"I told you not to do it."
A faint harrumph carried across the room, though Holmes never looked away from the bandage he wrapped around his palm. "I needed to know what he would do."
I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. After spending the morning tracking the last person in Holmes' most recent smuggling case, my friend had decided to prove the blackguard's homicidal tendencies by provoking him into attacking. I had barely tackled the man before Holmes found himself with a knife in his side. As it was, my friend had escaped with a shallow cut on his hand, and I tried to hide how much my shoulder ached. That joint never appreciated when I fell into the tackle I had used in school.
"You knew what he would do. You wanted him to behave as you expected in front of Lestrade. You are fortunate I was close enough to tackle him. Stop using yourself as bait."
He waved me off. "Provoking a maniac is not using myself as bait when you and three officers are within reach."
I lowered my book. "So you admit you purposely provoked a maniac. What would you have said if I had done that?"
He froze, then pointedly turned away. "You would not."
"That does not answer my question." He still refused to look at me. "One of these days, Holmes, you are going to use yourself as bait, and it is going to backfire. Not everyone around you has the same reaction time as you, and one mistake on someone else's part would put your blood on their hands."
Any such incident would probably be my fault, but the tension settling in his shoulders confirmed I did not need to voice that. I let the topic drop, returning to my book as he started organizing his chemicals for some experiment.
"Woah!"
The familiar voice drifted through the open window, accompanied by a flurry of movement. My book bounced off the rug as I hurried for the landing, Holmes three steps ahead of me.
"Stay awake, Patrick!" Tim Minor's worried voice carried easily into the entry as a small hand pounded on the door, each knock probably hard enough to bruise. "Doctor Watson! Mrs. Hudson! Somebody!"
Holmes reached the door seconds in front of Mrs. Hudson, and the lock clicked to reveal Timothy supporting another boy close to his age. Relief mixed with his worry when he found all of us home.
"His name is Patrick," he said quickly. "Cut on his arm is the worst. I found him in Regent's."
Pale white skin highlighted spots of red on either cheek, but, not as unconscious as he first appeared, Patrick tried to fight when Holmes picked him up.
"Easy." Timothy briefly squeezed one hand. "It's alright. Mr. Holmes just wants to help."
Fever bright eyes glanced between us as Holmes passed me going up the stairs. "Don't wanna go back."
"You will not go back," Holmes promised, "wherever you left. Timothy, grab Watson's bag from next to the desk."
The boy darted around me to drag my bag across the floor while Holmes carefully placed Patrick on the settee. The boy's eyes had closed again.
"Stay awake, Patrick. Where are you injured?"
Besides the obvious, I meant, but Patrick shook his head. Disregarding his evident desire to sleep—as well as the hunger that shook his hands—he gingerly readjusted to hold out one arm. Red streaks traveled up the skin, all stretching from the two deepest punctures in his forearm. Those injuries joined dozens of other wounds ranging from fresh to months old. This was not a simple accident.
"What happened?"
"Dog bit me," he muttered. "Just needs—" He flinched when I moved his arm to get a better look. "Just needs cleaning. Get the yellow out."
This needed a bit more than a simple cleaning. Heat radiated from his skin.
"Holmes, get a dose of fever reducer from my bag and start making a poultice. You remember which one for infections?"
"Of course."
Timothy ripped open the packet as Holmes retrieved a small pouch, and a half-full glass of water thumped the table next to me. I finished laying out my supplies before picking up the water.
"You need to drink this, Patrick." Wary eyes flicked between me and the water. "It is just a fever reducer," I answered the silent question. "It will be bitter, but the infection in your arm is trying to spread."
Something in my words eased his evident fear, and slow movements shifted him to sit more upright. A grimace confirmed the taste before he quickly downed it.
"Well done." The nearby pitcher refilled the glass. "How have you been cleaning it?"
"Water," he answered quietly, sipping to get the flavor out of his mouth. "Clean as I can find. Scratch the scab off and squeeze until it's blood instead of yellow."
