[Sherlock] Circo de Pastel - 4/13
Title: Circo de Pastel
Author: Mesita
Words: 5429/12327/50,000+
Pairings: Sherlock/John (Eventual) Lestrade/Mycroft (Implied)
Warnings: Slight torture, kidnapping, violence, death
Summary: John Watson runs away to join a circus where he is forced to live with the resident consulting psychic. After one of the circus members is murdered, it's up to John and Sherlock to solve the case.
First Chapter
CHAPTER FOUR
SHERLOCK HOLMES: CONSULTING PSYCHIC
John had no need to even strain his memory. “Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Psychic?” he asked.
“The very same,” Mrs. Hudson replied. She briefly held herself in place a moment as if she were debating on whether or not to move or to speak. She settled on the latter. “Chances are he is in his trailer right now. He doesn’t leave for any reason other than to do his job, and even half the time he’s not even doing that. Says it’s boring.” She sighed and shrugged. “But that’s Sherlock, I suppose.”
Watson must have looked as confused as he felt. “Then why is he still here if he barely works?”
“Oh because he’s good,” Mrs. Hudson breathed. “And, for the most part, it keeps him out of trouble.”
“Trouble?” John’s eyed widened. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Mrs. Hudson nearly laughed. She only gave a small chuckle as if to tell John not to take her comment too seriously. “He’s not all bad,” she said with a little wave of her hand. “Once you get used to him, he’s really sweet. Er, well…” she frowned, “maybe ‘sweet’ isn’t the right word. Well, he’s certainly interesting. At least you won’t be bored. I’m no psychologist but you look like a strong man, despite all that you have been through. You can handle Sherlock Holmes.”
John did not feel reassured. If other members of the circus had trouble getting close to Sherlock, then why should John be able to? He had a few close friends at school, but he often felt as though they liked him more than he liked them. He had a tendency to float from group to group and never quite fit in with one, while simultaneously being accepted. He was not an outcast by any means, but he felt that he had more acquaintances than friends. If he found it hard to keep up with normal people, what gave him the right to keep up with someone like Sherlock?
And, if Sherlock could not hold any meaningful relationships with anyone due to attitude or behavior, John was not entirely sure staying with Sherlock would trigger any hidden feelings he had built up about his father.
It was not as though he had survived a war or anything, but at nineteen, he felt as though it was just as traumatic. He was still very much in recovery mode from the stress and the injuries (mental and physical) sustained from his home. Perhaps immediately throwing himself into a stressful situation was not the best remedy for his particular malady.
Nevertheless, John found himself following Mrs. Hudson out into the cold of the night. She had a torch with her to make sure neither of them tripped over anything in the dark as they made their way through the circus grounds toward Sherlock’s trailer.
John figured Sherlock would live in one of the trailers similar to the other performers, but he was mistaken. Sherlock, apparently, lived exactly where he worked. Mrs. Hudson took John back through the gate and onto the main grounds right where the old gypsy wagon sat.
It must have been strange to live and work in the same place. To John, there always had to be a degree of separation. His apprehension grew, however, when he noticed how small and cramped it must be inside. If Mrs. Hudson’s trailer was of any indication, John could not imagine how a sitting room, a kitchen, a lavatory, and two bedrooms could fit into such a place. And, on top of it all, where did Sherlock do most of his work? Was there a separate room for that? John wondered briefly if the interior was decorated in shrouds and crystal balls, incense, strange statues and crystals.
However, John thought just as both he and Mrs. Hudson came to the door of the trailer, he had been to a few mates’ houses in the past that looked as tiny and cramped as could be from the outside, but once indoors, they had proven to be quite spacious. Perhaps he was just a bad judge at space from an outside point of view.
Mrs. Hudson tapped lightly on the intricate wooden door. John had to admire the handiwork. The door had been painted with cool colors to give the trailer that authentic look. Even though its placement was merely for advertisement, John could not help but to feel impressed with it.
Nothing had happened when Mrs. Hudson knocked. She gave John a furtive glance and tried again. This time, an annoyed voice came from somewhere within the trailer. “It’s unlocked. Enter!”
