A/N: …humble writer submitting chapter... *meep*.

Chapter Six – Little Hands

Laughter.

High pitched voices.

Running feet.

A comforting weight settled in her arms. Against her chest. Tucked under her chin.

Breathing.

Sleeping.

Content.

Then, she woke, eyes bursting open with disappointment at the loss of the dream and the return of reality. Caroline slowly sat up and peered through the darkness of early morning. Nothing in the house stirred. Nothing but the aches and pains in her body, begging for more rest. But her eyes were open. The gears in her mind were turning again. And the heaviness in her limbs was lifting.

She rose and went about her morning routines, pausing to make her bed so she wouldn't be tempted to return to it. She washed and dressed in a worn faded brown dress, choosing to don comfort instead of reassurance for the day. In front of the mirror, while she was pinning her hair back, she got a good look at the one thing she only let herself dream about at night.

A mother.

Holding. Kissing. Shielding. Teaching. Loving.

Mother?

Did she want to be a mother?

It was all she ever dreamed of when she was little. Once, she stole her mother's shoes and tried to walk in them. Another time, she sat on the counter in a pile of flour and raw eggs after a botched attempt at making cookies. Many times she was able to wrangle all her brothers into behaving like normal children when her mother needed it the most. She had dreams when she was a girl of being a mother, of getting married and having her own family by now.

And here she was in a boarding house working as a caretaker. Alone.

Holding her niece yesterday was a gift. And it was wrong to feel jealous of her sister-in-law for it. But she was jealous if she was honest with herself. She wanted another day like yesterday. She wanted everyday to be like yesterday. With circumstances as they are and have been for her, it just couldn't be an option. Not right now. But maybe someday if she let herself believe in the possibility. It wasn't as if she needed to hide anymore.

She smiled in the mirror. It was a tired one, not all put together, but it looked better than when she tried to smile a month ago. She made it halfway down the stairs of the quiet house before her eyes started to water. She stopped and took a deep breath to push them back and continue. It was turning out to be quite the week, and if these ups and downs kept up she'd be wearing these damned puffy eyes around the bloody clock!

This morning she didn't care about her feud with Mr. Holmes. In fact, she was getting rather sick of it and of the idea that she'd have to start being nice to him to make a point. She wanted…not that it mattered, but she wanted her old life back-when things were simple, when she was helping her mother in the kitchen, when the important things were helping Rachel pick out flowers for her wedding bouquet, when she had a security blanket of people around her who knew who she was and respected her enough to not make her prove herself or compete with others out in the street for recognition as a normal person.

Normal.

Caroline chuckled to herself. As if anything in this house with that man could be normal. Who was she kidding? If she stood any chance at gaining her normality back then she needed to get out of this house soon. Had Mrs. Hudson said when she'd be back?

…odd.

Caroline would simply have to write the woman and ask.

…damn.

Once she sweetened her way into getting her pens back.

…bloody stupid-!

And it was only six in the morning.

"How's the case?"

"What case?"

"I know you have one," Watson said, as he was paying the baker for his parcel of sweets. "Don't bother denying it."

This conversation was not interesting, not stimulating. Holmes let his attention wander, eyes scanning the room and landing on a boy in the corner, sneaking a roll of bread while leaning forward and feigning interest in something else. The detective smirked and watched the oblivious policeman chatter away with the boy's pretty sister a few feet away.

"What could possibly make you think I'm working on anything other than the demise of our dear interim landlady," he asked, following the doctor out the front door and into the bustle of the streets.

"Well, let's see. You're a detective-"

"Consulting-"

"And not a psychopath. Murder isn't in your repertoire. And-"

Holmes frowned at the drizzling rain. "Unfortunate as that may be-"

"I'm not finished-"

"Fancy a cab ride home-"

"Would you let me finish?"

Holmes stopped and pursed his lips, sending a withering look Watson's way. "If you must."

"You've got that look in your eye."

"Exceptional vocabulary."

"You know what I mean," Watson hissed.

"I do?"

"It's that look that says you're up to something. Like you've just got two steps ahead of the game on something-rather someone. And if it were Lydia you wouldn't be out here boasting about it to me."

"Pray tell, what would I be doing?"

"Enjoying the spoils of war," he said before hailing them both a cab. Once inside and moving, Holmes removed his dark glasses, wiped them dry on his pant leg, and stowed them in his pocket.

"Who says I'm not?"

"What?"

"Enjoying the spoils of war, as you so adequately put it."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"No, you did something," Watson mused, his voice laced with caution and unspoken words in the order of I don't think I want to know. To Holmes' credit, he didn't press the conversation further.

"How's Mrs. Watson?"

"Fine."

"And you?"

