"Whaddya think he's gonna say?" asked the boy who was looking down and rubbing his toes against a crack in the pavement.

None of the other children answered, waiting stoically for their summons. After a long few minutes, one of the girls began to sniffle slightly.

"Aw, come on, pull yourself together, Jenny," said the tallest and most well-spoken boy among them. "You're the reason we're in this mess. If you hadn't of picked the doctor's bag, Mr. Holmes would still trust us. If Mr. Holmes still trusted us, he wouldn't be angry with us."

"But Jimmy…"

"It's Lieutenant Wiggins when you're in the ranks," the tall boy snapped.

"But I gave it all back," Jenny protested. "And we didn't mean no harm with what we done, he's got to see that. He will, won't he?"

A murmur spread through the group of children. Whispers of 'what if he doesn't,' and 'what if he doesn't want us,' spread quickly.

"Silence!" Wiggins commanded. "No use in gabbing about it like old women when we'll know soon enough. Mr. Holmes has always been fair to us. He'll hear me out, I know he will."

"Look!" said Jenny, "there's the signal!"

"Alright, look sharp everyone," Wiggins said.

"Nuh-uh! He said you're supposed to go up alone!" protested one of the children.

"To get assignments," Wiggins snapped. "We all got to apologize."

"You go," Jenny said, "and if he wants us all then he'll send for us, won't he? If he doesn't, it'll just make him like us even less."

Wiggins hesitated, then nodded. "No lollygagging," he said sternly. "And Henry, put your boots on! You know he likes us to wear shoes."

Wiggins took a deep breath and steadied himself, nodding to the others and marching up to the door. He knocked firmly. Mrs. Hudson, the older lady who berated them about their dress and manners and state of cleanliness and yet always passed them sweets, opened it for him.

"You're expected, young man," she said. "Go on up."

Wiggins swallowed hard, trying to stand as tall as he could. "Yes, ma'am," he squeaked, then cleared his throat. "Thank you, ma'am."

He went in, grasping the handrail like a gentleman and walking up slowly, wishing he was older or, at least, that he looked older. His slim, small body was good for dodging in between people in a crowd, his high voice was convenient for convincing policemen to let him go, and his young face allowed him to get away with acting nine or ten instead of his real thirteen years of age. He secretly wished, however, that his shoulders would broaden, his voice would deepen, and his face would mature enough he'd look like a man. Then, if he was lucky, he'd get an apprenticeship somewhere instead of being forced to work and die in the mines like his father had, or work his fingers to the bone in a factory like his mother.

Sherlock Holmes was a better employer by far than all the factories in London, and he hoped he and his little band hadn't fallen out of favor with the detective completely. Wiggins liked Sherlock Holmes: he liked being on the side of someone who was doing good, liked not sailing so close to the wind to get money to get by, and he especially liked the opportunity Holmes gave them to learn to read and write and use fancy words and phrases like 'sailing close to the wind.' He liked the doctor, too, even though Mr. Watson had snapped at him once for stealing cigars from Mr. Holmes' coal scuttle. They all liked the doctor, really, and that was why they'd done it. He hoped Mr. Holmes would understand. He knocked softly on the door to Mr. Holmes' living room.

"Come."

Wiggins took off his hat as he entered, hoping his hair wasn't too dirty. Mr. Holmes sat in his chair like a judge. He looked at Wiggins steadily, taking his pipe out of his mouth and frowning.

"Never again," he said, "will you follow Ms. Mary Morstan." His voice was low and sharp and deadly serious.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins croaked.

"Do you know how frightening it is for a lady to be followed in the streets? Your gang could overpower a man if you wished, let alone a lady. Worse, what if she had recognized you and thought I or Doctor Watson had sent you to spy on her? You could have endangered the engagement and future happiness of Doctor Watson and Ms. Morstan. Thankfully, that did not happen, but you did worry her. When she came into my rooms to ask for my aid in getting rid of you, I was ready to come into the street to thrash you all. I would have, young man, if I hadn't realized it was only your gang and not a group posing a threat to her. This must never happen again. You will not go near her unless it is under a direct instruction from myself or Doctor Watson to protect her. Understood?"

Wiggins nodded and looked at him hopefully. "You still want us to do jobs for you?"

Holmes finally stopped frowning. "Of course I will, Wiggins. But what on Earth were you doing following Ms. Morstan to begin with?"

"We just wanted to see her," Wiggins said remorsefully, looking at the ground. "We wanted to know what she was like since Mr. Watson is going to marry her. We like Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, and Jenny wants you to know she's sorry she stole from his doctor bag. She does like him, just can't stop herself sometimes. It's like when a puppy nips yer hand is all."

Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose. "That is all, Wiggins," he murmured. "Take your band away before the doctor comes home, and let's hope he doesn't find out you trailed after his fiancee all day."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and Wiggins?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Here," Holmes said, reaching into his pocket, "for your trip back." He stood and crossed to his Lieutenant, dropping a few coins into the boy's hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," he breathed, staring at them.

"My goodness, lad!" Holmes exclaimed. "Now that I'm next to you I believe you must have grown a few centimeters since I last saw you. I daresay you won't be the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars for long, such a fine young man you're becoming. Start to think about who you can trust to take over once someday, hmm? Off with you now, that's a good lad."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes!" Wiggins said, eyes wide, and as soon as the living room door was closed, he leaped down the stairs with a little cry of joy. The Baker Street Irregulars, it seemed, would always be the most honorable little gang in London.

For the prompt from Wordwielder: The Irregulars get into a pickle.