He knew more about infection than most of our new arrivals. That would suffice for most injuries.
"I need to do a variation of that." I showed him my scalpel and the rags I had soaked in a disinfectant. "You have a lot of pus—that's the yellow liquid—deep in the injury. For the bites to heal, I must both drain that pus and clean the inside of the wound. It will hurt more than simply squeezing it, but if I do not clean it thoroughly, your fever is going to get worse."
The injury might also turn septic. He did not need to know that yet.
"Can you do it fast?"
I nodded. "That might make the process hurt more, though."
A moment's thought considered that, then he shrugged. "Better to get it over with."
Not many children carried that mentality. The compliment made his ears turn red.
"Hurts less overall to do it fast."
Retrieving my scalpel hid my lack of reply. I did not want to scare him into silence.
Besides, something else took precedence. Timothy would have warned him to expect questions.
"When did the dog bite you?"
A half shrug became a flinch as I cut across the first puncture. "Every day. Think that one was…two days ago?" He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, because Killer got my leg yesterday."
His leg. I made a mental note to check that. "Why did they bite you?"
Silence answered me. I glanced up to see him shake his head. Alright.
"Did someone tell them to bite you?"
Another half shrug combined with a nod. Either yes, indirectly or yes, but not this time. I did not try to learn which.
"Is anyone searching for you?"
"Dunno." He pulled a face at the idea—or maybe just the pain. Curiosity kept him staring at his arm even as Timothy had to help him hold still. "Probably. What's the pink?"
"Blood mixed with pus," I replied. "Almost done. How far did you walk before finding Timothy?"
He hesitated, then shrugged again. "Couple miles. Why?"
"Exercise helps the infection spread." And that told Holmes to look for a large collection of dogs within a few miles of Regent's. The anger smoldering in his eyes matched my own.
I finally set the blade aside and switched to the cloths. "This will burn," I warned him, "but it will be faster than draining it. Do you have any other open bite wounds?"
A nod became another flinch as I started wiping the bleeding cut. "But none of them have any yellow."
"I still need to clean them. Infection in one sometimes spreads to others, especially if they came from the same dog."
His expression clearly announced what he thought of that. He made no answer, however, finally looking away from the injury I bandaged. Holmes' honey and cinchona poultice easily coated the site, and with the various other injuries up and down his arm, I ended up wrapping nearly to his elbow just to find a place to anchor the bandage.
"Where are the other bites?"
A tired blink made him lean harder into the cushions even as he rolled up both trouser legs. Thick scabs covered several bites up and down his other arm and both legs, all obviously fresh within the week. I pretended not to hear Holmes' quiet growl on the other side of the room. Whoever had done this would not escape jail time.
"I see no sign of infection," I confirmed, my attention on the many scabs rather than Holmes' less than quiet exit. Using a new cloth for each spot, I gently wiped the bites and the skin around them. One scab came off at the contact to let me clean deeper into the injury itself, but I left the other ones alone. If they did not already indicate a problem, removing the body's natural defense could create one. Relief painted his face when I set the last cloth aside.
"That didn't hurt like the other one did."
"They do not need the attention that one on your arm did." One hand retrieved my thermometer. "You do have a fever, though. When did that start?"
He took a moment to think. "Sometime this morning?" He shifted away from me, just slightly. "You're not gonna try to keep me here, are you?"
I handed him the device as I shook my head. "I will not force you, but I would like you to stay for a few hours so I can monitor your fever. Mrs. Hudson should have luncheon ready soon, as well."
He placed the glass without protest, though I could easily see he debated my words. He finally nodded agreement just before I marked five minutes.
"A few hours."
"Thank you." Barely a hundred and one, I did not need to worry too much. "You can sleep there on the settee. One of us will wake you when Mrs. Hudson brings luncheon."
A silent no answered me, but Timothy moved closer when Patrick's eyes tried to close again. "You weren't this tired earlier."
His shrug denied that even as he blinked heavily. "Tired since I woke up. Father made me work most o' the night."
