Chapter 7 - Let Them Try
May 16th 1870 - Mill St, Bermondsey, London
The decrepit warehouse loomed over a small tributary off the south bank of the Thames, abandoned for the most part due to a rising damp and frequent flooding, or so many believed. In actual fact it was very much 'in business', though not of the legitimate variety. Sherlock slipped in to the seemingly empty building, taking note of rather old patterns in the dust, which revealed to him the location of hidden doorway, no doubt concealing a staircase which formed the back door to Fagin's hideout. He didn't make use of it though, as it would be far politer to use the front door when visiting on business. And so he stepped back into the shadows, invisible to anyone passing by, and waited.
Sure enough, he didn't have long to wait before he heard voices approaching, full of childish glee as they raced up the rickety staircase on the outside of the building Sherlock had seen on his way in. Sherlock stepped slowly out of the shadows, coming close enough to the door to hear the secret knock the boys performed on the one above, granting them entrance. After waiting for a minute to pass, Sherlock followed up the staircase, ignoring the slight creaking it gave at the weight of a full grown man on it, and imitated the knock.
"Hey! You ain't one of us!" The lad who opened it shouted on catching sight of him, and attempted to slam the door shut again. He was too slow however, as Sherlock wedged his foot in the doorframe, and quite easily pushed it back open.
"No, I'm not." He agreed, striding in as though he owned the place anyway. The attic was a fairly large space, with walls knocked partially in, in order to expand it and create cubbyholes, where piles of blankets the boys slept on could be seen. The boys themselves seemed to fill the space, far more of them than Wiggins had estimated. Older ones sat in groups, drinking what smelt suspiciously like gin out of small cups, and puffing on pipes, while younger ones raced about, making play of practising picking one another's pockets of brightly coloured handkerchiefs, while singing a working song. Others still sat around, humming along to the singing as they unpicked the embroidered initials on some finer silk handkerchiefs that they had no doubt liberated from their previous owners. Gradually the noise and movement of the children came to a halt, as they all turned to stare at the intruder in their midst.
Amongst the many eyes Sherlock felt fixed on him, Sherlock spotted those he sought, waiting patiently at the back of the room, half emerged from the cubbyhole that served as his 'office'. As Sherlock approached, he noticed the boys eyes switching to look at their old master, waiting for his word on what to do about their unexpected guest.
"Mister Holmes!" Fagin finally greeted him warmly, offering up a rather exaggerated bow, though without taking his eyes from Sherlock. "What brings you to our humble abode? Never mind this one, boys, on you get." He waved off the lads' curiosity and they obeyed, turning their eyes back to their own tasks, except those which lingered on Sherlock's pockets. Let them try, he thought.
"Fagin." He bowed his head partially in mutual respect, though he feared not to allow his eyes to roam away from his host, scanning the faces of the boys nearby, "I'm here on business, of course."
"Of course, of course. Come along back here to my office, I have sausages in the pan, wouldn't want them to burn." Fagin invited, waving him towards the cubbyhole.
"They couldn't taste much worse!" One of the passing lads called out, much to the laughter of his companions.
"If you want better you can cook them yourselves!" Fagin yelled back, though there was no bite in it, and he was smiling as he looked back at Sherlock. "So what is it this time, you going to try and talk me into using my boys as information gathers again?"
"Have you reconsidered my offer?" Sherlock enquired while on the subject.
"As I told you before, it's not my choice." Fagin said with a shrug "The boys do as they likes, and they likes doing what I tells them too. We have a bond you wouldn't understand, I miss them every time they walk out that door, but they always comes back, and that's their choice."
"As long as they know their other choices." Sherlock conceded. "I'm actually here about a very specific boy." Sherlock pulled out the now rather rumpled picture of Oliver and handed it over to Fagin. As he did, he felt the slightest of pulls on his coat, and instinctively caught the boy's hand who was trying to rob him without looking, using it to gently but firmly spin the boy away from him. Fagin frowned as he looked over the picture, before raising speculating eyes back up to Sherlock's.
