A light rain tapped on Kit's shoulders and the top of her bare head, running off the sidewalk and sending concentric rings fighting back and forth in the puddles dotting the street. She stood in the shadow of a doorway across the street from the John Street warehouses.

After her discussion with Mycroft she had hurried home, picked out the plainest dress she owned, and found a formless, torn shawl to drape across her shoulders. She had forgone make-up and unbound her left hand. She had also removed the sling from her right hand. In every way she was able she had transformed herself into another drab denizen of the night-time city, not destitute, but not comfortable either. The type of person who would attract no attention in an area such as this.

The building was ominous-looking, crouched on the dark street under a lolling white crescent moon. The tall windows of the second story looked down on her, sightless and empty.

Kit swallowed back her fear. She had visited The Royal Olympic, only to be told that Holmes had been there earlier, but had already gone by the time she had arrived. He had not returned to his rooms on Montague Street, nor to their shared accommodation on Bread Street. This was the last option she had, and something about the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that he was in there, somewhere in the crumbling, seething interior, hunting a man who could as easily kill him as look at him.

Kit felt her shoulders tense at the thought. She knew she was not welcome, and that if she was able to find him that Sherlock would be angry - but she would not sit on the edge of her bed somewhere safe and watch the hands of the clock tick off what could be that last of his life. Not while she was still able to do something about it.

And for once her residence in the Whitechapel area could work to her advantage. It was impossible to live in this area of the city without becoming familiar with the street slang, the traditions, the regular comings and goings of the underground community. Thieves, card sharps, coiners, pimps, cracksmen, lushingtons, and crows, she had no dealings with them herself, but she saw them each and every day, and knew how to conduct herself around them.

If there was any way she could help Sherlock, she felt she owed it to him to try it. She pulled her shawl tighter around her and set out across the street, reaching the door and going inside before she could change her mind.

The familiar narrow hallway swallowed her. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the new level of light and the thicker air, clammy with plaster dust and moisture. Still no guards. This empty hallway filled her with dread. If there had been someone there to bar her way, or challenge her she might have felt better, but as it was it felt like sliding down a steep hill with nothing to halt her fall.

Above her she could hear the creak of footsteps, the throb of people shuffling back and forth through the building. Her boots crunched on shards of broken glass and crumpled newsprint. Wax pooled on the floor beneath the anemic candles.

She forced herself to walk forward, stopping at the first opening in the wall.

She ducked into the axillary hall and approached the rickety wooden staircase clinging tentatively to the wall. It groaned and jarred as she ascended. She reached the top landing and passed through a small doorway into a longer hall.

As she turned left a figure loomed up at her out of the shadows, an ape of a man with hairy knuckles and sprawling breadth. His powerful shoulders tightened his grimy shirt across his chest, straining the buttons.

She almost gasped and turned aside, but with a tremendous effort kept herself silent. Her eyes she kept glued to the ground. The smell of sweat and tobacco and grease reached her from the looming sentinel, who shuffled closer, grasped her chin, and yanked her head up to see her better.

Kit tried to keep her eyes glazed, and with a silent prayer called up the worst and most hacking cough she could muster, letting the saliva fly from her loose lips as she doubled over, covering her face with an open palm.

The man's lips curled back from his teeth. "Here," he rumbled, "We've got no use for your lot. Our girls are clean. No toffs gonna pay for a glim." His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere subterranean.

She could have laughed at that. "Who are you telling? You've never seen a clean girl come in here. The only difference is that you know what you're getting with me; your girls have to be unwrapped before the toffs get their present."

His eyes widened, but he didn't contradict her.

She took a deep shuddering breath. "Besides, I'm not here to work for you, I'm here looking for someone."

"Who?"

"The Tash."

"Harry? What do you want with that demander?"

Kit smiled. There were as many forms of street slang as there were square city blocks in some places. But some of the words stretched over many neighborhoods. Glim could have a good many meanings, but the most common by far was a venereal disease. A demander was a collector of debts. Kit had to beware now not to let her normal vocabulary sneak into their conversation. Hopefully, she hadn't given herself away already. She had noted from the man's tone that he was none too fond of the man from Soho, so she took the chance, clutching her hands over her stomach and hoping for the best. "It's none of your business."

