Kai…you any better? Will a rescue lift your spirits?

London:

"King George, King George, what has thou done?

Thou hast been the ruin of me

By the killing of my son.

O Where is a doctor to be found,

To heal the Turk my son,

Who bleeds upon this ground?"

The Obby Oss danced with feral impartial observation as the mummers swayed, dipped and murmured. Father Christmas mourned the death of his son the Turk. Transfixed as a child before a carnivale, Watson watched as the parade acted out the Mummer's play as they went down the street. By stages the quack doctor produced his credentials and brought the Turk back to life, one step on the road at a time.

He was still watching when he was again alone on the street.

Mary will not believe this…

Mary. The doctor shook himself, shocked at his lack of attention. St. Mary's Bells…It was almost eight; he was behind the time by the half-hour!

"Foolish man," he said to himself, and hurried to his home, fast as his limping gait would allow.

-

Lestrade all but fell into the main office of Scotland Yard. It was hard to say what looked worse about him; the pallor of the cold on his face, or the high spots of red on his cheeks.

"You look terrible." Gregson informed him, as if he didn't have the sense to know.

Lestrade spared him a scathing look. "I can always trust you not to sugar-coat it, Euclid."

"You loathe sugar." Gregson would ever be willing to use a man's words against him. "What's the Mrs. Lestrade going to do when she sees you like this?" The little man instantly groaned into his gloves. "So what does the other locomotive look like?"

"I." Lestrade said through his teeth, "haven't the time for this, Gregson. I'm trying to find Dr. Watson, and it would be a very very good idea if I could find him right now."

"He was at a meeting with Dr. Roanoke most of the day," Hopkins came up behind. "Outlining his duties."

"So he is joining us? There's a piece of good news." Lestrade suddenly slumped against a filing cabinet, drained dry.

"What's wrong?" Gregson folded powerful arms across his chest. "You haven't looked this bad since the fight in the Crimping-den."

"Where do you want me to start, Gregson? My meeting with His Lordship Mycroft Holmes, or my going to Exeter on his recommendation to find Patterson, or my finding Patterson operating a funny little tavern that used to be a dancing school? Or my running into old Monty—remember him, Hopkins? Or how he and his protégé took me to dinner in a place that gave me food poisoning?" Lestrade paused for breath. "Which didn't turn out too badly, as it led me to purging the chloral hydrate Inspector Loseth slipped on me in an effort to steal the papers off my person that Patterson had given me—"

Hopkins and Gregson had quite forgotten to move, blink, and possibly breathe. Lestrade had his advantage, and he took it.

"It was almost worth it for the look on the little crook's face when he broke into my rented rooms, thinking I'd be dead to the world. I popped him and blew for Patterson, who showed up with a rifle older than the Chief Inspector, and Monty showed up angry enough to pinch hobnails with his tonsils."

Gregson cleared his throat. "Monty, eh?" He cleared his throat again. "Is he still drinking?"

"When did he stop?" Lestrade deflated his lungs as he sank into a chair. "He had one glass in my presence. That's all you want to know?" Lestrade shook his head wearily. "Someone's wanting these ridiculous papers, and it could be the Colonel. I've been trying to find Dr. Watson but the snow slowed the railways down to a crawl, and then when I went to his practice, his wife said she'd be here, and now you say he's left?"

"Calm down, Lestrade." Gregson lifted a large hand. "He should be back at his home by now—surely. It's just a matter of going back there." Gregson turned to signal a Constable, belatedly catching that the smaller man was pushing himself up to make his way out the door again. "Hang it, Lestrade, you're going back right now?"

"No time like the present," Lestrade sighed. "And I'm already behind schedule."

"Stop." Gregson leaned over the filing cabinet and grabbed Lestrade by the collar. "Hopkins is going with you."

"Me?"

"Him?"

"It's high time Hopkins got to know your methods of doing things, Lestrade."

"I'm going to Kensington Street, Gregson, not darkest Africa!!" Lestrade bellowed.

"See? When he's like this, just don't quarrel with him. Don't give an inch, but don't quarrel with him. Fightin's just another source of sustenance for him." Gregson tossed Hopkins his coat. "And do your best to keep up. You know how it is with little people."

-

Hopkins had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. Lestrade was past him in years and under him in height (by three whole inches), but no one doubted who'd be the winner if it came to fisticuffs.