"Supposing I had seen the boy...what'd you want with the lad? He's not in trouble is he?"
Sherlock took a second to consider Fagin's reaction before answering. To the boys about - some of whom had crept very much closer to listen, close enough even to see the picture - Fagin might sound genuinely concerned about the boy's safety, though Sherlock could clearly detect it was his own he worried about, that any trouble following one of his boys would soon find its way to him. There was something else there too, something that told Sherlock that the truth would be beneficial, in this case.
"No, not at all." He assured Fagin, "Quite the opposite in fact, he has quite a fortune to claim if he only were to return home." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratory level, "I've been offered quite a handsome reward for his safe return."
"Have you now?" Fagin asked, leaning back thoughtfully, before a rather fake contrite look came over his features. "Well I'm sorry I can't help you out, but you've seen all my boys out there, and he ain't one of them. Best of luck on your search though."
Sherlock knew a liar when he saw one, but didn't call him on it. After all, there was some truth in what he said; Oliver wasn't amongst his boys at present. If he suspected that Fagin knew more than he was saying... well there were other ways to get the information he needed. He put the picture back in his pocket instead, preparing to leave.
"Very well then. Oh, and incidentally, behind those loose bricks isn't the best place to store all of one's valuables, particularly not in a den of thieves. I suggest you find somewhere better."
Fagin's eyes widened in obvious fear at the discovery of his private stash, and his eyes instinctively shot to his hidey-hole, missing the sleight of Sherlock's hand as he pocketed an item from the smaller stash of less valuable treasures which sat on Fagin's makeshift desk.
"I'll show myself out." Sherlock announced, leaving Fagin to his concerns over his valuables as he made for the door. He felt in the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, two curious little pairs of eyes following him, the same pairs of eyes that had edged close enough to see the photo, he'd wager. Before he got to the door however, a thunderous knock sounded, not bothering with the secret sequence, but was clearly a recognised and feared one, as the boy manning the door quickly jumped to open it. Sherlock slowed his steps, moving aside as the thickset and dark-browed man thundered into the room, followed closely by a slightly anxious, but spirited young woman and a bull terrier. Sherlock felt another prickle in his mind, a recognition of the girl that he couldn't place, but he pushed it aside as the man, whom he clearly recognised, changed his course for Fagin's office to stop in front of Sherlock.
"What are you doing here, Holmes?" He demanded.
"I could ask the same of you, Sykes." Sherlock retorted. Of course he remembered Bill Sykes from when he was little more than a lad the age of those now anxiously watching the exchange, back when he had once been as valuable a member of his homeless network as Wiggins had been. "But then you always were better suited to the tasks of more dubious morality I required carrying out. I see you've moved up to housebreaking."
Sykes stepped aggressively closer, nose to nose with Sherlock, who didn't even flinch.
"Oh, I've moved up to a lot more than housebreaking. You'll see just how much if you even think about peachin' on us." He threatened.
Sherlock's eyes raked up and down Sykes, taking in the evidence of his ruffled clothes and bloodied knuckles - clearly some kind of fight, but one that didn't last long.
"So I see."
"Boys! We're all friends here, right?!" Fagin popped back up beside them, hopping up and down anxiously, "Mr Holmes don't want no trouble Bill, just a friendly visit, isn't that right?"
Sherlock nodded slowly, not taking his eyes from Sykes, who stepped back a fraction.
"Just a friendly warnin'." Sykes huffed, before turning to Fagin with a nod as the two of them headed back to Fagin's cubbyhole.
Knowing a dismissal when he saw one, Sherlock resumed his path to the door, though he didn't fail to notice the woman who came in with Sykes watching him while the young boys clustered around her, as if she had something to say but daren't. With a tip of his hat to her, he slipped out the door, sure he'd see her again. For now, he made his way down the creaky staircase towards a familiar figure waiting in the alley below.
