"Just The First of Many"

Wiggins darted through the streets of London, his feet flying over the pavement easily, the result of seven years' practice. This street had been the boy's main escape route since he was six years old and his family first moved to the city. He'd thought his father might learn by now, and find ways to cut off his escape, but that never happened. His father wasn't all that bright, and when he was drunk—like now—his logical reasoning abilities were pretty much nonexistent.

So Wiggins was safe, at least for now. From his father, that was. The London coppers were totally different story. None of them liked him—and that was an understatement. He had a slight reputation around the Scotland Yard police officers—as big a reputation as any street urchin could have—due to his incredible evasion tactics, which none of the officers seemed to appreciate. They could have him in their sight one moment, and then have not a clue where he was the next. If a copper did manage to get his hands on Wiggins, then he was in for trouble; but they hardly ever came near enough to grab him. He, at least, saw to that much.

Wiggins would, of course, prefer to evade the coppers' sight entirely. But that wasn't very likely today, the boy thought, feeling his heart speed up slightly as he rounded a corner from Gloucester Place onto Marylebone Road and caught the telltale flash of blue of an officer's uniform. He just saw it out of the corner of his eye, probably about a hundred feet away on the other side of the road; but see it he did, and clenched his teeth. Pursing his lips and muttering a certain word that his mother—if she'd been alive—wouldn't have stood for under his breath, the boy shrank against the side of the buildings, maneuvering down the street against the wall, dodging and shoving past people, many of whom weren't too happy about a thirteen-year-old boy squeezing his way past without a word of apology. Wiggins felt several blows land against his back and skull from passers-by he'd annoyed, but he paid them little mind. None of them could hit nearly as hard as his father; he'd been conditioned to ignore a considerable amount of pain for a long time now.

Suddenly there was a rotten old wooden cart blocking his way; there was Mr. Smith again, trying to sell apples. Wiggins knew the man slept on the streets, generally in the area around Marylebone, and was sort-of friends with a little boy named Ed. Often he could be found selling apples, which Wiggins had seen him steal from a grocery shipment. Wiggins didn't know Mr. Smith very well, since he wasn't a permanent resident of any one street, but he saw him around a bit and so had learned a little about him.

Wiggins's mind raced furiously before coming up with a quick conclusion. Quickly darting over, the boy's small hand grabbed an apple from Smith's cart; then he ducked underneath the wheels and sprinted off the other way. Now, with any luck, Smith wouldn't notice, and neither would the coppers, and Wiggins would—

"Wiggins!"

He cursed. That damn copper, again! Davidson, his name was, or so Wiggins thought. Troublesome at best. Now? Potentially fatal. Not literally, of course. But if he caught Wiggins, the result would be juvenile detention or worse, and Wiggins was really not in the mood for those kind of shenanigans today. Escaping from a courtroom took a lot more effort than escaping on the street. That he knew from personal experience.

So now Wiggins took off, running full-tilt down the street, ducking under outstretched arms and scooting under legs. His breath was hard and heavy from exertion now, but it was not panicked. Not yet.

Up ahead, Wiggins could see the busy intersection where Marylebone met Baker Street. Fixing his eyes firmly on that crosswalk and setting his jaw, the thirteen-year-old made his way steadily forward, resolutely ignoring the sounds of Officer Davidson crashing through the crowd towards him.

Suddenly a tiny girl darted up in front of him; he jerked and tried to scamper away, but she blocked his escape. "The coppers are after you," she informed him, in a perfect Cockney accent.

Wiggins rolled his eyes. "You don't say." He pursed his lips and tried to push around her, but she moved determinedly in front of him. "Let me through!"

The girl shrugged. "I clean houses mostly, and it don't pay very well. I ain't ate in three days, y'know. I can't afford to be on the wrong side of the law. Not nows."

Wiggin felt his breath catch in his throat; now the panic set in. Officer Davidson was still coming closer, always in pursuit, and if he caught up…

Eyes flashing to the apple in his hand—a large red fruit that actually looked surprisingly fresh—Wiggins made a quick decision. He knelt down and stared hard into the black-haired girl's eyes. "Look, um—"

"Vivian," she supplied quickly. "That's my name."

"Okay, Vivian," Wiggins whispered hurriedly. "I'll give you the apple—and even two shillings for food—if you tell those coppers straight out you saw me run up Glentworth Street, okay? Got that?"