"Sleep, Patrick." I pulled a blanket from the back of the settee. "Timothy will not leave without you."
He still refused to let his eyes close. "No. Too open. Not safe."
"You're safe," Timothy promised. "Nobody but Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson ever comes in this room, and I already told you they wouldn't hurt you."
He hesitated for a long moment. "Sure?"
"Yes," was the immediate answer. Timothy made himself comfortable on the other end of the settee. "I'll be right here. You're safe."
The assurance finally calmed him. One hand pulled the blanket to his chin, and he curled to put his back against the settee and his knees in front of his chest, instantly asleep.
"I first saw him just north of the fountain." The murmured sentence easily anticipated my question, though Timothy kept his eyes on our newest Irregular. "He spent a few minutes with the water—probably cleaning his arm—then wandered south. He didn't see me til I spoke, and he made me follow him halfway across the park to meet him in a large bush. Refused to talk until I gave him my bread, then said his parents worked him like a servant to be allowed to eat. I think they caused all the bite marks, too, though he wouldn't tell me anything else. Took me forever just to get his name."
"Was he moving south the entire time you watched?"
Timothy nodded. "He prob'ly lived north and slightly east of Regent's. There's a couple areas over there that really like dogfighting. That would explain the bites, if his parents or a family friend run a ring. Might also explain why he was aiming for the park. Most o' the escaped fighters stick to the alleys and street vendors, not the open ground."
If Holmes did not find anything in his initial search, that could provide a pivotal clue. I made a quick note.
"Did you find anything else?"
His silent negative let me set my journal aside, and when he flicked a wordless question at my bookshelf, I retrieved the book he had started last week before reopening my own. The hours passed in silence, Timothy alternating reading and glancing at Patrick and I doing the same.
Though I watched our newest Irregular almost more than I read. Patrick slept heavily, barely moving even when Holmes returned. His occasional murmurs fretted dogs and work and helping, but Timothy needed only to bump his leg before the dreams eased. Whatever life that boy had lived before arriving in that park, he had been largely alone. He would need time to adjust to the courtyard.
"Alright?"
I nodded, only tangentially noting my friend moving across the room as Patrick slowly burrowed into the pillows. The Irregulars would find their newest arrival much preferred the cubbies over even a spot against a wall. Patrick had spent much of his life hiding.
"Watson?"
His quiet question finally snapped me out of my thoughts, and I found Holmes scanning the boy from his seat in the other armchair.
"Is there another problem?"
I indicated a negative. "He will be fine with time and rest. What did you find?"
"The shack his parents called a house." He reached for his pipe, glanced at the boys, then put it back. "As well as several Yarders," he added.
His tone suggested more to the story, but he shook his head before I could ask. When another glance at the settee revealed why, I left my curiosity for later—mostly.
"Is there any chance they could follow him?"
"No. Patrick's parents will never find him."
Oh. That carried far deeper meaning than I had expected. Either the Yard had arrested them before Holmes arrived, or Patrick's parents were dead. No wonder Holmes did not want to give details. Today's events would make that a dangerous topic.
"How badly is he injured?" Holmes asked when I said nothing else.
"Only the one spot is infected. I will have to keep an eye on the others, but he will be well enough to go with Timothy after a meal." The clock announced Mrs. Hudson would bring luncheon any minute. "I should probably check the poultice before he eats."
The comment caught Timothy's attention, but he waved me back into my chair. His book landed on the table to let him prod the blanket-shrouded shoulder.
"Patrick?" A faint groan lifted from where the boy had buried his head. "Patrick, it's almost food time."
Another groan, then a grumble, but a frightened gasp provided Timothy's only warning before a hand suddenly slapped him away. Patrick lunged for the other end of the settee.
"Patrick." Timothy's calm voice halted the initial panic. "It's alright, Patrick. You're safe. It's just almost time for food."
Patrick relaxed, somewhat sheepishly noting Holmes and me near the hearth before ducking his head. "Sorry."
