"The cab's outside, Holmes," Watson said, coming into the consulting room, Patrick in tow. He drew up short as a familiar figure walked into his path. A furrowed brow soon replaced his surprised demeanor as he glanced over the cap, curly wig, red mustache, and came to rest on the owner's pretty grey eyes.

"Why, Mr. Danny Adams," Watson said, recalling the name with a slight edge in his voice. "I didn't realize you would be here." Watson threw Holmes a look just short of a glare.

"Nor did I," Holmes replied coolly, purposely fixing his gaze on his gloves.

"Ye could say it was a surprise," Christine said, also averting her eyes from the doctor's. She stuck her hands in her pockets. She knelt to Patrick's eye level. "Ye must be Patrick. Good name, that."

"Are you gonna help get me brother back?" he asked.

"Aye, lad," Christine replied softly.

He ran a sleeve across his nose. "Thank you, sir." He looked around. "Where's Miss Andrews?"

"She's gone out," Holmes replied, careful not to answer too quickly.

"I'm sure she's doing what she can to help," Watson said, glancing at her.

"Just so." Holmes tapped his Homburg hat down upon his head and gestured to them. "Mind Mrs. Hudson, Patrick - and don't touch the chemistry set. Come along, Watson, Miss…ter Adams."

Christine hid a smile as she followed the doctor and the detective out of the room and down the stairs, to where the cab was waiting.

A short time later, their cab pulled up to 14 Vere Street. As the climbed out, Christine saw there was a police wagon, its doors wide open, as well as two large horse-drawn carts and a couple of men on horseback. She recognized several officers from the station.

Higgins was idling near the front door. As soon as he saw Holmes's cab pull up, he called inside the house and then jumped into the police wagon next to Constables MacPherson and Emerson, who sat inside on the low benches.

A moment later, Lestrade came walking swiftly out the door, one arm in his coat.

A sweet-faced woman trailed after him, a little girl clinging to her skirt. A young boy of six or seven came to stand in the light of the doorway. The woman helped Lestrade's other arm into his sleeve and kissed his cheek. They exchanged a few words, Lestrade patted the girl on the head, and strode towards the police wagon.

"Hello, Lestrade."

"Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes. Oh! Mr. Adams, isn't it?" Lestrade stuck out his hand. "Good to see you, sir. Coming to assist?"

Christine shook his hand briefly. "Aye, inspector. Happened to be in town."

"That's fortunate," Lestrade remarked as he got into the wagon. "From the sounds of things, we can use all the help we can get. Where's the boy?" he asked, turning to Holmes.

"Back at Baker Street. We thought it safer," Holmes replied, with a subtle but pointed look at Christine.

She pretended not to notice as she sat down beside him. "Nasty business these mills."

"You don't know the half of it," Lestrade said as the wagon lurched forward. "Read about them, years back. Children with missing fingers, limbs, crippled for life...working from dawn 'til after dusk. Those kinds of things diminished in '70 and '80, with the Elementary Education Acts...but I've heard rumors of some of the mills and factories still in operation, especially in the rural areas." He rubbed a hand agitatedly over his face. "I can't believe that-" he began, but he was interrupted by the fast clatter of hooves behind them.

"Hello, what's this?" Watson said, peering out the single barred window over Lestrade's head. "It's Gregson!"

Lestrade's face turned pale with anger, and he rose to his feet, gripping onto the window bars to steady himself. He opened his mouth to speak, but Gregson beat him to it.

"Keep your hat on, Lestrade," he called loudly. "I'm here to help you." He pulled something out of his pocket, holding his horse's reins with one hand. "I got the warrant. Now the thing's legal." He stuck the warrant back in his pocket. "And I hope you don't mind, I'm coming with. You'll have your hands full with all those children."

Wiggins opened the door and crept down the hall with the rest of the boys, each painfully aware that any sound could cost them dearly. He and Bidder stood watch while Simmons and a few other boys who had sisters fetched the girls. The wait was like standing on a bed of pins, and every noise, every creak of the old building sent Wiggins' heart racing.

At last, Simmons reappeared, behind him the rest of the boys and Maddie with all the other girls, locked hand-in-hand. Wiggins indicated all to be silent once more, and headed down the stairs, looking this way and that. When he was satisfied all was clear, he beckoned to the group.

He had just turned back around when there was a sudden glow and a tall figure turned out of the hallway ahead.

Wiggins stopped dead, fear turning his insides to ice.

