Far too many minutes after Cole left, George finally stirred. Calloused hands gently prevented him from hitting his head on the table leg.
"George? Can you hear me?"
The question sparked a frown of thought, then the boy opened his eyes, scowling when he found himself on the floor.
"I fell asleep at the anvil, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did." Probably. That made the most sense, considering the boy's evident fatigue, but he still prevented George from standing. One hand checked for a fever. "Stay there. Do you feel ill?"
"I feel embarrassed," he shot back. "Lemme up!"
"No."
George kept trying, however. More interested in answers than keeping his senior apprentice on the floor, Master Anderson finally compromised by letting him sit.
"Why are you quite literally asleep on your feet?"
"I just had a long night," he insisted, rubbing his eyes rather than look up. A wide yawn escaped. "'M sorry for making you catch me. Just hope I didn't ruin that shoe."
He waved the concern aside. "The shoe can be replaced, my boy. You cannot." One hand kept the boy on the floor as he easily noted heavy eyelids over dark shadows. "How much did you sleep last night?"
George thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Three hours? Almost as much as the night before. Rescuing those kids was more important."
"Rescuing which kids?"
"Everyone in that house of horrors." A tremor shook his shoulders, obvious despite another failed attempt to stand. "We still lost three, and I found one of them." A glance pointedly referenced his silent anvil. "I can work, Master. I swear. I need to work."
"You need to sleep."
"No!" He swallowed, remorse appearing though he did not voice it. "No," he repeated, the word quieter. "Not yet. Not again. I'll try later. Maybe tonight." Master Anderson blocked another attempt to reach his feet. "Let me up."
"No. Look at me." His tone finally halted George's attempts to stand, though a long moment passed before haunted eyes met his. "Why were you awake all night?" he asked, trying to be gentle while still refusing to let George ignore the question. "And what haunts your dreams?"
Shadowed eyes filled with tears, which George quickly blinked away. "Her face. Their faces. All of them." He broke eye contact to fiddle with a nearby piece of scrap. "Mr. Holmes raided an—an orphanage last night. We helped. We'd found it. The kids would be living with us. We wanted to help, but that was no orphanage. We knew it was no orphanage." He paused, full attention apparently on the intricately contorted metal that twisted and turned in his light grip. "Nineteen kids faced yet another sunset, Master, but only sixteen survived the raid. Those—those monsters killed three kids last night alone, and we found twelve graves less than a year old. Wiggins said—" He almost visibly flinched at the memory. A deep breath provided the courage to continue. "He said he escaped one of these monsters more than twenty years ago. Twelve graves a year, for twenty years…" He let the comment trail away. "I found one of the girls. Those—they had—I covered her with my jacket. She was so small. Hadn't been eating. Younger than Cole. Carla called her 'collateral damage,' because she had probably tried to protect her friend that had hit the change."
Collateral damage. Because she had—
He had long known of the band of children George called home. He had not known of this side of that life, and he tried to find something to reply, some way to direct this back to George, to help his boy. George spoke first.
"They're with us now," he told the metal. "The ones that are left. Sixteen faces. Sixteen pairs of haunted eyes. Sixteen silent kids. Kids shouldn't be silent, Master, but there's one boy—no one even knows his name. He's never said a word since the day those creeps locked him in the 'introductory closet.' The others are hardly any better."
Some of the tension started leaking from George's shoulders, and Master Anderson made himself comfortable. Perhaps he did not need words yet. Perhaps he just needed to listen. At least for the moment.
"Carla's their leader. She'll speak to most of us, if we're careful, and Vicky spoke to Arthur—and Tim, a little, but the others…" His face twisted though his cheeks remained dry. "Even this morning, with some on watch and some sleeping, they still wouldn't talk. To each other, a bit, yes, but not to us. Never to us. They're too afraid." The words faded, his gaze never leaving that misshapen piece of metal. "I've run a lot of Alphas, Master. I never expected to see an 'all hands' Alpha." He paused, eyes still on that cold metal. "I hope I don't again."