Vivian's eyes shined eagerly. "Glentworth," she repeated. "Got it." She held out her hand expectantly. With Officer Davidson crashing through the throng, Wiggins didn't have time to think, to read her eyes and see if she might be double-crossing him. He just had to run. Dropping the apple and the promised cash into the girl's grimy hands, he turned and sprinted away from her, leaving her to do whatever she was going to do.

Wiggins darted down the street towards Baker, his face slick with sweat. Just a few more dodges, a leap over a stray dog—suddenly a cuff on the ear from someone who didn't like the way he was getting in their way—and quickly down onto Baker Street.

Baker Street. It was much more familiar than Marylebone. Wiggins knew the street by heart, as well as all of its residents. He had for some time now; in fact, he knew some of the adults better than he thought they knew themselves.

When Wiggins was six years old and he and his father moved to London, the boy's eyes had glinted eagerly. "Someday," he breathed, "I want to know every person in this city." His father had clouted him on the ear and told him it was impossible.

But the thing was, Wiggins had an astonishing memory and a terrific eye for detail. And ever since his father had told him that it was impossible, he'd been on a quest to learn as much about as many of the city's residents as humanely possible.

He went street by street, spending months observing all of the residents from quiet perches in alleyways or behind trashcans. Baker Street had been one of his most recent projects, and one of his longest. It was a long street, with hundreds of residents; and while Wiggins knew the names and occupations of all of them, he only knew a tiny section of the block on a level he considered "personal".

Wiggins was approaching that section of the block now; it ran from about 200 Baker Street to 250 Baker Street. Every one of those residents, he knew inside and out: where they worked, what their hobbies were, what their children's names were, how old the kids were. On a few rare occasions, he'd even managed to make predictions about residents based on tiny scraps of evidence, and they'd turned out to be right.

Wiggins darted onto Baker and sprinted past the quieter houses, the 150s and 180s, before finally entering the section of the block he knew best. He darted around a girl—the name Willow flashed in his mind, accompanied by basic statistics—and entered the busier section of the block.

Officer Davidson seemed to be gone, but there were a couple of coppers posted up and down Baker Street, and Wiggins didn't want to run into any of them. Probably about seven out of ten officers who patrolled this area of the city knew his face, and he didn't want to run that risk.

Too late. It just wasn't his day. The motion of him jostling through the crowd caught one officer's attention, and he spun, calling out for Wiggins to stop. Wiggins cursed and darted forward, sprinting through the streets as the chase from just a few minutes before repeated itself. And he was hurriedly glancing over his shoulder at just the wrong moment, and suddenly the boy ran smack into a man who was coming down the steps, having just closed the door to 221b Baker Street.

Suddenly the man's hand was tight on Wiggins's shoulder, and the boy gasped from the shock. Deep breaths, he reminded himself. Calm. In control. That's how you come out ahead.

Wiggins looked up at the man, running through everything he knew about him. Name, age, occupation. Hobbies, talents, weaknesses—not that there were many of the latter. Thought processes, tendencies. Wiggins knew the man had moved onto Baker Street only recently; previously, he'd resided on Glentworth, and Wiggins had observed him from there.

Wiggins's breath was coming hard and fast, but he forced himself to calm down. Calm the hell down. If he didn't want to be turned over to the coppers, he'd get through this on sheer wit alone.

Of course, if you were planning a battle of the wits, there was nobody worse to tangle with than this man. Whip-smart, with a genius analytical side and an ability to read an entire situation in just one glance. Wiggins's only chance was to catch him off-guard. Of course, if he did surprise the man, it wouldn't show in his face, or his eyes, but Wiggins thought he would be able to tell.

So he smiled up at the man, trying to hide his nervousness. "Good day, Mr. Holmes."

And then the detective completely shocked him. "Well, hello, Wiggins. I've been meaning to speak to you for some time."

Wiggins's jaw dropped; he couldn't help it. Holmes smiled wanly. "You're not the only one who keeps a record of everyone who lives near you." Holmes started to lead a stunned Wiggins up the steps towards 221b; "Come along inside; there's something I've been wanting to discuss with you."

"Just a minute, Mr. Holmes." Suddenly an unfriendly, unwelcome voice came from behind the pair. Wiggins spun on his heel; Holmes turned around calmly. Standing there was a copper, not smiling.

"That there is the Wiggins boy," the officer said, needlessly.

"Indeed," Holmes said calmly, without adding anything else.

The officer, whose brass nameplate read Jenkins, stared at him disbelieving. "And," he prompted, after an awkward moment of silence, "he is a thief."

"Really," Holmes said without much interest, as Wiggins felt shame flood him. He didn't care so much about the thievery, but being called out for it in front of the great detective… that wasn't exactly a position he wanted to be in.