It was Mrs. Tern.

Her eyes locked with his for what seemed like an eternity, breaking at last to rove over the crowd behind him. Wiggins' brain was screaming at him to do something – run somewhere, hide somewhere,but his legs felt rooted to the spot, and there was nowhere to go except back to their rooms. Slowly his hands curled into fists. He wasn't going back.

To his sheer amazement, Mrs. Tern walked briskly towards him and handed him her candle.

He opened his mouth to ask her why, but she placed a finger to her lips and shook her head. "I…I never liked this from the start," she whispered. "But I daren't openly disobey my brother. There is a back door, out the kitchen," she said, gesturing behind her. "Before the kitchen is Mr. Martin's room. He'll help you, he has a stronger heart than I. Go. Go now, and hurry child." She shooed them along. "I will keep vigil."

And she did. She stood at the bottom of the stairs and kept a look out as group after group of children passed her. One of the older girls hugged her skirt as she passed.

Wiggins knocked softly on Martin's door.

"What? What, who's-" A muffled voice came from within. The door opened, and Martin appeared, pulling one of his braces over his shoulder as he tugged up his trousers. He stopped short at the sight of them. "What are you doing? Get back to your rooms-"

"Please, Mr. Martin," Wiggins interrupted, "You have to help us get out of here. Mrs. Tern said you would."

Martin's mouth hung open.

One after the other, the children began to call out to him in soft, tear-strained voices. "Please, sir."

"Please."

"Please, Mr. Martin."

He held up his hands as if to stem the flow of pleading voices, then placed a hand over his mouth. He stared at the shabby, frail children standing before him, barefoot and wide-eyed, and his eyes finally came to rest on the injured Jacobson, supported between two boys. After a long moment of standing like that, he let out a shaking breath and nodded. "Right." He disappeared into his room and reappeared again pulling on a long coat, a heavy cane in his hand. He shoved a cap down over his ears. "Come on. I'm taking you lot home."

"Mr. Adams, Holmes," Watson said sharply, eyes raised to the roof of the carriage, "That tapping is not going to get us there any faster, and it's touching already frayed nerves."

Christine and Holmes both stilled their feet, and Christine clasped her hands in her lap. "Sorry, doctor," she said, almost forgetting to use her disguised voice.

"You seem rather on edge, Mr. Holmes," Emerson remarked from where he sat across from Christine.

"There's been a murder, constable," Holmes said coldly. "I would think that would be enough to warrant any perceived anxiety."

"I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean any offense."

"Neither did Holmes I'm sure," Watson said with a glance at the detective. Holmes cast an annoyed eye at the doctor, but said nothing. "It's just…it's a touch personal this time."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Holmes works with several of the lads who were taken," Christine said gently, and Emerson raised an eyebrow.

"He calls them the Baker Street Irregulars," Watson said with a slight smile. "I certainly was taken aback the first time I met them. The pitter patter of little naked feet on our stairs and suddenly the room was full of a crowd of dirty street-Arabs."

"You work with them?" Emerson asked, staring at Holmes.

"Employ, rather," Holmes said, leaning forward slightly. "There is no better network for news, rumors and information than those children. They have no barriers. They see and hear everything. Where a man will shut up like a clam up at the sight of a uniform, they don't give a child a second thought."

"Despite all appearances, they're good children," Watson put in.

"They are indispensable," Holmes said softly. "I won't rest until they're back at home where they belong."

"How did you find out about them being missing, if they're just vagrant children?"

"Patrick Gibson is one of the youngest of my usual set. He witnessed the others being taken, and came to Miss Andrews while I was out."

At her name, Emerson straightened up, a concerned look on his face. "I hope Miss Andrews hasn't had to be too involved in this," he said. "I can't imagine how frightening this sort of thing would be for a lady."

Christine fought the urge to roll her eyes. I'm not a weak helpless female. Really, Emerson. I had thought better of you than that. "On the contrary, she was disappointed she couldn't do more to help," she interjected, then fidgeted as all eyes went to her. "'Least that's what she told me, before we left."

"She's doing everything in her power," Holmes remarked, and Christine felt a little nudge as he moved his foot to rest alongside hers, as if affirming her presence there. "Nothing I can do or say would convince her to do otherwise. She's quite the independent woman."

Emerson let out a short laugh. "Yes, I've gathered that much."

