Hello All! Arctic Squirrel here! I thought I would try something a little different to
stimulate the brain a little bit. Sherlock Holmes is only a secondary character in this fic, *dodges
rotten vegetables and the oh so necessary rubber chicken* and he will not appear until the 4th or
5th chapter, if my calculations are correct. I realized something while I was reading through all of
the illustrious fan fics. Not one of them (that I have read, so no offense to those who have
already thought of this) has seen Sherlock through the eyes of a child. :) I will be updating
religiously every one to two weeks. Please R&R. I always value constructive criticism.
Disclaimer: If you think I created Sherlock Holmes, I am flattered, but no, Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle wrote the Sherlock Holmes Series.......
And if you didn't know that, you are a sorry, sorry soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular
Chapter One
The Funeral
All around the towering stone monument grass and clay were strewn. The nobility of
Yorkshire stood solemnly around the gaping, unnatural hole in the earth, kicking the uprooted
earth out from under their dainty Victorian shoes. It had rained that day, as it so often did on the
moors. Their heels sunk into the soft earth, and the ladies skirts dragging through the mud. Their
umbrellas tapped restlessly against theirs thighs as the pastor's sermon droned on and on.
"Was it really necessary for her to have the ceremony all the way out here?" asked a
young lady in a flamboyant bonnet of black lace, "Why not be buried in a churchyard like a
decent Christian?"
A middle-aged aristocratic woman let out a cynical laugh, "If Lady Allen was anything
like herself when she made her burial requests, I am certain she did it out of spite."
The young lady chuckled secretively, "I'd heard she was not well liked. Of course I was
only about ten the last time I saw her. It was the service when she told off poor Pastor Jones.
She was ranting and raving so! I was quite frightened of her."
"I daresay the preacher was quite as frightened as you were, if not more so," said the elder
woman in a hushed voice, "He left for a new parish the next week. Though there was really no
need; she never came back to church after that. Godless woman, she was."
"Shh!" hissed a tall man in a silk hat next to them. The two women turned their attention
huffily back to the pastor who was finishing his sermon.
"To you, O Father, we deliver our dearly departed Lady Agatha Allen. Take her into your
kingdom of Heaven, O Lord. In Christ's name we pray-"
"Amen," chorused the circle of people around the grave. All attention now turned
towards a man in a naval uniform standing by the casket, at least a head above everyone else.
Captain Wallace touched a hand over his fair military mustache and brushed away some stray
blonde hairs that had escaped from under his cap. His expression was grave, if not sorrowful, as
he stepped up to the casket. He motioned for the small thin boy by his side to do the same, he
did not move. He brushed away his dark brown hair which the moor's wind kept blowing into
his face. Andrew didn't want to look at her in that horrible wooden box even though he knew it
was expected of him. His father, the Captain, had drilled him on his duties the night before: he
was to shut the coffin lid, as was customary for the next of kin. He was then to throw the first
handful of dirt onto the coffin when it was lowered into the grave. It had all seemed quite simple
the night before, but now, faced with situation, he found that his legs wouldn't carry him.
"Move, boy," Captain Wallace growled under his breath.
Before he could stop himself or even think about what he was doing, Andrew bolted. He
was running as fast as he could for home, the Allen Manor. He seemed to fairly fly over the wet
gorse, heather, and broom, barely touching the ground as he ran. Nothing could make him go
back to that place. Nothing. He couldn't watch them bury his aunt; put her in a hole in the earth
where she was to reside for the rest of eternity. That wasn't where she belonged. She belonged
back in her bed at the manor where she had always been. She needed to be there when he ran in
so she could laugh at his stories as she always had when his father, the Captain, forced him to go
to social gatherings. She needed to be there to instruct him, to berate him at times, to be kind to
him at others, and to call him Toad. Toad had been her pet name for him since he was four. It
was short for "Toadstool" because of the horrible toff haircut his father made him get which
made his head look like a mushroom. She shortened it to simply "Toad" in later years, which
infuriated his father to no end.
