Note: The beginning of all hell breaking loose has officially begun.

Bartram—who thought of himself in the term of “Bartram of Lancashire” when he was inside his wrestler’s persona, was at crosshairs.

He had waited, patiently, for the other events to take place. The hurley demonstration had been the only one capable of holding his attention for long, but no one had broken anything and he felt strangely down-let from that fact. Why would a sport be forbidden by half the schools in England if people didn’t get hurt in them?

As time passed, his excitement began to build. It was the usual anticipation of entering combat; not for the sake of the fight itself, but the eternal hope that he would actually face something different. Challenging. Getting injured did not mean he was challenged. Getting half his beard yanked off by a furious Sassenach wasn’t a challenge either, nor were the broken bones or being called a new name. It was the not knowing what would happen that he enjoyed about wrestling.

But this would be different, he reminded himself.

“How is it?” Charles Cheatham asked. Despite his calm voice, the old man’s hands trembled on the head of his heavy walking-stick. He remembered those days long enough to miss them.

“A big crowd,” Arthur popped in while Bartram of Lancashire began breathing in and out, warming his blood for the moment when he would step into the ring. Several children were tossing chalk on the battered grass from the previous demonstrations. “There’s a lot of women here. Why are there so many women? That isn’t proper!”

“You’re a right idiot, big brother.” Clea popped up cheerfully. “They’re here because they’re here with their families. It’s safe for them to be at a Policeman’s Benefit.” She beamed, all snow and roses with pink cheeks against her creamy skin, and tapped Bartram on the shoulder. “Lower that great head down for a good-luck kiss.” Bartram of Lancashire complied with a bashful smile.

“Now, no displays, Clea.” He grumbled. “How am I supposed to find a wife if everyone thinks I gotta look after you every moment?”

Clea smacked him on the pectoral. “As if you have time to look for a wife! First off, you’d have to actually leave off the wrestling more than four hours a day, and the next...you’d have to give me a bit of breathing room!”

“Don’t you worry none,” Charles reached out, blindly, and patted his daughter’s shoulder without missing it. “Your brothers have you well in hand, my dear.”

“That’s enough to worry about, and sure.” Clea sighed and went to find the spun-sugar seller. “Try not to break anyone, brother.”

“I’ll try.” Bartram of Lancashire called back. He was grinning from ear to ear. I'll try, but maybe not very hard...

-

“Let’s get to the front.” Youghal grabbed a shocked Lestrade and pulled; Lestrade had never been able to sever the tow of his young nephews when excited, and Youghal was twice their mass. The two stumbled to the front row (Youghal with enough enthusiasm for three detectives) and Lestrade with all the enthusiasm of an overly watered plant.

“You’re not really enjoying yourself, are you?” The other man observed as this thought struck him.

Lestrade pondered several possible ways he could respond to that, but remembered that he often had to work with the overgrown boy-elephant, and opted for some tact. “I’ve been up all night for two nights, may I remind you? Still on the insignificant matter of those hypothetical exploding barrels.”

“Oh. I forgot.” Youghal looked slightly abashed. “You just need to drink some more tea, Lestrade. It will do you good.”

“I don’t know if my nerves can—“Lestrade shut his mouth as the crowd erupted into blood-hungry cheers. Bartram of Lancashire was standing before the crowd, arms lifted to the sky.

That, he thought, is a very, very large man.

-

Clea was so glad to be away from her business and eating someone else’s food for a change, she hadn’t realized the danger signals.

Bartram at his sweetest was Bartram at his second-most protective. Either form of Bartram was difficult.

At first she was just glad that he was doing something that wouldn’t get himself hurt (for a change), and she settled to the side next to a pile of odd-sorted objects that a little boy explained would be used for the following event of road-bowling. When she had asked what the cannonball was for, he responded that was what the bowling ball was.

“Oh.” She blinked, and ignored the covetous greed on his face at her spun sugar. “Are they going to bowl it on the road?”

“It’s called road bowling, miss.” He pointed out, still polite—he wanted that candy, badly. “Maybe you know someone who would like to have a go? T’would be a bit safer than wrestling with Bartram of Lancashire!”

