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"Very little is known of that occurrence frequently termed Soldier's Heart or, in the medical field, 'battle fatigue.' Each victim displays different symptoms to various stimuli, and no study has identified any kind of pattern. A team of researchers at Oxford has found indications that battle fatigue need not even stem from battle, merely a traumatic event. Children have shown signs of battle fatigue after a sudden loss, but the understandably small pool of willing researchers has prevented this team from learning anything specific. They still claim no successful treatment and warn simply to avoid the triggers as much as possible…"
The book thumped the table, and Holmes made no attempt to stifle a low growl as he searched for another. Surely someone had found information in the last ten years that would help.
Right?
Apparently not. His few questions on soil deposits had taken barely a day to locate, but the study he had intended to be rather more in-depth evidently needed little more than that as well. One would think that the many researching doctors could find something besides "avoid the triggers." How was he supposed to help his friend if even the experts knew no more than Holmes himself did?
How was he supposed to help his friend at all? Only Watson's steady presence this last week had provided the courage to leave for so long, but the welcome days sharing the sitting room had done nothing to hide the long nights. Watson still battled nightmares often enough to steal his sleep, and he had not hidden the wakeful hours near the fire as well as he thought he had. Holmes needed to find a way to help.
Newspapers. Newspapers might have something useful, and rapid movements reshelved his books—in mostly the right order—before he hurried across the library. Years ago, Watson had mentioned something about other soldiers having problems as well. They might have published something about it, and stacks of newspapers and periodicals soon lined one corner of a different table. He would find something in here.
Maybe. That article digressed too much. A child knew not to believe that. That conveyed almost no information. There. "War Hero Denies Medal." That looked promising, but skimming found nothing more than an embarrassed sergeant nervously refusing to be recognized for his efforts. Holmes scoffed and kept reading.
An attempted bank robbery. A train crash north of Birmingham. The queen planned to travel around the island next month.
Last month, rather. That paper's date read two months ago, but Holmes still finished scanning headlines before moving to the next.
Which also had nothing. They landed on the other side of the table, well separate from the papers he had not yet checked. This might take a while.
An hour slipped away. Then two, and the mound of paper grew ever higher as the publishing dates wandered toward the present. If he had known a time frame for the article he sought, he might have been able to thin the list, but months of useless news required several minutes each. None of these mentioned battle fatigue or anything similar. He stood to retrieve the next shelf when a secondary headline on the top paper caught his eye.
"Three Children Attacked in Clerkenwell."
Clerkenwell, and the date in the top corner announced this fresh off the press today. Ice lanced through his chest to prompt rapid movements that nearly toppled the stack.
"Three children out for a walk yesterday morning were accosted by one Barry Miller," it read, "with the intent to kidnap the youngest. A local man jumped in to aid the children, and Constable Barnes confirmed at least one injury. See continuation on page four."
Three children attacked. He loudly flipped pages, unable to smother the worry pushing away his original goal in coming to this library. Clerkenwell put the incident uncomfortably close to the Irregulars' courtyard. His research could wait until he knew whether they had been targeted.
Except the continuation contained barely two sentences, one of which promised a future update. Little good that did. He dropped the paper to rush to the telegraph office next door. If the newspaper would not provide the information he needed, he would simply wire London. Watson would know whether the Irregulars had been involved.
And the reply would find him in the library. With the message on its way, Holmes took another stack of papers to his table. Watson had clearly indicated an intention to stay home, which meant he would respond within an hour or two, probably chiding Holmes for drawing a conclusion without adequate data. Holmes should know better than to let the what ifs twist his stomach.
The knowledge did nothing to help him concentrate, however, and the morning dragged, each tick of the clock another sign that Watson had not yet replied. Waiting would always be harder than doing.
Especially when that waiting produced no fruit. Midday loomed, then passed, with no word from London. Finally, Holmes could wait no longer. Unable to focus on his research anyway, he put the many newspapers back in their places and hurried first to the telegraph office—nothing—then to the motel. Less than thirty minutes saw him pacing the empty train compartment.