Only two lanterns shone in the dusky fog as Bidder and Kelly took turns with Martin and Wiggins, hoisting the smallest and youngest into the large wagon that had initially brought them there. Soon it was crowded, but all the children were determined to make room.

"Get down low as you can," Wiggins said to them. "Simmons, help me with this blanket." He and Simmons, with Maddie's help, covered the children as best they could, arranging a few items in the back so it would look like a run of supplies instead of children being smuggled away. Wiggins peered around the front, where Pilgrim and Holt were seated on the two horses. Pilgrim's brother and Holt's father worked as stable hands, so the boys knew their way around horses and had been key in getting them hooked up to the wagon. The horses neighed softly or stamped a hoof from time to time, but were otherwise quiet under the boys' knowledgeable hands.

"Only a few more, and we'll be set, Mr. Martin," Wiggins said.

The man nodded, eyes still glued to the buildings beyond the stables. He'd barely taken his eyes off them, and generally seemed more fidgety than the children did.

"Thank you," Wiggins said, and Martin finally tore his eyes away to look at him.

"Please, don't thank me," Martin said, hanging his head and wiping his brow. "I'm sorry I helped get you all here in the first place. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself," he added in a quieter voice. He cleared his throat and straightened his hat. "All right. Up you get," he said, nodding to the wagon.

Wiggins was just turning towards the wagon when he saw a dark form melt out of the shadows of the stable doors.

"Where are you off to, Mr. Martin?"

Martin whirled and all the children froze as the long-legged form of Finch strode out from behind the stable doors. "And my my, what are all these lil' uns doing out of their beds? They need their rest."

Wiggins saw Mr. Martin's hand tremble, but he raised his walking stick. "I'm taking them home, Finch." Wiggins pushed Maddie and Simmons behind the wagon, trying his best to shield them from view. To his dismay, the action caught Finch's eye.
"Ah, it's you," the man said, narrowing his eyes at him. "Knew you were a troublemaker from the start, my lad." His hand clenched around his heavy cane, and he took a large step towards them.

Martin stepped into his path. "Don't you lay a finger on them. I've had enough of this business. I've-I've already sent word to the police."

Finch threw his head back in a raucous laugh, which dissolved into a tight sneer. "You've done no such thing. No one's comin' to help you. Any of you."

While Martin had Finch occupied, Maddie had been making sure all the children were settled into the cart at the front, and they were all in, except for Simmons, Kelly, and Bidder. The rest of the children were huddled down, pressing themselves close to the bottom of the cart and against one another, trying to keep out of Finch's sight.

"Listen," Wiggins whispered out of the corner of his mouth to his fellows. "Tell Pilgrim and Holt to take the wagon and go as fast as they can. I'm sure they can handle two horses. Get as far as you can. Martin and I will hold 'em off. No-" he said, gripping Simmons' arm as he opened his mouth to protest. "Do what I say. Please."

The three of them nodded, then silently, slowly backed towards the front of the cart.

Finch skirted around Martin to get at Wiggins, but Martin raised his cane swiftly, holding it just shy of Finch's chest. "I'm warning you, Finch," he said, eyes steely behind his spectacles.

Craning his neck, Wiggins saw that the last of his friends had just settled into the driver's seat. "Go, Simmons, go!" he yelled.

There was the sharp cracked of a whip and a loud whistle, the whinny of the horses, and the wagon took off at a gallop.

With a sudden rough shove against his cane, Finch sent Martin sprawling on his back in the mud. Before he could get any further, Martin flipped over onto his stomach and locked his hand around Finch's ankle, sending the tall man crashing to the ground.

"Run, lad!" Martin cried, clambering to his feet.

Finch stood, wiping mud from his face. There was murder in his eyes. "KITE! GREEBE!" he howled. "GET OUT HERE!" He tightened his grip on his cane and advanced on Martin. "Never liked you. Just a weakling. And I'm not gonna have a weakling messin' up our business!"

A/N: Howdy again! Recently the darling Daniela de las sagas commented on my the last chapter and it struck me to the heart. I hate when stories are left hanging, and I've left you guys hanging for a really long time. I'm doing my best to wrap this up. I've had writer's block on it for a long time and it's been difficult to finish, but I decided to just get it done.

I'm not super happy with how the exchange between Emerson and Holmes came, so if you guys have any clever ideas or exchanges that could be either funny or serious (for this chapter or future chapters/storiess), I am all ears!

Thank you so much for keeping with me and reading! I love you all :-)