Prompt: I could have sworn there was a BBC!Sherlock/Neverwhere crossover somewhere on this meme.
Either point me in it's direction, or DRAG OUR DEDUCTING DUO RIGHT THROUGH THOSE MOTHERFUCKING CRACKS.
...I still have not finished the sequel explaining this. That is what I get for owning a Dell laptop.
The Baker Street Irregulars
They called themselves the Lost Boys long before there was a Peter Pan.
There are, at present, more girls than there are boys, and more of them are adults than children, but a Name is a big thing, and if you lost a name, you lost a piece of London. A small piece, but with a name went history, went memory, went the Shape of Below.
They aren't ageless, but sometimes it feels that way. Their numbers ebb and flow and remain constant at the same time. Their members vanish and are replaced over and over, one by one, in such a way that they can always track themselves back by memory and name – Raggedy was taken in by Highgate, brother of Little Jim, who'd been brought into the fold by Candle, who'd been tricked in by Ember and Ally...
They call their leader Pan or Peter these days, but he can't name a house, a barony or a court: not a single patch of London is theirs. He is the leader because they want someone who has to talk when nobody else wants to – if the Marquis is calling in a favour, if the land is controlled by the territorial type, if there's an argument with a clan or court, that's when he speaks.
Homeless Above and placeless Below, they drift as they care to.
They come from all over, from Above and Below, within London and without. The only tie between them all is that they are Lost.
Then someone finds them.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he says. "I have a business proposition for you."
Several of the women exchange jaded smirks. Some of them move in front of the children.
"Not that sort," he corrects, looking annoyed.
"Peter," Ash hisses, pinching his arm, his long, straggly blonde hair falling forward to cover the movement.
Peter looks at him, startled. "I'm Rabbit!" He hisses back.
Someone kicks his ankle. "Well, you're Peter now, bloody well say something!"
Peter stands, clearing his throat awkwardly. He looks small and stringy next to the Abovegrounder, not much of a leader at all. "What sort of proposition?"
"Information," he says promptly. "You are the eyes and ears of London. You hear everything at some point, and often long before I can. My job places a great deal of value on that sort of knowledge."
Shades of the Marquis, mocks one of the rats.
This one knows the ways of Below, another says, but he doesn't know the Ways.
It's a little relief, in the way that the Thames is a little wet.
"We're not grasses," Peter says instantly, has watched this scene played out a dozens times before with Peter after Peter, Pan after Pan. "If you're a copper, you can just bugger off."
"I'm not a member of the police," Holmes says. "Those idiots. No. I don't want your names, I don't want to call child services or send you to a shelter. I want you to stay where you are, you're no use otherwise. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open and in exchange, I'll give money to the next beggar I see."
"Maybe the next beggar you see'll be working alone."
Holmes looks at them. Raggedy shudders and whispers 'Marquis' under her breath, just low enough for the rats to hear. "I don't think so," he says, like he means something completely different.
(He's definitely an Abovegrounder, but something about the way he looks at them –
No, no, remember those basic mathematics, two and two equalling four and all that. Simplest explanation is that he's knows there's a kind of network, and any Abovegrounder with a little sense could work that out, just from the signs the homeless will leave for others – vicious dogs nearby, soft-hearted woman lives here, police patrol this route...)
"Let me know when you decide," he says. "I'm sure you know where I am, or if you don't, consider it a beginner's test."
They watch him leave with a kind of stunned amazement. One by one they turn to Peter, leader as of five minutes ago.
"What are we gonna do then?"
"The Warrior will know."
"The Warrior was an Abovegrounder once."
"'xactly. So he'll know."
The Marquis de Carabas smiles like a cat, but not one the Rat-Speakers might eat, something tame. The Marquis de Carabas smiles like a panther, like his teeth should be red.
"Well," he says. "What have we here?"
It's Peter's job to speak when nobody else wants to, and the Marquis de Carabas is how he came to be in the first place, after centuries upon centuries never bothering - too many debts among the Lost Boys, too many favours owed and asked for.
(The first was a Pan, earned enough of the Marquis' respect that there is some left over to get them through times when they face him with a Peter instead, better at trickery Above than Below.)
"We're here to see the Warrior," he squeaks.
"The Warrior claims the Labyrinth as his territory by right of conquest," the Marquis says, eyes narrowing, smile still wide, white and gleaming. "All of Below knows that."
"Sure. But he don' live there, does he? All Below knows that too."
"And what need have you for the Warrior of London Below?"
Someone stamps on Nobody's foot before he can blurt out 'none of your business'.
"Want an Abovegrounder's perspective on something," Peter says hastily. That is something the Marquis, for all his skills and tricks, cannot give, and his smile turns cool.
"Want?" He says. "Or need? The value and price are very different things, depending."
