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“Come here you little—”
The final word drowned beneath a pained cry, and Mycroft stopped mid step. An endless, tiring day wanted only to be home despite the hours at his club, but the owner of that voice needed help. He ignored the scrambling from his guards as long strides carried him down the alley.
“Think you can run from me?!” a man’s voice snarled. Another squeak became half a gasp, then a sob. “I’ll give you something to cry about!”
No. He gave Mycroft a reason to intervene. Rounding the next corner found a young boy protecting a younger girl, red welts already blooming on the boy’s back as the man looming over them raised his belt for another hit. A quick readjustment changed the leather end for the buckle.
And met an unexpected obstacle. The man’s next swing somehow managed to ram his face directly into Mycroft’s fist. Both young ones took advantage of the distraction to hide in the nearest alcove, while the abusive blackguard swayed slightly, then turned to snarl at Mycroft.
“Why’d ye do that?! Min’ yer own business ‘fore I might it fer ye!”
“I am already minding theirs.” The low rumble made the ruffian hesitate, as if he had never encountered someone not afraid of him, but he wound up to target Mycroft instead of his children, and Mycroft saw no reason to wait for his security team to step forward. The man’s face ran into Mycroft’s fist yet again, though this much harder hit laid the man flat. Harris reached them the next moment.
“Bentley went for a Yarder.” A glance confirmed Mycroft uninjured before he started securing the abusive sperm donor, and Mycroft turned away to check on those young ones. They still huddled in the corner of an alcove about thirty feet down the alley. About seven and five years old, the siblings had clearly struggled to find food for two or three days. The boy’s oldest scars looked about three years old, and the girl flinched at every movement. Mycroft doubted they remembered an adult that did not scream and hit them.
“Hello.” He waited for both children to see him before he knelt about ten feet away. The boy immediately put himself between Mycroft and his sister. “I will not hurt you,” he promised quietly. “How badly are you injured?”
The girl whimpered and curled into a tighter ball, hiding her face beneath her light blonde hair, but the boy stared for several seconds before finally shaking his head. “Not. Guv’nor,” he added. “He on’y got a couple licks in since ‘e found us. T’ankee.”
“You are most welcome. I suppose you ran away from him two days ago?”
“’N ‘e found us today,” he agreed. Small arms wrapped around his sister to ease some of her fear. “Is ‘e goin’ to jail?”
“For a long time,” Mycroft agreed. Harris handed the man over to a constable and signaled his return to the day’s guard pattern, but Mycroft’s eye caught another passing young one on the next street. Two low clicks brought the Irregular towards where Mycroft still knelt. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
A shrug answered him. “Alleys. Anywhere’s better than there.”
“Indeed.” Footsteps stopped behind him. “Gwen.”
“Evenin’, Mr. Holmes.” Gwen stepped closer at the acknowledgement, her bright smile faltering only slightly on sight of the two young ones in front of him. “Hello, there. My name’s Gwen. What’s yours?”
Wary eyes studied her for several seconds. “You’re a street kid.”
“Essentially.” She plopped down on the cobblestones, crossing her legs to rest her elbows on her knees. “I’m an Irregular. About fifty of us live in a courtyard across town and work for Mr. Holmes’ younger brother. We have food, shelter, and the occasional toy, and we always have room for two more.”
His sister finally peeked around him at the promise. Her mouth moved in a whisper so quiet that Mycroft missed most of the words, but her obvious interest never diminished her brother’s fear. He remained silent.
“Give it a try?” Gwen tilted her head, though she made no effort to lean closer. “You could stay for a few days. Maybe a week, just to get an idea of how the courtyard works, and if you don’t like it, you can always leave. You already escaped that nasty grown-up, did you not? Nobody’s forcing you to go anywhere.”
Realization bloomed to accept Gwen’s point about escaping once more, but the boy studied them for several seconds before finally nodding. He waited for Mycroft to stand—and back up a few steps—before he let his sister leave the alcove.
“I’m Neil. She’s Cora.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Gwen replied with a gentle smile. A silent question earned a nod from Mycroft. “Are you hungry?”
Neil hesitated, but Cora tugged his hand when her stomach gave a loud rumble. He stayed almost in front of her even as he murmured a “yes.”
Though he faltered again on realizing that Gwen intended to join Mycroft for supper. Mycroft merely led the way towards his flat, his slow pace ensuring he could not lose them unless they wanted to be lost. He easily caught the low whispers conveying more details of how Mycroft knew the Irregulars and exactly what his job entailed—as well as the implication that a government official must be safe, otherwise he would lose his job and answer to the queen. Amusement flickered at her rather circular logic, but it convinced Neil. By the time they reached the flat, neither child even flinched at the click of the lock.
Though they both shied when Harris poked his head through the doorway to receive their supper order. Mycroft had already eaten at the Diogenes, of course, but he could hardly take their new Irregulars to his club. Gwen distracted the siblings with descriptions of the courtyard while they waited on the food, and Mycroft occupied himself with the paper as the three young ones slowly relaxed on his sofa.
Despite Sherlock’s teasing, Mycroft did not despise every change in routine.