"Two and Two Make Four"

Three Years Before - December 1883

Tiny knelt by his four-year-old sister's barely-stirring body, staring helplessly into her pale, sallow face. "Ash," he whispered, his voice tight, terrified that he might be too late. "Ash, please. Can you hear me?"

Slowly the little girl stirred, and opened her eyes: two dull brown orbs, glazed over in a way that made Tiny think she wasn't quite there. Ash whimpered softly. "I'm hungry. I'm so hungry."

"I know. I know." Tiny stroked his sister's hair worriedly. "I'm trying as hard as I can, Ash. Look, I brought you water, okay?" He held up a glass bottle with perhaps an inch of dirty water sitting in the bottom; this in itself was a prize, as the city hadn't had rain in over a week.

"Here, sit up," nine-year-old Tiny coaxed anxiously, trying to help his poor little sister into a sitting position. With a few moans and whimpers, she managed to sit still with her back against the wall of the alleyway where the siblings hid.

"Can—can I—" croaked Ash weakly, coughing and trying to choke the words out. Tiny stroked her hair, holding her tightly until she got the breath to manage to say, "Can I have the water?"

It took superhuman effort, but Tiny managed to say, "Of course, Ash!" Never mind that a drop of liquid hadn't passed his lips in over twenty-four hours and the interior of his throat felt like two sheets of coarse sandpaper rubbing roughly against each other. Ash was important. And she would get the water.

He'd gotten it for her, anyways.

"Now, don't gulp it down all at once," Tiny said gently, bringing the bottle slowly to her lips. "Take a little bit, swish it around in your mouth, then swallow. That'll make it easier on your throat, and it'll moisten your mouth."

Weakly, the little girl nodded. She seemed dazed, and Tiny was still worried that she wasn't completely conscious or aware of her surroundings. Moving at a snail's pace so as to not spill any or startle the girl, Tiny brought the grimy bottle to his sister's lips and, still ever-so-slowly, tilted it.

He only let a tiny amount of water fall into his sister's mouth before retracting the bottle and quickly urging her to swish the liquid around in her mouth. But she just dully shook her head; the liquid had slid right down her throat. Ash let out a breath at the water, which tasted heavenly to her after not having a drop to drink since the day before. She stretched out a tiny, trembling arm towards the bottle that Tiny still clutched, burning with the desire, the want, the need to bring it to her lips and swallow all of the liquid in one gulp.

"No, Ash," her brother whispered, in a nearly inaudible voice, when she reached for the water. "A little bit at a time."

The four-year-old, with great effort, forced her lips opened, shaking and whimpering with the effort it took. In the end, she could only choke out a single word: "More."

At that, Tiny's heart broke. To hear his sister speak like that—moan, really, that's what it was, a moan—nearly shattered all of his willpower. But no. It would be so much better for her if she drank the water a little at a time. It was for her own good.

Tiny put a hand on his sister's trembling shoulder, and spoke softly. "You can have one more sip now, okay, Ash?" he murmured. "This time I want you to swish the water around in your mouth before you swallow it. Can you do that for me?"

It didn't appear that Ash had heard him; she just kept whimpering and sobbing—dry sobs, of course, because her body was so dehydrated that it would be a struggle to produce tears. "More," she moaned again.

Tiny's shoulders slumped. His sister was awfully sick. She needed a lot of things right now, and he could provide exactly none of them. She needed a full glass of water, not just a dirty swallow out of an old bottle. She needed food. She needed a warm place to sleep at night, or at least a blanket for to keep her cozy in the alleyway… if she had any chance of making it at all.

Tiny had an overactive imagination, and in times like this, it terrified him. He could imagine all too well struggling under the weight of his sister's dead body as he carried her from the alleyway, because she had caught influenza and had never gotten better.

No!, Tiny screamed internally at himself. Don't think about that. It's not going to happen. It can't and it won't. It won't.