Andrew tripped and fell over a small boulder, hidden by the tall purple grass. He landed
face-first in the mud. His nice, crisp, new clothes, bought specifically for the occasion of the
funeral, were now covered from head to toe in moor mud. Andrew didn't care; he wanted
nothing to do with those clothes, those people, or that ceremony that were burying the only
person in the world that had ever cared for him. Certainly Aunt Agatha had been harsh, even
brutal at times with her sharp words and wit, but she loved him as much as a mother ever loved a
son, and had been proud of him.
Andrew heaved himself off of the ground. He needed find a place to hide, and quick.
The Captain was going to give him the scolding of a life-time when he got back, anyway. If
funeral procession saw him covered from head to toe in mud and grass Andrew doubted whether
he would escape a confrontation with his father alive.
Captain Wallace had always been very concerned about the way his family appeared to
the neighbors. He was always drilling Andrew on manners, customs, and good behavior. To
most people in the countryside of Yorkshire, Andrew was as perfect a young gentleman as a
parent could hope for. Andrew's only vice was that he was simply unlucky at social events. He
always seemed to manage to botch his public appearances somehow. It wasn't for lack of trying;
he wanted nothing in the world more than to make his father proud. He just always seemed to
get so nervous in front of large groups of people. Two weeks before just such a disaster
happened when he accidentally spilled wine on a Duchess. Andrew didn't know her name. Her
rank and the look on his father's was enough to tell him that his accident was nothing short of a
natural disaster. Not knowing what else to do, he had run upstairs to the sanctuary of his Aunt
Agatha's room. She was always there waiting for him with a handkerchief and a pot of tea at the
ready.
"Tell me what happened this time," she had said. Andrew related his tale of social terror,
and, as during most of his tales, his Aunt Agatha had laughed until she cried. This only made the
tears flow more freely from Andrew's eyes.
"Oh, buck up boy!" she had said stoutly, "I wasn't laughing at you, I was laughing at
them. Oh, the looks that must have been on their faces! You are the only joy this sick woman
has, Andrew. Now you listen to me, don't you worry about what those people think. They have
no life in them at all. They are like stale bread with no butter."
"I-I wasn't worried about th-them," Andrew had sobbed, "I... he... father said that-"
Agatha's face had darkened, "Don't you listen to a word that man says."
"He said I could never be a gentleman. He said I was too clumsy and stupid and..."
"Now you listen to me," Agatha had said, pulling to poor sobbing boy towards her, "You
are more of a gentleman at the age of ten than the Captain will ever be." And, in a rare display of
affection, she grasped him in a strong embrace.
There had been a knock at the door. Andrew had shuddered. He'd had no wish to
confront his father or to go back down to the party.
"What do you want?" Agatha had screeched, "Have you no respect for a dying old
woman? Go and leave me to live out the remainder of my lonely life."
Andrew had cover his mouth to stifle a laugh. Agatha always put on a show when she
thought one of the neighbors was coming to call. She called it "Playing Mrs. Bennet." Andrew
never understood what she had meant, nor did he know who Mrs. Bennet was. He was fairly
sure, however, that Mrs. Bennet was a very disagreeable woman suffering from every ailment
known to mankind.
The door opened and the Captain stood rigidly in the doorway. His height and broad
shoulder took up much of the doorframe. His gaze fell upon the tear-streaked Andrew and his
face fell in disgust. Andrew became very interested in his hands.
"Oh," Agatha had said, "It's you. Well, I must say Captain, you've denied Andrew and
me of a treat. It has been at least a month since I confirmed my senility to the public and I was
hoping to reinstate my image. So, idiot, what do you want?"
Andrew had marveled at her. Nobody else spoke to Captain Wallace in such an insulting
way. The rest of the household was terribly afraid of his temper, but Agatha had always treated
the Captain as though he were a fly that needed swatting.
"Agatha, I have come with no ill will towards you, nor do I wish to engage in conflict
over such a small triviality as this," he had said stiffly, "I have only come for Andrew. Our
guests are enquiring over the absence of their host. It is most unfitting for a host to leave in the
midst of a party."
"Excellent point!" Agatha had cried, slapping her knee in mock agreement, "So why are
you up here?"
"Don't play daft, Agatha, I know your game. You know very well I meant Andrew. The
Duchess has recovered from the mishap nicely and all is well again."