"Fine. We're both fine, Holmes."

Holmes nodded with an agreeing sound in his throat. The carriage bumped to the right due to a hole in the road but both men sat in the, otherwise, quiet of their ride home, one failing to hide a smirk that was threatening to break into a wide giddy grin and the other watching the show with barely concealed amusement.

"Congratulations, Watson."

Laughter burst free from the doctor. Composure flew out the window and sent both men on the highs of a happy hysteria that can only be described as the imaginative wonders of an expecting parent. Watson's face was in his hands, hiding the happy tears and genuine smile. Holmes allowed the man a moment to himself before leaning forward and pulling the hands free.

"Come now, Watson," the detective said. "One would think you'd been harboring bad news all this time."

Watson chuckled low in his throat as he wiped at his face with a handkerchief. "I'm surprised it took you this long-"

"Rather hard to deduce seeing as how Peale's bakery seems to be booming under your ritual visits."

"Oh, Sherlock…" John trailed off, staring out the carriage window, seeing things in his minds eye rather than the monotonous row houses along the street.

A wealth of emotions passed through the doctor's face. Joy. Longing. Fear- "You'll make a fine father, John."

"One can only hope," he whispered, seemingly cheered by that rare show of support.

"When is she due?"

"October. I wish you were there when she told me. She was so…you could see it-how she looked-before she told me. I don't think it's fully set into me yet, but I've heard a saying somewhere-"

"A woman becomes a mother when she conceives and a man becomes a father when he holds his child."

"Yes," Watson said rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Yes a thousand times over."

Holmes leant back against the carriage seat and gazed out the window to check on their progress, pleased that the rain let up a bit. "Well, you've gone and done it now, old boy. Instead of lace doilies everywhere you'll have nappies and toys tripping you up."

Watson smiled, but cleared his throat soon after. "Listen, Sherlock. Mary and I have been talking and…we both decided-thought that it would be a good idea if…if it's agreeable to you…We'd like you to be the godfather."

John's answer came in a form that shouldn't have surprised him, in one that should have been expected from a man like Sherlock Holmes. There was no flick of the sharp eyes to gauge seriousness. No comment made about the level of Mary's consent in the matter (which, of course, was wholehearted anyway). Nothing said about responsibilities or parameters regarding visits or meetings. No question as to who the godmother was, or was going to be. In place of all that was a soft smile and a silent acceptance that was said only with a slight and humble nod of the head.

Caroline blinked like a wide-eyed doe. At the door was a dozen dirty little children of various ages and statures, boys she could only assume came from the streets due to their attire. The eldest stood in front of her and had a confident air about him. He tipped his worn hat and bade her good morning. When she was in the middle of signing the same back, after getting over her initial surprise, Holmes called out from the landing above.

"Up here chaps," he called.

And, as if a firecracker had gone off, signaling their start to the race, Caroline was bumped backwards against the door as they all ran up to Mr. Holmes' flat.

"Sorry 'bout that mum," the leader said, before dashing upstairs after his entourage.

She chuckled to herself staring up after them in disbelief and curiosity. Her eyes met the detective's briefly before she turned around to shut the door. When she looked back upstairs he was gone and the door to his flat was shut. What in the world would Sherlock Holmes have to do with a group, and a large one at that, of orphan boys?

She didn't have any hint of a possible answer, but she decided to find one herself. So she sat in the foyer where all the occupants of the house left her and made quick work of unlacing and untying her shoes. Once that was done she stowed them under a side table by the stairs and began to climb with careful toes, avoiding the weak steps that creaked in the cold temperature of the house.

When she reached the top she gathered her skirts up and knelt by the keyhole. Laying thin hands against the cool wood of the door, she peered through the small opening first. Dissatisfied with the results she changed tactics and pressed an ear to it instead.

"Who's the new pre'y lady?-"

"She's nicer'n 'e olda misses-"

"Is she your wife?-"

Caroline couldn't help but blush in the hallway. Only if I were bleeding mad.

"She's very pre'y."

"An' quiet-"

"An' she smiles right nice!-"

"Alright," Mr. Holmes exclaimed. "Enough of that, boys. Now, listen up!"

As Caroline listened she was surprised to hear a gentle tone about Mr. Holmes. One would almost think that it was a father speaking to his children if they didn't know the occupants of the room beyond. For all the childish and immature ways that man could act around those of his own age it was downright strange and a little funny to hear him sound so grown up around actual children.

"I want one boy to keep an eye on the jeweler's shop like before but this time look for a man with a limp or a cane. I want to know what he looks like and what time he stops by. Understood?"

"Undastood," the boys all chorused.

"I also want two boys to keep two eyes this time on the Carroll Street house from the corner."

