Chapter Two: Irregular

It was an evening later that Sherlock found himself alone in the sitting room, mulling over the scanty facts of the case. The evening prior had been spent uneasily as all three men prepared for the possibility of attack. No such incident occurred, however, and in the morning, Benton discovered himself alive. But his nerves were the worse for wear as his period of grace trailed closer to its end, and his face had taken on a haunted pallor. He was to deliver the money by dawn, or he would be murdered.

They had already discussed the possibility of simply paying the bribe - or was it a blackmail? - but Holmes had solemnly shaken his head. "What I may deduce from the facts at hand is that Mr. Benton's antagonist is a man of some wealth and rank. Parchment, as I have told you, can be terribly forthcoming about the aspects of its owner. The paper upon which your unfortunate threat was marked is of higher quality, thus I can make an assumption as to the level of your attacker's riches. The origin of his wealth is, of course, now cast into dubiousness."

When the client expressed confusion, Holmes had attempted to clear the matter up. "He must be involved in the coercion of several members of the bank, hence the array of fiscal anomalies and his desire to keep them hidden. If he has forced the hand of tellers at your bank, who's to say he hasn't pushed his influence on another? Furthermore, it is extremely likely that, by buying your safety, you sell your freedom. With your confidence assured, he may begin to demand you work for him in the manner these other men have been forced into." He had sighed. "No, I'm afraid we must nip this now or allow an intolerable injustice to continue."

The late morning had brought a note from the Irregulars. Holmes had sent a lad out to scout the lamppost at St. James Park. Apparently, the post in question was unusable due to its glass case being shattered. It would remain dark and unlit, and in truth, Holmes conceded that it made a good choice for a drop off point.

The afternoon had brought the summons of Charles Baker. With the safe-house finally prepared, Watson had gone out to escort Mr. Benton. They all agreed that the man should not travel alone until the success, or failure, of the case was determined.

Such was the progression of events when, a little after supper time, Sherlock heard the door fling open downstairs. He heard Mrs. Hudson gasp indignantly, calling after the light footsteps that now hopped up the stairs.

Holmes, of course, did not expect Watson home quite yet. Besides, Watson did not hop. He strode lightly to the door of the common area and opened it just in time to see a boy, face smeared, hair tangled, and clothing in dirty disarray, lifting a hand out towards the opposite knob. In surprise, the boy grinned and tipped his hat. "Sherlock 'Olmes!" He thrust the hand out once more. "Benny here. I 'eard you always 'ad use fer a Irregular. Dennis tossed yer name."

Sherlock cracked the smallest of smirks. He took the offered hand, patiently enduring the flurry of shakes the boy apparently supposed was a handshake. Chattering on, the boy let himself in. "I 'eard you was meetin' a new client, an' I sort of 'fought you might want someone to go and get information. Dennis said that yew sometimes hired folks wot got infermation, or least ways knew how ta go 'bout gettin' at it." He turned expectantly. "That's where I come in, a'course. I 'fink I might already 'ave somefing you wanna hear!"

Sherlock gestured to a chair at the table, and the boy happily acquiesced. Mrs. Hudson had made her way up the stairs to glare at the young intruder, but Sherlock smiled in an attempt to placate her. "Excuse my guest's brashness, Mrs. Hudson. I wonder if you might mind terribly to bring up some tea? And perhaps one or two biscuits, if you please, thank you." As he shut the door again, he heard an exasperated sigh and the trailing remains of some muttered, irate declarations.

He turned his attention once more on the young man at his table: no more than ten years old, to be sure. The lad was turning his head this way and that in the room, a strange look on his face as he inspected the few luxuries that, he was sure, Watson and he occasionally took for granted. He smiled, seating himself opposite his guest. "You said you might have information regarding Mr. Oliver Benton?"

The boy's attention returned to Sherlock, and his previous engaging grin returned. "Yessir! 'S probably not much, an' I'm sure a bloke so clever as ye'self 'as probably already figgered it already." He looked a bit sheepish, now. Mrs. Hudson politely knocked before letting herself inside, setting the tea things down at the table. Benny, as the boy had introduced himself, eagerly took up a drink and biscuit. Sherlock absently poured his own, not giving it much heed at the moment. Instead, he lightly questioned the excited boy.

"How did you hear of our client, I might first inquire? Or even, that we have accepted him as such?"

Benny chuckled. "Oh, right, that. Dontchya know, Mr. 'Olmes? The 'ole 'omeless network this side o' London's 'eard." He frowned suddenly, catching himself. "Not that we ain't being quiet 'bout it all, I promise."

Sherlock frowned. "I think I shall have to have a discussion with Charles Baker about that. I had really expected more discretion on his part."

The boy frowned again, his eyes betraying a certain air of discomfort. "Oh, well. Sorry, guv." He rubbed his neck distractedly. "Well, anyway, we all 'eard that the Benton fella 'ad to take to ground." He looked at the detective conspiratorially. "Really, we're surprised it 'adn't 'appened sooner. There's been talk fer a while about some man in the up in ups that bribes an' threatens the mo' unfortunate men at tha bottom of the pole, yeh know?"

Holmes' eyebrows shot up for a moment, and his frown deepened. "Is this to say you know something about this man?"

Benny nodded, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Yeah. I'll tell ye, the stories I 'ear 'bout 'im are none too nice." He frowned at the cup in his hands. Sherlock followed his gaze. The cheery young man from earlier seemed to have dwarfed - a considerable feat as the boy was a trifle short for his age already. Sherlock had seen the look before in his Irregulars. The boys that came to him, eager to assist in the adventure of procuring information and dealing a blow to the criminal society, were at the end of the day still boys. Sherlock was not without his compassion, much though people who met him tended to denounce its existence.

