I know, I know, I'm running behind again. Well. But, look at that! A third through the month (if you don't count the 31st, which I don't in this instance), so I guess I can hang on for a little while longer.

Wilde and Thorn didn't want to leave me alone, so this mangled thing came out - and this is after three tries. zanganito, I'm really sorry for what happened to your prompt. All of you, I'm sorry about the not-entirely-total lack of research I did, which is still poor. I'm tired, that's all.

Today's prompt: Wax

From: zanganito (again, I'm sorry, dear writer, for the butchering of your prompt)

It was a surprise – to say the least – for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to open the door to Baker Street and find the tall, red-headed Irregular named Wilde practically wrapped around a smaller, mousy-haired boy on the stairs, both of them covered in melting snow with their scarves and hats – or, rather, what remained of them – askew.

"Wilde!" Holmes said sharply. "Hawthorne!"

Wilde threw back his head to glare, and Holmes recoiled. None of the Irregulars had ever been anything but ruggedly respectful to him, and for Wilde to openly defy him was staggering. But even the detective could not find it in him to take offence, for the boy's face was pale and twisted in terrible fear and anguish.

Watson recognised it immediately. After all, as a doctor, he had seen it many a time – at a deathbed. "Come now," said he; "what's the matter?"

Wilde tentatively unfurled to reveal Thorn's body, pale as wax and equally lifeless. Holmes knelt to examine him, revealing a freely-bleeding wound at the neck. The ginger had obviously tried to bind it up as tight as he could with the scarf without suffocating his friend, but it was still oozing blood.

"At least he is still bleeding," Watson observed, nudging his friend out of the way to peer at the ugly slash himself. "It means he's still alive. There is still hope. What of his brother?"

"Busy."

"And his parents?"

Wilde's face told him all he needed to know; he had not told Thorn's parents, for fear that their son would die because of the delay. Watson quickly and quietly set to work; Holmes had whisked upstairs to grab the bag, and the doctor came to the fore with brusque speed.

As an army doctor in Afghanistan, Watson had likely seen and healed worse wounds than this with poorer supplies. The artery had thankfully only been nicked, as had the windpipe; the biggest danger to young Thorn's life was loss of blood. If they could stop the bleeding, his chances of living would be higher.

Red stained both the doctor's and the detective's hands as they worked together to preserve a life; Wilde had curled up to the side, watching with eyes that seemed more like a tiger cub's than those of a full-grown beast.

Watson leaned back, examining his work. "That is all I can do for him at the moment."

Thorn's complexion was still waxy, but colour was slowly creeping up his neck and into his face. "Thank you," Wilde said simply, folding his friend back into himself and huddling against the wall. The two men prepared to ascend the stairs and try to clean up as much of the blood as they could before it stained too indelibly, when a breath formed a name. "Phoenix."

Holmes looked up. Thorn had tucked his head under Wilde's chin; their builds being the way they were, it was no problem for him. The detective shook his head and headed upstairs after his fellow-lodger, calling to mind a memory of years ago, when Wilde first became an Irregular...

"Wiggins tells me you are indispensable to their raids." He assessed the boy before him, who honestly did not look much like the observant master of shadows Wiggins had described. His bright red hair made his unusually pale, if dirty, complexion look ill, and though his amber eyes were as sharp as Holmes had expected, their flashing fierceness reminded him a bit too much of a tiger for comfort.

"I am, sir."

"Prove it, and I will hire you. Your name?"

"Wilde, Mr. Holmes. Phoenix Wilde."