Lestrade also kept his mouth shut. He was conserving his flagging energy for getting to Kensington Street in what Hopkins thought was record time.

"Not a single bloody cab," Hopkins panted when they crossed the next street; he startled himself at talking. Lestrade grunted, ignoring the now-blinding curtain of snow as it whirled down into their faces.

"Horses hate it when they can't see, Hopkins." He said almost casually. "That rule about covering their eyes to get them out of a burning barn doesn't always work." He paused, stopping so quickly in his tracks Hopkins nearly ran straight into his shoulder-blades. "And they aren't sure-footed in this sort of whiting. That makes men and horses more edgy than anything. Cabbies aren't going to risk their livelihood with a lamed horse."

Hopkins paused, leaning on his knees as he caught his breath. Lestrade seemed to have gotten his wind back—unbelievable as it sounded. He took a step underneath the lamp-light. Snow made lace of his thick lashes and thin brows; his sharp dark eyes glittering with some sort of metallic thought Hopkins couldn't follow.

"What the devil's a parade doing out here?" The younger man saw him whisper. He paused, puzzled and annoyed because something had happened in London without his knowledge, and he didn't care for it. "No permits for an assembly…" He scuffed the loose snow at their feet; a bell still sewn to a sad little red satin ribbon went rolling into the white storm.

Hopkins didn't know what exactly happened then. All he saw was Lestrade's large eyes grow larger, into bottomless pools of a strong emotion that boded ill. He turned to look at his companion, grey-peppered snow already collecting a quarter-inch on his bowler-brim and shoulders.

"Hopkins, run as quick as you can. We're taking the short-ways to Dr. Watson's practice. I'm not going to wait for you; don't bother to wait for me."

And he took off with a speed that belied his twisted foot.

Hopkins could only follow. He soon came to the conclusion that Lestrade's fearsome reputation extended from the Yard and into the ranks of crime, for no one appeared to accost them as they sped through some of the worst alleys, mews, snicketts and back-building gardens west of Aldgate. Hopkins wasn't even certain where they were when his difficult guide stopped for a second time.

--and jumped backwards, into the alleyway to signal Hopkins into silence.

Hopkins heaved his breath, staring fruitlessly into the swirling darkness of the alleyway. He bent his head to the shorter man's and whispered (he hoped) into his ear: "What is it?"

"Lamps are out." Lestrade said coldly. "They were burning when I went to see Mrs. Watson not a half-hour ago."

Hopkins felt a glacier sweep away his ribs. He completely froze, incapable of movement from some unspeakable horror. Menace lurked in every pool of darkness before them.

Snowfall had never sounded so threatening.

Lestrade put his back up against the frozen wall; Hopkins saw him set his mouth into a razor line as a decision came to him. "Get your whistle out," he said softly, and began pulling off his gloves.

Hopkins was still telling himself Lestrade wasn't that nervy when Lestrade pulled his cupped hands to his mouth. That eerie whistle vibrated in his teeth and the air of London; just as quickly Lestrade yanked his policeman's whistle from nowhere and blew on it hard as he could. And illusion of two policemen, not one. Hopkins caught on and followed suit a second later.

Constables were half-imprisoned with their heavy boots and wool, but they could move when they had to. Muffled shouts floated up in the ghostly light of the snowy lamps half-a street down the way. A shrill eleven-shill whistle answered.

The darkness disgorged swearing figures into the street from the alleyway directly across from them.

And that was exactly what Lestrade had been waiting for. Hopkins died his thousandth death of the night when the older man threw himself into the knot of four large, ugly men who were no doubt armed.

"Stop!" It was incredible a voice like that could come from Lestrade. "Halt! You are under arrest right now, sir!" The last was said as Lestrade struck a man twice his size down with his truncheon. Hopkins wasn't surprised when the man went down and stopped moving, facedown in the snow.

Carpe diem. Hopkins leaped into the mess too, blowing madly on his whistle. Lestrade was the one who could carry the iron, he thought darkly. Why wasn't he using it?

-

Mary Morstan Watson was a child of the colonies. She didn't need to think. When the whistle sounded practically outside their door her first thought was for Arthur. Before the maid had finished her exclamations she had entered the nursery and swept the baby up in her arms. He chirped in his shock at being risen but he subsided just as quickly to find himself in his mother's arms, pressed close beneath her chin.