"Want." Peter says firmly, for telling Carabas that you need anything is an act of stupidity up there with crossing Knightsbridge alone, walking into Shepherd's Bush, or thinking anything you do can't be seen by the Eye. "We want to know where the Warrior is so we can get his perspective on summat."
"And if I save you perhaps days of fruitless searching?"
"We'll owe a favour," Peter concedes reluctantly. "A small one," he adds quickly.
"A small favour, mm? Well, they do so often grow with time." The panther-smile is back on the Marquis' face. Raggedy shudders and moans softly in terror. Rumour has it she owes the Marquis a very large favour indeed. Has owed it for some five years and counting and still the axe has yet to fall. "Personally, I would look for the Warrior at the Market," the Marquis says, teeth glinting. "And the Market is at Buckingham Palace."
There is a yelp of horror from Ash as it starts to sink in that the Marquis has told them nothing they could not have got from anyone, and for a price far in excess. He has not even guaranteed the Warrior is at the Market, only said that there is a slightly higher chance that he is there, something they could have assumed on their own.
"Good day," the Marquis says, slips into the shadows and vanishes, the buttons of his coat gleaming like the laughter he is not voicing.
Legend has it the Warrior came from Above, and there is something softer about his face than you would expect the slayer of the Beast to be, but for the most part he is very Below. The minute he hears what information the Marquis gave in exchange, he shakes his head and sighs. "You've been Above too long," he says. (There is something wistful about his smile.)
"He could always owe us one at some point too," Raggedy mutters.
"No," the Warrior says, making a face. "You don't want the Marquis to owe you a favour any more than you want to owe him a favour. Men have been dismembered for less."
"Warrior–" Peter begins.
"Richard," the Warrior says.
Peter exchanges glances with the four that accompanied him Below. "I'm Peter," he says.
The Warrior laughs, and that is when they know it's true he came from Above; there's something in it that has no place Below. "I'm Richard," he corrects. "Richard Mayhew."
"Right," Peter agrees. "Warrior, someone Above has found us."
"And you're the Lost Boys, right?"
"If we're found, we're not Lost," Ash says worriedly, chewing his lower lip.
"He wants us to be spies an' watchers, and if we follow it means we've got a place to belong, and that's even worse," Nobody says.
The Warrior's brow is creased, a look of bemusement as if trying to remember a dream.
(The Warrior has true dreams on occasion, the whispers go.)
"What's his name, this Abovegrounder?"
"Sherlock Holmes," Peter says. "Lives on Montague Street."
"No," the Warrior says quietly, frowning. "Not for very much longer, I think."
Peter looks at his companions, looks at the Warrior's dark eyes. "You know summat?"
"Baker Street Irregulars," the Warrior says softly. Richard, for the thrice-mayor of London. Mayhew, for the surveyor of London Above. No wonder he sometimes has true dreams.
"Some of you might be Found," the Warrior says after a moment, expression clearing. "But the rest aren't. There's a lot of you, aren't there? And you occasionally Find yourselves, don't you? Find a place, decide to owe fealty to a barony or court Below, or make yourselves a home Above."
"He spoke to Peter," Ash insists. "Never had an Abover know Peter as Peter."
"You look more like a Wiggins to me," the Warrior says, grinning. "Seriously," he says, grin fading. "He doesn't know Peter as Peter. If he's anything like the rest of Above, he hasn't got a clue about the shape of Below."
It's Raggedy who gets it first. "Oh! You mean – we're Found, and if we're Found we're not Lost, so he can't be Peter anyway?"
"Yeah," the Warrior says, looking relieved, almost as if she'd voiced something he hadn't actually grasped. "Something like that, anyway."
"But – if we're not going to be Lost any more, what are we? We still don't have a court or a barony or – anything."
"What did he want from you, again?"
"Wanted little Eyes," Nobody says. "Wanted to know all the movements in the layers Above."
"Go everywhere, see everything, and overhear everyone."
"Yeah."
"Police, is he?"
"Calls them idiots. But he's something like a copper, sniffs around crime scenes like a tracker dog."
"So he wants you to help," the Warrior prods, "but not the regular force."
"Irregulars," no-longer-Peter says, with a note of realisation dawning. "That's a good name."
"Still have rights to the Ways Below with a name like that," Ash says, relieved.
The Warrior watches silently, spear in one hand, empty space for a cat at his feet. "Baker Street Irregulars," he murmurs, like a man trying to recall something read once as a child. The newly-named Irregulars look at him. "Sherlock Holmes. Sort of name that belongs Below, isn't it."
"He's a bit of an Eye himself," Raggedy says. "It's just he can't see Below, that's what he needs us for."
"Take too much notice of something and you see cracks where there were none before," the Warrior says. "Too much curiosity and you'll fall through them."
He smiles like the memory of something soft and fluffy in something that has grown teeth and claws. "And sometimes you follow someone else down."