At the moment Lord Haversmith opened his mouth to articulate to us the facts, yet another intrusion burst through our door in the form of a young, male, slender frame enveloped in a cast-off coat several sizes too large. A dirty face and large shrewd, yet worried eyes peered out from a surrounding unruly mop of reddish hair. He appeared to be somewhat damp from the recent downpour I now heard buffeting our windows.

"Wiggins!" barked Holmes sharply.

"Beggin yer pard'n, guv," the adroit and seasoned leader of the Irregulars interrupted Holmes breathlessly. "Bu' I comes fer da Do'cter. One o' me boys," he went on, now addressing me. " 'E been 'urt sorry! Quick, guv!"

Holmes eyes widened at that and rose from his seat, deferring to me.

I wasted no time and sprang from my chair, only noting in passing, as I followed Wiggins out the door, the turning diversity of annoyed, shocked and amused expressions on our client's faces. I paused in the doorway and looked back.

"Go, Watson!" cried Holmes, inferring my thoughts and sending me off with an abrupt dismissing wave. "I'm right behind you with your bag."

Wiggins had already flown down the stairs ahead of me and was halfway back up again, hastening me on. " 'Urry, guv!"

I hurdled down the remainder of the seventeen steps, following the youth around the banisters and into the ground floor hall. I was greeted with the sight of a band of dirty and chilled ragamuffins milling about the hall and dripping on the carpet.

" 'Ere, off wif ya," Wiggins shooed them away, striding into their midst. They immediately parted like the Red Sea, scrambling around behind me with a clatter, crowding in front of and in-between the two outer doors.

In the cleared hall I was greeted with another scene. Mrs. Hudson was kneeling on the carpet, the back of her form all but blocking my view of the patient, save for a pair of small bare feet and a few tufts of dark, tangled hair.

She glanced woefully back up at me at my approach. "Ach, Doctor, ye best have a look."

Both Wiggins and I strode forward with purpose to our goal. When I maneuvered around Mrs. Hudson, I was abruptly taken aback at the person spread on the carpet and propped halfway up into our resident chatelaine's lap. My patient was a very young boy about five or six years old. Despite his young age, he made a manful attempt to stem his tears, quiet sniffling whimpers his only sound.

"He's just a baby!" I exclaimed, turning on Wiggins with a glare.

He stood there, fidgeting and shuffling from foot to foot briefly. Then one corner of his upper lip curled momentarily, as it were a trifling. "I gets 'oo I gets, guv."

The boy's bloodied face was turning pale with shock, in spite of the dirt, and his right leg set at a slight odd angle at the knee. A pair of moist blue eyes pleaded up at me as he tightly gripped a knot of Mrs. Hudson's shift in one small fist.

A moment later I heard Holmes bounding down the stairs like a herd of elephants, his grip squeaking with an abrupt turn round the banister. He came to a sliding stop beside me on the uncarpeted edge of the hall, his dressing gown flapping a breeze over our personages, disturbing loose apparel and tufts of hair. Despite his careless rush, he mindfully placed my black bag on the carpet and nearly on my foot.

I rose a dubious eyebrow at him.

He shrugged with an insouciant air, then pointedly cocked an eye at my patient, then back at me, a small smile quirked at the corners of his mouth, awaiting my diagnosis. I was amazed he managed to remain silent, rather than launch in with a dashed inquiry.

I knelt down and ran one hand over the child's knee, palpitating the surrounding flesh and ascertaining it's exact condition whilst taking his small, thin wrist in the other and feeling a weakening pulse. I made a non-commental sound and began giving out directions. "Mrs. Hudson, we need to stretch him out upon the carpet." That done with minimal fuss, save for a gasp and whimper from our brave boy, I shifted around to settle below his feet. "Holmes," I directed him. "Come down around to his right side, facing me. Get a good grip on both his hips, so that they don't move. We're going to wrench this knee back into place."

"I' no' be 'earts," piped in Wiggins' perplexed voice.

"No," I rejoined him. "It's merely dislocated, thankfully. It hasn't been this way for very long," I went on, addressing Holmes. "It's only begun to swell, so it should be easier to put back in place."