He noticed the gesture, and his mouth twisted into a black sneer wringed with crooked teeth. "Knapped, are you?"

"So what if I am?"

"Then you really can't work for me. Toffs don't want a pregnant Judy either."

"Toffs will take anything they can get. Find someone else to lie to. Now, just point me in the

direction of that man and step out of the way. He's got me to deal with."

The man chuckled. "Aye, let him have it, girl. My woman screamed ten ways from Sunday the

first one I gave her. She's learned better now."

Kit shuddered and he pointed down the hall towards the dim far end. "Down the hall left, you'll hear the fancy at the end, go towards that. That's the bruisers. Through that you'll find the dragon's den, and past that you'll find them spreading the broads. Harry'll be with them."

Kit replayed the direction in her head. Down the hall to the left you'll hear a crowd. Follow along to find the boxing. Through that room to the opium den, and then the gambling room.

She nodded. At least he wasn't using cockney rhyming slang or back slang. She wasn't as familiar with it as she was with the chapel street cant.

He took a step back from her and inclined his head to let her pass. Kit shuffled down the hall, keeping her arms locked around her middle.

This passage was thick with the smells of smoke and perfume. On each side of the hall was a close row of doors. The rooms within must be too small for anything but a bed and chair.

A few women prowled the hallway, leaving their rooms open to air out in between clients. Kit kept her head high as she walked straight through a group of them. The women didn't move out of her way, but they didn't stop her either. She caught a glimpse of heavily made-up faces, rouge and powder hiding the lines of wear, fear, and ill-health.

A door opened and a man came out, hitching his braces back up over his shoulders. A smaller man from the far end of the hall approached him, hand out, and the half-clad man dropped a few coins into his palm and headed back the way Kit had come.

The smaller man noticed Kit and stopped to give her the once-over. "You're not one of ours," he informed her.

"She's looking for Harry." The ape yelled from the other end of the hall. The smaller man flashed her a greasy smile and hooked his hand around her upper arm.

"This way, my dear. Let me make sure you don't loose your way."

Kit pulled back, but his hand remained, a claw around her bicep. He moved down the hall, pulling her after him. She had to hurry to keep up.

"What's Harry doing right to have a twist like you chasing him down?"

"Wouldn't you love to know."

She knew it sounded lame, but she tried to imbue it with some kind of bravado. She felt out of her depth, and distinctly uncomfortable. He threw a smile at her, and she could see his tounge polishing his teeth behind his lips.

"Oh, missus, if he can't keep you happy you know where to find me, right?"

"One step at a time, Hector."

"Not me. The man at the other end, he's the cash carrier. I'm just a common crow, Judy."

Not the pimp then, she mused. Just the lookout. And she could place him as well. A Haymarket Hector was a pimp in the Haymarket and Leicester Square areas. Farther East they were called Cash Carriers. They turned left at the end of the hall and carried on farther into the darkness. His hand was digging into her flesh, leaving marks.

They came to another low hole in the wall, with a staircase hastily erected on the other side. When they reached the landing a room opened up beneath them.

Kit looked out over an expanse of bare heads and shoulders. It was mostly men, hats and coats thrown off, sleeves rolled back, waiving betting slips over their heads at the bookies roaming the floor.

The smell of sweat in this room was choking. There was a ring at the center, the platform spread with tightly stretched canvas. There were a number of reddish-brown stains splashed across the off-white surface.

Two men in tight cloth pants and pumps stood in opposite corners of the ring, having their glove laces tightened by young boys in need of cleaner clothes and better nourishment. The whole thing was dirty, dark, and rank.

Kit swallowed back her rising stomach a few times.

The man leading her began to descend, pulling her with him. She followed, but upon reaching the floor she yanked her arm away from him. He kept his hold on her, jerking her closer.

"You listen to me, Judy, I'll get you to The Tash right enough, but how long it takes us to get there is up to me. There are a few detours around here. Nice, dark cribs with a few hidden debs to choose from."

This man favored cockney rhyming slang. Kit struggled with his meaning for a moment, but she knew enough to know that a crib was a hiding place, and a deb was a bed. The combination of both in one sentence caused her heart-rate to increase.

She struggled to get a hold on her panic, but the look in his eye told her he was seriously considering doing her harm. She pulled her arm away again, this time yelling as she did.