Clea roared. “Right you are! I have no intention of such an action—my preferred method of combat is a frying pan!”

He grinned at her, all teeth and gingery freckles. “Number Nine, miss? That’s the weight me mum prefers.”

“Aren’t you a rapscallion.” She fingered off a wisp of sugar and handed it up to him. It was gone so quickly she wasn’t certain she had even done anything. A faint roar went up in the crowd. “They’re lively today.” She commented.

“E’s demonstrating to some o’ the policemen.” The urchin answered, smug in the fact he had a higher view from her perch atop the equipment pile—Clea didn’t envy him, as it looked ready to tumble apart at any second. “Uppos, there goes Constable Burns.”

Clea strained to see over the crowd. “Bother, why are people so tall?” She fretted. “What’s happening?”

“Not too much, Miss. Bartram of Cheatham is demonstratin’ a different throw per policeman. E’s going down the row.” The boy was positively gleeful. “Looks like the Chief Inspector’s told ‘em all to hold still and wait their turn! Cor, if I’da known we’d have a benefit like this, I’da brought me da!” He yelped in delight. “There goes Inspector Youghal! Now look, if he ain’t getting’ back up with a smile on ‘is face!”

“Well, I still can’t see a thing.” Clea wondered if she should risk injury by going through the crowd.

“Orf a mo’ it’s Lestrade. This oughter be good.”

Clea felt her jaw click open. All colour washed out of the world as something terrible flashed through her mind. A moment later she was punching herself through the crowd, and a certain Baker Street Irregular was hopping down to take advantage of the discarded stick of spun sugar. The dirt and grass didn't bother him; he ate more than that in his regular meals.

-

Lestrade heard the triple snap of small bones breaking before the flood of pain spread up his arm and into his brain. It was followed by an angry flush of tearing in the area between the bottom of his ribcage and under his arm. The brown grass of the field went grey and two-dimensional.

Cheatham took a step backwards, giving his opponent plenty of space. Lestrade thought that was wholly unnecessary; he only thought of finding the gun in his coat pocket. It wasn’t like he was going to actually use it.

Besides, his coat was being held by that gnome-like stick of a gaffer in the sidelines.

Lestrade tucked his breath in and got to his feet. He could smile before angry Chief Inspectors; he could smile before arrogant diplomats and nobility before their most frozen contempt. The day he couldn’t bestow the same courtesy on a drooling fool like Cheatham was the day he retired and took up mucking stables for his living.

“Very good, Mr. Cheatham.” Lestrade held out his hand. He held his breath again, feeling the sweat chill on his face. Everyone could see his smile; they believed he was all right. “Remind me not to anger you.”

Cheatham’s thick face dulled with brief confusion, but he too knew how the game was played. “Stay away from my sister, Inspector.” He returned Lestrade’s handshake, his hand huge against the other’s.

“I haven’t even approached your sister, nor do I intend to.” Lestrade kept his smile as his thumb shifted, stabbed deeply into the nerve at the junction of Cheatham’s thumb and forefinger. Cheatham’s face paused as it was his turn to pretend nothing was wrong. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had a single thought in your thick skull, Mr. Cheatham,” Lestrade hissed through his teeth, still smiling, “but it would hardly be proper for a plainclothes detective to be playing court to a Cotton heiress.”

Still beaming, Lestrade let go of the other’s hand, and stepped away. He even raised his arm to wave a greeting to Bradstreet across the green. The wizened old man handed him his coat back—miraculously with its pockets unpicked; point to him for that.

“Here ye go, young sir.” The graveled voice built up phlegm and spat on the grass past the ropes. “Hold still then, and I’ll set ye to rights.” Lestrade was more than grateful to have the man pull his coat over his shoulders. “Would ye be needing anything, young sir?”

If he calls me young sir one more time, so help me I will arrest him for being intoxicated. “Not at all.” He breathed, trying not to grit his teeth. “I’m fine, thank you.” Getting through the crowd re-defined punishment; he hadn’t been so jostled by other humans so much in his life. Bradstreet and Youghal called his name, looking for him in the crowd but he couldn’t think about that, he just needed to get away from the masses and find his breath.

