He fidgeted in his chair, unable to get comfortable. Sitting straight bored him, he nearly slid out of the seat balanced on one hip, and sprawling sideways quickly gave him a headache. How had he ever spent so many hours in this chair over the years?

The other chair had always been taken, of course. The company had changed, not his seat. Despite Holmes' many hints and one direct request, Watson had gone back to his Kensington house last night, limping slowly down the shadowed street to leave Holmes alone in a too-quiet flat.

A thoughtful frown pushed past his boredom. Holmes had returned to London to find a ghost of his old friend. Watson ate little, slept less, and battled disorienting nightmares. At least twice in the past week, he had screamed or cried himself awake from the sleep he so needed, and Holmes had no idea what to do. How could he when he had no idea what was wrong?

The chair creaked as he readjusted again. He knew the problem, at least somewhat. Watson had taken the events at Reichenbach much worse than Holmes would ever have expected, but knowing the cause did not explain the change in Watson. The consequences of Holmes' actions would take more than a week to learn, much less heal. Holmes needed to find a way to help.

But how? Should he do something? Say something? Give Watson space? Force his presence? He could not be sure, and he could not afford to make the wrong decision. He had only managed three years without his friend by relying on the promise of eventual reunion. He could not risk pushing Watson away for good.

Did Watson want to be pushed away, though? His friend had only found sleep—however nightmare-ridden—when Holmes stayed nearby. Every tentative question had asked about company, while the decision to leave had been more fearful than firm. Could he think Holmes did not want him around?

Why else would Holmes have returned to London?

He did not know, and he did not know how to know. Watson had started hiding his thoughts, but worse than displaying a blank slate, he affected whatever emotion fit best. He was not perfect—far from it—but he was trying, and that scared Holmes. He had hurt his friend so badly that Watson was trying to learn how to lie.

And Holmes had no idea what to do about it.

A meal. He would ask Watson to meet him for luncheon. His friend had claimed appointments both morning and afternoon, but they would not keep him from taking a short break. Watson would meet him at Simpson's, and Holmes would at least know his friend had eaten today. Watson was entirely too thin.

Writing and sending the telegram occupied only a few minutes, however, then he found himself right back where he had started. Watson would not meet him for hours, Mrs. Hudson already had plans today, and he did not yet have cases knocking down his door. What could he do until midday?

He tried to organize his indices, but he could not concentrate long enough to make a difference. He lost interest in digging through his room even faster, and the shelf kept his attention for only a few minutes. How had he ever kept busy between cases?

His friend had been nearby. That was how. The silence finally drove him outside.

The streets provided little improvement. He and Watson had already explored some of the newer developments in Holmes' first few days back in London, and those hours had been more of an excuse to be near his friend than a true desire to see statues and road construction. The same changes certainly held no interest now, without Watson by his side, and he ended up wandering, a slow, aimless gait taking him up one street and down another. Gasps occasionally announced recognition, but most merely stared in surprise as he passed. He walked nearly to Hyde Park before someone called out behind him.

"Mr. Holmes!"

The cracking voice came from the alley, and he turned to find Jackson hurrying closer.

"So glad I spotted you," Jackson panted. "My sister—"

Jackson's rapid breaths stole the rest of his words, but Holmes willingly followed the young man away from the main street. Doris had made a name for herself as a mischief-maker before Holmes' disappearance, and the extra three years would only lead to more ideas. What trouble had she found now?

"A tunnel," Jackson finally managed as they ran deeper into the shadows. "Bunch of the alley walls have tunnels, and we're trying to make a couple of safe houses. She was scouting an opening when it collapsed behind her. I found George frantically trying to dig her out, but the wall's trying to crumble completely. We need to reach her without bringing down the shop."

He led Holmes around two corners to the decrepit back wall of a small bakery, and they found George on his knees, one hand holding several bricks in place while the other explored a small hole.

"We'll get you out, Doris. Just hold still." He turned at the approaching footsteps. "Mr. Holmes!"

Urgency laced several questions through the greeting, but Holmes simply replaced George's grip on the bricks with his own.

"Easy, George. Doris, are you injured?"

"No," her small voice answered. "I just can't get out." She paused, then a quieter, "It's dark in here," reached his ears.

"We will have you out soon enough," he promised, scanning the alley. "Jackson, find some scrap wood and fashion a brace. It needs to press flat against the bricks. George, have you talked to the baker?"

