Prompt: Baker Street Irregulars--How did Holmes meet them, when did they start working for him, etc.
A/N: Having lived quite comfortably in the country my entire life, I had a very difficult time writing this. On the other hand, I live in an old farmhouse, and I know what it's like to be sleeping out in the cold--my bedroom has more holes in the wall than the stone-throwing people in the glass house. So basically, a lot of artistic license, but I tried to make it realistic.
Oh, and I swear, I SWEAR, I did not watch Peter Pan before writing this. It was an accident.
This was not proofread at all--I just sort of spat it out. I didn't want to write out all the cockney, so just use your imagination, but I think sometimes my own vocabulary and modern language slipped through. But keep in mind that this isn't Wiggins talking--this is more like his inner thoughts. So maybe my vocabulary is allowed. Meh. Let me know what you think!
It's a funny thing--you never see grown up 'street urchins.' It's sort of a part of London now, seeing a bunch of dirty, penniless kids running through the streets--street urchins, you think to yourself, and move on. But they've got to grow up sometime, you know? What happens to all the street urchins that battled their way through two decades of hardship and misfortune? Not all of them do, you know. It's not pretty, but it's the truth. Sometimes little shoulders can't take the weight of the world.
Some of us never leave the streets--begging's the way to go. Thieving, too. It gets harder to pick pockets when you're suddenly above waist height of the person you're nicking pennies from, and it gets harder to live off the pennies you get. Those of us with parents are told to be good, to keep on the right side of the law and all that. Parents worry for us. We do our best, but every hand is needed sometimes to keep a family afloat, and when you're that little, cold and hungry and feeling useless, sometimes you feel like there's only one thing you can do.
Of course, it's a bit difficult to go out thieving when you work for Mr. Holmes. Something about that man teaches you right from wrong in a hurry. I don't have parents--there was a fire, and they were trapped inside. Just one of those things, I guess. Of all the places to catch fire, it had to be our place. There weren't a lot of damages, people said, because nothing else caught, and we didn't even have anything worth burning. Except them. I don't remember why I wasn't home that night, but at least I can remember at all.
Anyhow, picking pockets is a living, when you're little and alone. So I made my living, as best I could. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not sorry, either. It's what I was handed, and I did my best with it. I don't know how it happened, but I started gathering a following--little ones, even littler than I was, looking up to me. Some of them had someone to care for them, thankfully, but they all looked to me as a sort of mentor. I made it my business to take care of them--see they came into no real trouble. They were all good kids, mind, and I guess they needed a leader. And I guess I was the one they chose. I grew up a good deal faster than I'd meant to, thanks to that fire, but as least I had them to grow up for.
I was still a kid, though. And nicking stuff was about all I could do, for a while. It was a living. Then, of course, I went and made the biggest mistake of my life. Usually I counted on people not noticing me--it's amazing how many people don't see a kid reaching into their pocket. Really, no one notices anything, and that was what I lived by when I stuck my hand into the pocket of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and he had me by the collar before I knew what was happening. He looked at me, and did that thing where he looks like he's seeing right through you, and I broke away and scarpered as fast as I could. I was shaking so badly I just ran on back to the empty house where I was staying. The little ones found me, and made me tell what had happened--it was a bit embarassing, to tell the truth, but I was just glad I got away.
Then the next day I was out again, trying to make up for what I'd thought I'd be getting from Mr. Holmes. But it was a hot day, and I was tired, so I sat on a stoop in an alley for a bit, and suddenly this bloke sits down next to me. Course, it was Mr. Holmes, although I didn't know it was him then--I just knew it was the fellow who'd had me by the collar yesterday, and I was about to get up and run when he grabbed my wrist and said "Settle down, lad." So I settled, and he said "You did a smart job of getting into my pocket yesterday, my boy. I'm sure that if I did not make it my business to notice things I would have missed you entirely." And I didn't know what to say, so I just sat there.
"What's your name, lad?" he asked.
"Wiggins."
"Well, Wiggins--I don't suppose you could do a job for me, could you?"
"What sort of job?"
He pulled a bit of paper from his pocket and showed it to me--it was a photograph, of an old man with a walrus moustache and little spectacles. "I need to know if this man has been anywhere near that house--" and he pointed across the street to a big old building--"anytime today or tomorrow."
"You want me to spy on the house?"
"I suppose 'spy' is a way of putting it. You must understand that this is extremely important--if he shows up I must know about it. I'll give you a shilling for today and another for tomorrow. Do you agree?"
It was good money and easy work. And I knew I could easily spot the bloke if he showed up, too. Plus, this was the fellow whose wallet I'd almost taken, and I got the feeling I'd better do as he asked. So I nodded, and he gave me that day's shilling. "If he goes near that house you must run immediately and tell me." He gave me his address on Montague street, and told me to find him there.