"I told you to let me go!"

He snarled, grabbing her other shoulder with his free hand, pulling her along through the now parting crowd.

A few onlookers watched with interest, but Kit knew no one would come to her aid. This type of thing was far too common around here to raise any real concern. She jerked back again, lowering her center of gravity by crouching down, and leaned over to bite his wrist where she could reach it fastened as he was onto her arm.

A moment later a ham first connected with the jaw of the smaller man, sending him flying backwards. He released his hold on her as he did. Stunned, Kit turned to get a look at her saviour.

It was the ape from the hallway. He strode over to the small man and hauled him off the floor, dragging him by the scruff back towards the stairs.

"Thank you." Kit stammered.

"He knows better than to walk away on the job. Now we've had two toffs that was able to slip away without paying duce." He shoved the man towards the stairs in front of him and kicked him in the backside to hurry him along on his way.

The big man turned back to her and pointed to a doorway draped in curtain at the other end of the room.

"Through there and no stopping. I likes to see a bit of flash now and again in a twist, but you'll come to no good here straight away. It doesn't take a Jack to see you don't belong here."

He turned on his heel and marched after his smaller business partner, leaving the warning ringing in her ears. It doesn't take a detective to see you don't belong here. She took a deep breath and turned towards the exit.

As soon as he was gone the circle of onlookers began to close ranks, tightening around her.

She looked from face to face, all blank and dark, some had nostrils flared with undissipated bloodlust, still buzzing from watching the last fight. Others were simply curious.

Whatever they were, they were too close for her comfort, and she pushed through the circle around her and hurried towards the opposite end on the room.

She could hear the scuff of footsteps following her. There was breath on her neck, and then the bell in the ring sang out, and the crowd subsided away from her, returning its attention to the two men inside the ropes.

She heard the announcer's voice bark out, but she did not turn to look, even when the dull splat of leather hitting flesh rained down again and again.

The crowd gave a throaty roar, now a single transfixed being, all eyes on the same sight, all lungs pushing in and out the same blood-misted air.

She ducked through the curtain and stopped short. She was in a small room, the floors covered with overlapping faded carpets. The smell was sweet and sticky.

It reminded her of a trip her father had taken her on when she was young, letting her accompany him to a small shop in Limehouse Causeway. It had been full of exotic-looking dried goods and gnarled roots, packed in boxes stacked one on top of the other.

She didn't know at the time, but they had been looking for a tea that their local doctor had recommended for her mother's then already worrying cough.

At the back of the store Kit had stumbled onto a small room. She had pulled back a torn curtain and found a small group of people sitting on the floor, legs crossed, feeding themselves with sticks from a single bowl held high to their faces. Behind them on a demi-table a pot filled with sand bristled with more yellow sticks. Each one let off a thin lazy curl of smoke. The smell was sweet and heavy, and unlike anything she had ever smelled before.

The family had looked up, mouths open, a frozen picture of something distant and inaccessible to her.

He father's voice brought her back, calling her to join him out on the street. He had the small package of leaves tucked into his pocket, and held his callused hand out for her to take.

She blinked back her memories of that day, the smell of what she now knew was incense

tugging at the back of her mind. That long-ago mystic back room smell, which in this place covered the

much lower and more fragrant smell of opium. There was a sour tint below that as well. Something acidic. She recognized it as bile, followed by urine.

Before her was a bead curtain, and she pressed forwards, lifting the strands apart with trembling fingers before stepping through. She had no interest in proceeding, but to go back was unthinkable. She was looking for Sherlock. She would not stop until she found him.

In front of her was the first in a series of small rooms, laid out with a single straight hallway cutting through the center of them. The smell was stronger here, and the walls were hung with cheap fabric, made to emulate Chinese sink. The floor here was also piled with overlapping oriental carpets, crusty with use.

She advanced, and in the first room came abreast of two Chinese men siting on the floor, a low table between them. On the table, a small clay tea pot, a pair of impossibly small looking tea cups, and a wall of white tiles with odd markings on them.

As she passed they looked up and watched her go. Their faces were sullen and uninviting. Kit felt threatened, but neither made a move to stop her.

