(Fair warning, this chapter is the most gory so far!)

Holmes had to resist the urge to swallow hard, pulse throbbing against whatever was digging into his flesh. "I do appear to owe you a considerable debt, sir," he said softly, belying his racing thoughts. Who the hell was this man?! Had they ever met before? 'Those bloody runts'... He could only assume the man meant the Irregulars, but when had the boys ever openly worked with him on a case involving a sailing vessel? "But your quarrel is with me, not those in my employ. Take your vengeance here, and let honour be satisfied."

"Hon'r?" The old sailor gave a nasty, wheezing laugh, his ghastly breath making Holmes feel queasy. Or was it the strange, growing conviction, deep in his gut, that yes, this man most certainly knew him... and vice versa. A blood debt was owed, he somehow had no doubt of that... He could almost have laughed himself at the thought, that this ancient sot had fared so much better against the Great Detective than any of Moriarty's agents. To die would be an awfully big adventure...

Holmes opened his mouth, though with what intent he couldn't have said, when the strangest words suddenly burst forth, in a dark, menacing voice quite unlike his own: "Brimstone and gall! What cozening is going on here?" Good God, where the devil had that come from?! "Release me, by thunder, or I'll cast anchor in you!"

The detective's surprise was nothing to the sailor's reaction, the old man recoiling, eyes round with shock, jaw slack; Holmes had never seen anyone turn so pale so quickly. And just as the tip of his weapon dropped away from Holmes's neck, the world became scarlet.

Clang clang clang clang clang!

Mycroft looked up from the Times with a frown. It wasn't like Sherlock to announce himself like a campanologist, or the Irregulars.

Thump thump thump thump thump!

Good heavens... "Show them in, Maggie, at once."

"Yes, sir." Footsteps in the hall, an opened front door, then a shriek of alarm from the maid sent Mycroft struggling up out his fireside chair.

"S'all right, miss, calm down, it ain't 'is! Yer boss in?"

"Wiggins, what on earth...?! Dear God, Sherlock!" Few things could overset Mycroft's composure, but the sight of his little brother, bloody, white-faced and empty-eyed, supported by two of the oldest Irregulars, both looking almost as shaken as their charge, was most assuredly one of them. "Bring him in here, you two." Mercifully, none of the three appeared to be injured, that blood and... other matter on Sherlock's face and clothes clearly belonged to someone else entirely. "Maggie, you will calm yourself this instant – no one here is hurt – and fetch a basin of clean, warm water and cloths. Get Mrs. Dalton to help you. And we will likely be needing tea."

"Y-Yessir."

Mycroft forced himself to wait until Wiggins and Charlie had eased Sherlock down to lie on the settee, then bent over his brother and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's whole frame was tense, trembling, gaze fixed on some distant horror visible only to himself. "Sherlock? Sherlock, it's Mycroft. Can you hear me, petit frère? You are safe here, I promise."

No reply, nor the least flicker of change in the haunted eyes.

Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath, which didn't help in the least, then took the boys aside and asked quietly, "Did either of you see what happened?"

Wiggins nodded reluctantly. "Me, guv, sorter. It was..." The boy gulped, hands beginning to shake now that he had nowhere to put them. "Gawd, it was 'orrible! The guv'nor..."

"Steady, lad." Mycroft took Wiggins firmly by the elbow and steered him to a chair, Charlie on his other side. "You need tell me nothing, for the moment. Mr. Banks, are you able to run a message for me to Kensington?"

Charlie brightened. "The doctor?"

"Indeed. His wife, too, if possible." Sherlock would of course disapprove – were he sufficiently alert to express an opinion – but Mycroft had never agreed with his brother's decision to keep the Watsons entirely in the dark over this latest case. Ignorance would not prevent any of Sherlock's nearest and dearest from becoming collateral damage!

The maid returned as Charlie departed, visibly flinching when the boy hurried by, but managing not to drop anything. Mycroft took the tray at the door, sending Maggie back to the kitchen to fetch the tea. "Now, then, Mr. Wiggins," he said bracingly, "if I might have your assistance with these? Your 'guv'nor' ought to look at least a little more presentable for the doctor's arrival, don't you think?"

Wiggins nodded again, rising slowly, doubtless relieved to be given any kind of task, however unpleasant. "I-I c'n do 'is 'ands."

"Very well."

Much to Mycroft's disappointment, the warm, damp cloths on Sherlock's brow and cheeks seemed to have no effect whatever on his catatonic state, either. Cleaning his neck, however, uncovered a small, circular puncture wound that made Wiggins shudder as he looked up.

"The man, Mister 'Olmes," he mumbled, unprompted, " 'e 'ad an 'ook."

"A nook?"

"No, a hook." Wiggins made an effort to sound the 'h'. "A bloody great cargo 'ook, like the dockers 'ave. 'Cept this feller din't look like no docker..." Another shudder. "Well, wot I could see of 'im..."

"What do you mean, lad?"

"...'is 'ead exploded."