"'E's wakin' up!"
"Move it then - g'warn, shift your arse, give 'im space-"
"Mr 'olmes? Can you 'ere me, sir?"
He blinked slowly. He was curled on his side; his head was pillowed by someone's jacket, and a sea of small, grubby faces swam slowly into view. He was conscious of being seriously chilled and felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't stop shivering.
"Mr 'olmes sir?" He looked up, focussing his eyes with difficulty. The face seemed familiar; a youth of about 15, straw-coloured hair and hazel eyes who regarded him with a concern far beyond his tender years. Wiggins.
He must have spoken aloud, for Wiggin's face split into a wide, relieved grin. "He's OK, lads!" he announced. "Cor blimey, sir, you gave us a right fright an' all. All the newspapers sayin' you was dead an' buried down Brompton way, an' then we come across you lookin' pretty damn dead 'ere in this alley!"
"Not dead," he managed, between shivers. "Sleeping. Got to get home."
"Not like that you ain't, sir," replied Wiggins, the other boys nodding agreement. "You look like you ain't eaten in a week, an' you're weaker n'a day old kitten. We got to get some food into you an' get ya somewhere warm."
He managed with some difficulty to sit up, pulling his jacket tighter about his thin body and mustering what little dignity he could. "I can assure you, Wiggins, I will be quite alright. I simply need to get back to Baker Street, and then I will be fine."
Wiggins cocked an eyebrow at him. "Go on then," he challenged. "Stand up. I bet you can't."
"I most certainly can!" he snapped back. He struggled to his feet. "See, I'm fine, I can-" His vision clouded and there was a roaring sound in his ears. His knees buckled beneath him and he fell, but then there were small, slender hands all around him, lifting him up, supporting him. Young voices murmured reassurances as he moaned.
"Tol' ya," remarked Wiggins, but his voice was gentle. "We'll get you 'ome, Mr 'olmes. Don't you worry. Grub first, then Baker Street."
Holmes nodded, grateful for the support of his Baker Street Irregulars. Never had he been more grateful for their loyalty and help now, when he was most vulnerable and in need.
He didn't ask them where they found the food; stolen, most likely. He sat on the low step, grateful for the coat they had somehow "acquired" - by similar means, he supposed; it was two sizes too large for him, but it was thick and warm, and he was very grateful for it, and for the tattered gloves that enclosed his bloodstained and dirty hands. He ate the food slowly and carefully; he hadn't eaten in far too long, and though he had a very strong urge to just wolf it down, he made himself take small bites for the sake of his malnourished stomach. Even so, it was gone all too soon. He licked the grease from his fingers slowly, savouring every last scrap until his fingers were moderately clean. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the woolen glove catching on the stubbly week's worth of beard.
He looked around the small crowd of expectant faces, and mused that he probably looked much as they did now; poorly-fitting clothes, dirty faces, ragged unkempt hair. He ran a hand through his own unruly thatch of black locks, and favoured them with a small smile. "I am profoundly grateful to you all," he said quietly. "I feel much more myself, though I fear I may not look it."
He was answered by smiles. "You look like one of us now, sir," remarked Wiggins, and the others nodded. "D'you think you can stand?"
"I think so," replied Holmes cautiously. He held out his hands and with the help of the street boys, managed to stand up. There was a momentary dizziness, but he stood still until it had passed, then nodded. "I think I can manage now. How far is it to Baker Street from here?"
"I could run it in fifteen minutes, I reckon," answered Wiggins. "It'll take you longer though - long legs or no."
Holmes nodded. "I fear you may be right," he sighed. "Would one of you lads be so kind as to perhaps run on ahead and let Mrs Hudson know I am coming?"
The lads looked at one another. "The old bird'll pitch a fit!" predicted Wiggins, and the younger ones nodded. Wiggins jerked a thumb at a tousled-headed boy in a dark blue jacket. "Jack, you're fastest - go and let 'er know we're comin'." Jack nodded, threw his hand up in a rough approximation of a salute in Holmes' direction, and sprinted off. The rest of the boys clustered around Holmes, and he leaned his arms on two of them whilst the rest supported him encouragingly. They slowly started making the long trek to Baker Street.
Holmes thought to himself longingly of tea, fresh bread, the comfort of his pipe - and a long, hot bath followed by sleep in his own bed, between sweetly-smelling clean linen sheets beneath the thick, soft eiderdown quilt.
He had no way of telling how long it had taken them to reach Baker Street. They had drawn curious glances as they made their slow way there; a tall skinny tramp in an oversized coat surrounded by a crowd of street urchins. They had had to stop a few times when weakness overcame Holmes and he had to rest for a while. Each time it happened, the boys would cluster around him protectively, glaring at passersby; Wiggins stood by his side, one hand resting reassuringly upon Holmes' shoulder. When he had recovered himself sufficiently, he would slowly rise to his feet and they would continue on their way.
He was exhausted by the time they reached Baker Street, and had to pause for a moment by the gate, leaning upon the railings for support whilst he caught his breath. Then with Wiggins by his side and the others crowding in close behind, he steadily mounted the steps and rang the bell.
There was silence for a while, and then he could hear the steady small footsteps of Mrs Hudson as she approached. The door opened, and she peered out, her face pale.
"What d'you want?" she snapped, glaring at them. "More beggars with tall tales, I've no doubt. Be off with you all now, and have respect for decent folks! Can't you see this is a house in mourning?"
He recoiled slightly and stared up at her. "Mrs Hudson, please - don't you recognise me?"
She stared down at him, disconcerted by the polite, educated tones of the tramp who stood before her, face grubby, hair untidy and dishevelled. No... it couldn't be... could it? The boy had said - but she hadn't believed -
"Mr Holmes?" she whispered, "Is it really you?"
He nodded.
She fainted.
"Well, bugger," remarked Wiggins.
