"Listen to your enemy, for God is talking." - Jewish proverb

Holmes

I grinned ruthlessly at my elder sibling's red face as he violently and vehemently protested keeping the girl in his own apartment.

But as Watson said, our rooms in Baker Street were most definitely no place for a child so young, Mrs. Hudson or no Mrs. Hudson. We had firearms, poisons, my drugs, all kinds of things lying about that we had a hard enough time keeping the Irregulars from messing with – we had no time or place for a mere tiny thing like this poor girl.

Mycroft spluttered for a good three minutes while I stood there, tapping my foot, completely ignoring him and waiting boredly for him to finish his tirade. Finally he ceased and glared at me in a look that would have cowed me in childhood but had no effect on me whatsoever now.

"There is no room for discussion, Mycroft," I snapped impatiently, eager to be on my way with Watson to start the chase for this elusive Ruby and the man Jackyl.

My brother moaned dismally and turned to Watson. Eve was clinging to my friend's leg with her good arm, that stuffed rabbit tucked in the crook of the sling of her other. Mycroft started toward the poor girl and she instantly hid behind the Doctor.

I smiled fondly as Watson picked her up gently and started to speak to her soothingly – indeed, the man was really quite a capable doctor, especially for children, and more so than I was accustomed to giving him credit for.

I could not hear what he said to the child, but she threw her good arm round his shoulder and started to cry silently. His hazel eyes looked over the girl's form at my brother and me, and I saw again that sick feeling I knew was turning his stomach at the thought of what the girl had gone through.

"Mycroft," he began, a slight tremor in his kind-hearted voice, "you must make sure she has lots of fluids regularly. Start with milk, and try later to get her to drink some soup. Tomorrow you must try to get her to eat something light, like a couple biscuits."

My brother looked blankly at my friend.

"Starvation cannot just be dealt with on the instant, Mycroft – you must take it gradually," he explained further, patting the girl's back slowly as she cried. He swallowed hard and then continued.

"And you must not make any sudden moves or raise your voice too loudly, for she is a very frightened little girl," he went on softly. I noticed the child had stopped crying and was just lying there against his shoulder, motionless.

Mycroft groaned. "You had better put that all in writing, Doctor," he growled.

"One of you can do that. She is asleep and I am going to put her to bed now," my friend declared, looking meaningfully at me.

And I of course did the appropriate thing and ordered Trevor to write out Watson's instructions.

"I will not have you ordering my secretary around, Sherlock!" my brother snapped. "Well, what are you waiting for, Trevor?"

Watson disappeared down the hall with Eve and a few moments later returned, running a hand uneasily through his hair.

"She will probably sleep for a while, Mycroft. And she likely will be rather frightened when she wakes, so for the love of heaven be gentle!"

I was more than a little surprised at my dear friend's unaccustomed vehemence and also the uncharacteristic shaking in his voice, and I laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked at me with that continued feeling of revulsion that even I was fighting to quash, and I lost no time in getting us both out of that atmosphere into the London air.

I hailed a cab and we both jumped in; then Watson slumped back into the seat without a word, staring out at the city with unseeing eyes. After twenty minutes it finally dawned into my disturbed thoughts that he was too deathly quiet, and I glanced at him, shocked and not a little worried to see unshed tears in his eyes.

"Watson – are you all right?"

"I think I am going to be ill," he returned shortly, swallowing hard.

I sighed and settled back beside him. "We will find the blackguard, Watson, never doubt it," I said in what I fervently hoped was a reassuring voice, "I give you my word. And the girl will be fine with Mycroft, dear fellow, so do try to not worry about it?"

He nodded, stout fellow, and set his jaw as we pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street. I hopped down, tossed a half-sovereign at the cabbie, and sprinted up the steps into the house, flinging my hat in the general direction of the rack in the hall. Then I dashed up the steps, eager to start searching through my files in quest of some documents that would throw light upon the matter at hand.

There had to be some group that would deal in similar matters, I knew there had been several in the past. This theft of the Black Prince's Ruby was not the product of a simple vulgar intrigue brought on by the Prince's rash behaviour – this bespoke of a much more controlled, much more precisely organized organization.

