"Where—" Eyes blinked open, then widened at the strange location and unfamiliar faces. The boy instantly lunged away from them. "No!"

"Easy."

Arthur's reflexive assurance did nothing to stop Leonard's trajectory. Only the detective's quick reaction prevented Leonard from hitting the floor, but the boy merely thrashed harder, fear leaking into every word.

"No. Leave me alone! Let me go. Please!"

"You're safe." Arthur found himself unable to reach past Mr. Holmes, so he moved to stand where the boy could see him. Leonard had more fight in him than Arthur would have expected, given the boy's shrunken frame. "You're safe," he repeated. "We found you in an alley, and we want to help. Nobody here is gonna hurt you. You're safe, Leonard. I swear."

His name startled him to silence. He finally stopped trying to push Mr. Holmes away, though that fearful gaze nearly pinned Arthur in place.

"How d'you know my name?!"

"Your knife." Predictable movements let Arthur display the blade they had left with his clothes. "Crossing out the final 'o' could only make it your name, which means Leonardo was a family member. Your father? Or maybe your grandpa?"

Silence answered for a long moment. "Grandpa," he finally replied, the word nearly inaudible. "Father liked the name, but Mum took off the last letter to make it both Italian and English, like me."

"That explains the letter—which we didn't read," he added at Leonard's alarm. "We left that for if you didn't wake up."

Or until someone had a chance to translate it, but Arthur saw no reason to admit that.

"My name's Arthur," he continued instead. "That's Owen, and both the grown-ups are Mr. Holmes. Owen and I live in a courtyard with a bunch of kids. We were hoping you'd want to live with us after a meal. Our courtyard's a lot better than the streets. We have shelter, food, and decent clothes, and most of us work for the younger Mr. Holmes and his flatmate, Doctor Watson."

Leonard still stared like a wild animal caught in the crosshairs.

"You're running a fever high enough you probably have a headache," he added, seeing no reason to be anything but straightforward, "which is why we had to take off a layer of clothes, and I can hear your stomach from here. Mr. Holmes has already offered supper. We can show you the courtyard after you eat."

Leonard obviously wanted to say yes. He wanted it nearly as much as his growling stomach wanted food, but fear strengthened to make him shake his head.

"No factories. No Haven. Better dead. See Mum again. And Father."

The Haven? Had he escaped the Haven or merely a kidnapper? Arthur would remember to ask later.

"We don't—"

"Courtyard," Owen corrected simultaneously. "Not factories, and Haven Fernsby in jail weeks ago. Mr. Holmes caught 'im. Levi said the doctor smashed Fernsby's face to the floor."

Pleasure shot through Arthur at the complete sentence. He kept his gaze on Leonard, however. Acknowledging the progress might halt it.

"We don't send kids to those nasty factories," he promised, "and we rescued Owen from the Haven. Fernsby deserved more than he got. The Yarders shoulda let us at him before they took him to jail. We won't hurt you, Leonard. We want to give you a home."

Home. Stark fear bled into longing, but the boy remained curled into the corner cushion, as if physical distance would let him escape a house he did not know.

"Home is dead."

"Your old one," Arthur agreed, "but just because your first home died doesn't mean you can't make another. Home isn't a building or even blood relations. It's any place you're safe, fed, and have people who care about you. I've called the courtyard home for almost ten years now."

Leonard stared for a long moment, as if debating whether Arthur spoke the truth. "What do you want?"

From me, that asked silently, but Arthur heard it anyway. They had finally reached familiar ground.

"You to say yes," he shot back. "At the courtyard, everyone does what they can. Some look for food. Some have jobs. Some take care of the littles. We all have honest work, but we wouldn't expect you to do anything until you start feeling better." He paused to gauge the boy's reaction. "None of us will force you into anything, Leonard. That's not how home works. Will you join us? Please?"

Leonard had not yet relaxed his guarded posture, but cautious hope flickered to life. "You have food? Wait—" Hope abruptly flickered and died, sending Leonard's gaze to look through the floor. "Never mind. No money."