"Really," the bobby confirmed, growing angry. "Just today, another officer of the force saw him take an apple from a man's cart."

"Is that so?" Holmes said carelessly. He took a shilling from his pocket and tossed it, without warning, to the bobby, who fumbled it, dropped it, and, with burning cheeks, bent to pick it up. "That should cover the fruit," Holmes told the bobby. "Now, if you have no further complaints—"

"I have plenty more complains!" growled Jenkins. "He's a street rat and a thief!"

"Thievery is not tolerated under London law, Officer, but homelessness most certainly is. Now I believe the boy's stolen goods have been accounted for, and so I would like to respectfully request that you leave this boy alone."

Unable to come up with a good reason why Wiggins himself should be prosecuted, Jenkins quickly changed tactics. "Well, you can't deny that this boy is that criminal Wiggins's son," he said. "And any child of that despicable man is, in my view, a prosecutable criminal as well. Last night, you know, he stole a pint of whiskey from a pub."

"Oh, I'm sure he did, Officer," Holmes said, keeping a hand on Wiggins's young shoulder. "He's quite drunk right now, as a matter of fact." He paused. "As I see it, Jenkins, you have nothing more to add. I would like to respectfully bid you adieu; until next time." He turned and pushed open the door of 221b, before suddenly spinning back and adding, "Oh. And may I encourage you to keep working on your writing, Officer? I can see you've been busy with it for quite a while." Smiling at the officer's astonished face, Holmes led Wiggins inside the house and closed and locked the doors.

"Well. Sometimes those officers think they have significantly more authority in this city than they do, Wiggins, as I'm sure you know." He paused and gestured to an armchair. "Please sit down; I've been meaning to talk to you."

Wiggins's head was spinning. In the last five minutes, he'd bribed a girl and escaped a bobby on Marylebone, ran into another copper on Baker, met Sherlock Holmes, tried to outwit him, learned that the detective somehow knew his name and who his father was, and been escorted into the great detective's house. There were so many questions flying around Wiggins's brain at the moment, and the only one he could stutter out was the one at the top.

"How did you know he was a writer?"

Holmes smiled. "There were smudges on the index finger, middle finger, and pinkie of his right hand; those are a dead giveaway. It's common to see those smudges, but not so common to know what they mean. They're ink stains, from a fountain pen: on the middle finger and index finger, they come from leaking ink; on the pinkie they come from slightly rubbing against ink on the page that has not completely dried. Only writers have those ink smudges on their fingers, but all writers have them."

Wiggins's jaw dropped. "You knew all that from…." Slowly his voice trailed off as the awe sit in. Then, suddenly, his face jerked up, and he stared Watson in the eye. "And how did you know about me?"

Holmes smiled again, but this time it was softer, filled with something like—pride?—and maybe even a touch of something that slightly resembled love. "I've been watching you, Wiggins. You, and a very few others. There are hundreds of street urchins in this part of London, and most of them are of no importance, but you—you and just a few others—stand out. And you especially, even among them. You have an exceptional memory, Wiggins, and very talented eyes. And more than that, you're always purposeful; that stands out on the street." He paused. "Your pattern for when you come to Baker Street—yes, I've noticed it's a pattern—very cleverly designed, I might add. It appears completely random at first sight; I had to track your movements for nearly a week before I was confident about what your system was."

Wiggins's jaw dropped. "It took me two months to come up with a system that seemed random. It's not even really a pattern! It relies on—"

"Weather? Yes, to a certain degree, it does. You rely partially on the clouds to determine how many days you skip visits; that way, the pattern is never repeated exactly."

"How the hell—"

"You may have good eyes, Wiggins, but I have thirty years' more experience. And good eyes," he told the boy, his smile gone, "are nothing without good training." Holmes paused. "You have learned to see, but not to observe. That is an exceedingly common ailment, and few people know—or care—about the difference between the two."

Wiggins swallowed. "What is the difference? I feel like I… do observe things, and…"

Holmes cut him off with another smile. "This is an old trick, Wiggins, and one exceedingly common in defining the difference." He paused, then fixed a piercing gaze on the boy. "Your house has two stories."

Slightly thrown, Wiggins nevertheless said, "Yes, sir."

"And there is a staircase leading from one floor to the other."

"Yes."

"How many stairs are on that staircase?"

Wiggins was thrown. "Um—at a guess, sir? I'd say twenty."