Worriedly, Tiny tipped the bottle towards Ash's lips again. She gulped gratefully, but again, she swallowed the water immediately. Tiny sighed; he really couldn't blame her. Gently, the nine-year-old helped his sister to lie back down on the cobblestones; she was shivering badly and dazed again. Slowly, Tiny took off his shirt, exposing his chest to the chill winds, and draped it over Ash. Teeth chattering, she curled up under his shirt, using it as a thin blanket.

Tiny sat back and sunk his head into his hands. This was all just so overwhelming. Ash had suddenly come down with her cold, not awaking one morning when he'd called her. For days she had been like this, and Tiny couldn't even go out and beg for food because he had to stay with her all of the time. Today he had managed to sneak out and scoop up a bit of water from nearly-dry puddles, but that was it.

Tiny, disheartened, glanced at his sister, who had now fallen peacefully asleep. That made Tiny smile for a moment. But then he saw that her ribs were sticking out of her stomach and her joints were bulging slightly out from the rest of her body, a clear sign of near-starvation, and he was back into the land of despair once more.

Oh, God, Ash… what can I do to help you?

By sheer chance, at that moment, Tiny turned his head towards the end of the alleyway. And then he gasped.

Not fifteen feet away from him were three freshly-baked bread rolls; Tiny could still see the steam rising from them. Gasping, Tiny struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the bread, scooping them up into his hands and staring at them.

Then, suddenly, Tiny paused. There were plenty of evil criminals on the streets of London whose sole aim in life was to hurt children; and he wouldn't put it past them to poison bread. Cautiously, Tiny raised each of the rolls to his nose and sniffed.

The first two rolls just smelled like warm bread. But the third was somehow… wrong. Tiny couldn't place the scent, or even completely distinguish it from the smell of the bread. But it still smelled like a chemical, and so Tiny still didn't want to eat the bread.

Oh, but he did! If the rolls were safe, they could potentially save Ash's life. But then, if they were poison, they could kill her. Oh, he needed to know! He needed to know so badly!

Suddenly Tiny jumped to his feet and sprinted to the end of the alley. There were hundreds of stray dogs on London's streets, and four of them liked to hang out in one specific spot near his and Ash's "home". Breathing hard, Tiny focused on a small terrier, took aim, and pounced.

Tiny had years of practice, and he easily caught the struggling little dog in his arms, allowing himself a slight smile of success. Yes. Now he could figure out if the rolls were poison.

Carefully, Tiny ripped a medium-sized piece of bread from each of the three rolls, and fed them to the dog, one by one. The first two pieces were from the two rolls that smelled normal to Tiny, and the third was from the hypothetically-poisoned one. Tiny's hands were shaking as he fed the last piece of bread to the street dog, thinking, with slight guilt, that he might have just killed the pup; but better the pup than Ash, Tiny decided. Better the pup than Ash.

But to Tiny's slight surprise, the pup didn't die, didn't choke or cough or spasm; didn't exhibit any symptoms of being poisoned. Tiny waited there for nearly ten minutes, holding the struggling dog, watching to see if it would collapse into death. But nothing happened. Slowly, Tiny exhaled. He was going to take his chances. If Ash didn't eat now, she would die.

So Tiny crossed back over to his sister and shook her gently. He hated to disturb her sleep—it was the first good rest she'd gotten in days—but Ash needed to eat. "I have some food for you," he whispered, when she sleepily blinked open her eyes.

At once a tiny smile flitted across the four-year-old's face. That sight warmed Tiny's heart. He quickly tore a piece of bread from the first roll and drizzled a bit of water on it to make it smoother on Ash's throat and stomach. "Here," the boy said gently, holding out the bread. "Open your mouth."

Weakly, Ash obliged, and Tiny helped her bite into the small piece of bread. For a second, she sat there, frozen, not chewing, and Tiny was afraid she'd choke. Then her teeth remembered what they had to do, and she chewed and swallowed the bread.

Tiny exhaled, watching her carefully. "Ash," he breathed after a second. "How do you feel?"

