Author's Note: A thousand thank yous to those who reviewed, and especially to those who alerted me to any typos in a very kind and polite way. Massive, massive props to you. And now,

Chapter Three: A Cry of "Fire"

I caught up to Holmes just as he was rushing up the steps of the building adjacent to Mycroft's own, the cry of "fire" still echoing from within, in a woman's voice.

My companion did not wait for anyone to come to the door. After one peremptory ring of the bell, he threw open the door in front of him, and strode inside.

There were indeed flames rising up in a fury, both from a large wooden circular table in the center of the room, and from a chair that sat next to a large bookshelf. The flames barred the way of a young man, stricken white-faced with fear, and of the small boy whom he carried in his arms. An older woman, grey-haired and ashen as her housemate was standing just a short ways away from the two, separated from them by the burning table.

Without a word, Holmes surveyed the room, and then turned to me with a brisk and urgent manner. "Go to the bathroom, Watson, in Mycroft's," he ordered, "and fill us a bucket of water, quickly."

"But," I muttered, wringing my hands, "where am I to get the bucket ?"

"There should be one in the bathroom cupboard, used for scrubbing the floor." He did not wait for my response, but turned back to the whimpering woman. As I ran for the door, I saw him bend to murmur something close to the distraught woman's ear.

I tore across to Mycroft's rooms, where to the startled faces of Mycroft Holmes and Miss Anne Fairchild, I curtly recounted the situation. I inquired after the bucket, and, exactly as Holmes dictated, there was one to be found beneath the bathroom cabinet. Snatching it up, I filled it to the brim with water, and then hurried back to Holmes' aid, trying desperately not to upset the bucket in my haste.

When I reached my friend's side once more, I found that the old woman was now in possession of the child, which she clutched to her breast as frantically as any fearful parent, although she looked, at a glimpse, far too old to be the boy's own mother.

"Excellent, Watson," cried Holmes at my entrance, and, relieving me of the bucket, he thoroughly doused the flames, and then stamped out the remaining flickers which licked the edges and legs of the table with the bottom of his boot.

All was quiet for a moment after the smoke cleared, with every member of the household breathing heavily and attempting to regain their bearings. In the interim, I demanded of Holmes what he had done to rescue the child in my absence.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled, wiping a bead of sweat from his otherwise immaculate brow. "Elementary," he said, with a shrug. "You'll notice, if you would be so kind as to look at the ceiling above your head, that there is a loose board, a board which, upon climbing up into the bedroom, can be found in the upstairs floorboards." He paused for a moment. "Or at least," he tried again, "you would have observed it if I had not torn it out in my hurry just a few moments previously."

Indeed, in the direction in which he pointed, there was a great gap in the ceiling, where Holmes must have pulled out his board.

"And so," I attempted, "you pulled the child up from the lower room through the hole in the ceiling, then."

Holmes smiled. "Exactly," he agreed, with approbation. "We're lucky," he added after a moment, with a rueful tinge to his voice, "that our friend here has such obligingly long arms." He gestured at the young man, who was too glad to be alive to be occupied with much else.

I looked over at Holmes' own not slight height, and thought to myself that this house had indeed met a provident turn today. Silently, I thanked my own lucky stars that we had happened to be so nearby, and wondered if Holmes would still consider our visit so very fruitless.

My friend had by now drifted to the side of the old woman, who was blubbering tearily at him in senseless gratitude. Upon noticing me, she turned some of her incoherent attentions in my direction.

"It was our pleasure, madam," I insisted, making a short bow. "We are only glad we could have been of such service."

"Indeed," echoed Holmes. "Quite so. You know, madam, you really ought to be slightly more careful around the house. It was an accident, I presume, that started the fire?"

"Not at all," the woman spoke up, more understandable now in her apparent outrage. "No, no accident at all, but a deliberate arson! I saw it with my own two eyes, sir, I saw it, I tell you, and I'd swear to it whenever you chose!"

Holmes turned his eager, brightly intrigued eyes on me for a moment before responding. "Surely," he said, "you cannot be aware of any actions that might have caused this little incident, actions that may have been for any malicious purpose?"

