The idea of a Lestrade becoming an Irregular had never occurred to me-or to Holmes, I gather. Holmes indeed demanded to know where Charlie had heard of the name, having ordered the rest of the urchins to not discuss the group with other children. While they were a good-hearted lot, only a few shifty and perhaps unreliable, there's always at least one child desperate enough to say anything for sake of coin-and I had no reason to disbelieve the theory that there may have been that child in the motley crew of children Holmes used frequently in his cases. Charlie had replied that Holmes mustn't blame the other members, Charlie had never inquired openly as to their activities. However he would often become suspicious when spotting a small ragtag group of children picking the lock of a door -truly an Inspector's son- and would spy upon them. He would often proceed to hear the words of 'Olmes, 'other Irregulars', 'biscuits', whispered among the younger of the thieves as they continued their mission of justice.

Holmes was truly at a loss for words at that moment, and I recall wondering briefly at whether his relationship with Lestrade was deeper than I had considered prior to this event. Their meetings were always formal, and both in Lestrade's company and without, he tended to remark upon Lestrade's intelligence and capabilities, although praise was sometimes smattered between insults. Was it possible that he felt reluctance at accepting a child of one he knew into a life of danger? "Your father-" Holmes hesitated.

Charlie insisted. "-doesn't have to know, Mr. Holmes. And besides, I'm already sort of prepared for this type of goings-about. I'm a real asset, sir, really I am."

"But surely your father would be furious if he knew," I had replied gently. "He and Holmes would be at each others throats, I am sure."

Charlie clenched his jaw in childish stubbornness. "Please sirs, I want to try it, I really do." His expression changed almost at once, becoming eager. "My brothers and sisters could join too-Miles is the best lock-picker I know, not to mention a ventriloquist, and Owen's been practicing his acting skills n' athletic abilities. Carolyn can charm anyone with that smile o'hers, not to mention fool them, and Wendy's got these wicked knives that can-"

"Absolutely not." Holmes had interrupted. "It'd be bad enough as it is with one of you chancing your life willingly at this age." I believe then his expression softened. "But if you are to become an Irregular, you must wait until your health improves before applying yourself to any physical activity." Charlie had grinned brightly, and raced back into his house at the cry of Mrs. Lestrade, who stood on the porch with her hands on her hips.

Now late afternoon, I stood with Holmes gazing at the metalwork factory he had mentioned in his analyzation of the footprint found on Lestrade's paper. In private, I had my doubts as to whether that was the real description Holmes had offered Lestrade. While it was only a footprint, I had thought that Holmes would have been able to discern more than "the man to which this footprint belongs is of low class—most probably a worker from the metalwork factory, and as befitting a man of his class and size, is not easily intimidated..." It seemed a rather weak answer to Lestrade's question, and there were only a couple of explanations I had to counter my foolish worry.

"Excuse me," Holmes said to a man passing by. "But are you in any way an authoritative figure at the factory?"

The man looked at him strangely, most likely comparing Holmes's attire to his own. "Blimey mate, you talk right fancy, you know?" He laughed nervously. "Wot's a toff like yew doing here?"

"My apologies. Are you in charge here, at the factory?"

The man's astonishment was plain on his face. "Me, in charge? Wouldn't that be something! I'd been sitting real pretty, I would, having a lush with the boys, n'giving orders 'stead of taking them. No, the man yew want is over there wiv those scrapmen , telling 'em wot to do."

"Thank you for your time." I said for Holmes, who was already hurrying toward the man in question. The worker nodded and departed after one last look at my apparel. I rejoined my companion, who was just commencing a conversation with the man.

"May I inquire as to your name, sir?"

"Cribbs. Sam Cribbs." Came the reply. "Oi-Bill, what're you doing? Don't think I'm not watching, Bill, I'm always watching."

Holmes pressed on. "Do you have an unusually large man who works in your facilities, with a history of violent temper?"

Cribbs snorted. "We've got a lot of 'large men wiv a history of violent temper', sir. What is this, a joke?"

"Of course. Let me specify-do you have a man of that description who goes by the name of Frank Tomson?"

I started, looking at my friend in undisguised wonder. He had not left my side since this affair began, and I could not recall a moment in which any sort of mention of this information had been portrayed.

Cribbs face reddened in anger. "Tomson?" He growled. "What's he done now?" He looked at us hopefully. "You wouldn't happen to be coppers, would you? Be doing us all a favor if you'd take him away."

