Something crashed in the back of the flat, then loud footsteps finally approached the door, increasing their speed when Arthur did not stop pounding on the wood. The door clicked before Arthur could call out again.
His large frame nearly filling the doorway, the older man appeared almost their Mr. Holmes' opposite, but those watery grey eyes shone with the same brand of kindness Arthur knew from the younger Holmes. Strong arms unhesitatingly took the boy from Arthur's failing grip.
"Names?"
Arthur shook his head, his own arms nearly limp in relief of being free of the weight. For all that he was so thin, the boy was heavy. "Arthur and Owen, but we don't know his name. I tripped over him in the alley between here and the tanner. You can probably deduce more about him than I can, sir."
Something the adult had undoubtedly already done. Arthur easily read the traces of worry at the stranger's unmoving, skeletal frame, and Mr. Holmes led them down the hall and into the sitting room almost as fast as Arthur had taken the alleys. A nod let each of them claim a glass of water from the nearby pitcher.
"He has lived on the streets for at least a month but in London less than a year," he agreed as they drank, "orphan, dead sibling—probably a sister—and has no known family in town. He has not found a true meal in at least a fortnight." Mr. Holmes set the boy on the settee before one hand felt his forehead. "Low fever. Open the back door and tell Harris to send for my brother or the doctor. At least one of them should be home right now."
Owen disappeared before Arthur could turn around. He made a mental note to comment later but focused on the stranger. Even a Holmes could not have gathered all that from an unconscious child.
"You saw him earlier today, sir?"
"On my way home," Mr. Holmes confirmed. "He would not let me near him. I intended to tell Sherlock to watch." Keen eyes glanced at Arthur even as Mr. Holmes started checking the boy for injuries. "Does Sherlock know the other boy is your brother?"
Arthur could not halt a sudden laugh. Tim had been right that the elder Mr. Holmes could see more and faster, and their Mr. Holmes had probably told his brother all about that terrifying raid. "No, sir, and Owen and I only figured it out a few days ago. Please don't tell him. Owen and I both think it'll be fun to see his reaction—especially since Owen and I don't look much alike. His only clues are behavior and mannerisms."
If Mr. Holmes allowed the same twitched grin his brother would have at that request, he hid it in the boy's medical exam. A nod agreed not to ruin Arthur's fun as gentle movements rapidly removed what he could of the rags the boy used for clothes.
"Is the cut on your leg serious?"
"It's just a scrape," Arthur replied quickly. The injury was beginning to sting. He could tend it later, though. The younger boy was far more important. "I got it when I tripped over him. Where can I find water and rags? Doctor Watson said that's how you treat a fever."
A glance checked the veracity of Arthur's assertion—that alone announced how well Mr. Holmes knew his brother—but most of the adult's attention remained on the unmoving child. He did not answer for a long moment.
"The washroom is the second door on your right," was the eventual response. "The empty basin is on the tub, and you will find rags behind the door."
In the washroom? How did he expect to use the basin if he kept it empty in the washroom? Arthur hurried down the hall without complaint even as he wondered if he had misunderstood. Was Mr. Holmes rich enough to have a source of water in the washroom and kitchen?
Apparently so. A marble sink sported a metal spicket that easily filled the basin Arthur found on the side of the tub. The bucket of rags he spotted next sent him back to the sitting room just behind Owen.
"Here you go, sir. How can we help?"
Mr. Holmes shook his head. "We need to lower his fever before we can address the malnourishment, and I know little more of medicine than what Doctor Watson has taught you." He paused to replace the rag that splatted against the floor. "He would probably appreciate another child here when he wakes up."
"Not leaving," Owen promised. "Wanna help. Know his name?"
"I do not. Check his trouser pockets. He might carry something that would tell us. Gently, mind," he added as Owen dragged the small bundle closer.
Owen hesitated, then passed the bundle to Arthur. "Don't wanna break something. You look."
"You will not break anything," Arthur refuted, though he accepted the offered pile of fabric. Threadbare cloth would be far too easy to accidentally tear. Working slowly, nearly a minute passed before his efforts separated shirt from trousers. The shirt had more holes than cloth—and was missing a pocket—but when a careful search found nothing, he moved to the trousers.
Which had a hard lump in one pocket. Arthur pulled out a small folding knife rather like the one his father had promised him years ago.
"Leonardo," he read aloud, passing the tool to the adult, "but the last 'o' is crossed out to make it 'Leonard.' I don't see anything with a family name, but if he doesn't have a family, that hardly matters. What can you get from it?"
"He is named after a family member on his father's side," Mr. Holmes answered, "likely his grandfather, though his father is equally possible. Whoever owned the knife last was both carpenter and smith, but his mother kept the blade for a while before giving it to him." Rustling carried when he rotated the wood, and he returned the knife to Arthur. "Can you reach the paper in the handle?"
Paper? What—Oh. Cheap paper had been folded to fit in the gap between the blade and the sheath. Arthur worked a fingernail between paper and metal in an effort to pry it out.
"Almost…" The word trailed into a half-hearted growl as the corner slipped from his grip. "My fingers are too big. Owen?"
First one nail, then a smaller one squeezed into the narrow space in search of that paper. The younger boy's tongue appeared in the corner of his mouth, but even his smaller fingers could not grab it enough to pull it free. He soon gave up to stare at it.
"Metal pick?"
That sound Arthur could recognize as a near-chuckle. Mr. Holmes had obviously been watching to see if they would solve the puzzle even as he continually wiped Leonard's face and neck.
