Disclaimer: None of the characters from Sherlock Holmes are mine. There are a few minor characters in this chapter, however, that are from somewhere in my two to three pounds of brain matter.

A/N: So this chapter is quite long, and I offer my apologies to your family/friends/significant others/teachers/bosses for eating up your time. About half of it was also written after ten PM. But contrary to my belief that it's mainly disjointed rambling, I have a reliable beta reader telling me that it's amazing. So prepare to be amazed!

Rather than heading straight for the duke's estate, Holmes ordered the carriage driver to stop in front of a dilapidated old pub once they entered the nearby village.

"I want to converse with the natives," he said to Watson by way of explanation. Holmes stepped down from the coach and the doctor followed suit. "Meet us here in an hour, my good man," Holmes said to the driver. "Feel free to explore in the meantime, but kindly refrain from attracting attention."

"Will do, Mr. Holmes."

"Such a pleasant fellow," Holmes remarked as he led Watson to the peeling green door of the bar. "I hardly need to remind you of the basic rules of sleuthing?"

"Hardly," Watson said. He pushed open the door. "After you."

Holmes's entire demeanor changed as he entered the pub. He slid his lower jaw forward and gave himself a jutting underbite. Both his brows drooped until his eyes were hardly visible. He rolled his shoulders forward and hunched over, letting his arms swing limply like those of a caveman. Twisting his head in the most unnatural way in order to look at Watson, the sleuth said in the hoarsest of growls, "Make yourself ugly." With that, he lumbered inside.

Watson paused for a moment to contemplate this last order, but the awful sound of Holmes clearing his throat interrupted his reflection. Quickly the doctor untucked his shirt and ran his hand along the windowsill, gathering more than enough dust to smack around on his clothes. Frowning, he removed his hat and after some hesitation, punched in the top, wincing as he did so. He placed it back on his head and thoughtfully screwed up his eyes in an attempt to copy Holmes.

"Watson!"

"Coming!" the doctor whispered, ducking inside.

Holmes took one look at him and grumbled in grudging acceptance. He plodded to an empty table in the far corner and dropped into one of the chairs, immediately leaning it back on two legs. He produced a wooden toothpick from somewhere and set about mutilating it with his teeth, the picture of lowlife relaxation.

Watson trailed after him and took the other seat. Uneasily he surveyed the pub and the patrons seated at the rest of the tables. "Hol—"

"Don't be thick, Arnold. My name's Jacques."

The doctor glanced at his friend. "Fine…Jacques, I don't—"

Holmes put his hand up for silence as a brawny barmaid in a dirty apron stalked over to them. "You want anything?" she snapped.

"Information," Holmes rumbled.

She was unimpressed. "Do you want a drink, sir?"

"No, love, I don't," he shot back.

The barmaid rounded on Watson. "You?"

"Uhh…no," he said. "Nothing for me."

Rolling her eyes, she made as if to return to the bar. Holmes stopped her. "Oy there, love."

Visibly gritting her teeth, she turned back to him. "You want information? Go talk to him." The barmaid pointed across the room to an unsavory man watching a group of ladies pass by outside. "Name's Andrew. He gets to know everything, one way or another."

Holmes offered her a frightening grimace that Watson presumed to be a smile. "Thank you kindly, love." The barmaid moved off and the sleuth tipped his creaking chair forward. "Come, Arnie. Let us pay dear Andrew a visit."

"Arnie?"

Watson caught a chuckle as Holmes stomped past him, making a beeline for the man sitting alone near the door. The doctor rose and followed.

Andrew happened to spot them when they were still halfway across the room. The muscles in his neck tightened with nervousness and his filthy fingernails began tapping a fast rhythm on the tabletop. His bloodshot eyes flicked to the exit and back to Holmes and Watson as he weighed his options. Before he could reach a decision, however, they were upon him.

"Good afternoon," Holmes said, clapping a hand onto Andrew's shoulder as he sat down. Watson could've sworn a puff of dust darted up from the man's coat. "Andrew, eh?"

"Who…who are you?" Andrew stammered. "I don't know nothing 'bout nothing, I was only—"

Holmes clenched his fingers around Andrew's shoulder and he stopped talking as though he'd been switched off. "We aren't here about that, love."

Andrew looked at him in surprise. "You're…you're not?"