"What has he done to produce such an opinion in you?" Holmes asked, his gaze focused on the man.

Cribbs looked about him nervously, barking an order toward one of the scrapmen to 'keep his eyes where they should be and not on those of the upper class', before clearing his throat and speaking in a lowered tone. "Well sirs...I'm not one to listen to rumors normally...but we all believe that he 'olds a candle to the devil, if you know what I mean. Trouble is, nobody who sees what he does has the authority to fire him. And none of the higher-ups will believe us."

"But what does he do that makes you hesitant to simply fire him?"

Cribbs scowled. "Thing is, the authorities won't allow it. He can lift twice as much as you or I without a sweat upon his brow. Too valuable to waste, they say."

Holmes tilted his head, a signal for Cribbs to continue. When the man offered no indication of doing so, Holmes removed his right hand from its glove, and extended it. Cribbs looked down in surprise, and slowly did the same, until a firm handshake had been produced. "I do not doubt that our paths shall cross again, Mister Cribbs," my friend said, pulling on his glove. "I thank you for your time, and return offer you my services. If you should ever need a consulting detective, you need only go to 221B Baker Street and ask for a Sherlock Holmes. In the meantime, I advise you to stay clear of the Bastet, which you seem so fond of visiting. It hosts the likes of men I am sure you do not wish to associate yourself with...especially as your wife is with child." Cribbs stared at Holmes in astonishment, but before he could formulate a reply Holmes was gone, hurrying back toward the pavement without so much as a good-bye. I did the same, after nodding to the man as compensation for my friend's lack of social etiquette.

"Holmes," I said, falling into step with the detective, "how did you know the name of our suspect? We have been together throughout the case, and I cannot recall a moment in which you may have disclosed his name. The only reason that comes to mind is one of deceit—that you did not find it prudent to reveal all of the boot's secrets to Lestrade."

Holmes smiled. "You have hit upon it, Watson. It would be an embarrassment to your depiction of the Great Detective if what I spoke to Lestrade was truly all that I could discover. It was in fact only in the process of returning the drawing to Lestrade did I notice the lower halves of the letters F and T, which were barely discernible at the edge of the sole. I imagine Tomson scratched them there himself upon receiving the pair, and had never bothered to redo them in order to retain visibility."

"But how did you know the initials represented those particular names?" I wondered. "For example, he could have been...Franklin Tobrias, or Francis Tallows...there was even a possibility of the initials not representing his own name at all-"

"My dear Watson," Holmes interrupted, his smile broader. "You have a remarkable tendency to put a great deal of thought into something that doesn't require it. While reading the newspaper this morning, I noticed a small ad that asked for the whereabouts of a Frank Tomson. The ad came from the Saxbry Tobacco shop, and it's precise words were...Wanted: The whereabouts of Frank Tomson, a large, dark-haired and strong late twenties man. If located, direct him to the Saxbry Tobacco Shop, The London Docks. Now tell me Watson, does this little advertisement not pique your interest?"

I mused over it for a moment. "It seems highly unusual. The opening word itself would suggest that our man Tomson had committed some wrong towards the shop, but the following text doesn't suggest such a thing—it merely asks for him to be redirected to them. The address of the shop itself is especially vague, as that area is quite large, with many a hidden alleyway and shop, those of which that might normally be pointed out on a street have the disadvantage of their signs being hidden from view, courtesy of the throngs that bustle through the place each day."

Holmes was visibly pleased. "You have not over-looked one thing, Watson. I applaud you for it. As you seem to be functioning on a higher lever of acute observation than is normal today, I wonder if you know what I plan our next course of action to be?"

"Well," I began. "We have stopped in the middle of a stretch of pavement, and not at a crosswalk. I shall assume for the moment that we are waiting to hail a cab, and as such our destination is not within a comfortable walking distance. There is no reason to return to Scotland Yard or to the residence of Lestrade at this time—we could always question Lestrade later as to what Tomson exactly said to him on that night...and I suppose returning to Baker Street would not result in quickly gaining information. I suspect that you'd rather like to act based off the ad and head for the Saxbry Tobacco Shop, thereby receiving data on Tomson, such as where his quarters are, or his mannerisms or past dealings."