I began without preamble to systematically sort through my files. Watson insisted upon calling my searches for documents 'stirring up a tornado' or some such nonsense, but I always knew exactly what I was looking for and where I was putting everything in my search for it.

But I did have to admit, thirty minutes later, looking about at the strewn files, that perhaps his metaphor had some merit. I was no closer to finding any indications of organizations dealing in stolen Royal jewellery than I had when I began.

I cursed loudly, startling Watson out of his perusal of one of my old scrapbooks. He glanced up at me.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," I replied irritably, throwing a book across the room in annoyance, "I know there have to have been issues such as this in the past, with other reigning families in Europe, and usually an organization such as this will have some connection with other such like, but I can find nothing."

I began to go through all my scrapbooks once again, searching for any records, and news articles, any case notes that had a similar bent to them, and Watson began to do the same.

After another half hour, we were still sitting on the floor going through files when there was a knock at the sitting room door and our worthy landlady poked her head into the room.

After the initial dressing-down we got from the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson and after promising to clean the mess up before we should be allowed any dinner, the good lady told us that Lestrade was here to see us.

I cursed again; I had absolutely no desire to see the man whatsoever – the last thing I needed at that moment was to be begged to help him solve a petty drunken murder with too much circumstantial evidence and not enough half-wit police brainpower.

But I was given no time to have Mrs. Hudson send him away, for the man had climbed the stairs and was now pushing past her into the room. The Yarder's sallow, ferret-like features suddenly grew pinched as his jaw dropped in shock.

"Mr. Holmes – what the deuce are you doing?"

"Besides wishing you would come back some other time, Inspector?"

"Holmes," Watson said warningly, clearing a path to an armchair so the policeman could sit down. I glared at both of them and went back to my commonplace books.

"To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this visit, Lestrade?" I asked distractedly, tossing another book aside and starting afresh.

"The Yard sent me over, Mr. Holmes, to check on you about this carnival affair with the dead Ministerial candidate," the man replied, for once giving me a straight answer.

I stopped and looked at him, raising my eyebrows.

"So, you lost the draw when they doled out the 'make sure Mr. Holmes doesn't cause a scandal' duty, is that it?" I asked, a sardonic smile creasing my face.

I heard Watson snicker rather undignifiedly behind me as Lestrade's sallow face flushed beet-red.

"I – I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I have been told to serve you with this," the man said nervously, handing me a piece of paper. I glanced at it, and felt my own face flush, but with ire, not embarrassment.

"A waiver? I most certainly am not going to just let the matter drop, Lestrade!" I snapped, "there is more to this business than you have been told, and I certainly take no orders from the police!"

How dare they? I am Sherlock Holmes – I take no orders or even advice from anyone other than my own conscience. And occasionally Watson's. I was not about to accept an order to keep my nose out of the Mason assassination.

Lestrade shrank back into his chair at the sight of my angry face.

"Mr. Holmes, I was not involved in the order," he hastened on to explain, "I just had to poor luck to be chosen to bring it to you! I honestly, well, I didn't do it myself! But I cannot argue with my superiors!"

"To blazes with your superiors!" I growled, as I threw another book aside in annoyance, taking pleasure in seeing the little Yarder cringe, "I take orders from no one!"

"Mr. Holmes, if you start causing a scene here, I could be in a huge amount of trouble!" the man gasped, and I was rather meanly glad to see him looking rather scared.

I was about to toss away my third book when Watson scooted across the floor and grabbed it out of my hands, fixing me with one of those looks that were the only thing that could possibly make me be kind to a less-than-average intelligence police inspector. I sighed, defeated, and glared at him before turning my gaze back toward Lestrade.

"I have orders from higher powers than the superintendent, Lestrade," I explained patiently as I could, "and as such I cannot remain silent about the case. There is no room for discussion."

"But, Mr. Holmes!"

"I said there can be no argument, Inspector!" I snapped, going through a pile of old case files on the floor.

"What if – what if I gave you a piece of information, Mr. Holmes – that would help you in your search. Would you then stay out of the public investigation?" the hopeful tone of the official's voice slowly worked its way into my thoughts.

I raised my head as the words registered in my preoccupied mind – Lestrade, subverting the processes of law and order to aid an amateur? That was a novelty, and he had sufficiently captured my attention. I looked at him, not blinking, to see what he had to say.