Prompt: An Irregular saves the day, from mrspencil

There is nothing quite so frustrating as a hopeless case, when even I begin to realize that the solution is beyond me. Of course, I let no hint of this show either on my face or in my mannerisms. I should never become the world's foremost detective if Scotland Yard lost what little faith they were gaining in my abilities. I was as yet too new to the city to even contemplate failure; consulted only as a last resort and on severance.

I led the small band of Yarders who had been persuaded to trust me into the dark alley in search of our criminal, a fiend who had been alighting with entire crates from the docks and hiding them so thoroughly they were never seen again. The case had some factors of interest; the thief did not limit himself to one shipping company or one type of cargo, and that anyone could gain access to every dock when each shipping lines controlled their own area and hired their own men spoke of some intelligence on the part of the fellow. As I had only arrived in the city some months before, from a part of England that was very much landlocked, I had yet to make a satisfactory study of the shipping businesses that drove London's economy. A failure, on my part, for now I would almost surely fail to solve this case.

I glanced behind me to see Lestrade checking his gun to ensure it was ready. He gave me a look of some bewilderment, as if wondering why he had allowed me to take the lead. I growled under my breath. He, of all the Yarders, had worked with me the most and seen what successes I had to my name thus far, and still he doubted me! Though I reminded myself those successes were what had led him to come to me for this case in the first place, certainly the largest and widest-ranging of all the ones I had encountered thus far.

It rankled to be in debt to someone who did not even fully believe that I could solve the case, though as we headed further into the dark alley, I realized to my consternation that he was most likely right. There was no place here where someone might hide such bulky cargo, no way anyone could slip unnoticed while moving such large pieces of stolen goods. Blast! It rankled even further that the Yarders should see my failure, the latest of many in this case. I stopped to get my bearings, trying to think my way through how such a crime might be committed in the first place. No one we had spoken to at the docks had seen the man leave with his stolen goods. No one had reported that anyone unusual had been hired lately, perhaps making his way from one shipping company to another. It was the most promising case that had yet come my way, and I was about to fail to solve it!

I saw a few of the Yarders exchange glances that I could read as easily as a book. They thought I was exaggerating my abilities, that I had led them on a merry chase, leaving none the better off for it. "Come," I said, sweeping back past them. I would let on to no weakness; I had discovered that much of the business of crime fighting, and indeed, of life, was in projecting an aura of invincibility. People were so easily fooled; they always believed what was in front of their eyes without question, and if I seemed to know what I was about, they would almost always meekly accept it as truth. Useful for me, as I was loath to admit that I had not a clue as to where to turn next.

Failure is not failure, Sherlock. Merely a tool to eliminate what is not true, Mycroft's voice sounded in my head, giving me advice he had often given me when I was frustrated in childhood. Well, today I had no use for my meddling older brother, even in my own head. No matter how correct I knew he was. I had been able to eliminate that alley, and therefore most of this neighborhood, as a possible hiding spot for the criminal and his allies (for he must have allies, for such an elaborate crime). I had also learned that I still had several weaknesses that I must address if I wished to succeed in my chosen career, namely that of my ignorance of the shipping business and the layout of the neighborhoods around the docks. Mycroft would be annoyingly condescending and amused if he knew this; would probably proceed to tell me from memory the exact layout of the area I needed to know as easily as if he was reading from a map.

"Holmes," Lestrade asked, coming up next to me. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Of course," I said, attempting to sound exactly as masterful and condescending as Mycroft would, as if the very idea that I might was ludicrous. "I shall solve it in a day, Lestrade, mark my words."

Patience, Sherlock. It would not do to get so ahead of yourself.

Do be quiet, Mycroft, I retorted to the voice. Deadlines had always helped me push myself to succeed. Now that I had set myself one, I simply had to work it out before that time.

But with no further leads, Lestrade simply led our little band back to the Yard's headquarters, where I managed to take all the case notes before he got to them so I could study them again. Perhaps there was something I had missed. Besides, looking things over again after a time often revealed new information. It was why I frequently stopped any researches I was conducting to play the violin, regardless of how much that dreadful landlady at Montague Street might complain. It is hardly my fault that the best time to do such study is in the early hours of the morning.

A commotion at the door caught my attention and I glared at the interruption. I require silence to concentrate, and I had yet to meet anyone who is capable of it. Even the low hum of conversation at the Yard was enough to throw me off my thought process, and now that they had obviously brought in some other criminal, I should get nothing done. I wondered if I might abscond with the case file to study it in peace in my rooms, though it is hardly quieter there, with the walls as thin as paper and seemingly every one of my neighbors having multiple children under the age of three.

"Caught this one trying to get into the Yard," the beat officer said, holding a grimy boy by the ear. One who I immediately recognized, for why else would one of London's street boys be attempting to get into Scotland Yard?

"I know this boy," I said, before Lestrade could give the order to keep him in the gaol for the rest of the day. "He works for me."

"For you?" Lestrade asked. "Doing exactly what? Pickpocketing?" He grinned in amusement, and the rest of the Yard laughed along.

I felt my cheeks flush (why was it such a curse of the pale that I must turn the color of cherries every time I was embarrassed?) and snapped, "No, Lestrade. These boys see all of London without anyone noticing them. I can think of no better way to keep an eye on the criminal classes. You could learn a great deal from them." I certainly had. Pickpocketing had its uses. I had once returned a wealthy lady's antique purse only because I was able to steal it from the thief as he passed me in the British Museum. A simple enough case, though the fee had paid my rent for several months. "What is it, Brian?" I asked the boy.

"Wanted to report to you, Mr. Holmes," Brian O'Malley, the leader of the small army of street orphans I called my Irregulars, answered. "Saw the chap you're after in Whitechapel, I did. Right on the corner of -Street and - Street. Where that pub is, you know the one."

"Indeed, I do," I said, for Whitechapel was an area I had made a study of, as I had not with the docks. Any criminal specialist needed to know his way around that particular neighborhood. "That pub is a den of crime, Lestrade. If we hurry I wager we'll not only find our thief, but others of London's most wanted as well." I handed Brian a shilling. "Good work, lad."

Brian grinned and scurried out. "Thanks, Mr. Holmes!"

"Well, what are you waiting for?" I asked Lestrade. "Come, the game is almost over!" Ah, to be hot on the chase and about to solve a case. There is no feeling like it, not even in my preferred seven-per-cent solution. "The day is saved," I said as we left.

Lestrade grunted. "By a lad not even ten years old! Your theories got us nowhere in the end, did they now, Holmes?"

"I did not see you making use of such a fine resource," I retorted. "Those boys can go anywhere virtually undetected. Did no one on the Yard ever think of that?"

Lestrade looked dutifully ashamed, and I continued, "Now that you are aware of it, might I trouble you not to arrest them as they go about their business? It's dreadful trouble to have to bail my spies out of your gaol every other day."

"That was you?" Lestrade asked. "We were wondering who it was who was posting their bail constantly." His expression twisted as if fighting with himself. "Well, if the lad's tip turns out to be good, I'll do what I can."

"It will be," I promised. "I trained them myself, and I had to do little enough of that. They've yet to fail me." They were considerably better than nearly all of the official police. Perhaps I ought to send them to the academy for training as they grew older. Wouldn't Scotland Yard be peeved about that!