Both Mrs. Hudson and John exchanged a looks of exasperation, possibly for two very separate reasons or for the very same reason. Mrs. Hudson opened the trailer door and disappeared inside with John following her shortly after.
The interior of the trailer looked absolutely nothing like John had imagined. There were no silly crystal balls or rocks of any sort. No multi-colored shrouds adorned the walls, nor did over decorated cloths drape themselves across any tables. No, the trailer looked very… normal. Well, normal for a circus, at least.
The walls were covered in obnoxious wallpaper that reminded John of a fleur de lys. The main sitting room held two very comfortable looking chairs with a small table between the two of them. Bookshelves lined the walls, there appeared to be a sort of chemistry set in the corner, a green couch hugged one wall and every surface was covered in some kind of document or book. One table had a stack of letters with a knife holding them in place. The only surreal or supernatural object in the entire room was a skull perched amidst the rubble of papers and stationary at a nearby desk.
On the whole, the place looked very comfortable and spacious while still retaining its quaint charm. John was impressed.
Sherlock, it seemed, was nowhere in sight, but Mrs. Hudson did not appear to be worried. She made her way toward an archway at one end of the room. It looked as though it led to the kitchen.
“Sherlock?” She called. “I have someone here I would like you to meet.”
There was an audible clang accompanied by the sound of tinkling glass and in seconds Sherlock came into view from the kitchen. “I am not receiving visitors just now, Mrs. Hudson. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Oh, but Sherlock… this is important,” chimed Mrs. Hudson. She angled herself toward the sitting room to direct Sherlock’s attention to John. “Sherlock, this is John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes.”
John could not speak. He felt like a fool for standing in the middle of the sitting room with his bag slumped haphazardly on his shoulder. He must have looked tired and unkempt. He hadn’t minded until before but it bothered him that moment because when Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, he had looked absolutely divine.
Although John had never used the word “divine” on a person before, he could not think of any other word to describe Sherlock during those brief seconds. All the air left John’s lungs, and he could not quite place why. His heart thudded so loudly in his chest; he wanted to tell it to shut up. Surely both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson could hear it. Surely the entire circus could hear it!
The slight tugging John had felt since the drive in the cab simultaneously grew stronger and stopped. If John had wanted to find the source of magnetism or the reason he felt compelled to get out of the cab and experience the circus for himself, this was most definitely it. John recognized Sherlock as that strange, tall man he had seen in the circus tent just after the show. No wonder he had wanted to speak to him, then. They both had somehow gravitated toward this moment without even realizing it.
And, well, John said man, but seeing Sherlock this close, he realized just how wrong he had been. Sherlock could not have been much older than John, himself. He dressed as though he was in his thirties, but clearly he was just a boy, or rather, a teenager, a young adult, a young man. Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?
The most incredible aspect of that moment, the one memory that John found the most vivid, was the sight of Sherlock’s eyes. The first time John had seen Sherlock had been from such a distance in such horrible lighting that his eyes looked nothing out of the ordinary. Here in the closeness of the trailer, John could see just how striking Sherlock’s almond eyes were. They had such an ethereal shade of blue to them that John would not have been surprised if Sherlock had told him he wore contacts. John felt shamefully ordinary under that gaze.
John forced himself to move. With great effort he attempted to take a step forward and held out his hand to shake Sherlock’s. He could be civil about this. The shock of actually meeting this strange, enigmatic man for the first time would wear off eventually.
Instead of shaking John’s hand, however, Sherlock stared at it for a moment and then looked up directly into John’s eyes. John could not help but to feel a tiny jolt of electricity at the glance. Finally, Sherlock said in a flat tone, “I’m sorry about your mother.”
A shot of pain began in John’s heart and radiated outward toward his limbs and he felt his knees go weak. “My mother? How could you know about my mother?”