Holmes's smile widened, but in a kindly way. "There you have it, Wiggins. You have seen, but you have not observed." He tilted his head sympathetically. "That's an old trick; you're hardly the first one to not know. If you had observed, however, you would know that your staircase has eighteen steps."

For what felt like the twentieth time, Wiggins's mouth fell open. "How in the world do you know that?"

Holmes smiled wanly. "There was no deductive work involved in that at all, Wiggins. I am simply familiar with the building codes and the architecture from the 1810s, when your house was built."

"I didn't even know my house was built in 1810!"

"See, there it is again, Wiggins. You have seen, yet not observed. It was, in fact, built in 1812. There is a small note carved into the cement of your sidewalk, which is original to the block; that part is apparent to anyone who is familiar with even a very rudimentary level of masonry."

Wiggins felt his heart sink. He had been so proud of himself for what he'd thought was an incredible achievement: his cataloging of hundreds of his London neighbors. But suddenly that seemed deathly pale in comparison to what Holmes could do right off the bat.

Slowly, guardedly, he tested the waters again. "What else do you know about me?"

"I know your father is drunk today," the detective said softly. "That caught you by surprise. You came up Ivor Place on your way here today, which you only do when your father is intoxicated, which is usually Saturday nights. On other times, you come by Melcombe Street, near Dorset Square."

Holmes noted the boy's look of astonishment and quickly explained. "There is a factory on Ivor, which burns coal. You have coal dust on your shoes when you use Ivor Place. That dust is absent when you come by Melcombe."

Wiggins's gaze shot to his shoes, without a conscious thought. Sure enough, there was blackened coal dust settled on his falling-apart sneakers. He gaped, then looked up at Holmes.

"You figured out that my father's drunk because there's dust on my shoes?"

Holmes smiled gently. "I did. And in time, I believe you will be able to do the same."

Wiggins just stared at him. "How?" he asked, his voiced layered with incredulity.

Holmes sighed. "You have good eyes and an exceptional memory, Wiggins. We've already established those facts. You have no problem seeing, and remembering, A, B, and C. What matters is seeing what's hidden inside A, B, and C, and how they fit together. Some people are born with a knack for that, but it can also be learned. And I think you can learn it quickly, with some intensive work."

Wiggins looked suspiciously at the detective. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that I give you private lessons in deduction and investigation, so that you can learn how to do some of my abilities. This is in exchange for any detective or espionage work I—"

"Espionage?"

"Spying," Holmes clarified. "I give you these lessons in exchange for you completing any detective or espionage work I may need done. After the lessons conclude, for any services I may need, you will receive compensation."

"Comp—?"

"Money."

Wiggins looked at the detective guardedly. "What… This is part of a bigger plan, Mr. Holmes. I can tell. You wouldn't—you need me to learn this deduction stuff for a reason. You're planning something."

Holmes's smiled widened. "Very acute, Wiggins." He paused. "As you know, I am a detective. And I've learned that children can be very helpful in the practice. For years I have wanted to assemble a group of children to help me; and I've been watching London's street kids. I think you would be an excellent leader of that group."

The boy's eyes widened. "Me? You think I could…" He trailed off as the detective's words sunk in and more questions floated to the top of his brain.

Holmes answered the queries before Wiggins could even ask them. "It's often helpful, in many of my cases," he said, "to have a set of eyes on the street. Or multiple sets of eyes. I have a list of five children whom I would like to employ. Of those five, you are the clear leader." He paused. "You have several of the most invaluable skills on the street and in detective work. Your capabilities are not perfect; far from it. But with some training, we can make you one of the brightest detectives in the city. That's the role this team of mine needs. We need a bright young mind who still had the physical capabilities of a child but who can reason like an adult. That is you, Wiggins. With proper training, you can learn exceptional deductive abilities; and when the time comes to meet the rest of our team, I am confident that you can pass many of the skills you will have learned onto them."

Wiggins's eyes shone brightly. "And who… who are the others?"

"That's not for you to know, not yet," Holmes said gently. "However, do know that you are the oldest, if only by a slight margin. There is a girl who is thirteen as well. The youngest is seven, but her older brother is twelve."

"That… that's four. That leaves someone out."

"Indeed. He is nine. But none of this is your concern now, Wiggins. You'll meet them all presently."

Wiggins looked up, slightly shyly, into Holmes's eyes. "And me… I mean… you'll really… you'll really teach me, right? You're not just teasing?"

Holmes smiled. "I'll really teach you, Wiggins. Provided you're respectful and professional and hardworking." He paused. "I have high hopes for you, Wiggins. Don't let me down."

