managed to run a sort of farm to keep afloat until my father sorted out his matters."

"That's why you were so good with the goat," Watson stated in awe, massaging the cold out of the old wound in his shoulder.

"Yes, Watson, that's why I was so good with the goat."

"I must say, though, I was not even aware that goats possessed a keen sense of smell."

"Well, you did not tend them on your property for the better part of three years, did you, Watson?"

All the detective got was a humph in reply, so he continued on to explain. "While it is true that they are not the first tracking animal one thinks of, goats do possess decent memories. They also have a liking for eating just about any material, and they first smell it, then remember that they enjoy the smell and taste. I will admit that it was a stroke of luck that a scrap of the Goat Man's shirt had been caught in the fence, and an even bigger gamble to assume that the goat had taken a bite of the man's clothes when he first came into his possession. But the goat responded to the scent, et voila!"

Finally warmed, Watson plopped down in his armchair, and Holmes followed suit.

"I'm just glad Lestrade got him to agree to give up where he's keeping the girls in exchange for protection from the Italian mob," Watson mused, looking into the fire as though it were a stage replaying the night's events for him.

"I trust he'll tell us as soon as they are all recovered," Holmes replied, and rang Mrs. Hudson for some hot tea.

A little later, as the men sat with quilts in their laps and tea between their hands, Watson turned again to Holmes. "How did your father recover his reputation?"

"Oh, haven't you ever wondered how I became a detective? The man to whom he had owed the money had extorted more out of my father than he had originally proposed, and came to my father to ask for further illegal services. He was too proud to go to the police, of course, so I gathered all the information I could about the man. I learned where he lived and scouted his house until I had found enough evidence to alert the local constabulary and undo him. I was almost caught by the man's two sons, which in turn was my undoing."

"Was the man ever caught?"

Holmes' knuckles paled as he gripped his teacup tighter. "The trial was only for appearances. He was imprisoned, but unpublicized was his release only a week later. I had little doubt that many of those who presided over the case were in his pocket. That day, at the age of fourteen, I vowed that when I left home for University, I would dedicate the rest of my life to the practice of following the most minute details in order to ensure that justice was properly served."

"What became of the man after his release?"

"Oh, I kept my eye on him, you can be sure of that. He lived out a quiet life, which I am sure was filled with shady dealings of a more subtle nature. He died about ten years later. Naturally, I thought that was the end of it. It seemed the children never forgot the inconvenience I brought their father, though - at least one in particular."

Watson narrowed his eyes. "Did you ever have further dealings with that man?"

"Oh, yes, and you know them quite well, for that child was none other than James Moriarty."