Mary Watson smiled warmly at the shy man who wouldn't look her in the eye. She hadn't seen him around before, and wanted him to be at ease so he would accept what he needed. So many people, she knew, were reluctant and embarrassed to come to a charity, and it seemed this man was no exception. It was a shame, really, for all most people needed was a little help to be back on their feet.

"God bless you, sir," she said, and spooned a generous helping of peas onto his tin plate. "Enjoy your meal."

He looked up at her, then. "Thank you, ma'am," he murmured. "God bless you."

He moved on, and she watched after him for a moment. There was something about him that caught her eye, but she couldn't pinpoint what. His coat was torn so badly she couldn't imagine it was helping to keep the chill off, and she was determined to find him after the meal was served so she could give him a new one. She even knew which one she would offer, as she'd only that night brought one of Sherlock Holmes' old coats. It had needed a bit of patching and cleaning, but it was a perfectly serviceable coat and she would be happy to let the man have it. And yet… and yet there was something disingenuous about him. She was sure of it.

His skin was too smooth and clear, the dirt that obscured his features only superficial. His fingers were stained and scarred and calloused, but his palms were smooth as if he wasn't used to hard labor. He had been tall once and was now hunched over from age or disease, but even that seemed somehow forced, as if he were an actor on stage trying to be something he wasn't. Of course, it was perfectly possible he was only just recently down on his luck, but then why would his jacket be in such bad shape?

She shook her head, pushing it out of her mind. She was here to help those who needed it, not to judge how they'd gotten there. There was a long queue of others waiting, and she smiled once more as the next person came to her.

"Ms. Morstan," he said, nodding his head to her. "Oh! I'd forgotten. I suppose it's Mrs. Watson by now. Congratulations again, and thank you."

"Of course, Mr. Monroe. Welcome back to London. I trust your trip was successful?"

"Yes, ma'am. Earned enough to send my boy off to a proper school next term."

"How wonderful, Mr. Monroe! God bless you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Watson. God bless you."

He went on, and Mary worked on feeding the rest of the queue, occasionally checking in on her other regulars but not forgetting about the man from earlier. When everyone was through, she found the jacket to bring him.

She didn't make it to him. Her arm was grabbed as she passed by a doorway leading from the large, main hall into a corridor. She was yanked through violently enough her shoulder ached, and she spun around to face whoever had grabbed her, pulling ineffectually to get out of their grasp even as they shut the door, secluding them in the hallway alone.

"Watson," someone growled. "I knew I knew that name."

"Mr. Monroe? What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Let me go this instant!"

"I will, Mrs. Watson," he said, spitting her name out as if it disgusted him, "but first, you're going to guarantee me safe passage out of here. Where is he? Hmm? Nowhere, not with your neck on the line. Come on now, my good lady, and if you don't fancy getting a rag shoved down that pretty throat of yours, you'll not make a sound!"

The thoughts running through Mary's head in that moment weren't very ladylike at all, but there was one in particular that stood out to her, one that she very much thought was correct: this was all to do with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the man who loved disguises...

"Mr. Holmes!" she shrieked in defiance of her captor. Holmes was here; she was certain of it. He was the man she'd met earlier, and an absurd thought burst into her mind which was that she'd been about to give him his own coat back. Had he seen her coming and noticed what had happened to her? She hoped so, for the main hall was crowded and bustling and loud and she didn't think her scream had been heard. Would he come? She worried he wouldn't.

She needn't have. Holmes was beside her even as she called his name, must have come into the corridor from another entrance. He was straightened to his full height, towering over her tormentor menacingly. In his hand he held a sword which had been hidden in his walking stick, and he placed the blade of it against the base of Monroe's throat. His ragged coat was gone, and even though he was still wearing a beggar's disguise, he looked every inch as noble as any knight errant.

"Let. Her. Go," he growled, enunciating every word through clenched teeth.

Monroe's grip slackened but he didn't let go, and so Mary took advantage of the fact his attention was on Holmes. She brought her knee up, landing it hard in between the man's legs. He yelled, pitching forward onto Holmes' blade, the metal digging in near his collarbone. Mary yanked her arm free, turned her head, and whistled towards the end of the corridor where a door led outside.

Sherlock Holmes had hold of her then, but she didn't panic. She knew he wasn't going to hurt her. She let him push her to stand in a corner, himself standing slightly in front of her with his sword outstretched, its tip now dripping with fresh blood. There were two other men in the hallway now, one reaching into his pocket while the other helped Monroe to his feet. Blood seeped onto Monroe's shirt, and he murmured something at them incoherently as he clutched at his wound.

He looked at the man with his hand in his pocket. "You've got your gun?"

The man nodded. "Shoot them, then, and let's get out of here."

The other two looked at each other. "Not her, though…"

"Yes, her! Get on with it!"

"Stay behind me," Mrs. Watson," Holmes murmured low enough only she could hear. "I'm going to lunge, and when I do, you get back into the main hall. Ready?"

"Mr. Holmes…"

"Shoot them!"

"I don't think…"

All conversations were interrupted, then, by the howl. The large mastiff bounded through the door at the end of the corridor, snarling with rage. It set its sights on the man with the gun, leaping and latching onto his arm. He screamed, dropping the weapon. The other scrambled to help him while Monroe scrambled out of the way, falling to the ground and continuing to clutch his wound.

Holmes took advantage of the situation, grabbing Mary and leading her to the doorway to the main hall, but that got the dog's attention and it let go of the other man, lunging for him.

"No! Down, Baker!" Mrs. Watson said. Immediately, the dog obeyed. She looked, saw Monroe and the man with the gun were both sitting, dazed, while the third man ran. "Him!" she shouted, pointing. "Go, boy!"