"No luck then?" John asked, detaching himself from propping up the wall to greet Sherlock at the bottom of the staircase.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock answered, not bothering to ask why John was here. Clearly Molly had been worried about him and sent for John to back him up - an unnecessary, though caring gesture.
"You found something then?" John prompted, falling into step with Sherlock as they headed towards the main road.
In answer, Sherlock pulled the trinket he had stolen from Fagin out of his pocket to show John - an ornately carved locket.
"That's... that's the locket Irene was wearing, isn't it?" John asked, reaching out for a closer examination, which Sherlock granted, handing the locket over.
"Close, but not quite. Same design, but see - the chain is shorter, too small to hang about Irene's neck as hers did. This chain is meant to fit a child's neck, it's part of a matching set, hers no doubt showing Oliver and Richard, and this one..."
"Richard and Irene." John confirmed, opening the locket, before ruminating quietly, "Why would he give this up? He's only just lost his Father, surely he'd cling to any memory of him?"
Sherlock's smile at John's deduction was but a quick flash, but there all the same, before he answered.
"Maybe he handed it over as part of a bargain for Fagin's shelter and training, or maybe one of the other boys took it from him as he slept. It's irrelevant anyhow, what's important is that he was here, and now he isn't." He explained, ignoring passing hansom cabs and turning back off the main road down a quiet alley, with John faithfully following.
"So we're back where we started, he could be anywhere." John sighed, until Sherlock caught his eye with a reproving look. "Oh I see. You have a plan."
"Of course I have a plan, I always have a plan, don't I?" Sherlock smirked.
"No actually, I'm certain at least 50% of the time you make it up as you go along." John corrected. "So come on, what is this plan of yours?"
"This." Sherlock gleefully announced, whirling around and catching the little thief attempting to liberate his wallet. In a matter of seconds he had the boy in an unbreakable hold, despite the boy's struggles and shouts of protest.
"L..let him go!" Another little voice protested, and John turned around to see another little boy, as plump as his friend was skinny, his pudgy little fingers shaking as he clutched John's gun and pointed it at Sherlock. "Let him go, or... or I'll shoot ya!"
"Do it Peter, do it!" The young lad in Sherlock's arms egged him on.
"Oh for goodness sake! You let him steal your gun?" Sherlock impatiently complained, not looking particularly worried at the gun pointing straight at him.
"I didn't let him do anything! If you'd warned me we were about to have our pockets picked I would have kept a better eye on it." John retorted, carefully watching the boy apparently called Peter. He didn't appear to want to shoot anyone, but was nervous enough that his finger might just slip on the trigger and hurt someone anyway.
"I... I mean it, let him go!" He said shakily.
"It's okay lad... Peter, is it? Can I call you Peter?" John tried to pacify him, creeping closer with his hands held up, "My friend Sherlock here is a good man, he doesn't mean your friend any harm" I think. "So just give me the gun, eh? Give it to me and no one will get hurt."
"Let him go first!" Peter shouted stubbornly.
"For the love of..." John huffed, moving suddenly and sweeping the boy's legs out from under him at the same time as forcing his arm up, causing the gun to fire harmlessly over their heads.
"I thought you disapproved of firing into the air." Sherlock commented dryly.
"Shut up, Sherlock!" John snapped, now keeping the boy pinned to the ground with one hand twisting the boy's arm up behind his back and the other tucking his gun safely away. "So what now?"
"Now we are going to buy these nice boys dinner - a proper dinner, not the scraps Fagin serves - and they're going to tell us everything they know about their friend Oliver."
AN: Thanks again to the usual suspects for commenting :) The next part of the crossover is now well and truly underway. Particularly with these two lads, who are combinations of characters from both stories (hence the names which are in neither) can anyone tell me what two pairs they could play? (Just so I know it makes sense outside of my funny little head)