He hoped the same. The easily audible A did not tell him what the word meant, but he did not ask. He understood enough from the context. A long moment passed as he decided what to say.
"I did not know I had apprenticed a hero." George flinched, knuckles whitening. Master Anderson's much larger hands slowly covered those smaller ones. "Who lives with heroes," he added.
George finally looked at him. "I'm no hero, Master."
"I beg to differ." He gently squeezed the hands he still cupped. "You spend your days shaping metal and your nights shaping lives. By your own admission, you saved sixteen lives last night, and I heard you mention an interrupted kidnapping only a few days ago, when you thanked your friend for suggesting you make those brass knuckles. That makes seventeen. Do not focus on the lives lost, George. Focus on the lives saved. They are the only ones you can still influence."
Some of the remembered fear gradually faded. "Worry about what you can change," George murmured. "Tim says that all the time, but, Master—" The question faltered, his face twisting again in wordless grief. "I don't know how to help them. None of us do. They might have come to us during the raid—b'cause we were better than the grown-ups—but every one of those kids shies from us as if we're gonna hit 'em. It's our job to help them, to make 'em feel safe, but they're still so scared. And there's sixteen."
"There is one." A faint smile broke free at George's surprise. "There is only one, my boy. Not sixteen. Each child is different, yes, and each child will need a different kind of help, but there are not sixteen fears in that group. Address the common denominator, and you have solved half the problem."
Irritation tried to bloom at the mathematical metaphor, but George fell silent to consider that.
"You mean just show them they're safe."
"And once you show one," he agreed, "the others will follow. They have been surrounded by fear and pain for too long. That is all they know—and all they know how to handle. Surround them now in the sense of family and safety that permeates that courtyard you love so much, and they will slowly improve. Only that all-encompassing sense of security will begin to heal the hurt those monsters dealt." He squeezed George's hands again. "Rather like how constantly moving fingertips touch cold metal, but two cupped hands create a container of warmth."
George refocused, a wry smile finally noting the scrap that had ceased its movement several minutes ago. "You did that on purpose."
No, but he would never admit that. A knowing grin produced the grumble he sought.
"Sometimes object lessons drive the point home."
George still muttered something about "know-it-all adults," but somewhat sluggish movements pulled him to his feet—and onto the closest stool. A thoughtful frown announced a coming question.
"Did you—"
"George!"
Whatever he wanted to ask halted as rapid footsteps pounded the threshold, heralding Cole's success just before Tim sprinted into the shop. One look at George told him exactly what had happened.
"You dimwit! How many times has the doctor told us not to emulate Mr. Holmes' days without sleep?"
"'Emulate'?" George repeated with a faint grin. "You've been reading the dictionary again, haven't you?"
Tim did not quite hide his desire to laugh behind a scowl. Three steps brought him less than two feet in front of George's stool.
"Do we need to detour by Baker Street?"
George indicated a negative. "No, I'm fine. Think I gave Master Anderson a fright, though."
Rather more than that, for all that he would not say as much. The last time Jonathan had collapsed like that…
"One you had better not give again." He waited for George to look at him before adding, "Take the day off rather than working without sleep, George. Promise me."
"Yes, sir." His rather sheepish smile became something closer to embarrassed—and much too like the way Jonathan had always looked at him. "And thank you, sir."
For the talk. For helping. And for catching him.
But mostly for the talk.
"Anytime." He could not resist clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Now get you gone. I expect you here first thing tomorrow, awake this time."
George breathed a tired laugh. "Yessir."
They disappeared through the door, Tim still chiding George for scaring "his master," but while Cole returned to his nails, Master Anderson found himself more interested in the silver glistening in the sunlight than the uppity lady's carriage brackets he had intended to finish today. Carriage iron did not boast the same beauty as silver. This world needed a bit more beauty.
And he could hardly let a group of children be the sole providers.
Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to drop your thoughts :)