"Oh yes," Agatha had said, "Toad and I were just discussing..."
"I will not have my son referred to as an amphibian," his father had hissed, "He is of
noble blood!"
"Yes," said Agatha softly, "My noble blood. Therefore I shall call him by any pet name I
choose."
"He has already embarrassed me once tonight and I shall not have my family name
dishonored further!" Captain Wallace had cried.
"Oh?" Agatha had whispered in a cryptic, menacing whisper, "Worried about honor?
You? What need have you to be concerned about honor? You're record is spotless... isn't it?"
The captain glared daggers at her and looked as if he would have dearly loved to throttle
the invalid woman. Andrew knew if the captain had been looking at him like that, he would be
going as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
"Andrew stays with me and you will not discuss the matter further with him. Is that
clear?" asked Agatha. The Captain gave her a stubborn nod. "Well," she continued, "I suggest
you return to the asylum escapees that are currently residing in my ballroom."
The Captain cast one last malicious look at Lady Agatha and shut the door quietly behind
him.
Later on that night, when Andrew was feeling better, Agatha had tried to take his mind of
the events of the evening by advising him in the art of poker.
"Don't let them read your face, Toad. That's the key. If they can read your face, they can
read your mind. If that happens, you're done for."
He'd practiced his poker-face until Agatha was satisfied, and they began to play. Their
game had soon been joined by Drake, the captain's man-servant, and Mrs. Bingley, Andrew's
nurse-maid. They'd played for matches, since Mrs. Bingley declared that playing for money
came "straight from the devil." Agatha had called her a "Puritan spoil-sport," but Mrs. Bingley
had stood firm on her principles and Agatha had been forced to give in.
Agatha had warned them to go easy on Andrew, much to his consternation, but soon
found out that such a warning was not necessary.
"I say!" Drake had cried after Andrew's third straight that evening, "You're the finest
poker player in Yorkshire, Master Andrew!"
"And look at that face!" Agatha had pointed out with pride, "You may as well be playing
with a stone slab! I've never seen anyone lie with such a straight face! You should run for
parliament, Andrew."
The fun had ended when Mrs. Bingley threw herself into hysterics over the late hour.
Andrew had reluctantly abandoned his royal flush ("Amazing!" Drake had cried) and had
allowed himself to be bustled out of the room by the flustered nurse-maid.
Later that night he had been awakened by shouting coming from his Aunt Agatha's room.
He knew it was his father she was shouting at. They often had these rows, but Andrew only ever
caught the ends of the arguments. Andrew always just assumed that their arguments were over
the same topic, because they always ended the same way.
"What my niece ever saw in a rascal like you I shall never know!" Agatha had shouted,
"And how dare you make demands when I've let you stay here for all these years?"
"How dare you refuse them?" the Captain had shouted back, "After all I've done..."
"After all you've done? Oh yes, you've done plenty, my dear Captain Wallace. If at any point in
time I should wish to thank you for all you've done for my family you will know by the absence
of your genitalia!"
"BE QUIET, you senile old woman! Do not speak of what you cannot understand!"
"I may be old and I may be confined to this bed day and night, but remember this: it is my
bed, sir, my house, and my nephew. You mark my words now; it shall all go to him."
"Don't be a fool, woman!" the Captain had cried hysterically, "You don't understand the
danger in which you place me if you refuse to agree!"
"Yes I do, Captain, but I am far more concerned about Andrew's welfare than your
mortality!" Agatha had shrieked back.
"THEN I SHALL EXPOSE HER!" the Captain had finally shouted at the top of his lungs.
And that was where the arguments had always ended. No more words followed. Only the sound
of creaking hinges and retreating footsteps.