As she crossed into the second room she met another Chinese man, this one old and bent. He raised a hand when she came in, and said a few words to her in a language she could not understand. He crossed to a counter and came back holding something out to her. She found herself watching the droop of his long padded sleeve, and how it revealed the length of thin wrinkled white flesh that was his arm. Rheumy eyes watched her, over a short nose and sagging mouth. From his arm her eyes traveled down the length of a long tube he was holding out to her, a bowl around the middle of it's length.

Kit tentatively took the pipe, and the man waved her through the door ahead of her. Kit swallowed and continued on her way into the next room.

It was dark and close, the smell fetid. Candles burned here and there, but on the whole there was barley enough light for her to see her way. The walls and center of the room were lined with bunks, sometimes as many as four high. Each bed was wider than she was used to, but unadorned with cushions or blankets. They were simply wooden platforms, many bearing markings of being made from re-purposed packing crates and scrap.

Men and women stretched out on these pallets, sometimes two or three to a bed, one on top of the other, some with hands dangling over the edge of their pallet, some curled into balls.

One man sat up with his back against the wall, rolling his head deliciously from side to side, while another woman let out a long puff of smoke from her pursed lips and then fell backwards, her head hanging over her pallet. None of them make any sign that they had seen her.

There was another Chinese man sitting on a stool just within the door. He lumbered to his feet when she saw her, gesturing for her to follow him. She went with him, turning sideways at times to maneuver her way through the stacks of beds and bodies. There was drapery in here as well, and the occasional sound of air being drawn bubbling through water.

Her head swam and her eyes stung. The man led her to an empty pallet far into the room, and pointed to it. He left her there, not taking his eyes off her as he left.

Kit looked around furtively, pipe clutched to her chest. She seated herself on the pallet and looked around. She could see no exit, and was unsure what to do.

There had been windows in the room at some point. She could see where they had been bricked up. One or two still remained open, but with heavy storm shutters closed over them.

There was a man laying across from her with his head at an awkward angle, pitched with his chin almost facing the ceiling, his spindly arms spread out around him, long tapered fingers twitching in the air. It was a faint movement, reminiscent of the muscle contractions of the newly dead.

Kit found the sight of him horrible. His eyes opened and closed at odd intervals, and for endless lengths of time. She could stand it when they were closed, but when opened, she could not avoid the feeling that he was staring right through her, and that all her secrets were known to him. She shifted uncomfortably. His coarse grey hair was matted, and his long hooked nose waxy and devoid of colour. A pipe hung loose and forgotten in his yellowed fingers. His fingertips were sticky and black.

Somewhere further down her row she heard laughter, unsure if it was male or female, as it was distorted with phlegm. Kit squeezed her eyes closed and pulled herself all the way onto the pallet until her back touched the wall.

She hated it, but she was paralyzed with fear. Should she get up and hunt around until she found another exit? The thought of having to weave her way through all the semi-conscious bodies repelled her. But surely she couldn't stay here. The ape at the front door had told her there was a way through, and although he had not been the most trustworthy of people, his information so far had not been wrong.

She heard voices.

Farther down the isle she could make out the slurred sounds of speech and the scrapping of feet across the floor. She got up and walked softly towards the noises.

A group of three men where leaning on one of the bunk frames around the corner. She kept herself back, watching them without being noticed.

From their upright and casual postures, she guessed that they had no come to partake of the drug sold here, but were instead cutting through to the gambling den.

She waited while they talked, sizing them up. One, there obvious leader, was a scraggly red-head, or medium build, with a splash of freckles across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. The man beside him was short and blonde, with a flat forehead and thick square features. The third was tall and dark, narrow shouldered, with a rounded back. His stoop made her assume he was some kind of clerk in his day to day life. He was shifting his feet on the floor, gesturing for the rest of them to continue on their way.

The red-haired one seemed to have paused to speak to a woman laying on one of the pallets. Her hand curled out towards him and dropped. The motion was repeated several times, and the words that passed between them were uttered too low for Kit to catch.

Glancing over her shoulder, her eye was caught by the grey-haired man laying on the pallet across from hers. His head was still tilted back, almost upside down, but his eyes drilled into her with purpose. So much so that she was ready to simply walk out and join her newfound group instead of staying her under his watchful eye.

