A/N: Hello, darlings. I have returned and again with the case of "the massive chapter being split in two." But have no fear, the second half has been typed up and sent off to my dear beta, old ping hai and we will be editing it tomorrow. :)
As far as John was concerned, besides the Baker Street Irregulars, there was only one person he could trust. He spurred his horse on, its hooves clattering against the cobblestones as they raced through the dim lit London streets.
Once he got there, John practically threw himself from the saddle to the door. He pounded on the door, fear spiking in his chest. He hoped that someone was home.
The door opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes in nightcap and robe. The elder Holmes held up the candle he carried to see who was banging on his door so late at night.
"Mr Watson?" he queried.
"Please, I don't know who else to turn to," John pleaded.
Mycroft blinked. "Of course, come in. Come in."
John looked back at his horse.
"Leave it," Mycroft assured. "My man will tend to it."
John nodded and squeezed past the civil servant to the manor inside. Mycroft closed the door after looking out briefly.
"Lestrade," Mycroft said to the grey-haired man standing behind them, hovering on the bottom step. "Rouse Sherlock, Emily and Dawson. Dawson to tend to Mr Watson's horse, Emily to get him a glass of water, and Sherlock, well…" he turned to look at John, who blushed under the scrutiny. "I have no doubt, it is he that Mr Watson is really here to see."
Lestrade nodded and tore off. He didn't have to get Sherlock, for as he turned around, the younger Holmes was coming down the stairs, tying the sash of his robe. He took in the scene before him and then rushed to his friend's side.
"John!" he cried. "Are you all right?"
That simple concern undid John's control and he broke down sobbing. Sherlock and Mycroft led him to the study and had him sit down. The maid came a moment later with the water. Sherlock took it from her and gave it to John.
"Here," he said. "Drink it slowly."
Once John had emptied the cup, Sherlock took it and handed it back to the maid.
"Now, tell me, John," Sherlock prompted. "What's wrong?"
John explained what had happened. When he got to the part about his father hitting him, Sherlock ran a smooth finger over the darkening bruise. John blushed and stammered a bit before he could continue his story.
"Dear god, man," Mycroft admonished. "Why haven't you gone to the police?"
John shook his head. "If my father can get an entire gang arrested just for harboring me when I tried to run away before, there is nothing the police would do."
Sherlock looked over his shoulder to Mycroft, but neither man said a word.
"I just hope that at least some of them have been released," John continued, unaware of the glance the men shared.
"Why's that?" Mycroft asked.
"I sent my man to them to get some muscle. And someone to patch her that isn't under my father's thumb."
Mike Stamford hated the dark and the cold, but he would do anything for his master. He remembered when the young man had come out to him that he was gay. It had been a bittersweet moment for the valet. On the one hand, he was glad that John had finally realized his attraction for the same sex, on the other he knew the boy's father would not take lightly to the fact his son was queer.
The whole household staff had taken to protecting the children from the master, but as years wore on, Harriet became increasingly harder to safeguard as her habits turned wild. John, on the other hand, they could keep out of harm's way for the most part. Until that fateful night when John was supposed to announce his bride.
Stamford fully believed that the master had learned that his son was gay and was trying to suppress it, and if that didn't work, beat it out of him. That's why the staff had tried to get him out. The attempt failed. But they didn't give up hope. Not yet.
In his haste to find this hideout John spoke about, he nearly tripped over a large bundle. He was about to hurry on his way when the bundle moaned. He looked down the alley and then back to bundle. He sighed and leaned down to see what the bundle was. It was a brown-haired girl. Her clothes used to be nice, but now they were covered with several months' worth of grime and dirt.
"Miss?" he asked, as he hunkered down. "Are you all right?"
She raised her head wearily. "I'm fine, sir." She looked him over. "What you doing in my neck of the woods?"
Stamford smiled at her. "I'm looking for some friends of my master. Maybe you know them, Victor and Shinwell of the Baker Street Irregulars?"
She nodded. "I'm familiar with them. I use to be one of their gang until I snitched on a young man in their care." She shook her head woefully.
Stamford frowned. "John Watson?"
"That's the one," she muttered. She looked up to see that he had stood up and was dusting off his hands. "He's the friend looking for them, huh?"
"Yes," Stamford said stiffly.
She looked down at her hands. "I could take you there, if you'd like. I know how to avoid the other gangs and the worst garbage."
"And why should I trust you?" he asked.