"Bravo, Watson!' Holmes exclaimed, as he signaled for a cab. "I was wrong in my wager at the Hull establishment, you have exhibited that same heat one again..." A cab halted, and we clambered inside. Holmes continued. "...I also stated the opposite of reality when I mentioned that there was a small trace of tobacco ash. There was in truth a large amount of ash stuck to the sole, but only after I had completed a secondary examination of the imprint did I see it. The majority of the ash was lighter compared to the small area that I brought to Lestrade's attention, ergo not as easily noticed. At any rate, it implied that either Tomson smoked quite a bit—this was ruled out at once, Watson, he would be far skinnier than the sole suggests if he did—or that he frequented the shop often. This latter conclusion we shall work from, my dear fellow."

"Remarkable, Holmes." I responded, once again awed by my friend's brilliance.

His eyes twinkled. "And as a matter of fact Watson, I did know a Franklin Tobrias at one point in my lifetime. But that is a case for another time, and one I shall happily relay to you."

:::::::::::

The cab drew to a stop at the unofficial border which marked the start of the London Docks. Holmes paid the fare, and we stepped out onto the pavement. Numerous warehouses towered over us to our right, the ships and the Thames beckoned to our left. The streets and pavement were crowded with a variety of people: Sailors, cotsermongers, bootblacks, merchants, shoppers, crossing sweepers and even a few street conjurers. All of this created a spectacular sort of din, one fused with the cries of vendors, the shouts of children who either were playing or contributing to the family income, and all sorts of others. As we walked along, we soon passed shops crushed and stacked on top of each other, a precarious construction that seemed designed to collapse at any moment, some sagging upon their foundations and others held together by little more than nails. Every few doorsteps there would be a man advertising his wares, and if not there was often someone in an upper window, exclaiming that what he sold was better than the ones below and to the sides of him.

"Syllabub, sir? Getcha nice warm syllabub?" I looked down at my right sleeve; a feminine hand clutching at it. A pretty young milkmaid stared up at me, she and her companion carrying three buckets of syllabub between them. My declination about to spring forth from my lips, I suddenly noticed the age and status of the two girls. The speaker seemed to be in the late teens, her companion perhaps fourteen, thirteen...I could not be certain. Their clothing was ragged, by all appearances being held together by patches and not by thread. I smiled and nodded. The younger eagerly set down her buckets and raced away to a nearby stall, grabbing one of five mugs. She proceeded to dip it into a bucket, and handed me the drink. I gave her coin, but the two would not leave. When I asked as to why, they replied "See sir, we only got so many o' the cups..." The older trailed off, looking meaningfully to the four left on the stall counter. I answered that I would return the mug when finished. Satisfied, the girls immediately pursued a passerby laden with four children clinging to her skirt.

As I stood with the drink, Holmes was approached by a man pushing a wheelbarrow, the contents of which were foul-smelling and unidentifiable. "Interested in tripe cuttings? Horse flesh? Only the freshest for fine gentlemen! Bullock's liver? Only one pence for the tripe!"

Holmes was scandalized. "Why on earth would I want a bullock's liver?"

I knew what the man was talking about, having considered using the same foods for my bull-pup shortly after being discharged from the war. "He sells food for domestic animals, Holmes. For instance, if you had a dog you might be interested in buying the horse flesh to feed it."

Holmes impatiently waved the man away. "Hurry up with your syllabub, Watson."

Draining the mug's contents, I set the container down on the stall counter. The girl behind it nodded to me without speaking. I stayed close to Holmes, feeling sure that if we were to become separated I would not be able to find him again. Indeed, we were constantly bombarded with hawker's cries and hopeful requests from peddlers of all sorts.

"Sand? Nice sand to clean your floors!"

"Getcher nice fresh fish! Fresh fish!"

"Bandboxes? Anyone for bandboxes?"

"Chairs to mend! Chairs to mend! All kinds accepted, woods and rush! Chairs?"

"Lavender, ma'am?"

"Jellied eels! Hot pies! Pea soup!"

Those who were not shouting were either the quieter sort of vendor, or those with idle hand and mind. A few chummies sat on the doorstep of a shop, comparing brushes. My hearts went out to the young boys—even though the public demanded action in 1875 for something to be done, there were still a few children left who had to resort to climbing up chimney flues in order to help support their family...with physician's eyes I could distinguish burns amongst the grime coating their faces. Paupers stared at Holmes and I, no doubt attracted to our apparel. Indeed, I was the starer and the stared at, for I could not help but notice those in the shadows, or crawling about on the Thames foreshore...these latter people were known as the mudlarks, and many of whom had no home. Although of the middle class and not of the upper, it was painfully evident to me that many of these people had never been in such close proximity with someone of our status. A crossing-sweeper was so bold as to reach out and attempt to reverentially touch my cane—Holmes sent him a warning glare so fierce that the man immediately stumbled back, mumbling apologies.