An attempted kidnapping. On three children. With no identifying characteristics, those three children could be any of his Irregulars—or none of them. The Irregulars were not the only children to frequent that area, but they also would have intervened if they had noticed. An attack on another child could easily have drawn an "Alpha Protocol" to deal with the problem.
Would he arrive in London to find one of them injured?
Perhaps, but not necessarily. A lack of reply did not mean Watson had been called to the courtyard. He could simply be running errands or volunteering at the hospital, as he frequently did on days Holmes had no cases. Holmes would find the courtyard running normally, probably with either Jackson or Charlie wondering if Holmes had work for them.
He had no proof of that, however. He could just as easily find several Irregulars injured. This long after the incident, Watson would undoubtedly have gone to help, explaining the lack of response. Kidnapping attempts often involved weapons as well, which added further complications depending on which weapon and how many Irregulars had responded to the Alpha. The injuries might not be limited to those the blackguard had targeted. He could arrive to find more than one injured. Perhaps even seriously—
No. Firm determination prevented the line of thought from progressing any further. He did not have enough data to know that one way or the other. He could do nothing besides get himself to London.
The ride still felt much longer than its few hours, and Holmes stepped to the platform almost before the train had stopped moving. An extra half-crown convinced the cabbie to move faster, but his worry only increased at the number of children hurrying in and out of their alley.
"Hiya, Mr. Holmes!" George gave him a gap-tooth smile, never slowing his near jog down the sidewalk. "The doctor'll be glad to see you back early. He was talking about sending for Mrs. Hudson."
For Mrs. Hudson? George disappeared toward the pump before Holmes could form the question, but the words chased him all the way to their entrance.
Why would Watson need Mrs. Hudson's help?
"Your sister will be alright, Amy." Watson's calm reassurance did nothing to hide a troubling tension beneath. "I just need to treat the infection. Why don't you help me keep an eye on Violet? Her arm is trying to do the same thing. Jackson will show you how to clean the cut."
"Come on." That was Jackson's voice. "You get to be a big girl and help your sister, and maybe by the time Gretta's feeling better, we'll have found your mum. How does that sound?"
A small, young voice answered something to the affirmative, but Holmes barely noted the words as he ducked through the debris-filled archway. Watson knelt against the opposite wall, an adolescent girl lying far too still in front of him. Red cheeks highlighted slightly glazed eyes, and Watson's face had grown thinner in just the few days Holmes had been gone. Something was wrong.
Watson gave him no time to ask.
"Good," he said in greeting, barely glancing up when Holmes' valise landed nearby. "Keep her cloths wet while I make a poultice."
He could do that, but Gretta shifted slightly before he could form his question. Fever bright eyes looked more through him than at him as Holmes knelt beside her.
"Father? Mum. Where's Mum?"
Holmes shushed her. "I am not your father. We will find him, though. Go back to sleep."
"Violet." She only grew more restless. "Amy. Amy, where are you?"
"They're fine, Gretta. Calm down." Watson left the poultice for a moment to put a hand on her shoulder. "Violet and Amy are both safe, Gretta. I promise. You protected them. It's alright."
The building panic slowly eased. "Sure?"
"Yes," Watson answered. "I'm sure. You and your sisters are safe, and the Irregulars are trying to find your mum."
She hummed an answer but rolled, curling on her side to expose an inflamed cut just below her ribs. Several cloths fell to the blanket she called a temporary bed, but Watson used the opportunity to clean the injury once more and apply the poultice. Nearly a minute passed before he broke the silence.
"What brought you back early?"
"Newspaper," Holmes replied shortly. A rag dripped water down her cheek. "'Three children attacked in Clerkenwell,' and you did not answer my telegram. What happened?"
