Special thanks to the talented and generous Fang's Fawn for allowing me to borrow her version of Dr Joseph Bell for this story. If you have not read her story "An Innocent Man" and met her Dr Bell for yourself, you must give yourself this special treat and read it right away!

000

She had never felt as safe in all her life as she had with the sad-eyed policeman. Although she had told the boy in the park who had found her and brought her here that she was willing to go back to her cousin's house, now she could not bear to think of it. Her six-year-old heart had hoped that if she refused to tell her name, he would have no choice but to take her home with him and be a father to her. He would surely not ignore her as her own father had, or get drunk and yell at her, or tell her dreadful lies. He would surely not put her on an aeroplane all alone and send her a million miles away to live with strangers who didn't really want her. "I'm sorry," her policeman said as he drove her back to her real life, and she could see by his sad eyes that he really meant it. "I wish I could help you. But you're a fighter, aren't you? You're the sort to rise above your circumstances. Just be yourself, my girl, and don't give up, and you'll be okay . . . ."

"I'm not giving up," she tried to reply, but her mouth wouldn't work and neither would anything else. As her mind rose from her dream and came hazily back into the present, she was vaguely aware that she had a body somewhere, but it was far away and disconnected. The pain was still existent, persistent, although pushed back into submission as if it were a badly-suppressed memory.

She floated along in a drugged fog until eventually a great hand was placed on her head, bringing her mind back into reality. She tried to open her eyes, but found her body was still unresponsive. But the hand was a familiar one—the touch was not threatening. It felt more like a blessing.

"Told you I'd be along, child," a gravelly voice rasped. This was apparently the bear-man's best attempt at a whisper. "Taking good care of you, are they? You're looking better than last I saw you." She longed to smile at him, to no avail.

"Detective Inspector Gregson, I understand you have been menacing the staff again," a soft, Scottish brogue spoke suddenly.

"Doctor Bell, the staff know me and ought to let me do my proper job," the detective growled in return. She was gratified to hear them chuckle together and realized this was a meeting of old friends. She heard the soft clap of hands clasping in fond greeting.

"Tobiah, it's been months since I've laid eyes on you, lad," the doctor-voice said affectionately.

"Fortunately, there've been blessedly few incidents like this for us to deal with lately," the bear-man replied. "How is the child, Doc?"

"She'll mend," Dr Joseph Bell said, but she thought he sounded sad. "The breaks were clean and didn't need surgery, although her jaws are wired shut. The internal bruising and the lacerations will heal in time. It's the infection that worries me—but she's a fighter, this one! She'll not give up easily."

"Don't I know it!" the detective agreed, and she was surprised to hear admiration and even affection in his tone. "She near clawed my eyes out before I convinced her I wasn't a threat."

"Well, if you're here for a statement, lad, you'll not get one for some time. I have her on a strong pain medication that should keep her unconscious for the most part," the doctor warned.

"I assumed as much. I'm here to talk to you, Doc; but I promised the child I'd look in on her. I'm glad she'll recover. Shall we?" She heard a door open and footsteps, both light and heavy, moving through it.

"Keep referring to her as 'child', my lad, and she may wake and finish clawing out those eyes of yours," the doctor remarked with some amusement as the door fell shut. It seemed, however, that the two men remained just outside it, as she could still hear every word they said. "She's sixteen years old if she's a day."

"If she's younger than I, she's a child, old man," Tobiah Gregson returned affectionately,

"Any luck finding the lass's identity?" Dr Bell asked. She liked his voice. It sounded like singing.

The bear-man harrumphed, sounding annoyed. "No, none at all. She's been dropped into Reading from nowhere, it seems. No one's reported her missing, she's not listed as a run-away, she's not registered in any school in the area, no one in the neighbourhood has seen her before. All my hopes are pinned on you, Doc. What have you found out for me?"

"Well, I'll tell you this, lad—find where the girl was staying and you'll find your crime scene-a kitchen, or perhaps a pantry; I'll stake my reputation on it. And furthermore, I'll wager the child was recently placed in foster care." Dr Bell's voice lowered confidingly, and she strained to hear him. "It's the olive oil that gives the show away."

"Ah," D.I. Gregson grunted wisely. "That would be the stuff that was splashed all over her coat." Her coat. She felt bereft as she thought of it and wondered if she would ever see it again.

"Aye, and in her hair, and on the clothes you sent along to me in the evidence bag; and even on her shoes. And in the open wounds, as well," the soft brogue grew harsh with emotion.

"Good God above," the bear-man growled in anger. "How can a man look at that tiny bit of a girl and want to do anything but protect her from harm? She can't be much taller than my arm is long, and weighs less than my right thumb." Hearing this sentiment made her feel warm inside and she wanted to laugh. She hoped she would be able to properly meet this giant of a man one day.

