He waited, watching me as I considered. I had spent many years thinking of Edward as simply another stranger. He had disowned me, so there was no reason to concern myself with him, but I came by my temper from both sides of my family, and I knew well how losing my temper could result in words I did not mean. If that day had truly been an exaggerated argument rather than an honest declaration of his thoughts…

The fact that he was still trying, even after so many years, lent credence to his story. Most people would have given up long ago, and to still be trying showed a certain strength of character that I did not remember him having when I knew him. It was that strength of character that made my decision.

"How long have you worked for the museum?"

Relief appeared, mixing with the grief that faded only slightly as a wide smile split his face.

"Nearly ten years," he answered. "The museum director happened by a booth I had set up on a street corner in Aberdeen, and he hired me to inspect donated and found artifacts for authenticity. As he says, who better to identify a fake than one who can make an original?"

Holmes readjusted in his chair, and I scowled at him when I saw the smirk trying to escape.

"You just repeated something very close to what he told one of our recent clients," I answered Edward's questioning look, "and over which we bickered later. There has been a string of burglaries over the last two weeks targeting jewel displays. The man occasionally replaces the originals with fakes, so Holmes pulled one of our contacts off another case because 'only a forger can identify a forgery.'"

"It is true, though," Edward answered with another grin, and I suddenly realized I recognized the smile. I had never noticed how much Harry resembled Mother until I saw his smile on her brother, and I glanced away as he continued, "Through my own work, I know how a piece changes based on light, angle, and even weather. Forgeries do not present the same as a true work."

"That was his argument," I replied, affecting another scowl at Holmes' self-satisfied smirk. "Mine was mostly that our contact had spent several weeks on the first project, and it seemed a waste to pull him off before that case had finished."

Holmes merely shrugged, conceding the logic if not the point, but Edward changed the subject before Holmes could say anything.

"Why were you in Afghanistan?" he asked. "Were you already a doctor?"

I nodded. "I served for the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, then the Berkshires, until I was medically discharged in late 1880."

His gaze flicked to the cane I had leaned against my chair.

"There was a famous battle in 1880," he said carefully.

"More like infamous," I replied with a faint huff. "Yes, I sustained my injuries at Maiwand. Do you spend all your time traveling for the museum?"

I hoped he would let me move the topic along. I had no wish to discuss the war when my shoulder was already recalling memories, and years of hurt and acquired reticence could not be overcome in five minutes. I would be interested in hearing of his travels as well, but Edward leveled a frown at me so like Mother's that something lurched in my chest.

"Then what?" he asked, ignoring my question for the moment. "How were you injured? When did you move to London? Why are you not as well-known as Mr. Holmes if you both work cases? Please, John. I've missed so much of your life."

I could not stifle a sigh. "I took Jezail bullets in my shoulder and leg during the retreat. They sent me to Peshawar, where I had just started to recover when enteric fever broke out. When I pulled out of that, the board sent me back to England to convalesce. Harry had already sold the house, and I ended up in London, where a mutual friend introduced me to Holmes. We took lodgings together, and he eventually asked me to help on some of his cases. I have been here ever since, excepting a few years when I moved to Kensington."

My shoulder twinged again, and I firmly pulled my thoughts out of the war as Holmes gained his feet.

"What magazines do you get in Birmingham?" he asked when we both turned at the movement.

"Plenty," Edward replied, "but I am usually too busy at the museum to bother with them. Why do you ask?"

Holmes reached to the back corner of my shelf, withdrawing a familiar volume.

"You might have heard of the Strand?" Holmes asked. "Look at page twenty-five."

Edward raised an eyebrow but flipped pages, and I knew the moment he noticed the by-line. Pride soon mixed with the surprise in his face, and he looked up at me with a wide grin.

"You are an author?"

I nodded, firmly swallowing the dig that came to mind based on that long-ago argument. "It has been a while since I released a new one," I told him instead, "but I have published several of our cases in the Strand. The public seems to enjoy them, and more than once they have brought the next client to our door."

"That is how I found you," he answered, glancing at the page again, "though indirectly. I decided to consult you about Ada after hearing someone at the craft fair mention reading about 'Detective Mind-Reader.'"

My grin at the phrase turned into a laugh as Holmes' ears turned red. "That is a new one. I will have to remember that."