Sherlock paused a moment, as if he were choosing the correct words or as if he were embracing himself to talk for a while without breathing. “You have bags under your eyes, but they don’t look new. They have been there for some time. There is a small lingering smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant on you that can be traced back to a morgue or funeral parlor, either or, but the conclusion remains: someone close to you has died recently. Judging by the hastily packed bag on your shoulder and the clothing choice, that person was very close. Immediate family? Can’t be a brother or a sister, or you would not be here. No, you’re at the circus by yourself-that means it’s a parent. Now: mother or father? The haphazard bandage on the side of your head: no parent would dress their own son’s wound like that, no you dressed it yourself… in a hurry. You knew what you were doing, though, so you must have taken care of the dying relative-enough to learn some first aid. The statistical likelihood on which parent gave you that wound, however, must go to the father. That was a bit of a shot in the dark, I’m afraid, but based on how well Mrs. Hudson has received you, you feel more comfortable around older women. Therefore, your mother has passed away, leaving you alone with a less than pleased father who has wounded you, probably thrown you out and here you are.”
John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes rested easily on John. He seemed braced for a certain type of reaction, but John was tired. He was still in a bit of shock about recent events and felt somewhat detached from them for the time being. Instead of feeling offended that Sherlock had deduced his darkest secret, he felt relieved. Sure, it was not fair for Sherlock to know so much about John and for John to know so little about Sherlock in return, but oddly enough, that did not bother John at all. Instead, he said, “Fantastic. That was… brilliant.”
Sherlock actually looked surprised. Mrs. Hudson simply beamed at the two of them. She had looked uncertain when Sherlock had been talking, but the look on John’s face had eased her fears. Sherlock did not bother with masking his curiosity when he asked, “Oh?”
“Yes,” breathed John. “That was… I’m impressed. You got all that from just a glance?”
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do they normally say?”
“Boys!” Mrs. Hudson chimed in before Sherlock could answer and clapped her hands to get both boys’ attention. “I’m sorry to speed things along, but I have so much to get done, tonight, in preparation for our busy day of shows tomorrow! Sherlock, do you think you can spare some room for John for a bit? It seems he will be helping out around the place for the time being.”
Sherlock acknowledged Mrs. Hudson with a nod of his head, but he never took his eyes off John. “Yes, of course, by all means. He can take the spare room, so long as he doesn’t touch my experiments.”
“Oh, lovely!” Mrs. Hudson pressed her hands to her heart. “Bless you, Sherlock.” She turned to John and took his hands into her own and squeezed them gently. “Don’t be a stranger, dear. If you need anything, just come and see me. I hope you get settled in nicely. I wish I could help you a bit more but, you know, busy busy!” She smiled widely and John could not help but to feel safe and warm around her. Mrs. Hudson had a way of taking in strays and making them feel at home.
John returned the sentiment to Mrs. Hudson. She said her farewells to Sherlock and was out the door in seconds.
A few moments went by and the silence in the trailer was so profound, John could hear the clock ticking. He awkwardly shifted his bag on his shoulder and the movement seemed to have brought Sherlock out of his own mind.
“John,” Sherlock began in his smooth baritone. John nearly jumped when he heard his named uttered.
“Yes?”
“Do you like tea?”
John gave Sherlock an incredulous look and said, “I’m English. I’m made of tea.”
Sherlock merely smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen. John felt himself immediately relax the moment Sherlock was out of sight. Out of the two chairs in the room, John sat down in the chair that appeared as though Sherlock did not use it for himself, much. The other chair had an end table with papers and books around it, while the other seemed rather alone. John assumed this chair was for clients, but as he was so tired from the events of that day, he did not mind that he was not a client at the moment. He slumped down onto the cold leather and sighed audibly.
The trailer really felt cozy to John, and he would have dozed off in the chair right there if it weren’t for the little adrenaline shot Sherlock had given him merely by existing. Just when John felt as though he were calming down, Sherlock came out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea and John’s heart started up all over again. Sherlock offered John a mug and then sat down in his chair. He pulled his feet up onto the seat, his knees tucked up under his chin as he blew lightly over the top of his tea.
John watched Sherlock with growing interest. The exact reason for John’s attraction was unknown. He hadn’t felt a connected with a human being for such a long time, he must have forgotten what it felt like. Didn’t Mrs. Hudson say Sherlock was hard to get along with? John wondered when that personality trait would start to surface. He took a sip of his tea to calm his nerves and it surprisingly worked.