Ash moaned, but she managed to open her eyes and choke out, "Not good."

Tiny felt that like a knife in his heart, but he bit his lip and didn't allow his despair to show on his face. "Okay, Ash. That's okay. You're going to get better, all right? But I need you to eat."

"Yes," she breathed out, trembling slightly. "Food."

"Yes, Ash," Tiny confirmed, soaking another piece of bread in water. "Food indeed." He held the bread to her mouth, and gently coaxed her to open her lips. "Here it is, Ash. Right here. More bread." Gratefully, she opened her mouth and choked the food down.

Tiny could already see Ash slumping back asleep, but he shook her gently. "One more bite, Ash," he urged. "Just one more, then you can go back to sleep, okay?"

Shuddering, Ash obediently opened her mouth, and Tiny put a third small chunk of bread on her tongue. She coughed and swallowed, slumping back to the ground and falling instantly asleep.

Tiny watched her with a bit of chagrin. Slowly, he tore a medium-sized piece of bread from the roll and swallowed it himself, grateful for the substance in his stomach.

Tiny went back to examining his sleeping sister. Already she was sleeping peacefully. It would do her good to have food in her stomach. And now, for the first time in days, Tiny allowed himself to hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, his sister would be all right. Hope that she would make it through.

Come on, Ash…

Sherlock Holmes crept away from the alleyway where he had left the bread for the two street children. Holmes was pleased, and proud, to see how suspicious boy was about the bread was, coming from an unknown source. To smell it like that, then feed it to a dog to check that it was safe, before gobbling it down, was quite a feat, especially when you were literally starving.

There had indeed been something mixed into all three of the bread rolls, but it wasn't poison. Far from it. There were two unusual ingredients: first, a mixture of calomel, rhubarb, and lavender, which had been proven to help treat some the symptoms of influenza; secondly, there was a chemical of Holmes's own engineering, which he had tested on animals and seemed to be a generally-effective muscle relaxant, reducing the shaking and spasms that Ash had been suffering.

Holmes had seen Tiny and Ash around, and had taken a particular interest in Ash. She could cling to the shadows, whether it was midnight or noon; and, he had noticed, she had a keen sense of hearing. She was so good at sneaking around that even he hadn't noticed her for a few weeks; and to be so good that Sherlock Holmes didn't see you was quite the achievement indeed.

Once Holmes had noticed Ash, of course he had found Tiny, too. At first Tiny had stayed hidden, protective of his sister; but as he began to venture out into the city, to find food and water, and just to explore, Holmes was struck by how careful and cautious he was, and how well he analyzed risks. Someone like that could be useful, he thought, to counter Pockets's more brazen presence. (This was years before he even met Pockets for the first time, but he had already identified her as a potential member of his group of children.)

Tiny and Ash. The nicknames rang in his ears. He wondered how they had come up with them. Holmes had, after some digging in orphanage records, discovered that Ash's given name was Azalea, but he had yet to discover Tiny's. Ash—Azalea—had lived at an orphanage for girls for approximately a year after her parents' deaths, but Tiny, as far as Holmes could tell, never had been in an institution. Most likely he had lived on the streets himself, before rescuing his sister; but that meant his real name hadn't been in any organization's records for Holmes to find.

Holmes didn't worry about that too much. He would find a way to figure it out, especially if he did make the decision to include Tiny and Ash in the final group of children. For now, though, he needed to monitor Ash's health to see how she was doing. Not that there was anything Holmes could do if she couldn't pull through, besides give her more calomel-rhubarb-lavender-infused bread. Influenza in the 1860s was a dangerous disease, particularly for a homeless four-year-old living on the streets of London with her nine-year-old brother.

It was out of Holmes's hands now. All he could do was watch.