He tried to scowl at me, and I only grinned wider.

"It is your own fault, Holmes. How many times per case have you used that deducing ability of yours to surprise a client, irritate a suspect, or confound the Yarders?"

He might have hidden his amusement from Edward, but he did not hide it from me. "Not enough."

Edward and I both laughed. "What did you deduce about me?" Edward asked. "Before John arrived?"

Holmes hesitated a moment, glancing at me to make sure I was alright with this. I was.

"Traveling lapidary," he answered when I raised an eyebrow. "Based out of middle England but probably from a smaller town towards the southern end of Scotland. You spend more time on the road than at home, have no wife or children, and deal with more than just jewels, probably timepieces and similar adornments. You are visiting London, and you spent a large portion of today in Hyde park, both probably in connection with your work. You went exploring sometime in the last week and got lost in one of London's back alleys, and your hotel has been remiss in its laundry services. Your wallet was also picked recently."

Edward's jaw had dropped somewhere around the end of the first sentence, and he flicked his gaze between us.

"How did you know all that?!"

Holmes deflected the question to me, and I laughed again. "You have a ring around your eye from the magnifying lens," I answered, pleased I had followed most of his deductions this time, "as well as the calluses that come with using the smaller tools. Your accent gave away your heritage, but your attire and a small number of varied pronunciations announced your new location. Your clothes are not only traveling clothes, but well-worn traveling clothes, and they fit well enough to declare them your normal wear. You do not wear a wedding ring, nor would any wife let her husband leave for a trip with mismatched socks, and your clothes lack the small handprints that come with children apart from one next to your pocket. I believe the bit about getting lost in the last week came from the varied types of mud on your shoes. That would also account for the laundry service, but I am at a loss for the rest of it."

"The mud on your trouser leg is from the East End, and no upstanding man would go there intentionally," Holmes supplied, faint concern appearing as he noted just where in the East End it belonged. I would tell him later that the Irregulars were safe. "The mud on your shoes is from Hyde Park, and to accumulate that much means you likely spent some time wandering the booths, hence dealing with more than jewels."

Edward reflexively checked his socks. "That's amazing! You are correct on every part. I noticed my wallet missing after I returned to my room the other day."

"Did the young boy that led you out of the East End reveal his name, by chance?" I asked.

"Tim," he answered immediately. "Mine wasn't the first pocket he's picked. I never felt it."

"Black hair or blonde?"

"Black. Why? Do you know every street urchin in London?"

I straightened at the term. The way he used it was far closer to derogatory than I would tolerate about the Irregulars.

"I ought to let him keep it as payment," I nearly snapped, "for leading you away from their headquarters without giving you a few bruises in the process." He subsided at my tone, realizing he had crossed a line, and I calmed slightly at the wordless apology. "The last one to come that close to the Irregulars' headquarters spent a few days in hospital, but I need to check on them, anyway. I cannot promise the cash will be there, but I might be able to retrieve the wallet and its other contents."

He nodded his thanks, wisely refraining from comment, but a frantic pounding sounded below before Holmes could change the subject. Three sharp knocks caught our attention, then the pitch changed, settling into a pattern.

Two knocks, then one, then three.

Holmes was already out the door as the pattern repeated, and I lunged out of my chair, grabbing my stick as Holmes took the stairs three at a time. Edward watched in confused silence as I leaned over the stairwell.

"Man found our courtyard," Johnny gasped, forcing the plea around heavy panting. "Th' others are hidin'. Safe, but Jimmy and the bigger boys need help."

Well, baby steps, I suppose. Watson seems willing to learn more, though Edward had better be on his best behavior. He's already in hot water after insulting the Irregulars :D

What do you think is going on at the courtyard? What would make Johnny run for help? Where will Edward go while Holmes and Watson are helping the boys?

Thanks to Corynutz, MCH1987, Guest, Shey72, and dr who for your reviews.

Shey72, I love hearing that my stories are good enough to reread. so glad you're enjoying :D

Guest, your review made me laugh. Watson certainly has every right to punch Edward. We're only on chapter 3 of 8. Maybe Edward will redeem himself, or maybe he'll find out how well Watson can fight (evilgrin)

Dr who, I hereby grant you the title of "Most Likely to Confuse the Author." I did not expect a review of just "sorry." For what are you apologizing?