"A man tried to grab the youngest one—Amy. I happened to be nearby and fought him off, but he cut both the older girls with his knife before I could intervene. Gretta started showing signs of infection overnight, and Violet, the middle girl, complained of feeling poorly this morning. I have several of the older boys helping me keep an eye on her while I treat Gretta."
"Their parents?"
"Still missing. Thank you, George." The boy gave a wide smile and trotted away, probably to go play with Doris until Watson needed him again. Watson dipped another rag in the fresher water. "The girls arrived at their hotel two days ago and were attacked yesterday. They could not tell me the name of the hotel, but it is west of here, no more than one street off the jeweler's, square with a courtyard in the middle, and has freshly planted flowers out front. Jackson set up a relay yesterday. They have had no luck yet."
Holmes could join the search himself in a minute, but another question took precedence.
"And where are you injured?"
"Don't worry about it." Watson stirred another fever reducer into a cup of water to hide his face. "Can you help the search for their hotel? I imagine the relay simply hasn't gone far enough. Gretta said they walked from sunup to midmorning."
Holmes made no answer, watching Watson take over refreshing the cloths and trying to lower her fever. He saw no reason to announce his intention before one hand grabbed Watson's wrist.
Watson immediately fought him. "I told you not to worry about it."
Holmes merely gripped harder. "Your temperature is elevated, as is your pulse. You purposely sat with your back to the wall, and you failed to hide that you drank a fever reducer when I arrived. Where are you injured?"
A creative twist pulled Watson's hand free. "I'm fine, Holmes. Go help the Irregulars. They'll never let you live it down if they find the hotel before you do."
Amusement tried to twitch Holmes' mouth. "It would not be the first time. Are you still going to be coherent by the time I return?"
Watson waved to imply that question beneath Holmes. "They mentioned something about checking every hotel halfway to Regent's. You might start on the other end of the street and work your way east."
He had a better idea, and when studying Watson found nothing to indicate the growing infection would cause a problem any time soon, he let his friend win—for now. Watson would be more likely to listen after the girls had been reunited with their parents, anyway.
"Which one is Violet?"
"Opposite corner." One hand gestured toward where several young ones played one of their ball games. "Violet's the one sitting against the wall." Watson shifted slightly to get a better look. "That's Amy next to her. If you take Violet with you, keep an eye on her arm. It's trying to get infected like Gretta's side."
Holmes easily spotted the two girls watching the littles play, the younger curled against the elder. Watson returned his attention to Gretta as Holmes wound through the many other children to reach the pair.
"Hello." Two pairs of eyes darted to look at him, and he knelt several feet away to be sure he did not scare them. Watson had always been better with the young ones. "My name is Mr. Holmes. Are you Violet and Amy?"
Violet's brown hair fell into her eyes as she nodded. "Yes, sir. We're waiting for someone to find our hotel. Mum's probably getting a bit frantic by now."
Holmes quietly agreed. "It is my job to find people, but I usually find them faster if I have help. Would you like to help me look?"
Amy sat up. "We get to help?" Her eyes flicked toward her oldest sister. "What about Gretta?"
"Gretta has to stay here for now," he replied, "but she keeps asking for your parents. The sooner we find your mother, the sooner Gretta will start feeling better."
Childish understanding stretched a wide smile across Amy's face. "B'cause Mum and Papa always make Gretta feel better!"
"Exactly." He let her see his own small smile. "Do you want to help me? I bet together we can search faster than all those older children can."
Twin nods answered him. He paused just long enough to check Violet's arm—inflamed, but not dangerous yet—before guiding the girls through the archway. Jackson's answering wave ensured no one would worry about them.
"You told Watson yesterday that you stayed within one street of your motel," he started on their way toward the jeweler. "Which direction did you turn?"
Violet studied her feet, the small frown indicating deep thought before she waved her right hand. "This way, and we didn't go back to it."
"So we will go one street north."