Baker bounded off, leaping onto the man's back and making him fall. Sherlock Holmes hesitated, glancing between Mrs. Watson and the three men.

"Are you injured?" he asked. His grip was firm on her arm, and his stance kept himself in between her and Monroe.

"No. I'm alright," she assured him.

He still hesitated, but after a moment he let her go, giving her his sword and turning his attention to placing handcuffs on his captives.

"My apologies, Mrs. Watson," he said as he did so. "I assure you, I had no idea this was the charity for which you volunteer your time. If I had, I certainly would never have pursued my criminal here." He paused, warily looking to where Baker was standing atop the third man's fallen body, growling menacingly to keep the other man down.

"Baker!" Mary called. "Come!"

The hound growled once more at the man, then turned, leaping off his back and trotting happily to his mistress, though not before eyeing Holmes with what the detective could have sworn was suspicion.

Holmes finished arresting his quarry, quickly leading them outside the charity before rushing back into the corridor.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Mary said, looking up from where she stooped down to scratch the dog on his head. She handed him up his sword, which he sheathed after carelessly wiping the blood away on his trouser leg.

"I assure you," Mary continued, "I had no idea the man was a rogue. He's been coming to us once every few months, claimed to be trying to find work in London while sustaining himself and his young son off jobs he could get elsewhere."

"His young son," Holmes murmured, "is actually a small gang of smugglers. He and his buyers meet at churches and charities to arrange their deals. I have been on his trail for a while now, and I have reason to believe he suspected as much and was on his guard tonight. His fears were doubled when he realized what your new name signified."

"He thought I was working for you?"

Holmes nodded. "I'm sure he did. I should have foreseen such an eventuality when I saw you here. I did not, and for that I sincerely apologize. I should have told you who I was so you could remove yourself from any potential danger."

As if in response, Baker barked at him.

"It's alright, boy," Mary said, scratching his head again. "We accept his apology, don't we? After all, if Monroe was so paranoid, who knows what outcomes might have been in the cards tonight much worse than this?"

The dog looked at Holmes, and then back at its mistress before beginning to pant happily.

"Baker," Holmes murmured. "As in…"

"Baker Street," Mary confirmed with a smile. "John wanted to name him Beeker, but I convinced him otherwise. Baker is, as you've seen, John's way of protecting me even when he can't be near. He's trained him to come at my whistle, even to wiggle out of his harness if he knows I need him. He's really a very good boy, though, Mr. Holmes, and quite friendly. He wouldn't have come after you if he hadn't seen you touch me."

"And for that, also, I apologize…"

"I'm alright, Mr. Holmes," she quickly assured him.

"Thank God for that," he replied.

The door to the main hall opened. "Mary?" a lady's voice called. "Mary, where are you?"

"I'm here," she said, smiling. "Baker got loose. I was just corralling him, and this gentleman was helping me."

"Is that blood on the floor?" the other lady asked, aghast.

"Baker had gotten loose over a rabbit, I'm afraid. You know how squeamish I am, so I recruited help and then shut the door so no one else would see."

"Oh, Mary! How awful! The poor little bunny!"

"Yes, Susan. You will be so kind as to finish cleaning for me, won't you?"

"Of course, dear. You know, it's funny. Usually when Mr. Monroe comes he's so good about helping us clean. Today he simply got his food and went. I hope he's alright. He's such a nice man."

"I'm sure all's well," Mary said with a smile. "I'll be back in a moment."

Sherlock Holmes raised one eyebrow at her when the other lady had gone. "You're a handsome liar, Mrs. Watson," he said. And, coming from him, it sounded like praise.

"Not to my husband I'm not," she said with a quick frown. "He's going to be quite put out about all this. He got Baker not only because he often has to be out attending patients, but also because he imagined there may be some danger in our lives due to your cases. He's not going to be happy to learn he was right."

Holmes looked away, his face contorted.

"It's not that we blame you!" Mary said quickly, "it's only that it pays to be cautious."

"Of course," Holmes replied, and his words were slow and soft and slightly sorrowful.

She rose with a soft look of understanding, and took his hand in both of hers. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for coming to help me. I mean that sincerely."

"There is nothing," Holmes said seriously, "which I would withhold from you if you required it, and no aid I would not render. Please, have no doubts about that. Oh, and..." he trailed off, hesitating.

"And?" she asked.

"Mrs. Watson, you called for me. How did you know I was here? How did I give myself away? Was I really so obvious? If you recognized me right off, then perhaps Monroe did as well, which would have driven him to desperation. And if I inadvertently caused you any harm..."

"I didn't know until that moment," Mary assured him. "It was your height, mostly. I am a doctor's wife, and experience with John's patients told me you weren't quite infirm enough to justify being so hunched over. I suspect it's not an easy thing for a man to take away several inches from his frame."

"It is not," Holmes said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I will have to improve."

"Mr. Holmes, you will walk me home, won't you? You must help me to explain and to assuage John's fears."

"I will, Mrs. Watson," Holmes promised. "Please, let me get cleaned up first. I won't allow anyone to spread a rumor that you were taken home by a beggar. Besides, I don't think Baker would allow me to come."

"Of course. I'll go back and finish cleaning up. Mr. Holmes?" she asked, for his face had taken on one of dismay.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Watson," he said quickly. "It's just that, in all the commotion, I'm afraid I didn't even sample your excellent peas."

For the prompt from Riandra: Peas and queues.

Of course, I understand that the phrase "Mind your P's and Q's" is about manners (perhaps that was what the prompter was wanting, perhaps not). With the spelling of this particular prompt, however, I couldn't resist taking it literally. I hope you enjoyed, and thank you to everyone who has so kindly left reviews thus far.