"You don't need money. Ask the older Mr. Holmes if he would charge a guest for their meal, or the younger if he has ever turned us away when we needed something."

"He is correct." Wide eyes focused on where their Mr. Holmes still knelt by the settee. "Arthur brought you here because it was closer, but he could also have taken you to my flat. And yes," he added, "we have access to food, both here and in the courtyard. The Irregulars have enough workers that they do not often go hungry."

Light ribbing might ease Leonard's worry further, and Arthur released a grin of pure mischief. "New cases have amazing timing, right, Mr. Holmes?"

Ears flushed a bright red as the barest hint of surprise said the detective had not realized the Irregulars knew about the invented cases. That made two things Arthur knew that Mr. Holmes did not. A distracted thought impishly wondered if the detective was ill, but Arthur addressed Leonard without taking the ribbing further. "Will you stay?"

Confusion in Leonard's expression said he had caught at least part of Arthur's joke. He did not comment, however. Several seconds' debate finally provided a hesitant agreement.

"Excellent." Their Mr. Holmes looked up at his brother. "When will supper be ready? I rather doubt a low fever is enough to make young Leonard turn away food."

The boy's stomach growled to confirm the theory. Arthur covered a smile as Leonard flushed, but the two adults merely maintained eye contact. A minute negative indicated the end of a silent conversation before the elder Mr. Holmes left the room. Arthur and Owen claimed an overlarge armchair as their Mr. Holmes' predictable movements offered a wet rag, which Leonard made no move to take.

"What's that for?"

"Lie down and put it on your forehead," Mr. Holmes ordered. "The cool water will help lower your fever."

"Oh." He eyed the cloth again but did as Mr. Holmes bid. "Is a fever bad, then? I thought the headache was just hungry. Like the shakes that came first."

"It might be." Leonard's gaze darted to meet Arthur's. "We'll find out after you eat, but you might be getting sick. That's why Mr. Holmes came—and why the doctor will meet us here later. Owen and I don't know enough o' medicine."

Owen pulled a face of utter disgust. "Know not to eat fast."

"Yes, we do know that," Arthur agreed with a chuckle. "When food gets here," he added at Leonard's confusion, "you'll have to eat slow. If you eat too fast, you'll see it again."

"Nasty. Eat slow. Taste it once."

"That's enough, Owen." His smile refused to die, but a hand on his brother's arm halted the description as Leonard turned faintly green. "You'll be alright," he promised. "Just take it easy. The food's not gonna disappear. Is anything wrong besides headache, fever, and hungry?"

Leonard shook his head, a touch of wariness still evident as he readjusted against the cushion. A half-hidden grimace announced his discomfort at so much bare skin.

"Here." Arthur passed the small bundle of clothes. "We took them off to cool you off. Medical thing, but awake means you aren't nearing a dangerous temperature. You'd probably be more comfortable with 'em on."

As comfortable as lying on a stranger's settee could be, anyway. Arthur well remembered the extreme awkwardness of his first few days with the Irregulars, of everyone treating him like family while he saw them as simply so many faces.

Leonard gratefully unfolded his shirt, but gratitude changed to irritation when dressing put another hole in both shirt and trousers.

"S'alright," Owen said quickly. "Tailor help."

"Or the doctor," Arthur agreed. Leonard looked up in wordless question. "We have an agreement with a tailor," he added. "He gives us old clothes and fabric in exchange for a day's work once a month, and Doctor Watson knows several parents who give him their kids' old clothes. Between the two o' them, you'll have newer stuff in a day or two. Maybe even tonight, depending on what we have in the courtyard."

Leonard simply stared, apparently unsure just what he thought of that. Mr. Holmes waited only long enough to ensure the boy did not wish to speak before directing his own question at Arthur.

"Do you intend to treat your leg?"

"How did you—Oh." A small spot of blood stained the torn knee of his trousers. Mr. Holmes did not need to deduce an injury when Arthur's trousers gave him away. "Eventually," he shrugged, ignoring a different sort of amusement evident in that stoic expression. "Leonard was more important, and it's just a scrape."