The sleuth shook his head. The little smile on his face was sufficient to send poor Andrew's fingers dancing even faster. "No. We've got bigger fish to fry."

Watson eyed the fidgety man with distaste. Not only was he coated head to toe in a layer of dirt; he was panting like a dog and smelled like one as well. Beads of sweat left semi-clean trails in the muck on his face. He glanced pleadingly out the window, where the group of young ladies had paused to chat. How he could see anything was beyond Watson. The glass was so grimy that it could've been night outside and no one would be the wiser.

"Fish, huh?" Andrew stuttered. "Never liked fish much myself…."

"Excellent," Holmes said. "Then you won't mind this one being caught."

Andrew looked as though he very much wanted Holmes to release his shoulder. "What do you…what do you want to know?"

"The Duke of Hampshire. Lives just down the way there. What do you know about him?"

"Dead and buried, ain't he, last I heard. Why? He owe you something?"

Andrew uttered a piteous squeak as Holmes squeezed his shoulder again. "None of your business, now, is it? The house. It's still inhabited. By who?"

"His widow! And a few of her gang, she brought them over a little while ago."

"'Her gang', eh? What do you know about them?"

"Nothing. Ow! Nothing, I swear!"

Watson glared around the pub at those who had begun to stare. He leaned forward, blue eyes fixed on Andrew's. "What about the widow, Andy?" he asked, adopting Holmes's affinity for nicknames. "You seem quite the ladies' man."

Holmes shot the doctor an approving look as Andrew raised an unruly brow. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "Pretty, ain't she? Gorgeous, more like. Why the likes of her takes up with an old windbag like that…money though, ain't it…."

"We don't care why she married him," Watson snapped. "What's she doing there?"

"How should I know? Hey, hey!" He finally wrested his shoulder away from Holmes's ruthless grasp. "I already told you! She's got a bunch of friends there, ain't she? Who knows what they're doing!"

"So you don't see them around," Holmes stated.

"What? No. No, they never come out." Andrew shook his head violently for emphasis. "Honest!" he proclaimed as Holmes narrowed his eyes. They were barely visible now.

"Not a clue," Holmes said, "as to what's going on?"

Andrew paused. "Well…you know…I did see her at the mill, couple days back…I wasn't following her or nothing, just…by chance, you know…."

Holmes frowned in surprise. "The mill, you say?"

"The cotton mill. This is a mill town, ain't it?"

The sleuth exchanged a furtive glance with Watson. There was a peculiar look in his eyes that Watson recognized. Holmes had reached a conclusion. "Arnold, I believe we owe the mill a visit." He pushed his chair away from the table with the awful screech of wood scraping across wood. "Thank you kindly, Andrew," he muttered. "With any luck, we shall never meet again." He strode for the door. Watson followed, after sparing a last hostile glance for Andrew.

"So what have you deduced, old boy?" Watson asked as the pair of them shed their unsavory demeanors.

"I am not entirely sure," Holmes answered, "but I believe it has the potential to be quite explosive. Literally."

This gave Watson some pause. "Holmes…."

"Sulfuric acid," Holmes said. "Sulfuric acid and cotton."

The formula rang a bell in the back of Watson's mind. "…and you say it is a type of explosive?"

"No, not quite. But combined with a third ingredient, yes. That is precisely what I am saying." He turned the corner. "I suspect she was on a supply run for the professor. We shall need to know how much cotton she obtained."

"Very well."

The cotton mill resounded with the combined grinding of dozens of machines. Little more than thirty seconds passed before Watson was convinced he would never hear the same again. Endless rows of mechanized looms stretched before them, with haggard-looking women pacing wearily up and down the aisles in order to supervise. The doctor was shocked to see children, boys and girls, dodging the whirring gears and pulleys with determined looks on their young faces. They couldn't have been more than eight years old, every one of them. Child labor was nothing strange, but all the same, there was something different about seeing the poor wretches in person. They belonged in school, not in a sweltering madhouse such as this.

Watson looked to Holmes to see his reaction to this outrage, but the sleuth was preoccupied in watching a woman striding towards them, all the while shouting hoarsely to the workers.