“Thank you, for letting me stay here,” John said after a while. He knew Sherlock’s eyes were scrutinizing over his entire body; he could feel it. It did not seem to bother him, however. He took it in stride. Sherlock obviously noticed things more than the average person. John would just have to be careful.
Sherlock waved the thanks off with the slightest flick of his head. “There is no room anywhere else at the moment. I trust Mrs. Hudson implicitly. She would not have brought you here if she felt you would bore me.”
“Oh, so I don’t bore you?”
“No…” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John-though not in a malicious way-more out of curiosity than anything. “Why don’t you bore me? I don’t even know you.” Sherlock inquired.
John shrugged. It was all he could do. “Could it be because I saw you earlier? In the big tent, after the show?”
Sherlock frowned. “Hardly. I saw you, noted you as a runaway, and proceeded to go about my business as usual. And here you are. Although, I must admit, I had wanted to have an assistant for some time. Someone to weed through my customers when I have a line. Perhaps this is just as well.”
“I see.” John nursed his tea and stole a few furtive glances up at Sherlock when he could. He finally mustered up the courage to ask what had been nagging at him for some time. “How much do you know about me? I mean, have you picked up anything else?”
Sherlock gave John a mysterious grin, “You are inquiring about my services. I should charge for that.”
“You mean, that’s what people do? They pay you to tell them things about themselves?”
“In a way,” said Sherlock. “They pay me to tell them their fortunes. I honestly just deduce it for them.”
“Can you tell me mine, then? My fortune? I can pay…”
Sherlock looked at John hard, as if he were both studying him and contemplating something complex in his mind. After a bit, he set down his tea and moved his feet to the floor so that he could learn forward. “All right… but no charge. You’re my new flat mate, after all. Consider it a housewarming gift.”
John smiled and set down his tea as well. This was certainly an interesting turn of events! John had no idea that he would be ending his day with a professional “psychic.” Although, now, John had a pretty good idea about how Sherlock made a living, but he did not judge. It was really a very useful trait, and he probably helped a lot of people without realizing. “All right, then. What do you need me to do?”
“You don’t need to do anything,” Sherlock said. He held his hands together, resting his index fingers on his lips in concentration. After a moment or two, he held out his hand. At first John thought Sherlock was going to read his palm, but instead he asked for a personal possession of John’s. Something he carried with him a lot.
“Well, there’s my mobile, I guess.” John held out an old, dying mobile phone for Sherlock to see. It was nothing special. Harriet had given him her own pay-as-you-go mobile before she left, and John hardly ever used it. It could only call and text, and John had to add airtime minutes as he used it. Since the phone did not get much use, it was extra cheap-he just used it for emergencies or to contact anyone on behalf of his mother. He always carried it with him, however, out of habit.
Sherlock took the phone, flipped it open and shut, and rolled it over in his hands for a short while before handing it casually back to John. “This was not originally your phone. Going by your watch and the state of your shoelaces, you take very good care of your possessions. The amount of scratches and knicks on this phone is severe. Someone else had it for some time-probably carried it around with keys or coins. Your father would be a highly unlikely candidate for the donor going by his life choices, and your mother’s current state suggests she has been sick for some time which takes her off that list as well. This leaves another close relative: an older sibling. Someone used to giving out hand-me-downs. It’s a flip phone, no contract, so you just put airtime minutes on it. Probably doesn’t get much use from you-the buttons are warn, but not freshly so. Who carries an old flip phone and never uses it? Someone who does not get close to others. You probably don’t have a lot of close friends. Had to keep it close to home all the time to care for your mother. Or perhaps you were ashamed? Did not like your father’s behavior. Drunk, possibly? So your older brother or sister looked out for you; gave you their old phone. But where are they now? They’ve left you a long time ago. I could probably learn more if I went inside the phone, but I can say this off the bat: the most recently dialed number will be that of your older sibling. No answer. They did not come in your hour of need. You feel lost and betrayed. The only person left for you has driven the rest of your family apart. And that is why you are here.”
John swallowed hard. He would never have to tell Sherlock anything about himself, ever. This man had it all down right off the bat. “Amazing. All of it.”
“Did I get anything wrong?”
