A/N: Hey everyone! As always, thanks so so much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you all enjoys this one :)

Chapter X

It didn't take them long to arrive at the gypsy camp. Its inhabitants had seen the Brits trotting down the dusty path from nearly a mile away, so, by the time they had actually made it to their destination, they were met with a crowded welcome. Curious boys led the front of the pack, followed by the men of the group, who were more guarded than enthusiastic. "Prepare yourselves, we're about to be violated," Holmes whispered to his companions. Just as he'd warned, children's grubby little hands pawed at their belongings, reaching eagerly towards Watson's walking stick and Holmes' valise. They tugged at Clara's skirts, rolling the foreign fabric between their sullied fingers. They didn't speak to them directly, but rather enveloped them in a frantic chatter, which, to Holmes' trained ear, was a hybrid of French and Romani.

Finally, a hulking man stepped forward and silenced the chaos. "Qui ête-vous?" [who are you] he demanded bluntly.

"Je suis un detective," [I'm a detective] Holmes answered fluidly, "Et je cherche pour un guide." [And I'm looking for a guide]

The man's face contorted slightly in distaste. He scratched his straggly tawny beard and, with a thick accent, stated, "You are English."

Holmes was mildly perturbed that he hadn't employed a flawless French accent, but answered, "Yes."

The taller man took note of Holmes' reaction and gave him a jovial grin, revealing several rotten teeth. "Do not worry, Monsieur, you speak very well. It is your companions who gave you away – they are much too stiff to be French."

Holmes sent Clara and Watson a sidelong glance, only to see Watson in the midst of fending off several pre-teens as they tried to steal his bowler and Clara shrinking under scrutiny of the Romani women as they examined her hair. Suddenly, a very small boy swooped in out of nowhere and snatched Holmes' valise straight from his hand. His lack of reaction was phenomenal, and he merely watched disinterestedly as the boy made off with it. He then turned back to his broad-shouldered companion and continued, "Anyway, as I was saying… I find myself in need of a guide."

"A guide for what?" he questioned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"I'm looking for Claude Ravache. It is very urgent."

The man's expression darkened considerably. "We know nothing of Monsieur Ravache. We are a simple people, not criminals, as our reputation may suggest."

Holmes let his eyes wander to a man who was sharpening a dagger that had clearly been stolen from some member of the aristocracy and sent his companion a pointed look. "I do not wish him any harm," he stated confidently, "In fact, I merely wish to warn him. He is in the midst of a political scandal of a global magnitude, and I fear that he has no idea just how great a role he plays."

"And why should I trust you, Englishman," he spat.

"I offer compensation," he said simply. From the breast pocket of his coat, he procured a pouch of coins.

"You cannot buy our cooperation," he said viciously.

Holmes jingled the pouch amiably, causing several people to snap their heads in his direction. "Maybe not yours," he said, "but surely someone else's…"

"What is your name?" he ordered irritably.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective stated, un-fazed.

"Sherlock 'olmes," he repeated, testing it. "Well, Monsieur 'olmes, we cannot help you. If you wish to find Monsieur Ravache, you must do so on your own."

"My good man," Holmes said with the faintest flicker of anger, "If you think we have come all the way from London to have you refuse our request, then you are sorely mistaken."

The other man exhaled forcibly from his nostrils, his temper straining. Watson intervened. "Y at-il un problem?" [Is there a problem] he asked in a horrid accent as he straightened his body to its full height.

"Yes," the gypsy said, "Your companion believes that 'e may bribe my family into betraying one of our own."

"Aha," Holmes cut in with a cocky smirk, "So you do know Monsieur Ravache."

"That is beside the point," he snarled.

Suddenly, a boy of about thirteen or so interrupted. "Papa, I know these Anglais," he said in a heavy accent as he looked up at his father with a pair of olive-green orbs. His voice was raspy, but still pre-pubescent. He wore a patched cap on top of a mop of curly chestnut hair and had dirt smeared on his tanned cheeks. "They are the ones who were involved with the Diamant last year," he explained. "Sherlock Holmes, oui?"

"Yes, that is I," he said, mildly surprised that the boy had remembered – or even heard of – the incident. "How do you know who I am?"

"Your name was in the papers last year – there was a shooting in your 'otel room. You were the one who found the diamant."

"Fermer la bouche, Benoît," [Shut up, Benoit] the man instructed as he gave the boy a light cuff on the back of the head.

"Mais Papa ils n'ont pas méchants! Ils peuvent l'aider!" [But Papa they aren't bad! We can help them!] he protested.

"We do not need their help," he answered gravely.

Angry and hurt, the boy turned on his heels and stormed off. An idea immediately struck Holmes.

"Well," he started, "If that is how you feel, fine. I suspect that Monsieur Ravache may be dead before the week's end, but obviously that is none of your concern. However, I would be much obliged if you at least let us stay the night – we have spent the entire day traveling and both myself and my companions are very fatigued."

The man considered his words carefully, and eventually replied, "I suppose that would be all right. May it never be said that the Romani are not an 'ostpitable people."

"And what is your name, might I ask?" Holmes stuck out his hand as a peace offering.

The man eyed it warily, but soon shook it nevertheless. "Bruno Belville," he answered curtly.

"Bruno. And that boy was your son, no? Benoît, was it?"

"Yes," he said tiredly. His son was sulking, sitting on the edge of one of the caravans and kicking a hole in the dirt with the front of his tattered shoe.

"Well, these are my companions," Holmes introduced, "My colleague, Doctor John Watson, and my wife, Clara." The two gave small smiles of acknowledgement, but said nothing.