He shook his head. "Was too busy tryin' to get to her."

"Go now," Holmes ordered. "Warn Jones that he needs to evacuate his shop. This is a structural wall. Part of the roof will fall with it."

George darted away, and Holmes studied the wall. Several bricks threatened to drop, he noted. When they did, most of the others would soon follow. They needed to support the wall long enough to at least help everyone clear, though a mason might be able to prevent a full collapse.

"Here." Jackson appeared beside him, a cobbled contraption of wood, rope, and cardboard in hand. "It should work like a wedge," Jackson added.

Slowly transferring the weight from his hand to the wood, Holmes sat ready for a long moment to ensure it would work. When nothing happened, a hand on the boy's shoulder sufficed as a 'well done,' and he leaned back to scan the wall again.

"Doris, tell me how you got in there."

"The cubby was maybe ten feet behind me," she replied. "So to your right. Wall looked stable when I crawled in, but a brick fell as I went under it. I barely got out of the way before more hit the ground, and George started screamin' right after."

"Did you bump anything?"

She paused. "Don't think so."

Bad timing, he decided. That was better than a collapse caused by contact, but they still might need someone else here. Jackson would soon do something foolish in his worry, anyway.

"Run for Watson's practice," he ordered. "He said he had patients today, so he should be available."

Jackson shook his head to indicate he had gone there first. "The doctor never answers his door. I thought he was with you. Do you want a doctor or just another adult?"

Worry tried to pierce his chest again, but he nudged it aside. He would check on Watson at luncheon. Doris faced the more immediate danger.

"Both, but Jones will be here shortly. Run for Agar, then."

Jackson cast one more glance towards his sister, but he darted out of the alley willingly enough. Small movements carried as the footsteps faded away.

"Hello?"

"I am still here, Doris," Holmes replied immediately, his gaze on the wall. "How big is your hollow?"

More rustling reached his ears. "Facing you, I can stretch my arms out to the sides, though not fully on the left, but my elbows touch front and back. I can stand, but not comfortably."

"Does the tunnel continue?"

"Yes, but it's really, really low, and I couldn't tell if more bricks would come down."

Nor could he, without further searching, but they would have to bring her straight out the wall or follow the tunnel to its end. One carried far less danger.

"I am checking the wall to your right," he warned her. "Do not move."

"O-okay."

A faint tremor entered the acknowledgement, and sympathy lurched in his chest as he crawled slowly down the alley, checking bricks for the other end of the tunnel. Many eight-year-olds would be panicking in her position, but even Doris could not kill her fear completely. He needed to get her out of there.

He found no sign of another opening, and the mortar appeared equally decrepit all the way to the next street. They would risk collapse no matter where they dug. Jones Senior hurried into the alley behind George as Holmes returned to Doris' section of wall.

"Still alright, Doris?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "How long is it gonna take?"

"Not long," he replied. "You know I cannot promise a certain amount of time."

Silence reigned for a long moment. "The tunnels are more fun when I can get out."

"We'll get you out, Doris," George called, having heard the last bit. He added something about bringing a light next time, but the baker spoke over him.

"He said my wall is about to collapse?" he asked Holmes. "Did you damage something?"

Irritation tried to bloom at the near accusation. "I did not, and neither did they. Look."

One finger traced the cracks spreading through the mortar both in front of them and further down the alley, then Holmes pointed to where Doris had entered the tunnel.

"Many walls have empty spaces in them," he explained. "They are never maintained, so occasionally one develops a problem before the owner can fix it. You are fortunate they were out here when the wall started to collapse, otherwise the falling bricks would have demolished your shop with everyone inside. You evacuated the building, did you not?"

"Of course, but the boy mentioned a girl in the wall?"

Holmes nodded, rapidly describing what had happened when the mortar crumbled. "The other end of the tunnel is just as unstable," he finished, "so she cannot exit that way. I need you to keep watch while I find a way to free her without bringing the wall down. George, help him."

"Yes, sir."

George hopped to his feet from where he had been talking to Doris, and he and Jones stood several feet back as Holmes started testing bricks. If he could find enough non-supporting bricks within a few feet of each other, Doris would be able to crawl out.

That brick refused to move. That one had cracked in the initial collapse. That one tried to bring the one above as well.

There. That one moved. Did its neighbors?

No. He kept searching.

That one ground against the one below. That one damaged the mortar too much. That one brought a yelp from Doris.