I was making to go to he house he wanted watched when a thought came to me, and I turned and said "'Scuse me, sir, but what's your name?"
And he smiled, and said "My name is Sherlock Holmes." And I went off to watch the house.
The bloke in the photograph didn't show up that day, but the next day he came around about noon, and hung around the gates. So I ran off to Montague street as fast as I could, and I found Mr. Holmes, and he was off like lightning, jumping into a cab and telling the driver to whip up the horses. I ran after him to the house, of course, because I had to see what was happening, and when I got there I found Mr. Holmes, with a cut across his cheek and a bruise on his forehead, and two police officers holding onto the moustache man, who was looking redder than I've ever seen a person. Mr. Holmes was explaining something about a test, how if the man had proved his guilt by showing up, while he'd investigated the man's partner and found him lurking on the other side of the city. It was right over my head, of course, but it was exciting. Mr. Holmes found me afterwards and gave me a shilling for my work, and an extra one. "You did an excellent job, Wiggins," he said to me, "perhaps I shall have more work for you in the future."
And he did, too. I don't know how he found where I was staying--I moved about a lot, but he said something about having noticed the colour of the mud on my feet. Sometimes I think Mr. Holmes is the biggest nutter I've ever laid eyes on, but he's smarter than any officer, and a decent chap at that. He had me do lots of errands for him--he started employing my whole gang, for some things. He paid well, and we were glad to be doing something. It was worthwhile, too--most of the time we ended up finding something important for Mr. Holmes, and he'd pay us something extra and run down to wherever he needed to with more energy than I'd ever seen in a fellow, and the next day some murderer would be behind bars. We got to know Mr. Holmes pretty well, after a while, though I daresay I was the one he knew best. It's a funny thing, how we're all helping him catch criminals, and he first caught me trying to nick his wallet, but it did us both some good, seems.
I was surprised when he sent word that he was leaving Montague street and moving to Baker street--I didn't know how he could afford the shift. He said he was sharing the price with someone. I remember thinking the fellow he was sharing with had to be just as mad as they came. I have great respect for Mr. Holmes, of course, but I'd not want to live with him. But we met the fellow, Doctor Watson, and he was one of the normalist people I've ever laid eyes on. I didn't expect it to last, but the next time Mr. Holmes had a job for us he was still there, and the time after that. We got to know him well, too. He's a wonderful chap, really. And it's always nice to see a sane face next to Mr. Holmes'.
It's a funny thing, too--Mr. Holmes has changed since he moved to Baker Street. He may not have seen it, but I can tell--I've seen lots of people, even if they don't always see me. There's a look you get, when you're alone in the world, and you come to recognize it in other people after a while. I reckon I'd have that look just as bad as anyone, if it weren't for the lads always looking up to me. But Mr. Holmes always had that look, in his eyes, and he never seemed the type to tell anyone what was really on his mind. But on the last case I helped him with, I saw him talking with the doctor, and he was different--that look was gone, replaced with something else. I think the Doctor knew, in a way--he's a smart fellow, Doctor Watson. I don't know what made him stay with Mr. Holmes all these years, since I'm mostly sure he isn't off his rocker, but I'm glad he did. Mr. Holmes is a good fellow, for all his ways, and I've seen what happens to some people who stay alone in the world for all their lives, and I'm glad he won't have that happen to him.
I'd be happy to stay and help Mr. Holmes all my life, but I never can. Even street kids have to grow up someday, and I'm starting to be able to look more people in the eye than I used to. I could stay a thief--keep stealing and stealing until I get caught someday--but after working with Mr. Holmes for so long, I don't think that'd be the best idea. Those of us that make it out get jobs, collect some coins...keep living. Me, I've always liked water--maybe because it doesn't burn, like everything else, or maybe because it's got so much life. I'm thinking of working on a boat; maybe someday sailing on the ocean. I'll keep looking for jobs until I find one that suits me. Mr. Holmes has said that I'm good with my hands, and there's plenty of jobs that could use a boy--a young man, I guess--who's good with his hands. Just keep living.
Sometimes I think about growing up, and I don't want to have any of it. Working for Mr. Holmes is the best job I could ever have--good pay, lots of adventure, something I'm good at. But everyone's got to grow up sometime, and anyway, there's something about Mr. Holmes and the Doctor that makes me think it's not that simple. Something about them that feels like a story, where even though time moves on and people change, the story stays the same. And I know Doctor Watson writes about the cases, so maybe it really is a story. So even though time passes, and things change, and I'm starting to grow up, there'll always be a Wiggins working for Mr. Holmes, years and years and years later, you know? I can't stop time, and I can't stop changing, but in a way, I'll always be the leader of a gang of boys around London, never noticed but noticing everything, then running back to Baker Street for Mr. Holmes.
And if you ask me, there are worse ways to spend forever.