Finally, the men moved on, weaving their way through the pallets deftly. This was a route they had taken before. Kit followed at a good distance, soon feeling lost in the labyrinth of smoky rows.

She did not see the man with the grey hair roll off his pallet and follow her on shaky feet. He kept himself well back from her, as she did with her leading group, but never let her slip from his sight.

She followed the men into a dim hallway, half-hidden behind a faded dust-heavy tapestry. The hallway led to a steel door with a small peephole in it. The group of men swayed up to the door and stopped. Red Hair knocked loudly.

Kit joined the outskirts of the group.

The peephole slid open and an eye blotted out the light.

"What are you after?"

"A place to put this." Red held up a wad of bills gathered from an inside coat pocket.

The eye swept up and down them. "What about her?"

The men turned and noted her with some surprise.

Kit lifted her chin at the challenge. "I'm here for the lending library."

The squat blonde guffawed and hit the taller man on his shoulder. Red smiled a wolfish smile and turned back to the peephole. "She's with us."

The peephole slid shut and after a short screech the door swung open. She followed her new guardians inside.

After the dark of the opium den and the poorly lit hallways, the light inside the room blinded her. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust. The three men wandered some ways into the room and stopped in a loose ring around her, hands in pockets, waiting for something.

"Thank you," she stammered.

"Don't thank us," Red chuckled. "I only need to know one thing."

"What?"

His hand swept over the room. "What's your pleasure, 'cause I'll be heading there."

Kit lowered her head and tried to act like she was flattered. "I'm looking for someone."

"And here I am."

His friends laughed again. Kit glanced around.

Knackered felted tables stood in no particular pattern around the room. Dealers stood sentinel over their tables while women slid around with trays of drinks.

There were several large, ugly men - former boxers by the look of their noses and ears - that stood scattered around the room, thumbs hooked into braces, watching the gamblers mill from one table to another.

The smell of alcohol was powerful here, as was the cigar smoke and perfume.

If Sherlock was here, she couldn't see him. She also knew standing here like a signpost wouldn't help either. She hooked her arm through the crook of Red's elbow and drew herself closer to him.

"In that case, can we go and look at that wheely-thingy?"

He grinned down at her in a predatory way. "My pleasure."

She allowed him to lead her across the floor, not glancing back at the entrance, where the doorman, after admitting a small grey-hair man with a bent back, disappeared down a short hallway that led to a number of inner rooms and offices.

Kit watched the people gathered around the table place their chips on the coloured and numbered squares, some right in the center, some overlapping two squares, some four. Kit knew the basics of Roulette, but not the intricacies of the betting.

Red handed his money to one of his friends to go and change for chips.

Kit's eyes swept the room again, searching for a tall figure, a pair of grey eyes, even a telling slender hand. She could see nothing familiar. She felt herself physically deflate. The man beside her gave her arm a shake.

"Hey. What gives?"

Kit picked herself up again and tried a smile. "How does it work?"

"Well, You've asked the right person. There's two main types of bets, inside bets and outside bets. Inside bets tend to pay out better." He continued, but Kit felt her attention drifting.

Close by was a black-jack table, and her gaze stopped on a familiar figure. A bent old man with grey hair. He looked slightly different now not lolling on a pallet upside down, but it was definitely the same man she had seen watching her in the opium den.

Red was still talking to her. "...A snake bet, which is a special kinda dozen bet that has the numbers 1,5,9,12…"

She pulled her hand away and turned towards the door.

Sherlock was not here, and the pit of her stomach was telling her that something was not right. She felt too exposed here.

"Hey, where are you going?" Red called after her.

She only made it three steps before a man loomed up out of the crowd and blocked her way. It happened so fast she didn't have time to stop before she crashed right into him.

"Miss Rushford," he said with a smooth voice. One that she recognized from somewhere. "I'm delighted to see you again."

Kit looked up at his cavernous face, with delicate cheekbones, and a pinched nose hooked at its end over an immaculately trimmed mustache.

She didn't know him, but her mind flashed back to dark city streets, and then the even darker corners of the tunnels downstairs the first time she and Sherlock had stumbled upon each other. The smooth voice echoed back through her mind, and his citrusy smell made her stomach turn.

He wore Mr. Brewster's Cosmetic Lime Wax for Gentlemen.