Tiny woke up to a tapping on his shoulder. Groggily, he opened his eyes, peering around. His throat felt like it was on fire now; he was parched; he couldn't even find the liquid to spit. Oh, but he needed water…

"Tiny!" a voice hissed, and Tiny jerked around, because the voice was so familiar—

"Ash!" She was sitting against the wall, her eyelids drooping. She was slightly dazed, it was true. But she was sitting up and there was a ghost of a smile on her face, and she was awake and talking. Stifling a cry of joy, Tiny threw his arms around his little sister and hugged with all his might.

And then, slowly, Ash wrapped her arms around her brother and hugged back. Not tightly—she was still weak and tired—but she hugged him nonetheless. And that only made Tiny hold her tighter and caress her hair, rocking her gently back and forth.

Finally, finally, Tiny released her, and she sat back against the wall with a contented look on her face, smiling lovingly at her older brother. And Tiny wanted nothing more than for her to look like that forever. But then, all too soon, her face clouded, and she looked downright scared.

"I'm still sick, aren't I?" she breathed, her face slowly growing more and more terrified.

Tiny didn't know how to answer; he hesitated slightly.

Ash didn't wait for a reply; her face crumpling, she asked another question. "Am I going to die?"

"Ash!" Tiny cried, horrified, putting a hand on her shoulder. "No!" He exhaled slowly. "Yesterday—I thought you might, Ash. But not today. Yes, you're still sick, but you're so much better, Ash. You're not going to die, okay? You're not going to die."

And as Ash looked into her brother's bright, earnest eyes, she found that she believed it. She believed it wholeheartedly.

And that, Tiny thought later, was what had made the difference. That she thought she was going to live.

Because she most certainly had.

Two weeks later, Ash was back to darting in the shadows and nicking scraps of food and playing with the stray cats; back to normal life. And Tiny had never been so immensely grateful to see a four-year-old running around and always getting in the way of normal business activity, and making it hard for anyone to do anything productive or get anywhere on time.

Even though she was doing so well, Tiny barely ever let Ash out of his sight. Even if she was darting through alleyways, he would silently watch her, creep behind her, make sure that she was okay. He would hold her back from darting into crowds—more than once he had saved her life by physically preventing her from running into a slew of oncoming traffic and getting trampled by a horse's flying hooves—and force her to listen and watch and think before she made instinctive decisions. Of course, she was only four years old, so that was a challenge, but she was getting better.

And Ash knew, somewhere deep in her heart, that when Tiny got mad at her for acting rashly or dangerously, he was only terrified that he might lose her. He only wanted to keep her safe. And Tiny, for his part, couldn't stay angry at his sister for long, before he wrapped her up in a tight hug and squoze the living daylights out of her until she let go of her anger too and hugged him back.

And so, amidst everything, years passed. Tiny and Ash grew up on the streets. By the time Ash was six, she had as many street smarts as the twelve-year-olds who she competed with for food. She was still impulsive, and gutsy, but those qualities, Tiny was forced to admit, had indeed gotten the pair out of a few troublesome situations. And he was always there to balance her out.

Tiny and Ash were smart, and observant, but Sherlock Holmes was incredible. They had no idea he was even watching them until the spring of 1886.

Presently - March 1886

"I'm sorry," Tiny said, in a low voice, stepping up to the unfamiliar man and shielding Ash behind him, "but who are you, exactly?"

The man smiled slightly. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, Andrew, and I'm a private—"

"—private consulting detective, yes," Tiny finished. "You've made that clear. But what does that mean, and why do you want us?"

Ash tugged on her brother's shirtsleeve and hissed, "Don't be so rude!" Tiny shushed her.

Holmes smiled at the seven-year-old girl's wide eyes; then he turned to address Tiny. "It means," he explained carefully, "that I am a detective, but I don't work for the London police force or any other agency. I am a private worker, and people will bring cases to me if they are stumped. Which is quite often, frankly."

"You still haven't explained why you need us," Tiny snapped; at twelve years old, he had grown much more assertive. "And if you don't hurry up and make that clear, I'm leaving. Because I'm not in the habit of letting my little sister hang around with strange men."