Holmes stood with Wiggins by the side of a dirt road just outside Trafalgar Square, about two weeks after meeting for the first time. It was about ten in the morning, and it had rained the night before. The mud had dried but not hardened, and there were impressions in the dirt from the morning's activities.

Holmes turned to look slightly at Wiggins. "Look at the ground," he instructed. "Tell me what you see."

"Well…" Wiggins knelt down to get a closer look at the muddy dirt. "There was a carriage here, early, and—"

"How do you know it was early?"

"Because all the other tracks are on top of it," said Wiggins, earning him a proud smile and a "Very good" from Holmes. Wiggins grinned.

"It… um, it was a cab. A taxi, that somebody had hired. The wheels are too close together for it to have been a gentleman's private carriage." He glanced up at the detective for his approval.

"That is entirely correct," Holmes said, nodding. "What else can you tell about the cab?"

"Um… I… about that cab? I don't see anything else…"

Now Holmes had bent down too, and was pointing something out in the mud. "Look there," he said softly, gesturing at the imprints of a horse's hooves that went with the carriage.

"One horse," Wiggins said promptly.

"Well, yes, that is correct," acknowledged Holmes, "but you can, in fact, tell much more than that." He pointed. "See how the left hind print is much clearer than the others? What does this tell you?"

"I… um…"

"Why would a horse's footprint be particularly clear, or particularly dull? What might affect clarity?"

"Um… pressure, maybe? If the horse had a bad leg and it was cutting into the ground harder?"

"Now, what is wrong with the hypothesis that this cab, a public taxi, was being pulled by a horse with a bad leg?"

"The city wouldn't do that," admitted Wiggins. "It wouldn't be very efficient."

"Correct. Now, what else might affect the clarity of a horse's footprint?"

"I…"

"Think, Wiggins. What causes the imprint?"

"I… the hoof."

"And what is set on a horse's hoof?"

"The shoe." Suddenly Wiggins's face brightened. "Oh! If the horse had one new shoe, that would make that one leg's hoofprint clearer!"

"Good." Holmes looked at him. "These are the kind of thought processes that you have to learn to do internally—without help—and nearly instantaneously. This is the basis of deductive reasoning, right here." He straightened. "Now, tell me more about who else came down this road after the carriage."

Wiggins pursed his lips. "After that, it was… a person… with a peg leg, I think? Is that a peg leg?" He pointed to a mark in the dirt.

Holmes smiled gently. "That person has a crutch, actually."

"How can you tell?"

"First you tell me whether the person was male or female, then I'll explain to you."

Wiggins paused, before hesitantly saying, "Female."

"Correct; you're getting better. It was a woman with a gimp left leg who used a crutch to assist her in getting around. You can see the slight track of her useless foot in the dirt here—she wasn't standing on it, but it was dragging in the road behind her. You can tell that this mark is from a crutch, and not a peg leg, because it is a wider circle. Peg legs are thicker at the top, but then taper down to a smaller circle at the end that touches the ground, while crutches retain their diameter from top to bottom."

Wiggins nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he admitted, a bit ruefully but also duly impressed.

Holmes nodded slightly. "It does indeed. Now tell me more about the next party who walked down this road."

The pair, man and boy, went on like that for a good half-hour, examining impressions in the mud and analyzing nearly a dozen Londoners based on their footsteps and the imprints of their carriage's wheels. By the time they were done, Wiggins's back was sore from bending so far over the mud, but he was happy: Holmes had complimented him and told him he was doing well. As for now, that was all the pay Wiggins needed.

In the afternoons, after the boy's detective lessons, Holmes often asked Wiggins to go out and watch certain streets or certain people, then report back to him. Wiggins suspected that very little of this was actually helpful information for Holmes, and was more likely just getting the boy integrated into the feeling of being a London detective. But Wiggins enjoyed the work nonetheless, and after about two weeks, he could consciously sense himself getting better at the observation and analysis that this afternoon scoping required and trained.

And soon enough, Holmes told Wiggins that it had been a month, and that he had learned about as much as Holmes could teach him for the present. Wiggins had been sad to see his daily private lessons come to an end, but he was much more excited by the time Holmes finished his speech.

"And now," he'd concluded, smiling at the boy, "I think it's about time we finally met the rest of the children whom I think are up to the job. What say you?"

Wiggins's eyes had glowed with the prospect of meeting other kids who Holmes had pegged as "elite," of being part of a team and of a group, and, no less, of being the leader. So he had smiled up at the detective, bursting with eagerness.

"Yes please!"