* * *
Andrew finally reached the house, tear-streaked and covered in mud. He looked at the
manor for a moment, then darted around it. The funeral procession would be arriving there soon
and he didn't want to be anywhere near them. Spotting the carriage house, he ran inside and
bolted the door shut. Nobody would ever look for him here. No one ever came in but the stable
boy to hook up the horses, and he was sure that no one would be using the carriage today. He
climbed into the back seat, curled up in an old horse-blanket, and, exhausted, fell into a deep,
fitful sleep.
stimulate the brain a little bit. Sherlock Holmes is only a secondary character in this fic, *dodges
rotten vegetables and the oh so necessary rubber chicken* and he will not appear until the 4th or
5th chapter, if my calculations are correct. I realized something while I was reading through all of
the illustrious fan fics. Not one of them (that I have read, so no offense to those who have
already thought of this) has seen Sherlock through the eyes of a child. :) I will be updating
religiously every one to two weeks. Please R&R. I always value constructive criticism.
Disclaimer: If you think I created Sherlock Holmes, I am flattered, but no, Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle wrote the Sherlock Holmes Series.......
And if you didn't know that, you are a sorry, sorry soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular
Chapter One
The Funeral
All around the towering stone monument grass and clay were strewn. The nobility of
Yorkshire stood solemnly around the gaping, unnatural hole in the earth, kicking the uprooted
earth out from under their dainty Victorian shoes. It had rained that day, as it so often did on the
moors. Their heels sunk into the soft earth, and the ladies skirts dragging through the mud. Their
umbrellas tapped restlessly against theirs thighs as the pastor's sermon droned on and on.
"Was it really necessary for her to have the ceremony all the way out here?" asked a
young lady in a flamboyant bonnet of black lace, "Why not be buried in a churchyard like a
decent Christian?"
A middle-aged aristocratic woman let out a cynical laugh, "If Lady Allen was anything
like herself when she made her burial requests, I am certain she did it out of spite."
The young lady chuckled secretively, "I'd heard she was not well liked. Of course I was
only about ten the last time I saw her. It was the service when she told off poor Pastor Jones.
She was ranting and raving so! I was quite frightened of her."
"I daresay the preacher was quite as frightened as you were, if not more so," said the elder
woman in a hushed voice, "He left for a new parish the next week. Though there was really no
need; she never came back to church after that. Godless woman, she was."
"Shh!" hissed a tall man in a silk hat next to them. The two women turned their attention
huffily back to the pastor who was finishing his sermon.
"To you, O Father, we deliver our dearly departed Lady Agatha Allen. Take her into your
kingdom of Heaven, O Lord. In Christ's name we pray-"
"Amen," chorused the circle of people around the grave. All attention now turned
towards a man in a naval uniform standing by the casket, at least a head above everyone else.
Captain Wallace touched a hand over his fair military mustache and brushed away some stray
blonde hairs that had escaped from under his cap. His expression was grave, if not sorrowful, as
he stepped up to the casket. He motioned for the small thin boy by his side to do the same, he
did not move. He brushed away his dark brown hair which the moor's wind kept blowing into
his face. Andrew didn't want to look at her in that horrible wooden box even though he knew it
was expected of him. His father, the Captain, had drilled him on his duties the night before: he
was to shut the coffin lid, as was customary for the next of kin. He was then to throw the first
handful of dirt onto the coffin when it was lowered into the grave. It had all seemed quite simple
the night before, but now, faced with situation, he found that his legs wouldn't carry him.
"Move, boy," Captain Wallace growled under his breath.
Before he could stop himself or even think about what he was doing, Andrew bolted. He
was running as fast as he could for home, the Allen Manor. He seemed to fairly fly over the wet
gorse, heather, and broom, barely touching the ground as he ran. Nothing could make him go
back to that place. Nothing. He couldn't watch them bury his aunt; put her in a hole in the earth
where she was to reside for the rest of eternity. That wasn't where she belonged. She belonged
back in her bed at the manor where she had always been. She needed to be there when he ran in
so she could laugh at his stories as she always had when his father, the Captain, forced him to go
to social gatherings. She needed to be there to instruct him, to berate him at times, to be kind to
him at others, and to call him Toad. Toad had been her pet name for him since he was four. It
was short for "Toadstool" because of the horrible toff haircut his father made him get which
made his head look like a mushroom. She shortened it to simply "Toad" in later years, which
infuriated his father to no end.