I latched onto Holmes's arm, struck with an insane thought that if we were separated, I would be forced to eat a jellied eel—the though made me nauseous. I had never been fond of eels. "But where is the Saxbry Tobacco Shop?" I asked, narrowly avoiding a sailor loaded down with cargo.

"I have had the fortune to come across this shop twice before,Watson." Holmes calmly replied, neatly stepping around two children eagerly collecting horse droppings. "Once due to chance, another for a case. It is not far."

Indeed it wasn't. There was only a turn of a corner and half a block to be made, and had he not pointed it out to me I would have been almost certain to miss it. It was wedged between a drapers shop and a cobbler's domain. It's wooden sign was hanging by one hinge from a protruding metal rod out of the wall; the sign was rotting the title of the store faded. The windows themselves were dirtied to the point of being obtuse, the hinges of the door making a terrible noise when we walked through the entrance. Once inside, we found that there was barely room to move. Objects that appeared to have no purpose cluttered the inside, and I found myself uncomfortably wedged between a shelf containing stray cigars and dusty books—and the frame of a mirror. Holmes had managed to weave his way through the mess and approached the clerk's desk, though there was no clerk to accompany it. Instead of searching for a bell to ring, Holmes rapped sharply upon the desk's surface three times.

A man emerged from a back-door I had not noticed until then, and stood to attention behind the register. He wore a soot covered smock, which hid a wrinkled woolen shirt, and went down to the knees of flannel trousers. Crowning his head was a slouched cloth cap, casting a slight shadow over his aging face. I judged the man to be in his sixties or so, his gray sideburns indicating that he was at least in his forties.

"Ah, Mister Saxbry, how good it is to see you again!" Holmes took off his hat with a flourish, and bowed to the gentlemen—who regarded my friend's antics with a solemn gaze and not a twitch to the mouth. I could not ascertain as to whether my friend was mocking the man or not.

"Detective Holmes." Saxbry's gaze was carefully blank, though I thought a hint of suspicion flashed in his eyes. "What brings you to the bleaker part of the universe?"

Holmes wasted no time. "Frank Tomson." The name rolled off his tongue smoothly, without an indication to his purpose.

Saxbry's thick eyebrows furrowed, and he frowned. "Who, detective?"

It was not hard to tell that Saxbry was preparing to withhold information, the stiffening of his form a dead giveaway.

"You know the exact person I speak of, Mister Saxbry, and I have no doubt you heavily suspect my reasons for asking about him. At any rate, I know of your ad in the paper. Do not look so disbelieving, man, I do not overlook even the smallest of facts around me, whether they come from royalty or poverty."

I observed the owner, who seemed very adept at keeping his emotions in check. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood silently. I ventured to speak. "May I inquire as to why you refuse what could be the answer to your ad? I would have thought that you would have welcomed any mention of Tomson with open arms."

"He does not want any kind of authority involved, Watson." Holmes raised his lips in a slight smirk. "Though if he refuses us now, the consequences for him shall be much worse if we become involved at a later date."

Saxbry's jaw clenched. "You have dealt with him before—you know of his whereabouts?"

Holmes swooped upon the opportunity. "Perhaps. Tell us of what you know, and I shall endeavor to make a quick recovery from my sudden illness of selective memory."

Saxbry's eyes flitted about his shop. He beckoned us to join him behind his counter, and when Holmes and I were safe from inanimate objects he darted for the door to his shop. He reached for a faded sign, which he flipped to make the word 'closed' visible to the public, and then darted back behind the counter. He opened the back-door and led us through it; we emerged and found ourselves into an office just as crowded as the shop area. Once Holmes and I were seated, respectively on box and stacks of papers, Saxbry opened his mouth and began to speak.

::::::::::::::::::::::::

As you can see, a LOT of research went into this chapter. This doesn't make up for my lack of update, however, and I apologize. I don't really like the way I ended it, but it's already seven pages long and I thought I should update/end the chapter soon. If my historical facts are incorrect, please feel free to tell me. (If KCS ever reads this, I'd be honored to hear what she has to say).