Holmes nodded slightly. "I appreciate your scrutiny, Andrew. Perhaps—"

"That's not my name, and if you're a detective you should know—"

"I'm sorry, Tiny," said Holmes, not coldly, but firmly, cuttingly. Tiny shut his mouth.

Holmes looked at him. "Perhaps I haven't made myself clear," he continued. "It is useful, in my line of business, to have eyes and ears on the street. Children's eyes and ears, that is; they are undeniably the most talented. And I have noticed the pair of you as exceptional thinkers, exceptional watchers and listeners. But don't just take my word for it," he said hastily, noting Tiny's raised eyebrows. "Ask the other children."

Then Holmes turned to the wall of the crumbling brick building behind him. "Wiggins? Pockets?"

At that, two of the street beggars who had been slumped there got up and removed heavy overcoats and hats. Tiny's jaw dropped as it suddenly became clear that the two weren't really beggars—nor even adults, at that. The pair was comprised of a boy and a girl, and neither could be much older than thirteen. Tiny stared at them.

"How did you do that?"

The girl shrugged. "What, blend in? It wasn't difficult. You could do the same."

Tiny bit back his skepticism and settled for a shrug. "Whatever you say. But don't think I'll trust you just because you're my age."

The children smiled at each other, which made Tiny tense. He stared challengingly at them.

"Tiny, he's telling the truth," the boy said hastily. "I'm Wiggins; this is Pockets. This man—Mr. Holmes—reached out to us a few days ago. He wants to assemble a team of kids—he's telling the truth there—and you have stood out to him as having abilities that could be exceedingly valuable."

Suddenly Ash piped up. "Me too?" she asked eagerly, peering into Wiggins's eyes, awed that she'd been seen, recognized, appreciated.

Both older children laughed, kindly. "You too," Pockets affirmed, smiling at the younger girl.

Now, of course, Ash was completely won over. Her grin only widened as she turned to Holmes, pure excitement in her gaze and in her voice. "Will I get to be a detective?"

"You will indeed," the man told her with a smile. "Now, if you'd care to come back to my house, we can sit down and talk about—"

"No way," Tiny said suddenly, stepping in front of his sister and ignoring her protests. "This is how kidnappers get you, with tricks and actors. I'm not letting my baby sister—"

"—I'm not a baby, Tiny!—"

And with that one protest, suddenly, a cacophony of voices erupted, as five people were suddenly talking over each other and arguing: Tiny trying to keep Ash safe, Ash demanding that they go with Holmes, Holmes attempting to convince them that he truly valued them like Wiggins and Pockets, Wiggins and Pockets emphasizing how much effort Holmes had taken to seek the siblings out—

"Enough!" Pockets suddenly screeched, her voice cutting through the din. She turned to Tiny.

"You know it was Holmes who gave you that bread, right?" she said. "Three years ago? D'you think he would've done that if he didn't really value you?"

Tiny gaped, unable to come up with an answer for that. Slowly, he turned to Holmes.

"That was you? With the bread?"

"What bread?" Ash interrupted impatiently; Tiny put a hand on her collar to silence her. She huffed; Tiny turned back to the detective.

Holmes smiled. "It was indeed. And I can tell you specifically what was in that bread; for now, suffice to say it was a mixture of healing herbs." He searched Tiny's face, nodding slightly when he saw a slight bit of trust start to appear on his features.

"Please come home with me," he urged. "I promise you can trust me."

Tiny hesitated, looking down at his sister. Little impulsive Ash, who got herself into far too many scrapes.

Little Ash, who had gotten a lot better at analyzing situations and making smart choices.

Tiny looked, with a slightly questioning gaze, at Wiggins and Pockets. They looked back, and Pockets nodded slightly.

So Tiny nodded too and took his sister's hand. "Okay," he exhaled, and stepped towards Holmes.

Finally he repeated it, his voice far more assertive, more confident.

"Okay."