Later in the evening, after dinner, Benoît continued to pout. He sat away from the campfire and took his meal in solitude. This did not evade Holmes' notice, and, after the adults were sufficiently intoxicated from their god-awful homebrewed liquor (which, coincidentally, had a highly amusing affect on Watson), he was able to slip away to talk to the boy in private. He sat beside him on the steps of one of the caravans and said, "Hello, Benoît."

Benoît's face brightened considerably at this mere acknowledgement – he was clearly shocked that the brilliant detective would pay him any notice, let alone condescend to speak to him. This was a wonderful boost to Holmes' ego, and he decided that he liked the boy already.

"'ello, Monsieur 'olmes," he replied eagerly.

"Would you happen to know where Monsieur Ravache is hiding?" he asked carefully.

Benoît furrowed his brow, clearly conflicted. "Papa said that I wasn't to discuss it…" he started apologetically.

"Ah, yes, you're correct. I'm sorry, I wouldn't want to put you in a position that would make you uncomfortable. It's just, you see, this is a matter of paramount importance – much more important than the Hope Diamond case. There are innocent lives at stake, Benoît, and I know that you don't want to see people get hurt."

The boy mulled his words over with the utmost care, no doubt translating them into French in his mind. Finally, he spoke, "Do you promise that you won't 'urt 'im?"

"Of course," he agreed quickly.

Benoît looked around shiftily, as if to ensure that no one was listening. "Alright," he hissed, "I can take you to where he is. But we 'ave to leave tonight, before anyone can stop us."

"By the time we get to the city, there won't be anywhere for us to spend the night, let alone any sure way of locating Ravache" Holmes explained gently, "It would be much more efficient if we left tomorrow."

Again, Benoît fretfully considered what Holmes had told him. "I suppose you are right," he said slowly, "But no one can no that I have gone. Papa will be very angry with me if he learns of hat I have done."

"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be able to devise of some way of distracting him while you're gone," Holmes assured him. "He won't even notice your absence."

Benoît bit his lower lip tentatively, but nodded in consent nevertheless.

"Very well, my good chap – we shall leave tomorrow morning. Judging by the copious amount of alcohol that your comrades have consumed, I suspect it unlikely that they shall awake before we leave."

Benoît's brain was reeling as it tried to process Holmes' speedy string of words. When he realized what he'd been told, he grinned at the detective, revealing a set of pearly crooked teeth, a handful of which were just coming in. Holmes allowed him no more than a compulsory smirk in response. Whereas the boy's admiration was at first endearing, it was now becoming disconcerting – Holmes didn't exactly know how he felt about being held in such high esteem. He didn't consider himself a hero, and he didn't think that others should either. It put too much pressure on him, pressure he couldn't afford – at least not at a time like this. Not that Holmes was particularly affected by something so trivial as 'pressure,' of course, but people's disappointed implied that he'd failed in some way, and Holmes was never one to fail at anything.

(Later…)

The next morning was not pleasant for Doctor Watson. While Holmes had, over the years, grown entirely accustomed to forcing himself into a (highly) functioning individual after a bout of heavy drinking, Watson had yet to perfect the talent. It wasn't like Watson to drink excessively, and, although Clara ultimately disapproved of the habit, she had to admit that the dear doctor had been quite amusing in his drunken stupor. After gambling away sixty pounds, he'd partaken in a traditional gypsy dance that had left his feet sore and blistered. He was sure to have a rude awakening in the morning.

Because Bruno was the head of the camp and therefore had the most sway, they'd been able to sleep in one of his three caravans. Clara awoke at dawn to her husband prodding her. With a headache, she groggily waved him away. She hadn't had much to drink the previous night, but she was fatigued from all the traveling.

"We really must leave," Holmes insisted in an urgent whisper.

"Why so early?" she complained.

"Because we must go before anyone notices we've left."

"Why?" she groaned, her eyes still firmly shut.

"Because we're taking the boy with us and they can't know he's gone. I've created a diversion to distract them while we're gone, but they obviously can't see him leave," he explained impatiently.

"What boy?"

"Benoît. Bruno's son."

"Oh." Before she could say any more, Holmes had grabbed her hand and was hauling her off the floor. After she was sufficiently awake, the two of them slowly turned to address a loudly snoring Watson.

"So how are we going to do this?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

In response, Holmes nudged the other man with the tip of his foot. When he didn't even budge, he repeated the action with increased force. Watson scrunched his eyes closed and made an annoyed noise.

"You've got to get up," Clara tried, barely hiding her smirk. It wasn't often that the proper doctor would be caught in such a state – she saw this as true evidence of how comfortable he had grown to be in her presence.

After several moments of waiting for him to get up, Homes' patience was gone. He knelt beside his friend and began shaking him mercilessly.

Immediately, Watson reacted. "I'm up, I'm up!" he cried furiously. He shoved Holmes away from him with surprising strength and scrambled to his feet. Clara concealed a snicker with the back of her hand.

After composing himself after the shock of being assaulted, Holmes urged the doctor to be quiet by rudely shushing him. "We must be quiet," he hissed, "We've got to leave now, before anyone wakes up."

Watson glared daggers at him and straightened his jacket; he shot an apologetic look at Clara, who was no longer even attempting to hide her amusement. When they exited the caravan, Benoît was already waiting outside. Once he saw the trio emerge, he beckoned them to the carriage that they'd arrived in.

"'urry up!" he ordered in a hushed tone. They obeyed, and soon the four of them were well on their way into the city. Holmes was sure that the rest of the gypsies would have a busy day trying to recollect their herd of horses that had been mysteriously released into the countryside.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Pretty please review and let me know what you think! :)