Wiggins retreated a pace, eyeing us with cautious calculation.

"You rest easy, lad," I directed the youngster. "We'll have that leg righted in no time at all. Ready?"

The child gave a small nod and bit his lip.

"Try to relax and let us do all the work." Rummaging in my bag, I pulled out a syringe and a small rubber-stoppered bottle. The boy's eyes widened at this sight. "It's something to help with the pain," I reassured him.

"Benjamin," he suddenly announced. "Me name."

"All right, Benjamin. This will hurt a little." Brandishing the loaded syringe, I indicated the boy should follow my example. I took a deep breath, he did the same, and I pressed the needle into a vein, slowly plunging the piston home, both of us releasing everything in a sigh. He let his eyes droop and hands and shoulders relax, letting the sedative do it's work.

I re-addressed Holmes. "When I pull down on his leg, hold him tight and pull up." Placing my hands in the appropriate positioning, I gave a firm, hard pull and twist, and a second later there came a satisfying deep-toned pop. The boy let out a shriek to bring down the house, tears leaking from tightly closed lids and Holmes' dressing gown gripped spasmodically in his fists.

Mrs. Hudson nearly let out a shriek herself, clamping a hand over her mouth, her expression the exemplification of pained sympathy.

"It's quite alright," I assured her. "Painful, but he'll recover in a few days."

Turning back to Holmes, I saw that my calculating and undemonstrative friend had leaned down and was murmuring quietly into the child's ear, brushing his fingers over the dark hair. I smiled at this rare display and it seemed he was unaware he had betrayed the affection he had for these dirty Arabs.

I prevailed on our longsuffering landlady, before Holmes noticed the scene he created. "Mrs. Hudson, if you'll be so good as to bring up some ice, rags, wrapping and a splint."

"Aye. I'm expectin' you'll be wantin' a sponge bath and fresh clothes for him too. You'll not be depositing him on the clean bed-clothes, mind."

I winced, expecting a tongue lashing, already feeling guilty for what I hadn't committed yet. "You'll be needing to bring up some fresh bed-clothes, then."

Instead, she laughed good-naturedly. "Aye, and lunch besides." She abruptly turned a gimlet eye upon the band of Arabs, still milling in the outer doorways. They shuffled back a pace, uneasy with her implied intent. "You'll be wantin' something too, I expect?"

Smiles broke out over dirty faces. "Coughs, needles an' stops," they chorused as one.

Mrs. Hudson frowned at their confusing slang. "Aye," said she, finally. "Coome on, then. Let's see what we can airt out to tide you over."

Holmes and I quickly rose to our feet, crowding close to the wall to let them proceed. He lifted the youngster close into his embrace as they all eagerly clattered and chattered past.

"Wiggins," my companion called after them. "You know the rules."

"All 'arbour, guv," he returned, giving a mock salute, as he disappeared with his band through the doorway into the kitchens.

As we mounted the seventeen steps, the child wrapped his small arms round Holmes' neck, his lashes and cheeks still damp, appearing for all the world like some sleepy, dark-haired cherub.

We met our clients descending the stairs, their demeanor reflecting discreet alarm, even before they beheld us. "We were wondering what..." began Miss Haversmith, without conviction. "Oh..."

I was perplexed. "I beg your pardon?" I queried, stepping up from behind Holmes.

"I'm so sorry," said Lord Haversmith, firmly, "but we absolutely must depart."

"But you just arrived," I insisted. "And requested our services. Be so good as to remain."

They refused and advanced again, attempting to proceed us.

"One moment!" cried Holmes, nearly dropping his burden as he sprang from the steps, blocking their passage at the bottom of the stairs. His expression was masterfully resolute. "There is something about this child that is disturbing you."

They seemed to ignore my companion's statement, but I saw that Holmes and the Haversmiths were in a battle of the wills. I surged forward, ready to assist in whatever way necessary, but Holmes shook his head, halting me with one warning word. "Watson..." Something told him to let them go.