Andrew tripped and fell over a small boulder, hidden by the tall purple grass. He landed
face-first in the mud. His nice, crisp, new clothes, bought specifically for the occasion of the
funeral, were now covered from head to toe in moor mud. Andrew didn't care; he wanted
nothing to do with those clothes, those people, or that ceremony that were burying the only
person in the world that had ever cared for him. Certainly Aunt Agatha had been harsh, even
brutal at times with her sharp words and wit, but she loved him as much as a mother ever loved a
son, and had been proud of him.
Andrew heaved himself off of the ground. He needed find a place to hide, and quick.
The Captain was going to give him the scolding of a life-time when he got back, anyway. If
funeral procession saw him covered from head to toe in mud and grass Andrew doubted whether
he would escape a confrontation with his father alive.
Captain Wallace had always been very concerned about the way his family appeared to
the neighbors. He was always drilling Andrew on manners, customs, and good behavior. To
most people in the countryside of Yorkshire, Andrew was as perfect a young gentleman as a
parent could hope for. Andrew's only vice was that he was simply unlucky at social events. He
always seemed to manage to botch his public appearances somehow. It wasn't for lack of trying;
he wanted nothing in the world more than to make his father proud. He just always seemed to
get so nervous in front of large groups of people. Two weeks before just such a disaster
happened when he accidentally spilled wine on a Duchess. Andrew didn't know her name. Her
rank and the look on his father's was enough to tell him that his accident was nothing short of a
natural disaster. Not knowing what else to do, he had run upstairs to the sanctuary of his Aunt
Agatha's room. She was always there waiting for him with a handkerchief and a pot of tea at the
ready.
"Tell me what happened this time," she had said. Andrew related his tale of social terror,
and, as during most of his tales, his Aunt Agatha had laughed until she cried. This only made the
tears flow more freely from Andrew's eyes.
"Oh, buck up boy!" she had said stoutly, "I wasn't laughing at you, I was laughing at
them. Oh, the looks that must have been on their faces! You are the only joy this sick woman
has, Andrew. Now you listen to me, don't you worry about what those people think. They have
no life in them at all. They are like stale bread with no butter."
"I-I wasn't worried about th-them," Andrew had sobbed, "I... he... father said that-"
Agatha's face had darkened, "Don't you listen to a word that man says."
"He said I could never be a gentleman. He said I was too clumsy and stupid and..."
"Now you listen to me," Agatha had said, pulling to poor sobbing boy towards her, "You
are more of a gentleman at the age of ten than the Captain will ever be." And, in a rare display of
affection, she grasped him in a strong embrace.
There had been a knock at the door. Andrew had shuddered. He'd had no wish to
confront his father or to go back down to the party.
"What do you want?" Agatha had screeched, "Have you no respect for a dying old
woman? Go and leave me to live out the remainder of my lonely life."
Andrew had cover his mouth to stifle a laugh. Agatha always put on a show when she
thought one of the neighbors was coming to call. She called it "Playing Mrs. Bennet." Andrew
never understood what she had meant, nor did he know who Mrs. Bennet was. He was fairly
sure, however, that Mrs. Bennet was a very disagreeable woman suffering from every ailment
known to mankind.
The door opened and the Captain stood rigidly in the doorway. His height and broad
shoulder took up much of the doorframe. His gaze fell upon the tear-streaked Andrew and his
face fell in disgust. Andrew became very interested in his hands.
"Oh," Agatha had said, "It's you. Well, I must say Captain, you've denied Andrew and
me of a treat. It has been at least a month since I confirmed my senility to the public and I was
hoping to reinstate my image. So, idiot, what do you want?"
Andrew had marveled at her. Nobody else spoke to Captain Wallace in such an insulting
way. The rest of the household was terribly afraid of his temper, but Agatha had always treated
the Captain as though he were a fly that needed swatting.
"Agatha, I have come with no ill will towards you, nor do I wish to engage in conflict
over such a small triviality as this," he had said stiffly, "I have only come for Andrew. Our
guests are enquiring over the absence of their host. It is most unfitting for a host to leave in the
midst of a party."
"Excellent point!" Agatha had cried, slapping her knee in mock agreement, "So why are
you up here?"
"Don't play daft, Agatha, I know your game. You know very well I meant Andrew. The
Duchess has recovered from the mishap nicely and all is well again."