"Come on, you lazy lot! This isn't break time! Lucy! Watch your skirt, for goodness sake!" She nearly tripped over a small boy with peroxide-blonde hair. "Heavens, Louis, what are you playing at?" With a tender look on her face, she lifted him into her arms and forked him on her hip. She approached Holmes and Watson with none of the love that had been in her expression not two seconds before. "Oy! You can't come in here! What do you want?"

"Just a few simple answers, madam," Holmes said.

Thin pieces of pale brown hair were floating from her bun, sticking to her sweaty face. She shoved them out of her eyes, regarding the sleuth with suspicion. "Are you from the board?"

Watson found the little boy watching him with big brown eyes. He had one sticky thumb in his mouth and was sucking on it as though it were candy. There was an unmistakable resemblance to the woman in his round face—the same nose, same long lashes. The doctor noted, however, that her left hand was devoid of any sort of ring.

"No, not from the board," Holmes replied. Watson reverted his attention to the task at hand. "We are investigating some…questionable circumstances considering the late Duchess of Hampshire."

"Oh." The woman's brows furrowed with surprise. "Why?"

"We believe she has been mixing with the wrong sort of crowd," Holmes said. "For a woman of her standing."

"Have you seen her recently?" Watson asked.

The woman regarded him for a moment before making her answer. "Yes…she was here just the other day."

"May I inquire as to why?" Holmes said.

"She came for some cotton." Her tone made it plain that she was still puzzled about the matter. "I refused her at first, but she offered quite the sum."

"How much did she claim?"

"A full basket," the woman said with disdain. "Why she could possibly need that much is beyond me."

"Are you married?" Watson questioned all the sudden.

Both Holmes and the woman gave him an odd look. "…yes," she said after a pause. "We're a bit…short on funding…for a ring."

Watson stepped forward. She started and took half a step back, but halted as the doctor took little Louis's hand with his fingers and bounced it gently. "This is your son?"

She nodded again, and her eyes quickly filled with emotion. "My husband…he works in the mines…no place for children, you can imagine." The doctor nodded his understanding, suddenly grateful for his standing in the world and the engagement ring on his Mary's finger.

Holmes cleared his throat with a certain amount of awkwardness. "Well…I thank you most graciously for your help, madam. Oh—one more thing, before we depart…did the duchess have a peculiar smell about her?"

Now it was Watson's turn to stare at his friend. But Louis's mother nodded, wrinkling her nose at the memory. "Yes…it burnt the nostrils. I thought it rather odd."

"Thank you," Holmes said again. "Come, Arnold." The sleuth started for the exit, but Watson hesitated.

"Could you, by chance, find a use for this?" he asked, digging into his pocket and retrieving the small amount of money therein.

The woman looked shocked and shook her head. "No…no, we couldn't."

"Yes, you could." Watson pressed it into her hand. "Consider it thanks for your help."

She bit her lip, working to subdue tears. "This means a lot, sir." Her voice was humbly quiet.

Watson shrugged and gave Louis a smile. "Take care of yourself. Both of you." With this, he backed out of the factory.

Holmes was waiting for him beside the door. "Shall we?"

They set off down the road in silence.

After a pause, Holmes spoke again. "That was quite a noble act, Watson."

The doctor shrugged a second time. "She seemed to possess a greater need than I."

"All the same, it was very kind of you." Holmes patted his friend's shoulder.

Watson blew all the air from his lungs. "And what of you? Did you hear what you hoped to hear?"

"Unfortunately, I did, in fact." Holmes buried his hands in the pockets of his coat. "My hunch has been proven so correct that I daresay it deserves the title of fact."

"What hunch is that?"

"Cotton? Sulfuric acid? A peculiar odor that burns the nose? The latter is a telltale sign of nitric acid, I am willing to bet. And these two chemical substances put with the quantity of cotton obtained by Irene…."

Watson suddenly recalled the result of the familiar formula. "Gun-cotton."

"Precisely," Holmes said. "Moriarty is producing that notoriously explosive gun-cotton. And in no small amount either."

The doctor furrowed his brow. "But what could he want with gun-cotton?"

A grim smile crossed Holmes's face. "Excellent question."

And cue the DUNDUNDUN. I did an extensive amount of research for this chapter, so I hope you all thoroughly appreciated it. Nah, just kidding. I do hope you noticed the small change in writing style, though. After reading a certain Inception fic, I had an inferiority complex and put myself to work on improving. I rather like the results. R&R!