"We will return," his lordship stated commandingly. "Perhaps tomorrow. Good day." They pushed past and sailed out the door, slamming it shut behind them.

Holmes abruptly propelled the child in my arms and dashed out after them, but they had disappeared in the after-rain rush and into their cab, racing off down the street, before he even reached the side of the road.

"Damn!" cried Holmes, gritting his teeth and splashing back wetly through both front doors, leaving a trail from his soaked, slippered feet behind him. He let out a snarling snort as he stomped up the steps.

"Holmes?" I called after him, following him up, shifting my medical bag in one hand and my new small burden into my side.

"They'll return!" he barked back down at me, and then muttered and grumbled under his breath, not stopping his progression into our rooms, "They'd better return."

Just as I stepped into the upper hall, I heard Mrs. Hudson begin tottering up the stairs. Two helpers thundered up before her and past me, with both our luncheon and my supplies. Dropping everything on the table and Holmes' bedroom, respectively, they thundered back down again, stopping at the bottom and turning to address our chatelaine at the top of the stairs.

"Tha' be all?" asked they pleadingly.

"Aye lads. Go on."

They cheered and dashed into the kitchens again.

Finally able to lay down my increasingly slack and lassitude burden, I proceeded through the steps of treating my patient on Holmes' narrow bed, as Mrs. Hudson set up our luncheon and retreated quietly. Looking back into the sitting room, I observed that Holmes had curled up in his chair, sulking, so I would get no help from him currently.

My patient mumbled drowsily a number of times in my administrations, fighting sleep. "Mr. "Olmes," he finally said clearly, proffering something held tightly in his fist.

I reached for it, but he pulled away, holding it to himself. "No," he insisted. "'Olmes."

"Very well..." I eyed him. "Holmes," I called out. He did not respond. "Holmes!" I barked, starting him to attention.

He blinked and peered drowsily at me. "What?"

I indicated Benjamin. "There's something of importance for you, here."

He barely showed interest. "Really?"

The boy proffered his fist. "Dis'as 'pose ta be fer you, Mr. "Olmes."

My companion's curiosity roused, he rose languidly and advanced on the offering.
One small young hand was enveloped in Holmes' large thin one, as he now focused intently on the child's moist blue eyes. "I have it, Ben," Holmes assured him, in a hushed voice just as intense. "You can let go now."

Benjamin released both his hold on the unknown object and consciousness, slipping gratefully into the arms of Morpheus as his whole frame went lax.

Holmes gently let the boy's arm fall into the bedclothes and he opened his hand. A wad of something brownish-white lay in his palm. He tugged it apart, drawing it to its full extent. It appeared to be a length of dirty, knotted string.

"Most interesting," Holmes muttered to himself, striding across the sitting room and flinging himself in his chair, concentration now refocused on a new aspect of the case. It was amazing how his moods swiftly changed from intense to despondent and back in a short interval. He soon drew his legs up, curling his long frame further into his chair and pocketed the string, lighting his clay.

I would hear no more from him till he saw fit to reveal any conclusions.

Upon that note, I washed up, then made work of the luncheon Mrs. Hudson had well provided for us. It was just as the Street Arabs had wanted, cheese and bread and beef, with ham, greens and peach pie for good measure. Over thirty minutes later, now satiated, I sat in somnolent inattention in my own chair across from him, lazily smoking an after lunch pipe. After some minutes I yawned, set aside my pipe and settled deeper in my chair.

Suddenly I was awakened by an abrupt cry from Holmes. I started, blinking myself awake, only to see that he was still curled in his chair, a screen of smoke curling around and over his head. He had taken out the string again and was carefully re-examining it for some minutes. Then he was patting his pockets, searching them uselessly.

I drew out my watch, purposely delaying my assistance with his usual untidy habits when it came to crime relics, implements and papers. Two hours had past since I had set down. Glancing over through Holmes' open bedroom door, I noted with relief that my little patient remained asleep.

Holmes was now was glancing in agitation round the room.

I decided to humor him and put him out of his misery. Stepping over to the sideboard spread out with the remainder of our luncheon, I plucked up what he was looking for from the butter dish.