"Oh yes, yes, I can," the woman insisted. "I appreciate your opportune aid, but please, do not try to placate me, sir. I know what it was I saw."

"And what," asked Holmes, "did you see, then?" At the woman's hesitation, Holmes held up a hand, and then beckoned me forward. "I'm terribly sorry," he stated in his pacifying, charismatic fashion. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and this," he continued, drawing me over with one arm, "is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. If I am to understand that there has been some sort of foul play in the matter, then we would be delighted to put ourselves at your disposal."

The woman looked surprised, and then quite impressed with my friend's introduction. "Well," she replied, "that is very kind of you, sir. I am Mrs. Simone Allastair, and this is my son Alec, and my nephew, Gregory."

"An out of town visit, I presume," remarked Holmes, gesturing in the direction of the younger man,. The aforementioned Mr. Alec Allastair nodded. "I see," Holmes continued, "that you are at present your nephew's legal caretaker, Mrs. Allastair."

Holmes' sudden statements of the kind had long since ceased to so terribly shock me, but I saw Mrs. Allastair's eyes raise up to her hairline. "I am," she agreed with a nod. "My baby sister passed away of illness only two years ago, and I have had the care of her young son ever since."

"Very good," said Holmes, leaning his long frame up against the undamaged wall behind him, the only wall in the room that did not bear the signs of soot and smoke. "And now, madam, you say that you have reason to believe that someone has attempted to set fire to your home intentionally?"

"It was this morning," said Mrs. Allastair, flopping down into the armchair farthest from the table. "There was a ring of the bell, around, I believe, eight o'clock. I thought it was rather early for a call, and when I answered the door, I found that no one was there. In fact, there was no one lurking anywhere around the front of the house." Mrs. Allastair paused, and Holmes nodded encouragingly for her to continue.

"Well," she continued, after spending a moment to catch her breath, "I walked around to the corner of the street, to see if my caller had drifted far enough away from the house that I might not catch him on his way. just to apologize, you see, for being so very slow in answering the door. I didn't mean anything by my attempt to catch him. But when I got there, to the corner of the street, all that awaited me was a tiny slip of a woman, with a great deal of dark hair, a dark colored dress, and an unlit candle in one hand."

I saw my friend tense against the wall, muscles quivering, even as he spoke his next few carefree words. "Surely," he said, "that is nothing but a simple coincidence."

Mrs. Allastair flared at him, planting her hands on her hips and looking to her son for support. "Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes? Then perhaps you'd care to explain to me why I saw, only ten minutes before you arrived, that the same young woman was walking away from that same street corner, without her candle in her hand!"

My companion's face clouded slightly, and a felt a slight involuntary twinge of satisfaction, knowing that Holmes' obvious suspicions about Miss Fairchild were so unfounded. "Ten minutes before, you say," Holmes confirmed, and Mrs. Allastair nodded.

I watched my companion's eyes for a moment, and I could almost follow the thoughts as they passed through his phenomenally analytical mind. It was impossible to reconcile Miss Fairchild's resemblance to Mrs. Allastair's description of her visitor with Miss Fairchild's clearly observed presence in the residence of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

"Well," said Holmes finally, apparently somewhat dissatisfied, "I should suggest then that you look for any wax remains that may signify the presence of this woman's candle about your house."

He nodded politely, and was just turning to go, when the front door burst open, and we turned around to find to our surprise that Mycroft Holmes was standing in the doorway, accompanied by Miss Fairchild.

"We were worried," Miss Fairchild began, by way of explanation. "When Doctor Watson did not come back. I was sure that something unfortunate had befallen the doctor and yourself, but now I see that everything is as it should be."

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could do so, Mrs. Allastair let out a shrieking cry, and leveled one finger at Miss Fairchild, her eyes wide with horror and accusation.

"That," she exploded, "is her! That is the very woman with the candle, whom I saw just now by the house!"

Miss Fairchild blinked at our new acquaintance, and looked inquiringly at myself. "What on earth," she started to ask, "is this all about?"

I looked at Holmes, who, with his contemplative stare fixed on the opposite wall, said nothing.