Once he was in the relative privacy of the memorial garden by the stables, it was a different matter. No one felt particularly drawn to the wet spray of the fountain in this chill weather; he settled to the stone bench and wondered if he should take a look inside his shirt. He decided just as quickly not to. His ribs might not be broken, but the tendons had been strained for certain.

Good God. I’m going to get killed. And it won’t be in the line of duty.

Lestrade wondered briefly if the custom of the bride’s dowry was started as a way of funding all the damage and medical bills that resulted from the battles of two families joining. It would explain why the groom’s family kept the money when the marriage contract was severed.

“Inspector Lestrade!”

Of all the faces Lestrade did not care to see at that moment, it was Miss Clea’s. Things were made worse by the fact she looked as pale as the chalk in the ring, and her hand was over her mouth. The feeling worsened when she knelt to his side.

“My God, Inspector, I am so sorry. My brother had no cause to do such a thing…”

“I’ll be all right.” Lestrade said slowly, but his face was very pale and he held himself quite still.

Clea felt ill. “You can’t be all right. I heard something snap inside you!” She yapped. “Bartram, I’m so sorry, my brother…”

Lestrade looked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted knitting for hair. “It’s hardly your fault,” he pointed out in that same, pained and faint voice.

“The Hell it isn’t.” She shot back without thinking. “He can’t stand the idea of someone looking at his baby sister!” Incredibly, Lestrade’s shoulders were trembling from the effort of holding back his laughter. “What the hell is wrong with you!” She shouted. She felt like crying and he thought it was funny? “What in God’s name is so blooming amusing?!”

“Ah…I think I’ll plead the crack on the head.” He gulped hard and went rigid, clutching at his shoulder with a stricken expression.

“You’ve said too much all ready.” She glared. “What the devil is it?”

“Merely an…observation…” he held his breath and tried to stand.

“Oh, no you don’t!” She made as if to push him back down. He cringed.

“Miss Cheatham…this is a charity event. No one is going to want to see me like this.”

She glared at him with a later-for-you expression that made her angrier when he ignored it. “I’ll help you up,” she promised through her teeth, “and I’ll even squire you around to show you aren’t hurt…but you can at least explain yourself!”

“Done.” He lifted his good hand in weary humor. “I promise.” He lifted his arm. “Perhaps between the two of us, we can get me on my feet.”

“Hold on…” Clea pondered, then put her arm around him on the good side, his good arm over her shoulder. His weight surprised her; he was one solid mass under his jacket.

“First you explain why you were laughing at me.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Lestrade said patiently. “It was just…what you had said.”

“What about it?”

“Miss Cheatham, no one can avoid looking at Bartram Cheatham’s baby sister. They would be blind as a tor and they’d still turn their heads to you when you walk up. And I’m not saying that on a shallow judge of your appearance; far from it. I’m saying it as someone who has noticed how others react. You’re the flame to moths.” Lestrade somehow had the strength to colour his cheeks at his words, which slightly lessened the awful pallor of his face for a moment. “Good Lord,” he commented in mild astonishment. “You have no idea what I’m babbling about.”

“I most certainly do not.” She told him. “We’re going to have this conversation later, when the sawbones has put you back together.”

“First,” Lestrade promised, “you have to help me pretend I’m perfectly well.”

“And then what?”

“Then I speak to…that man over there…” He nodded to a thick-looking detective with a brushy black beard and a Highlander pin on his lapel. “He’ll help me claw my way out of here on some idiotic pretense.”

-

A few moments’ effort was all it took. Clea watched the Yarders bundle their compatriot into the Police wagon with a gentleness at odds with their bluff appearance. The thick blond man took the reins and they took off. Clea saw them go. She felt quite ill.

To Be Continued

Coming Soon: Holmes demonstrates an unexpected use of bran in the art of disguise, Watson suspects Bradstreet of bootlegging, and a pie of dubious lineage spurs Round Two of the Cheatham-Lestrade fracas.