Rapid strides put actions to words, though Holmes did not try to start a conversation. Violet obviously did not feel up to a child's normal chatter, and worry over her sisters meant even Amy walked in silence. Holmes paused on the next street to hail a cab, which soon lurched westbound. Holmes said nothing until a large building loomed on their right.
"That is a hotel." They had almost certainly not yet gone far enough, but better they watch early than miss it. "Does it look familiar?"
Violet barely looked before shaking her head. "It doesn't have the fancy woodwork on the front or the statue by the street."
"Alright." Several minutes passed before they reached another. "What about that one?"
It had a statue near the street, but Amy's small finger referenced the unplanted gardens. "Our motel has flowers."
As Holmes knew, but the exercise would keep them alert. The ride passed slowly, with Holmes pointing out every motel along the way and one of the girls voicing what about it did not match what they remembered. Only when he no longer saw Irregulars dodging in and out of buildings did Holmes start paying more attention.
"There is another one."
Violet studied it for a long moment but ultimately indicated a negative. "I don't think that's it, but it looks familiar. I think we passed that one not long after we started walking."
"Yeah, we did," Amy chimed. "Remember, Gretta was talking about the paint pattern on the front door?"
Recognition lit Violet's gaze. "That was only a couple of minutes after we left! Which means…" She trailed off to watch the street ahead of them. "That one!" One small finger pointed at the approaching motel. "And that's Mum and Papa out front! Mum!"
The girls leaped out of the cab almost before the cabbie could bring them to a stop, running toward the worried couple talking to Gregson in front of an ornately decorated building. Holmes quickly paid but asked the cabbie to wait, following as their mother turned toward the commotion. Surprise and relief cascaded over her face.
"Violet! Amy!" Both adults quickly found themselves with a young girl tightly gripping their middle. "But where's Gretta?"
Holmes moved closer, nodding a hello to Gregson before introducing himself. "You must be their parents."
Obviously, but Watson had insisted several times that he observe at least some of the expected niceties. The comment provided an opening to learn their names, anyway.
The girls stopped their chatter as both adults looked up, though only their father responded.
"Ed Gibbs." He wrestled one hand free of Amy's hug. "My wife Jess. Thank you for bringing them back."
"Not a problem at all," Holmes replied. "Gretta is still at the courtyard with Watson. A man tried to grab young Amy yesterday, and Violet and Gretta fought him off long enough for Watson to intervene."
A quiet yelp sounded from Mrs. Gibbs' embrace. "Violet, what happened to your arm?" She looked closer, ignoring Violet's wince. "This is trying to get infected."
"The man had a knife," Holmes supplied before Violet could find the words. "Gretta is already running a fever. I can take one of you back to get her, but Watson will want to know that you have another doctor here waiting before he lets her leave."
More likely, Watson would want to accompany Gretta home, but he needed to treat his own injury. Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs exchanged a weighted glance, silently deciding who would go and who would stay with the girls.
"You go, Ed," Mrs. Gibbs finally voiced. "Our neighbor in room ten is a doctor."
He obviously could not decide which was better. "Are you sure?"
"Of course." She tried for a smile. "Gretta always wants her father when she doesn't feel well. We'll be waiting for you in the room."
Mr. Gibbs hesitated for another long moment, his gaze flicking between his wife and Violet, who looked more unwell with every minute she spent on her feet.
"Go to Gretta, Papa." Violet leaned against her mother but tried to smile when she noticed her father's attention. "Doctor Watson said my arm is trying to get infected, but Gretta's side already is. Amy and I met Doctor Baltram the day we got here. He can check my arm while waiting for Gretta."
Mrs. Gibbs' nod added weight to the reassurance. He finally agreed, wrapping first Violet, then Amy, in a quick embrace.
"I want to hear the full story when I get back."
Something about that order must have been a running joke, as both girls giggled, but they said nothing else while Mr. Gibbs followed Holmes to the waiting cab.
How sick do you think Watson is getting? Will Gretta's fever have gone down by the time Holmes returns? Hope you enjoyed, and reviews are always very much appreciated :)