"Oh yes," Agatha had said, "Toad and I were just discussing..."
"I will not have my son referred to as an amphibian," his father had hissed, "He is of
noble blood!"
"Yes," said Agatha softly, "My noble blood. Therefore I shall call him by any pet name I
choose."
"He has already embarrassed me once tonight and I shall not have my family name
dishonored further!" Captain Wallace had cried.
"Oh?" Agatha had whispered in a cryptic, menacing whisper, "Worried about honor?
You? What need have you to be concerned about honor? You're record is spotless... isn't it?"
The captain glared daggers at her and looked as if he would have dearly loved to throttle
the invalid woman. Andrew knew if the captain had been looking at him like that, he would be
going as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
"Andrew stays with me and you will not discuss the matter further with him. Is that
clear?" asked Agatha. The Captain gave her a stubborn nod. "Well," she continued, "I suggest
you return to the asylum escapees that are currently residing in my ballroom."
The Captain cast one last malicious look at Lady Agatha and shut the door quietly behind
him.
Later on that night, when Andrew was feeling better, Agatha had tried to take his mind of
the events of the evening by advising him in the art of poker.
"Don't let them read your face, Toad. That's the key. If they can read your face, they can
read your mind. If that happens, you're done for."
He'd practiced his poker-face until Agatha was satisfied, and they began to play. Their
game had soon been joined by Drake, the captain's man-servant, and Mrs. Bingley, Andrew's
nurse-maid. They'd played for matches, since Mrs. Bingley declared that playing for money
came "straight from the devil." Agatha had called her a "Puritan spoil-sport," but Mrs. Bingley
had stood firm on her principles and Agatha had been forced to give in.
Agatha had warned them to go easy on Andrew, much to his consternation, but soon
found out that such a warning was not necessary.
"I say!" Drake had cried after Andrew's third straight that evening, "You're the finest
poker player in Yorkshire, Master Andrew!"
"And look at that face!" Agatha had pointed out with pride, "You may as well be playing
with a stone slab! I've never seen anyone lie with such a straight face! You should run for
parliament, Andrew."
The fun had ended when Mrs. Bingley threw herself into hysterics over the late hour.
Andrew had reluctantly abandoned his royal flush ("Amazing!" Drake had cried) and had
allowed himself to be bustled out of the room by the flustered nurse-maid.
Later that night he had been awakened by shouting coming from his Aunt Agatha's room.
He knew it was his father she was shouting at. They often had these rows, but Andrew only ever
caught the ends of the arguments. Andrew always just assumed that their arguments were over
the same topic, because they always ended the same way.
"What my niece ever saw in a rascal like you I shall never know!" Agatha had shouted,
"And how dare you make demands when I've let you stay here for all these years?"
"How dare you refuse them?" the Captain had shouted back, "After all I've done..."
"After all you've done? Oh yes, you've done plenty, my dear Captain Wallace. If at any point in
time I should wish to thank you for all you've done for my family you will know by the absence
of your genitalia!"
"BE QUIET, you senile old woman! Do not speak of what you cannot understand!"
"I may be old and I may be confined to this bed day and night, but remember this: it is my
bed, sir, my house, and my nephew. You mark my words now; it shall all go to him."
"Don't be a fool, woman!" the Captain had cried hysterically, "You don't understand the
danger in which you place me if you refuse to agree!"
"Yes I do, Captain, but I am far more concerned about Andrew's welfare than your
mortality!" Agatha had shrieked back.
"THEN I SHALL EXPOSE HER!" the Captain had finally shouted at the top of his lungs.
And that was where the arguments had always ended. No more words followed. Only the sound
of creaking hinges and retreating footsteps.
* * *
Andrew finally reached the house, tear-streaked and covered in mud. He looked at the
manor for a moment, then darted around it. The funeral procession would be arriving there soon
and he didn't want to be anywhere near them. Spotting the carriage house, he ran inside and
bolted the door shut. Nobody would ever look for him here. No one ever came in but the stable
boy to hook up the horses, and he was sure that no one would be using the carriage today. He
climbed into the back seat, curled up in an old horse-blanket, and, exhausted, fell into a deep,
fitful sleep.