"What was my magnifying glass doing in the butter dish?" he declared around his pipe, as I handed him the glass and he began wiping greasy residue from the handle on a napkin.

I returned his question with an expression of innocent expectation.

He paused mid-swipe and eyed me suspiciously. "Never mind." Stuffing his now unlit pipe in his dressing gown pocket, he began to examine several sections of the string under the glass. "Aha!" cried he with significance. He put his hand out expectantly. "Tweezers?"

I dropped them into his waiting fingers.

"What would I do without you, Watson?" he admitted, as he plucked minute fibers from amongst the filaments of the string and placing them carefully on the occasional table.

"You'd spend half the case searching for your tools of the trade?" I teased him.

He scowled at me and snorted, brandishing the tweezers. "I'm not asking why this was residing where it was residing. Would you be so good as to bring down the package from your room?"

I dashed up and dashed back down, placing it in his lap.

He looked at it, frowned, then looked back up at me, raising his brows skeptically. "The wrapping?"

Plunging my arm under his seat, I found what he sought and pulled it out with a flourish.

He snatched it abruptly from my fingers and growled, half annoyed, half amused.

Pulling strands from the wrapping, he examined those fibers under the magnifying glass and then re-examined the fibers he had removed from the string along with it. "Aha! It's just as I suspected." He proffered the evidence in my direction. "This string was tied around this package. The paper I took from the string is the same as the paper that had wrapped the package."

"Was?"

"Was."

"Then why did Benjamin have it? How did it get off the package?" I muttered. "And why is it knotted like this? Certainly not decoration. Who would decorate a dirty string?"

"Idiot!" he cried, smacking his forehead with a palm. "Of course!"

"What?" I lamented, taking offence.

Holmes snorted. "Watson! Really! I'm referring to myself."

"Oh?" I smiled slyly, settling back in my chair. "What did you do this time?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and made a long-suffering face. He wadded up the string and tossed it into my lap. "Tell me, Watson, what further information can you deduce from that?"

I examined it closely, and played my part. "It's a dirty piece of knotted string, Holmes. What am I suppose to be seeing?"

He let out a deep sigh and glared at me pointedly.

I echoed his sigh and began my examination again.

After a long half a minute, he became impatient and urged me on with further questions.

"How many knots are there?"

"A good number. I'd say...several dozen."

"How many kinds of knots?"

"Uh..." I examined it over again, silently mouthing each count. "There are two kinds of knots."

He wriggled in his seat and chuckled to himself. "Observe that those knots aren't just randomly dispersed."

"Oh, really?" I peered at it closer. "Hmm..." I looked up at Holmes as a bit of something began to occur to me. "Is it a code?"

He fell upon me with a laughing whoop, wringing my hand. "Finally!" He was dancing and laughing and nearly bouncing off the furniture.

All but laughing with him in the hidden fires of his childlike delight, another conclusion suddenly dawned on me. "Holmes, I just had an epiphany."

He sent me a sly affectionate smile and rolled his eyes. "Will wonders never cease!"

"Whomever sent you the package..." I surged forward, in spite of his backhanded compliment. "...sent you a coded message. On an ordinary piece of string, tied around the package. Very clever!"

"You are unequivocally scintillating my good Watson!"

"Do you know the message?"

He flashed his teeth in a quick rueful smile. "No, unfortunately not. However, it is what I will be doing for the remainder of the day, while you..." his attention shifted to activity behind me. "Ah...you will attend to your most unfortunate patient. I see he has regained consciousness."

"Watson," he paused me at his bedroom door, as he stood at the mantle, relighting his pipe.

"Yes?"

"One more fact. This isn't the whole message. One end has been torn, not cut."

(note: can anyone figure out what the message may be, and using what type of code? I already know what type of code, for it was chosen specifically. However, I've no idea what the message would be. I have a page copied out of some magazine with this very code knotted on a string. I thought it would be interesting incorporating it in this pastiche. It *is* a simple code already in use in Holmes era, just that on the string it is in a different form than in it's original use, so that it is not as easily recognizable.)

Proceed to Part Five