"Don't be." Timothy picked up the blanket that had fallen in Patrick's startled awakening. "We understand. Doctor Watson wants to check your arm."
"For what?"
"Infection," I answered as I moved to kneel in front of him. His wrist had lost some of the heat from earlier. "That poultice should have helped clean the wound, but sometimes it needs a second application to fully work."
He willingly let me reach the injury, but the honey tried to make the bandage stick to several scabs. I slowly worked the cloth loose. Already, the red streaks had faded, though only some of the swelling. A small patch of off-white met my inspection. I would have to clean it again.
"Like last time?" Worry nearly made him free his arm when I voiced as much. I quickly halted his fear.
"No. This is much smaller. See the spot?" He leaned forward to look at where I pointed. "It is shallow," I continued. "I will not have to use the scalpel, and I doubt I will have to do more than wipe it clean. Holmes? Will you make another poultice? About half the amount as last time."
Patrick still eyed me warily, but he did not try to stop me from picking the scab off. I needed less than a minute to clean the injury again.
"That's it?"
I chuckled, wrapping the fresh poultice into a new bandage. "That's it. Let me know if it worsens, and I will stop by the courtyard in a day or two."
"And—" He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly toward Timothy. "You don't want any money?"
"I told you that," Timothy broke in. "Doctor Watson doesn't charge the Irregulars for doctoring."
"I do not," I confirmed when he looked at me. "This is home, now, Patrick. Timothy will show you the courtyard after you eat, but you can always come here, whether for help or just company. Home doesn't want money to help you."
A small frown said he did not quite understand that—or perhaps he simply could not believe it—but footsteps sounded on the stairs before he could form a reply. Mrs. Hudson tempered her normal bustle to avoid startling him as she set the tray on the table.
"Here we are. Do you like chicken, Patrick?"
"Yes'm," he murmured, hesitance at another adult mixing with awe at the amount of food she had brought.
She ignored the shortened words. "Good. You and Timothy can have those two end seats."
He glanced between her and the food, as if waiting for something to happen. Timothy looked back from halfway to the table.
"Patrick?"
No reply, and Patrick's frown had deepened when he included me in his flitting scan. Perhaps he would answer me.
"Patrick, what do you not understand?"
A long moment passed before he gained the courage to voice his confusion. "Kids sit on the floor, not at the head."
I firmly kept my eyes away from Holmes, sure his face mirrored the surprised anger flooding me. If Patrick had sat on the floor like a pet, they probably had not given him a true portion, either. No wonder the boy was so thin.
Timothy saved me from having to answer immediately. "Not here, we don't." One hand waved him toward the table. "Family eats together, Patrick, and that includes the kids. We each get our own plate, our own food, and our own chair. Come on."
Patrick slowly stood, as if waiting for one of us to chide him for believing such a thing. The induction found my words.
"He is correct. Take a seat, Patrick. You will not be in trouble for joining us at the table."
Wide eyes still stared at the platters arrayed in front of him. "What am I allowed to have?"
"Anything you want." Timothy placed the largest piece of chicken on Patrick's plate and claimed the next largest for himself. "You like casserole?"
A silent nod answered him as he plopped a scoop at each place and grabbed two pieces of shortbread. His own skipped his plate to provide my opening.
"Stop emulating Holmes."
Timothy laughed though my friend tried to scowl. "He taught us how to deduce. Can teach us how to enjoy desserts, too. Why wait for later when I can eat it now?"
"Because if you eat it last, you taste it longer," I shot back, pretending not to notice Patrick's staring.
"Better idea." A second piece rested on the side of his plate. "One before. One after. Taste it twice." He paused, then grabbed a third. "One in the middle. Three times."
I could not reply for the suppressed laughter—that only strengthened when Holmes took over the discussion. Within minutes, the two of them had started into one of their planned arguments about the merits of desserts versus meals, and I simply leaned back to watch. Based on Patrick's slow bites and occasional smile, Timothy needed no help.
I did want information, however. I would get the facts from Holmes later.
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