Caroline's brow furrowed in confusion. Why does that sound familiar? I know that street don't I?

"Same one, guvnor?"

"The very same."

"Bu' that's farver away-"

"For good reason, lad. Now, don't interrupt. I want to be told immediately if anyone comes to visit in addition to who comes and goes for normal business. Rest assured you'll be compensated in accordance to the new responsibilities. Here's for the last week and the advance you were promised."

"Same meetin' time then?"

"Yes, that will do fine, Wiggins. Get them a decent meal with this."

"Thank you, sir-"

"None of that-Off with the lot of you! Criminals don't catch themselves."

She just had enough time to jump away from the door before it swung open and the boys charged down the stairs and out the door again. With the door's edge between her fingers and the rest of her body hidden she peeked around and watched as the leader caught the front door before it slammed shut, winked up at her, and closed it properly.

Someone cleared his throat next to her, leaning against the doorway. She looked at Mr. Holmes, unabashed and stepped out from behind the door, setting it aside so it wouldn't hit the wall. The man raised an eyebrow at her and flicked his eyes downward. Caroline peeked down and realized he was staring at her lack of shoes. But instead of blush and make a run for them, she leaned against the wall, stuck her feet out, and crossed them, stockings and all.

Mr. Holmes looked amused when she looked back up at him, but it was a strange kind of amusement-almost as if he were saying I know you were eavesdropping and you're trying to cover up now for it, but it won't work so don't even try, without saying it. Funny how charming he could look when he wanted something…

"They'll be by three times a week," he said. "Same time on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I hope that won't bother you too much?"

Caroline smiled, throwing said look right back at him. 'Not at all, sir.'

"Magnificent."

It was only after they bid each other good afternoon and departed (him to his flat) that she noticed the dirt left behind on the stairs and in the foyer.

Double damn!

Sherlock sat in his chair musing. In place of the Stradivarius was a pen, being twirled to within an inch of its life. He'd sat there since earlier on in the afternoon. Thinking. Twirling. Thinking some more. Tossing into the air…hit one too many times on the head.

Damn woman.

This was most definitively not conducive to his normal working methods. No. No. Not at all. He sighed, loudly to no one in particular…maybe to his firm resolve and the part of himself that needed things to be right and work out the way he planned them. He would see that instrument returned to his arms. And soon.

She had just finished cleaning up dinner, and the rest of the dirt dragged in from earlier when there was a small knock at the front door. Caroline didn't think much of it at first until she noticed that it had gotten dark outside. It was late. Who could possibly be calling this late? Fear is a difficult thing to swallow when you're in a house nearly by yourself.

Caroline chanced a look upstairs to see if her tenant had heard the knock also but it would seem he hadn't with the door still shut…and the house still eerily quiet. She reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers tight around a ring of sharpened keys. With her free hand she pushed the lock back and opened the door with a cautious look around the other side. And what she found made her hand in her pocket loose with relief.

It was the leader of the group of boys from earlier on in the day with his hat being wrung between his hands.

"Hello, mum. I just wan'ed to say sorry 'bout this mornin' an' I was wondring…could I ask you somethin'?"

He looked up, expecting her to send him on his way, but Caroline nodded for him to continue.

"The li'le one of us. 'e don't speak much, not at awl really. An' the only way 'e does is when we can teach 'im things. None of us know much though. I was thinking that…if you'd consider it at awl, teaching 'im the signs I mean-the boys and I work for Mr. Holmes but if you eva needed one of us to run errands or the like in return-"

She smiled. How couldn't she? More importantly, how could she refuse? "Y-yes," she managed to say with a hand on her throat.

"Oh, pardon me mum, I didn't know you-"

Caroline held a hand up and Wiggins silenced. Then she signed along with her spoken, if not mangled words, to her own ears. She could only hope the spasms that threatened to close up her throat would keep at bay for just a little while. "On-ly…a LIT-tle…when-I C-can…you see."

Wiggins nodded and spoke with a new light in his eyes, one that Caroline could see even in the dark. "He's a nice one, mum. Taught 'im manners and awl meself."

"Th-three times-a…week-for le-less-sons…no l-less. Is that…poss-ssible?"

"If it's not too much for you mum-"

"No. No, not-at-all. And…on-ce a wee-k for errands."

"That's awl?"

Caroline nodded.

"Could," the boy started. He shifted his weight between two feet and bit his lip. "…I don' want to be askin' too much of you, mum-cause me and the boys 'ppreciate what you're willin' to do for us, but…would you consider teaching two of us? The li'le one and maybe one of the older boys too? Wouldn't do to have 'im know and not 'ave anyone to talk to."