She backed away, for his crib was facing the outside window, and pressed herself against the hall-wall's plaster and wainscot, still holding him close. He was distressed, but her long experience with children taught her it was his own reaction to the unknown—and to his mother. Once he sensed his mother was calm, he would calm too.

And so, Mary was calm.

Had John seen her in that moment in the shadows of the hall, he would have been admiring but not surprised. No one, not even his late friend, needed tell him the tiny woman he married was in possession of fire and steel.

She had, after all, faced the end of her play-years in India, transportation from the hot climes to Edinburgh, and the bitter loss of her father only three years before her future husband even returned to the island in the wake of war.

Across the hallway, the maid was thrusting her fists into her apron-pockets and quivering like an aspen in the breeze.

Perhaps we were hasty in dismissing Ivy, she thought. Ivy had been halfway to useless in chores, but her head had been steady for emergencies, like burst pipe and ragamuffins throwing a stone through the windows...

"Theresa." Mary snapped softly. "Do get in control of yourself." Her voice, deep for a woman, had the effect it desired. Theresa stood upright, and though her face was pale her resolve was steady as she saw how her employer held her drowsy babe in her arms.

"Shall I take young Arthur, madam?" She asked, and Mary could only be impressed at the speed in which the girl had caught on to the importance of things.

"No, not for now, Theresa." Mary turned her head to look down the stairs to the ground floor where. Outside in the snow, an indubitable fight was taking place.

-

In front of Hopkins' eyes (he would make judgment later in the warmth of his own office), Inspector Lestrade paused in winding his whistle to strike out with his truncheon. A second man fell at his feet to join the first—and on the first, truth to tell.

"You can stop now, Hardwynn!" The small man snarled. "I arrest you in the Queen's name for the harassment of a veteran of her Majesty's Army, to wit, Major John H. Watson, formerly of Princess Charlotte of Wales' Regiment of the Berkshires!"

It was one thing to bluff before a single member of authority. It was quite another to scorn the accreditation behind it. Hardwynn broke and started running. Hopkins looked up in time from slapping the Derbies on his own man and thought, 'too bad,' but Lestrade wasn't finished.

Lestrade was still scowling with nothing but severe indignation, as if the man's fugitive state was a deliberate act against him, and threw his truncheon. It went end over end and struck the heavy end into the lower spine. Hardwynn collapsed as neatly as a marionette without strings.

Lestrade merely snorted at the display. "Amateurs." He said under his breath before catching Hopkins' expression. "Mother of Paul, Stanley. Hasn't Gregson taught you that trick?"

Hopkins could only shake his head from side to side, no.

"Gregson." Lestrade muttered. "Lazy intellectual, square-built sod…" He sighed and stomped through the snow (now shin deep) and nipped his truncheon up. His Derbies went on the groaning Hardwynn.

"Good heavens!"

Hopkins for once, beat Lestrade to it. Dr. Watson, the reason for their mad pelt across the snowy streets, was limping heavily to his practice, stout stick in his hand and looking as though he was quite ready to use it on someone. "What is happening, gentlemen?" He demanded with a pale face and robust voice.

Lestrade was standing (one boot on the back of Hardwynne) and fishing for a quick cigarette as a minor army of Constables swept onto the scene. Had it only been a few seconds of rout and flight and pursuit? Logic said so, but it was still unbelievable to Hopkins.

"Hello, doctor," Lestrade smiled with a weary twist to his lips. "Just taking care of a bit of…mess by your place." He suddenly put his hands inside his coat pockets as if they were frozen in the swirling winds. "Might I trouble you for the temporary loan of a desk to write some notes on?"

Watson was no fool. He took in the fact that the men being cleaned up with no little annoyance on part of the Constables were long-standing acquaintances with the Metro (the invectives were muffled, true, but his ears were sharp).

Hopkins watching, in growing amazement as the veteran lowered his stick to the purpose it was intended for, and nodded as if it were summer and tea-time.

He looks disappointed to have missed out on it, the young Inspector thought. Unaware of what a man truly felt when his hearth, home, and family was threatened, he was doing well to recognize that much.

"Certainly I can, Inspectors." Watson said firmly.