"Alright?"

"Fine," she said quickly. "Something just fell."

"Can you tell what?"

Silence answered him as she felt the ground. "I think it's a piece of brick."

That brick probably did not bear a load, he decided. Careful wiggling tested its placement again. Could he use that spot?

Maybe. The brick fell apart in his hand to thump on the alley dirt, and another cry carried from Doris.

"I see light!"

Good. He had found her hollow. Now he just needed to widen the hole—preferably toward the ground. Did that brick move?

No, but the one next to it did, as well as the one below that. He removed them both and started working on a fourth.

"I can't reach your hole."

"You do not need to," he replied distractedly, most of his attention on the bricks in front of him. He would be able to reach her, provided the hole was big enough. He cared only about widening the gap.

The corners of his mouth twitched at her huffed irritation. Light had banished most of her fear—as he had expected.

"Not everyone gets to grow like a weed, Mr. Holmes."

"You will reach your growth soon enough."

She tried to growl at him. "Just you wait. One of these days, Jackson's gonna match you for height, and I'm gonna get him to rub it in so much. How the heck d'you expect me to crawl through a decrepit wall when the hole's a full foot over my head?"

"With talent."

Her irritation abruptly flipped to laughing protest. "That's my line!"

He hid a smirk in the bricks. "How many of mine and Watson's have you stolen?"

"Not enough," she retorted. "Dream up your own lines and leave me mine. Thief."

His smile widened, but she continued before he could form a rejoinder.

"Did I hear you send Jackson for Doctor Watson?"

"At first," he agreed, "but your brother tried there before finding me. I sent him for Agar instead."

"Good." Doris' tone had lost its playful mischief. "Doctor Agar at least answers his door. He'll come."

He kept his focus on the bricks, but he could not ignore a chance to gather information on his friend.

"Does Watson not?"

"Come or answer his door?"

"Both," Holmes replied. "Either. Could you not go to him?"

"No." A slight change in volume suggested she would have preferred to reply silently. "We always went to Mrs. Hudson. The doctor would help if he knew the problem, but he's been too sad since Mrs. Mary died to notice anything else. He doesn't leave his house much anymore, and he never answers his door. Miss Ivy always did that when she was there, but he let her go the day I saw you through the window." She hesitated, then the words quieted further. "I snuck into his house once, just to make sure he was alright—cuz I hadn't seen him leave in a while. High noon on a Monday, and he was sitting in his armchair like a statue, staring at his empty fireplace. I had to make sure he was still breathin', he was so still. I stayed for over an hour, just watching, but I eventually left a loaf of bread in the kitchen and finished my Running for the day. He never knew I was there, and he never quit staring through that cold fireplace."

Only a concentrated effort kept his increasing concern out of his voice. "Why did you leave the bread?"

"Bread didn't require cooking. The spider webs on the counters and most of the stove were at least three days old."

Three days. No wonder Watson had lost so much weight. His friend had stopped eating.

"Don't tell Jackson I broke into the doctor's house," she added. "He told us all to leave the doctor alone when he started looking so sick."

"I will not tell," he promised. Only a few more bricks remained. "What do you mean 'sick'?"

"You know. When grief stole the light in his eyes again and his clothes started getting looser. He aged a lot the week of the funeral, and the cough that started last January only went away after you showed up."

Again? He wanted to ask what she meant, but limited time made his other question more important.

"What cough?"

"He got new—neu—namonia last winter," was her slightly stumbling response. "Sicker 'n'anything for about a week. Mrs. Mary died not long after he got better, and the cough he had nearly banished returned after the funeral."

Pneumonia. Watson had been in more danger than he knew, if a cough had lingered after a bout of pneumonia. He would have to keep watch to ensure Watson did not relapse.

"Have you—" Her question broke off as he freed another brick. "I think I can fit through that."

"Yes, but do not try yet."

She said nothing, watching him gradually loosen two other bricks. They landed to the side to let him carefully fit head and shoulders through the hole, but he had just found Doris's shoulder when dual warnings sounded behind him.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Move!"

Abandoning the slower route, one elbow quickly widened the hole while the other arm wrapped around Doris' chest. She jumped as he pulled, and he lunged away as hundreds of bricks crashed to the ground.


Leave it to Doris to find such a situation, lol. Hope you're enjoying, and don't forget to drop your thoughts below! :D

Thanks to those who have reviewed in recent days :)