Gregory, now back into his civilian's clothing, was walking along the streets, trying to find his lodgings, absorbed in a copy of Baedeker's London. He stopped, finally admitting to himself that he was lost, and tried to get his bearings, studying his map.
A tuneful humming drifted through the air, as if smoke and vapours from fine incense. He span, trying to find its source, when his eyes fell on a beautiful young man.
He mustn't have been older than twenty five. His ginger hair was cropped short but had grown into a small curl at his fringe and his steel-blue eyes gazed sadly out of the barred window. He brought a soft-looking hand up and pressed it to the cold metal.
Greg watched him, absolutely mesmerized.
The young man's eye caught a Bird Seller passing; carrying a long, wooden pole with little bird cages attached. He swallowed a lump in his throat, and sang.
Green finch and linnet bird,
Nightingale, blackbird,
How is it you sing?
How can you jubilate,
Sitting in cages,
Never taking wing?
The young man seemed lost in his thoughts as his gaze shifted to the permanently dark grey sky of London.
Outside the sky waits,
Beckoning, beckoning,
Just beyond the bars.
How can you remain,
Staring at the rain,
Maddened by the stars?
He turned away from the window, looking into his own bird's cage; as if looking for an answer.
How is it you sing
Anything?
How is it you sing?
He turned away from the bird and Greg's longing look from the street below. His intense, melancholy expression moved Greg.
He continued to sing, the strange anguish and yearning of his words seemed intended only for the sailor. The room's captive studied him as the melancholy song continued.
My cage has many rooms,
Damask and dark.
Nothing there sings,
Not even my lark.
The ginger turned to the bird cage and felt the golden bars lightly with his fingertips.
Larks never will, you know,
When they're captive.
Teach me to be more adaptive.
Green finch and linnet bird,
Nightingale, blackbird,
Teach me how to sing.
The young man turned back to the polluted sky.
If I cannot fly,
Let me sing.
The mystery man turned away quickly, alarmed, when someone entered his room. He looks terrified. Greg wanted nothing more than to gather the man in his arms and protect him from the other and their fears.
He saw her move from the window. He craned his neck and stretched his back, even went to the indignity of standing on his toes, to see better when a beggar — a filthy man, his foul clothes of rags like a second skin — suddenly moved in on him, pleading his case.
Alms! … Alms! …
For a miserable man
On a miserable chilly morning…
Greg dropped a coin into his hand. "Thank you, sir, thank you."
"Sir…" Greg began, "Could you tell me whose house this is?"
"That's the great Judge Moriarty's house, that is," he informed, shoving the coin into a grubby coin purse.
"And the young man who resides there?"
"That's Mycroft, his pretty little ward. Keeps him snug, he does, all locked up…" There was a touch of sadness to the man's tone, which confused Lestrade, "So don't you go trespassing there or it's a good whipping for you — or any other young man with mischief on his mind…"
Greg considered this as the man scurried away to continue his petition of others.
Alms! … Alms!…
For a desperate man…
He regarded the mansion and He saw a figure standing at a window, unclear behind the shutters, watching him. The sailor sat heavily on a bench outside the mansion.
I feel you,
Johanna,
I feel you.
I was half convinced I'd waken,
Satisfied enough to dream you.
Happily I was mistaken, Johanna!
I'll steal you,
Johanna,
I'll steal you…
The figure disappeared from the window above. Gregory stood and waited. Then the doors to the mansion swung open. He was expecting Johanna; but it was Judge Turpin, who stepped into the doorway.
The judge seemed paternal and warm as he smiled and beckoned to Greg.
Greg hesitated, unsure. The Judge beckoned again, the warm smile still on his lips. "Come in, lad. Come in…"
Despite what one may call better judgment, Greg went into the mansion.