"She's a bonny wee thing, 'tis true, but not one I'd want to tangle with," the doctor laughed grimly. "She had skin and blood under her nails that don't belong to her—look for a man with a well-scratched face and hands! And from all evidence, when she was attacked she snatched up the first thing that came to hand and smashed him over the head with it; so the culprit will have a bottle-shaped lump to show for himself, you can be sure. Given the size and shape of the bruises he left, he'll be a man of your size, my friend—the print of the knuckles show plainly on her face where he back-handed her, and the toe of his boots made clear impressions on her cheek and abdomen. Take note, my lad: you're looking for a broken one-litre bottle of Il Casolare Unfiltered Extra Virgin Olive Oil. And the residue will still be there, at the scene of the crime, if you find it quickly enough! The man will have tried to clean up his mess in a hurry, but oil is difficult to get rid of completely. Find her foster care-giver's kitchen and you'll find all the evidence you need to get a warrant to test the owner's DNA against what we found on the young woman."

"You deduced the brand name?" D.I. Gregson sounded sceptical.

"Aye," the doctor sighed, "It's a very distinctive shape, the bottle for that brand of oil."

There was a shocked silence for a moment as this statement sunk in. "Good God in heaven help us," the policeman groaned, aggrieved, at last. "Will she want to give evidence in court against the damned bloody brute, when it's this sort of evidence that's to be given?"

"Perhaps not. But I have a feeling that she's not the type to be giving up. The lass has spirit, I'll warrant."

Another silence as the detective gathered his thoughts. "How do you figure about the foster care, then, Doc?" he asked at last. "That coat—it were at least ten years old, and a man's, not to mention a sight too large for her. Made my boys assume she's homeless. Of course, one look at how well-kempt her hair and nails were told me otherwise. But foster-care?"

"Her jumper, skirt, and shoes are brand-new, Tobiah," Dr Bell said sombrely, speaking quickly and quietly. "I would swear those shoes could not be more than one week old. But her underthings are old and worn, stretched out with use. Her stockings have been mended a number of times. Do you think a young girl would buy new clothes for herself and neglect to purchase new undergarments? Someone needed her to look good on the outside but didn't care enough to provide for proper underclothing. She's new to Reading, as you've observed, not been here long enough to register for school. If a loving family had moved here and could afford those new clothes, they would have also bought her all she needed to be both comfortable and presentable; if she is from a negligent family, they would not have bothered with making her look presentable at all. But a foster care situation has certain standards that must be maintained by law."

D.I. Gregson gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. "Well done, Doc. I'll direct my team to investigate according to your deductions. But damn me, Joseph Bell, when are you coming to work for me, instead of leaving me at the mercy of these worthless morons? You could be my entire forensics team all on your own."

"You do them an injustice, lad," the soft brogue admonished. "And as for myself, I have no desire for police work. I only help you to help my patients. I'm a healer, not a copper," he continued kindly.

"True, your place is here, I know. I've heard it said that you can diagnose a patient's illness by watching him walk into your waiting room."

Their voices faded away as they walked together down the hospital corridor. She lay there, struck by the astute deductions made by the insightful Dr Joseph Bell. His leaps of logic and eye for the minutiae reminded her of the boy in the park, who had found her as a six-year-old runaway and instantly had known she had come from India, how long she had been in England, who her father was, and why she had left her new London home. She had been in awe of him, and afterwards grateful to him for persuading her not to try her luck living rough on the streets of a strange city, and for taking her to her sad-eyed policeman.

She had been fascinated by the boy's cleverness; and he had thought her clever as well, and had spent the time it took to travel from Hyde Park to New Scotland Yard teaching her a game he called "deductions", starting her on the basics of observing details and extrapolating truth from them. Over the years, she had practiced this game of his and had become quite good at it, especially at discerning the character of strangers quickly—a skill that had served her well in many situations. If the young man with the brown coat had given her the will and means to survive and the sad-eyed policeman had imbued her with self-worth, the boy in the park had reinforced in her a stalwart self-confidence and a trust in her own native intelligence that rarely let her down.

But she was worn out with consciousness and her mind began to fade into sleep. And her fight was not over yet: as she slept, an infection took hold and a fever began to burn.

000

Ten years earlier, a fourteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes had found a runaway child in Hyde Park and had spent a few enjoyable hours with her, impressed with her cleverness and courage. Concerned for the safety of a six-year-old alone on the streets of London, he placed her into the care of one Detective Sergeant Lestrade of Scotland Yard; and then, feeling sheepish about how much he had quickly come to care for the girl, he deleted her memory from his mind palace immediately.