"That should not have stopped you from seeing to it as soon as you reached Mycroft's flat. Would Watson agree with you neglecting to clean it?"

Owen's escaping smirk provided no help in Arthur's attempt to refrain from scowling. That sounded more like the kind of chiding the doctor would employ, which meant Mr. Holmes had started something without ensuring Arthur would follow. "Says the consulting detective that hid a stab wound last month. A scraped knee is nothing. Since when am I supposed to be the logical one here?"

Unless—

"Since I had to spend a week listening to Watson lecture on infected injuries." Long fingers handed Arthur a dripping rag though Mr. Holmes' eyes pointedly referenced Leonard. Understanding quickly caught up with the conversation. Right. They had rehearsed this. Arthur had simply not yet had the opportunity to join the planned discussions Tim usually used to calm a frightened new arrival.

"The doctor would not have lectured you if you had let him treat the injury before it made you collapse," he shot back. "You can't capture the criminal if you're confined to a hospital bed. Even the Yarders could tell you that."

"Though little else. Do not leave that rock in your knee."

"I'm not." Rapid blinking fought the tears that tried to cloud his vision. Scrubbing hurt. "Can't get it out when I can't see it. Gimme a minute."

"Let me." Mr. Holmes gently reclaimed the rag, wet it from the pitcher, and started working the gravel out of Arthur's skin. Arthur focused on keeping his face dry when every piece of rock had to be dug out like a splinter.

"Bad hurt?"

Arthur shook his head as a small body huddled closer to his side. "No, Owen. It just stings. I must have landed on a patch of sandy dirt. There's a lot of rocks in the scrape."

"There are," Mr. Holmes corrected mildly, "and I am almost done. You will have to watch this for infection. Hold your knee over the basin."

A minute's maneuvering and Owen's help put the basin below Arthur's leg. The cold water eased some of the ache as a slow trickle gradually washed the rest of the dirt from the now bleeding injury. Mr. Holmes checked it once more before a hand waved Owen away.

"Pour that down the drain and refill it. Leonard still needs cool cloths if he is to fight that fever."

Owen willingly stood, but a silent question carried over Mr. Holmes' bent head. Arthur shifted to let the adult wrap a makeshift bandage even as one finger crooked to send Owen up the hallway.

"Second door on the right," he supplied. "Turn the handle to get water from the sink spicket."

"Spicket?"

"The metal thing. Some houses run fresh water through pipes in the walls. You'll see it when you get there."

Owen hummed acceptance, disappearing through the door as a low question drifted from Leonard's place on the settee.

"You're famiglia, aren't you?" The short round of bickering had eased quite a bit of his lingering wariness. He cautiously met Arthur's gaze. "Family, I mean. All of you. But—" His face creased in thought. "You said you live in a courtyard. Why don't you live together if you're family?"

"Too many of us," Arthur replied, inwardly grinning at Mr. Holmes' reddening ears. Just because the detective agreed and reciprocated did not mean he would ever voice as much. Mr. Holmes kept his eyes on an evidently intricate knot as Arthur continued, "The Irregulars started with six street kids over twenty years ago. Mr. Holmes wanted help with his cases, those six wanted a home, and the arrangement helped everyone. While Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, and Mrs. Hudson—their landlady—are available at need, they are also not the sort to hover. We mostly take care of ourselves. Sixty-something kids means there's always someone to ask for help."

"Sixty?" Leonard stared in surprise as Owen navigated the room with a brimming basin. "How do you all fit?"

"Ish," Arthur confirmed, nearly kicking Mr. Holmes in his haste to steady his brother when Owen tripped setting the basin on the nearest table. "Maybe seventy. It's a big courtyard. We usually hover around fifty, but we still have a lot of the kids we rescued from the Haven almost a month ago. I'm sure you'll hear plenty about that horrible place in the coming weeks."

A measure of Leonard's hesitance abruptly—and worryingly—returned. Something in Arthur's words had made him doubt this arrangement. Silence fell for a long moment as he debated whether to ask another question.

Only one more chapter. Don't forget to drop your thoughts below :)