"Because I am a loyal Baker Street girl," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "I was jealous of the attention they were all giving John. Especially Shezza." She bowed her head. "I never meant for it to go as far as it did."
Stamford looked down the alley again. "Fine. I'm in a hurry. But if you betray me, girl, there will be no place in heaven or earth that will keep you safe, do I make myself clear?"
She nodded and dashed down the alley, Stamford close on her heels. She led him through some of the worst alleyways and streets he had ever seen, and if this was avoiding the most vile of places, then he was grateful. She stopped across the street and looked on forlornly at the house that used to be her home.
"This is as far as I go," she explained.
He turned to thank her, but she had already gone.
He sprinted across the street and knocked on the door, glancing nervously around him. A young Indian man answered the door.
"Maiṁ aṅgrējī nahīṁ bōlatā," he said in Hindi.
Stamford cursed and replied, "Maiṁ madada kī jarūrata hai kr̥payā."* He knew his accent was terrible and he probably said it wrong, but he hoped he got the message across.
"Jŏna nē mujhē bhējā. Usakī bahana kō cōṭa lagī hai."*
The man frowned at him and said stiffly, "Kyōṁ maiṁ tuma para viśvāsa karanā cāhi'ē?"*
Stamford threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "Because I'm the one who helped him escape in the first place!" he growled in exasperated English.
The man at the door looked him over, "You're Stamford?" he asked in perfect English.
"Yes!" he huffed. "He told me to ask for Shinwell and Victor."
"I'm Victor. Are you sure you were to ask for Shinwell and not Shezza?"
Stamford nodded. "I believe my master assumed that your leader would still be in prison, even if the rest of you were released."
"Ah," Victor said. "Wait here." He dashed inside and then came out with his bag and a large black man.
"Shinwell, Stamford." The two men nodded to each other, then they dashed off following Stamford back to the manor.
As they were hurrying along, Stamford asked, "Is Shezza still in prison?"
Victor and Shinwell shared a glance.
"Of sorts," Victor admitted.
John and Sherlock had ridden up to the house on the back of John's horse just as Stamford and the Baker Street Irregulars burst through an alleyway across from the drive.
Sherlock and Victor's eyes met and immediately Sherlock's hand went to his temple. He tapped once with his forefinger before sliding it down to rest on his chin. The Indian's eyebrows shot up in shock.
That was the signal for not revealing the person to a con mark. Sometimes the gang would run cons on unsuspecting old ladies for their pin money. While the gang could steal quite a lot of the things they needed, there were times when the cutpurse couldn't bring in enough money for the things they had to buy. What confused Victor was how John was a mark. He knew he was about to find out, however.
John dismounted and handed the reins to Sherlock. He walked up to the three men on foot. "Victor! Shinwell! You came!" He shook each of their hands effulgently.
Stamford took the opportunity to take the horse from a similarly dismounted Sherlock and let his master speak with his friends in private.
"Victor, Shinwell, this is my good friend, Sherlock Holmes. Mr Holmes, these men and their leader saved my life."
Everyone shook hands, though Shinwell looked uncomfortable.
John looked at Victor and said, his voice shaking, "Is he all right? I would have sent a note or something, but my father kept too close an eye on me."
"It wouldn't have done any good," Shinwell grumbled.
"I'm afraid that is so, sir," Stamford said as he was returning. "These gentlemen have informed me that their leader is still in prison."
Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at Victor and the other man just shrugged.
"Of a sort," the Indian murmured.
"John," Sherlock interjected when it looked as though John was going to ask more questions. "We need to find your sister before irreparable harm comes to her."
"Of course," John replied. "Victor, Stamford, I need you to wait here for Mr Holmes's carriage. The elder Holmes is bringing it behind us. Victor, you will tend to her wounds, and Stamford will show you where to take her. I can't know, you understand?" The two men nodded.
"Sherlock, Shinwell, come with me," John said, his jaw set. "I'll need the muscle to aid me in her rescue."
John looked around at the men who looked to him for direction and realized that he didn't need his father for anything. He had friends. Real ones. He nodded resolutely and then turned to lead Shinwell and Sherlock into the house.
A/N: For my Hindi speaking readers (if I have any) please, please forgive the google translate of your beautiful language.
"I don't speak English," he said in Hindi.
Stamford cursed and replied, "Please, I need help," He knew his accent was terrible and he probably said it wrong, but he hoped he got the message across.
"John sent me. His sister is hurt."
The man frowned at him and said stiffly, "Why should I believe you?"