Watson:

"You let him go alone?"

Holmes' outburst echoed through the Yard offices. I winced in sympathy for Lestrade, who looked bewildered at the sudden show of anger from the normally imperturbable amateur.

"Mister Holmes, I am not-"

"You are not many things, Inspector, and competent is one of them, that much is clear! Do you have any idea - no, of course you don't!" Holmes uttered an invective he could only have learned in one of his stints as Captain Basil and darted out of the room. I exchanged a glance with the long-suffering inspector, wordlessly indicating that no, I didn't know what was going on in his head either, but we'd best follow anyway. He nodded, sighed, and grabbed his coat.

Despite having been in Holmes' company since the beginning of this case, to say nothing of the past decade, I still honestly did not follow his train of thought. This time, at least, I could blame it on his withholding information rather than on my own inattention.

The post-mortem report had arrived in the midst of my mid-morning nap, prompting Holmes to roust me with a jubilant cry of "Ephedrine, my boy, ephedrine! Come, there's not a moment to waste!" If I did not know him better I might have thought him mad; instead I recognized the energy that often seized him as the conclusion of a case came just within his grasp. His eyes fair glowed, he smiled without restraint, and though his motions were languid as ever he practically vibrated with potential energy. Thoughtless as he could be in such a state, I still could not help but to follow.

He bustled me out onto the pavement, apparently intending to walk to the destination that he had not disclosed to me. The storm of last night had cleared and the bright sun burned away the fog and moisture, so that the only evidence of it was the oily puddles still pooled in the dark corners along the kerb. The aggravation from my wounds had cleared with the storm, and in all it was as pleasant a day for a walk as could be reasonably hoped for in the heart of murky London.

As was his habit in such a humour, Holmes began to explain his mind to me shortly, in his own roundabout fashion. "Tell me, my dear doctor, what do you know of ephedrine?"

I considered. "A somewhat obscure stimulant. Used for the treatment of asthma and bronchitis, especially by orientals." He was looking at me keenly, so I ventured, "Are you saying the perpetrator is oriental?"

"You're drawing conclusions too quickly. Think, where else is it commonly used?"

I admitted that I did not know, and he scoffed. "Sailors, man! American sailors are recommended an equal dose of ephedrine and promethazine to combat seasickness. It just happens that a ship from San Francisco is moored at Chiswick these past two days. That narrows our prospects quite handily, I would say."

We reached the mouth of the near alley then, whereupon Holmes let out a piercing whistle, and informed the first ragamuffin to appear that he should like to see a contingent of no less than six Irregulars at our home in half an hour. He tipped the boy a shilling and then we were off again, this time hailing a cab. Holmes' explanations were forgotten in favour of an animated critique of the performance of Der Freischütz scheduled at the theatre. We soon reached the telegraph offices, where Holmes sent off three telegrams, declining to inform me of either their content or their destination. Then we returned home, where for a moment I wondered why he'd woken me in the first place, but decided I enjoyed his company enough to not mind overmuch.

The Irregulars appeared right on schedule, causing quite a clamor downstairs while Morsley ran up to our sitting-room. Holmes described our suspected large American sailor to him and had him set the boys up on the docks, with express order to not approach the man. A handful of silver coins were passed over and the boy dismissed, and Holmes dove into a chemical experiment, presumably awaiting further news. I was terribly curious by now, but knew better than to press my friend for information.

It was several hours before we had word again, in the form of a telegram delivered with a copy of an unfamiliar paper. Holmes' brow creased as he read over the response, but it was when his attention had turned to the paper that he began to look troubled to even the unskilled viewer.

"What is it, Holmes? Bad news?" I had not known my friend to be affected by much aside from the drying up of a promising lead or a direct threat on my life.

"In a way. It seems Hopkins has stumbled upon an international case. My telegrams were inquiring of the American embassy - our perpetrator has struck three times before in San Francisco. One of the victims- halloa, what's this?"

A tug on the bell and the sound of feet pounding up the steps had interrupted him, and shortly one of the older guttersnipes had appeared. "Found your man, Mister Holmes! S'got a room on the docks, I can lead ya right to it!"

"Good, Simpson!" Holmes hopped to his feet, looking back at me. I was already up and pocketing my revolver, at which he smiled. "I think we shall gather young Hopkins on the way, it seems only fair he be there at the conclusion of his case."

And it would have been fair, except that Hopkins was not there when we inquired, and we were informed that he had left to 'check on something'. Why these words lead to Holmes abusing Lestrade's ears and darting out of the Yard, I am not certain, but I am sure that before he turned away I caught sight of an expression of anxiety that I had never seen in all our years together. Whatever his new information had provided him with made him truly fearful for Hopkins' safety.

Lestrade and I followed Holmes out as quickly as we could manage. Through some means he had already managed to divert a brougham and was arguing simultaneously with the well-dressed passenger that he had displaced (apparently rather abruptly) and the driver. Holmes' sharp tongue and masterful manner quickly convinced the gentleman to stand aside and wait for a hansom, while the cabbie was swayed more conventionally by the flash of coins. He did not even protest when the unwashed Simpson hopped in, while Holmes turned back to scowl at us. "Quickly!" He snapped, entering the brougham himself with a single graceful motion.

The Inspector and I were hardly inside before he called to the cabman. "Whip up the horse! As fast as you dare! A half-sovereign if you get us there in ten minutes!"

The cabman took such encouragement to heart, and in mere moments we were being jostled unforgivingly, taking turns so quickly that I was afraid the cab would tip. Holmes was apparently unfazed by the erratic motion of the vehicle, his expression stony once more. His silence in itself was telling.

"Holmes?" I ventured. After a moment he met my questioning gaze, and over the clatter of wheels and hooves I could just barely make out his response.

"I only pray we're not too late."

Holmes and the boys don't belong to me.

Whuh-oh, what sort of trouble is Hopkins in? Is he in trouble at all? Is Holmes worried over nothing? Find out next time!

Thanks again to AdidasandPie for helping me fix this installment. Truly loverly, that girl.