"He would need to get it out himself, would he not?"
Yes, he would, but a thorough search of the pockets revealed nothing thin enough to fit in the gap. Arthur eventually claimed a letter opener off a nearby table, belatedly remembering that Mr. Holmes was not the detective Arthur considered father. A glance asked permission to use it.
Which Mr. Holmes granted. "Be careful you do not tear the letter."
Letter, because of course Mr. Holmes would know that with only a glimpse of the paper's corner. A distracted thought decided that their Mr. Holmes must have learned his limits of deduction from his brother, but Arthur forced himself to focus as the dull side of the opener quickly caught the letter's edge. Another moment let him unfold it on the floor.
"This isn't English."
Mr. Holmes leaned forward to better read the scrawled words. "It is Italian," he confirmed. "Sherlock will be able to understand some, but the doctor is fluent. Set it aside. Did it share the space with anything else?"
Checking the blade found it empty, and a quick pat down found nothing else in any pocket, but the front door clicked before Arthur could do more than shake his head. That was fast. The guard must have found someone halfway to Pall Mall.
"In the sitting room, Sherlock!"
Owen jumped at the volume, but Leonard never moved as the footsteps paused, then turned away from the other hall to follow his brother's voice. "Are you—" The question cut off when he spotted Leonard. Long strides crossed the room to kneel next to his brother. "Have you done anything besides treat the fever?"
"Found his name," the elder Holmes replied with a gesture at the folding knife, "and if there is anything else to do, I do not know it. It is not my job to babysit your Irregulars, Sherlock."
Both Arthur and the detective rolled their eyes at the older man's favorite line, but Owen scowled despite Arthur's warning.
"Not a baby."
Their Mr. Holmes stilled. The last time any adult had been to the courtyard, Owen had not yet found his words, and he and Arthur had not joined the influx of work the last few days. Surprise prompted something like a smile when Mr. Holmes looked up.
"It is good to hear you speak, young man. Am I allowed to learn your name now?"
Owen's bashful response barely reached audible. Wary eyes darted to meet Arthur's before the younger boy moved to stand at Arthur's side, just as they had planned. Arthur watched to see if Mr. Holmes' deducing would make the connection.
If he did, he did not show it. A different sort of mischief twitched his mouth. "My brother likes to complain," he answered with an air of keeping the older man from hearing, "just as I like to drive him out of his routine. He has not yet realized that an overused line loses its humor."
"You are one to talk, Sherlock. How many times have you used that atrocious pun this week?"
One hand waved the question aside—and ignored Arthur's burst of laughter. So many cases over the years meant even the Irregulars had heard "The game is afoot" more times than Arthur could count. The doctor had probably heard it more.
Though Arthur doubted he had replied the way Owen did. "Get ahead yet?"
Both adults stifled the laugh Arthur let free, and he could not resist adding his own piece. "You can't admit defeat, Mr. Holmes."
Even Arthur could see the amusement lighting the detective's gaze, though Arthur's only grew when no deduction seemed forthcoming. Mr. Holmes did not return the jibe as both adults focused on the boy sound asleep on the settee.
"Do you see anything besides malnutrition, Sherlock?"
"I do not." The words emerged closer to a worried murmur than Arthur thought he was supposed to hear. A gesture silenced Owen's question as the detective continued, "He appears to be more asleep than unconscious, which means he might wake even before we can fully address the fever. I would prefer not to move him."
A faint harrumph carried from Leonard's other side. "You know my plans for tonight."
Mr. Holmes' nod accepted a reference Arthur had not caught. "I left Watson a note to join me here if I did not return by half past." Thin fingers brushed the fringe of hair aside for the second time in as many minutes. "Would your club be willing to send some broth? Leonard may not be able to stomach solid food for a day or two."
"He was eating out of the rubbish bins earlier this afternoon," was the quick counter. "I can certainly ask if necessary, but whether here or your flat, you will have to worry more about slowing him down than helping him eat."
Contemplation became understanding. "He will make himself ill." The detective fell silent for a moment, then nodded as if making a decision. "Arthur, are you and Owen able to stay for a while?"
"Of course." His own gaze had not left the too-thin child. Leonard was not much younger than Owen, which did nothing for the worry he tried to tame. "You sure he doesn't need anything 'sides food? Even the hungry ones don't look that…skeletal."
"Owen looked much the same several weeks ago," their Mr. Holmes replied, unable to completely hide his concern, "though not quite as bad. Leonard will recover with regular access to meals."
Alright. Owen had been horribly thin the night of the raid, and he looked much better now, but Arthur still eyed the younger boy. None of the children from the Haven had been anywhere near as atrophied as Leonard was. How far was too far?
He did not know, but Leonard suddenly rolled, sending a wet cloth to the pillow and cutting off Arthur's question. His breathing changed to make both adults take several steps away. Leonard would react better if he saw Owen and Arthur first.
Reviews are always greatly appreciated! :)
We're two days away from the December challenge! Hope to see you there :D
I've heard some are struggling to find the setting to turn on the email updates. Here's where I found the setting to re-enable email alerts:
On both computer and mobile web browser, go to Account Settings and scroll down to "Email Opt-in". Remove the spaces for a screenshot: prnt. sc/ mxRFi9RiBSHn
if you're on mobile, on your profile screen go to the person with a gear icon fourth from the left, then tap alert to see the email opt-in part.
you'll have to remember to check it every few months. i've seen some places say 3 months and some say 6