No, Holmes very much did have a soft spot or two. He was lax to admit it to others for multiple reasons. The first and less admirable of these factors was his pride and reputation. Sherlock Holmes was not an emotional man, and he would not suffer people to consider him as such. The second, however, was far more precious. It was simply that, were his compassions revealed and made too apparent, they could turn into definite vulnerabilities. It would not be hard to play upon the threads, as few as they were, to shake the great detective's resolve. Watson, he had long since discovered, was one of these vulnerabilities. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, much though they irritated Sherlock on occasion, were others.

The homeless network, but more particularly the ragtag band called the Baker Street Irregulars, was one of his only other human subjects of tenderness. The Irregulars had long since discovered, as Benny was testament, that the apartments of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were a safe haven. They would never presume to stay the night here, or drop in without some form of intelligence to give in return. However, on only a few occasions, the good doctor had provided medicine or some similar attention when one had shown up in need. One or two times, Sherlock had invited them upstairs for a quick lunch. Even Mrs. Hudson, who treated their arrivals with complaints about muddy footprints and, "Oh, what will the neighbors think?" could not find herself unmoved by the eager faces and well-meaning hearts of the boys. More than once she had snuck a handkerchief of biscuits or scones into their hands as they left.

It was for that reason that Sherlock, as was his policy, stood to retrieve some several coins at a purse by his desk. He turned and faced the boy, who was now shuffling slightly and shooting his gaze downwards, and held them up. "This is the payment I offer the other Irregulars for information. It is yours if you desire."

The boy paused, but finally a smile lit his face once more. There was a bit of sadness in his eyes that seemed to linger, despite his enthusiasm. "Sounds good."

Sherlock handed the boy the money, all business now. He took a sip at his tea and declared briskly. "Fine! Tell me what you know about our mysterious assailant."

Benny nodded, looking back at his teacup. "'E goes by the name of…. A-athers. Jonathan Athers." He pulled a face and heaved a shaky sigh. "I can tell you, sir, it's worth my 'ead if 'e ever gets word I said somefin'." He shuddered again, looking up. "'E don't like to be trifled with. 'E's got a right brash temper, though 'e never takes care of 'is dirty business on 'is own." The Benny scrutinized Sherlock for a moment as he took another drink, frowning as he tried to process the boy's admissions. "'E makes 'is living offa threatening them bank employees. 'E bribes 'em, tho I suppose it ain't much of a bribe. It's just, 'do as I tells ya too, and if ye don't…'" The boy made a hand motion across his neck.

Sherlock nodded, setting aside his empty teacup. "That's much as I had suspected from what Mr. Benton told me. I did not previously have the name, however." He frowned, his finger coming to rest across his lips in thought. "Do you have anything else to tell me?"

The boy shook his head after a moment. "Not as much, nah." He fidgeted, looking at his finished tea and the empty tray. He had made quick work of the biscuits provided.

Sherlock nodded once, standing. "Well, you have been of tremendous assistance." He opened the door for the boy, who quickly gathered his hat and trod over to the door. "Indeed, I believe you may have single handedly rounded up my case for me. Here's my card." Benny took the card and stuffed it inside the pocket of his trousers. "If you ever have more information to provide, don't hesitate to visit." Sherlock smiled. The boy returned the smile, but seemed distracted to leave. He hastened to the stairs and ran down, as children often do, to come to a clatter at the bottom. Mrs. Hudson emerged and began to chastise the noise, but the boy simply grinned in response before opening the door and running out.

Sherlock barked a laugh as his landlady threw her hands up in exasperation. He glanced down. "Thank you for your patience Mrs. Hudson." Before returning to the door, he added as an afterthought, "Oh, and Mrs. Hudson? The tea was a trifle bitter. Perhaps you may see to that the next time you prepare some?" The hastily closed door blocked out the majority of her insulted retort.

His next order of business was to search his records for anything on Athers. He began his usual exercise of searching folders and flinging unnecessary documents to the floor. No more than ten minutes or so had passed before he found himself a bit breathless. He frowned, pressing a hand to his chest. It seemed as if the continued strain he enforced on his body was catching up to him once more, and he sighed in irritation. Apparently, his sleepless night had left him the worse for wear. He walked towards the teapot, bitter and cold though its contents likely were.

His step was cut off with a grunt as a cramp seized his stomach. The world became fuzzy and spun for a moment, and he tried to control the sudden nausea that raced down his spine to bob like ice in his gut. His mind began to race. He had not anticipated feeling quite so sick, or even so suddenly, regardless of whether his body was exhausted or not. Surely he would have had more warning?

Something was beginning to squirm at the back of his mind, but he was having problems concentrating. He stumbled over to the writing desk, his nearest refuge. His heart was racing, but it had suddenly decided that a lopsided sprint was the best way to perform its job.

He grunted at the grip of another cramp and clutched his arm deeper against his stomach. It was only then that the terrible thought hit him. His eyes widened, and he turned desperately to regard his discarded teacup.

Frantically, he seized a piece of paper from the mantle. His panic rose as he beheld the violent tremor of his arm. He scrawled a haphazard note.

Mrs. Hudson had been comfortably settled in her sitting room downstairs when she heard a strangled cry from the common room a floor above. She had learned long ago that her tenants were noisy and caused disruption at all hours of the day.

She had also learned, however, how to distinguish between the (comparatively) innocent antics of Holmes' and his research, and the more dangerous warning signs of trouble.

With an admirable burst of speed for her age, she was out of the chair and up the stairs in only a few moments. "Mr. Holmes!" An unsettling thump was the only answer.

Pushing the door open, Mrs. Hudson vowed she would never forget the terrible sight of the great Sherlock Holmes, pale and hunched in agony, succumbing to a seizure.

Honest reviews always welcome. I'm really most curious to see what people think of this chapter. Cheers!