"Of course," she whispered. "Monday, W-Wednes-day, and…F-Friday at ta-two-fr…for an…hour?"

"That'll be right when we're done wiv Mr. Holmes. That'll work for us if it do with you?"

"Backdoor."

"Right! You won't regret this mum, I promise!"

Before she knew it she had an arm-full of said little boy. Hugging her. Hugging back was an automatic response, even the hand on the head and another on the center of the back. Such warmth and love in such a small little body, from somewhere no one would think to look twice in this part of their world. It was sad, and it made her want to keep him, take him in, help in more ways than she had just agreed to…But, sadly, the moment was over before she knew it. And the boy was gone into the night, not to be seen until the day after tomorrow.

In the meantime, at 221b Baker Street, the obnoxious goings on between landlady and tenant continued. Things would be displaced or 'accidentally' knocked over, and then righted without a single word, sign, or huff of annoyance. Challenging glares were returned with sweet smiles, lack of communication was met with patience, and clear attempts at small talk went one sided aloud. It hadn't started getting to her until she walked into the kitchen one afternoon and found practically everything rearranged and put away in a different place. Finding the silverware behind the stove was not an experience she wished to repeat.

…nor was retrieving the kettle from underneath a small opening in the floorboards.

Despite all of this, manners and some sense of decorum was kept between the two. As unrelenting as Sherlock Holmes was, not once were any of his tricks or childish pranks designed to hurt, merely to annoy, confound, and inspire. Caroline figured he was trying his best to get her to talk to prove his point that she could. She didn't care to know how he had found out her secret, nor was she keen on giving him the result he wanted. More important to her, however, was the respect she knew she deserved. Once she had that, she might consider saying a few choice words, but all in her own time and if she felt like talking at all. She had nothing to prove to Sherlock Holmes. Everything to prove to her two students, perhaps, but not that child in men's clothing upstairs.

He had to admit that the girl was trying her best, but the large scratch on the side of the kettle and a small matching dent on the floor proved that he was making some progress, however painstakingly slow it was coming along. He was sure the dirt from the boys would have set her off, but when he listened behind the closed door of his flat, all he heard was a sigh and her descent down to the mess. He was starting to seriously wonder if it were possible to speed up the process at all. Perhaps she was simply dragging the week out to spite him. Surely the daft woman wanted her pens back…

What if she didn't?

…surely she did. What could she possibly gain over his keeping the writing instruments from her?

Nothing. No. Absolutely nothing.

And, damn it, he wanted his Stradivarius back. Needed rather. The fact that it wouldn't be long until the next murder victim turned up had him sneaking down the stairs toward strange sounds in the kitchen. His original intent had been to make another round of the house for the instrument since there were a few places he hadn't thought she'd known about. But that plan came to a halt the moment he peeked through the crack between the ajar door and the wall it was hinged to.

"Charlie, no," a boy said. "Like this. There, you go' it, now."

Those were two of his boys…-

"Again," a female whispered.

He almost hadn't heard it, not if he hadn't seen the boys heads whip back to the other person in the room he hadn't seen at first. Seated opposite the two irregulars was Ms. Collins, hands out, signing along with a…surprisingly, moving and speaking mouth.

"My…n-name…is Char-lie. Good. …Rob-bie…Wiggins…G-Goo-d."

Her voice. So that was what it sounded like. Not like what he imagined for someone with her condition, but…not altogether as horrible sounding as he was led to believe either. It was soft and breathy, much like what the wind might sound like on a calm day in the countryside.

"Now, Holmes…alm-most…again…yes, per-fect."

Under a clear blue sky perhaps-

Charlie abruptly sneezed into his hands, rubbed them dry on his pant legs, and resumed his work. Sherlock watched as Ms. Collins frowned and took a moment to rub at her throat. She eyes the boy's hands and looked as if she were about to bring Charlie over to the sink to properly wash them. But a knock at the front door startled them, Holmes least of all, though nearly enough to bump his head against the door when he flinched at the noise. That mailman was coming earlier every day now.

"Back-k d-door, boys," she whispered.

"Thank you missus," the older boy said.

Two shuffling little feet towards the backdoor and one pair of clicking heels heading his way. He hid behind the door as it opened farther to admit the rushed woman. Sherlock watched as she answered the door and took advantage of the moment to slip around to the kitchen and disappear without making a sound. Before exiting the house through the back, he snatched a cookie off the plate, popped it into his mouth, and decided to do a little more snooping around for this 'Ripper' copycat that was turning the Yard upside down.

What neither Holmes nor Caroline saw when the mailman came to call was Charlie snitch a few cookies from the plate. And definitely not the older boy make him put two back and keep only one for himself…