Chapter 1: Thorough

AN: This story is a prequel to Pompey's "One of Their Own," and can be read before or after that masterpiece. There will be three chapters. Many thanks to Pompey for sharing her incredible work and for the permission to publish this prequel.

This first chapter contains the only overt violence in the story. If violence makes you uncomfortable, skip to chapter 2 for a K+ story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or his universe. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended.

By the time the news reached him, it was late afternoon and the March sunlight was already fading into a dusky chill evening. Someone - medium height, brown hair, moustache, introduces himself as a doctor, apparently not a peeler, that man walking out the door just now, it took him a few stops to track the blighter - was asking around about the late Cecil Jarvis. He didn't get where he was by leaving loose ends. He was on the doctor's tail, waiting for the right spot to take care of the business. A street crowded with jostling hansom cabs but with nearly empty sidewalks was just the ticket. He caught up with the doctor in time to trip into him, pushing the interfering toff a few stumbling steps down an alley. It was simple, really, and it worked every time: keep them too dazed and out of breath to raise a fuss, take care of it quickly, and leave before someone else accidentally walked in and had to be taken care of the same way.

The doctor, then, hadn't gotten his balance back before he got a fist to the side of the head, followed by quick blows to the belly. When the man bent over his hurt belly, a twist of his arm behind him pushed him double and a hand on his neck kept him down. The shoulder must have been hurt earlier. It didn't take that much of a twist to bend him further and hold the position long enough to slam a knee into the man's chest before shoving him headlong into the wall and pushing him to the ground. He let go of the doctor's arm to get in a good kick to the ribs, then kicked his face hard enough to crack his skull against the brick. He prided himself on getting a good head knock every two or three blows. Being thorough like that kept him out of trouble. He took care of little problems before they became big problems, or the peelers took interest.

He landed a few more kicks on the man's chest and stomach before he realized that the doctor wasn't shielding himself. Unconscious or dead, he wouldn't be a problem anymore. A stomp to the hand limp on the pavement got no response, confirming his evaluation. The doctor'd be dead before he was found, probably tomorrow morning. No sloppiness, no fuss. This was why he didn't get caught. He was professional.