“No, nothing. It’s… all true.” John scratched his head in disbelief. “You have quite an eye for detail.”
Sherlock scoffed. “It’s nothing, really. People just don’t know how to observe anymore. You could pick up any of these deductions if only you were trained to see them. To know what to look for and to exploit it: that is the key method. I call it the science of deduction.”
“So, all you did is tell me about myself,” said John with a smirk. “That’s hardly fortune-telling.”
“The distant past is easy, the recent past is a walk in the park. The future takes a bit of guesswork and generalization,” said Sherlock, with the slightest hint of a wink. Clearly he enjoyed John’s praise for his work. John did not mind, either. He actually enjoyed Sherlock’s acute observations. He did not have to avoid these conversations or find ways to word them-Sherlock already knew. Perhaps in the future John would get annoyed with it, maybe, but at this point it was too early to tell and John simply reveled in the fascination of it all.
“Can you deduce my future, then?” John asked.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then frowned. “I’m afraid your immediate future doesn’t take much guesswork. You ran away-“
“Escaped.” John interrupted.
Sherlock eyed him. “Ran away,” he continued, unabated. “And came across the circus, liked what you saw, and have successfully joined it. I have the only available living space, so you came here. I’m afraid what happens next is very much straightforward.”
“Oh,” John raised an eyebrow in inquiry, “and what is that?”
Sherlock gave John a look that clearly read ‘Don’t be so daft.’
John shrugged and picked up his tea again. It had cooled enough to take the burn off his tongue and he sipped it leisurely. “Well then, can you show me where I’ll be staying?” Honestly, he was surprised at himself for handling his situation so well. He really did feel comfortable here, and with Sherlock. That magnetic pull he had been feeling had softened to a dull tingle. He found he quite enjoyed this trailer, even though he hadn’t even been in it for an hour, yet.
Sherlock looked toward his laptop that was sitting on a table nearby. He had a look in his eye that suggested he would very much like to get up and get that laptop, but he could not be bothered to do it. He did not speak for some time, and John suddenly felt ignored. Sherlock hadn’t acknowledged that John had even asked him a question. Right as John was about to say something to get Sherlock’s attention, the curly haired man turned toward him and asked, “Can you hand me my laptop, John?”
John looked incredulous, “Sherlock, it’s right there! Can’t you get it yourself? And you haven’t even answered my question!”
“I can see it, it’s too far away and what question?” He tilted his head to the side inquiringly.
John gave a huff, rolled his eyes and retrieved the laptop for Sherlock anyway. “I only wanted to know where I would be staying.”
“My spare bedroom is currently being used for my experiments.” Sherlock said casually as he opened his laptop and woke it up from hibernation. “So there is no bed.”
“You’re not suggesting I sleep with-“
“No.” Sherlock stopped John before he could get any further. John pursed his lips. “You can still sleep there. I have extra blankets and pillows, but I think you would find it much more comfortable to lie on the couch in here, rather than on the floor in there.”
“I see.” John frowned. He honestly could have slept on a couch in any of the other trailers. He had been hoping for a bed, but at the same time he could not complain. He had been willing to sleep outside in a tent, earlier. A couch appeared far more appealing than the cold, hard ground. Perhaps, if he worked hard enough and proved himself worthy, Sherlock would accommodate John into that spare room-but this time with at least a mattress. “I can at least store my things in there?”
“Yes, whatever you like.” Sherlock said. He obviously was not listening with his full attention. His face lit up a sickly blue-ish white from the laptop screen and John thought it made him look very alien.
With that thought, John gathered his bag and turned toward the hallway on the opposite end of the room.
There were three doors: one led to Sherlock’s room, one to the spare room and one to the lavatory. Both doors to the rooms were closed, and John felt too awkward to just be banging into random rooms here and there, so he called down the hall. “Which room?”
“The first door. My room is at the end of the hall.” Sherlock called from the sitting room.
John muttered something about Sherlock being an unaccommodating host but he opened the first door, anyway. The room was impossibly small. If it were any tinier, it would be better classified as a closet than a room. Sherlock had a table filled with his so-called experiments on the far wall, and various jars of something littered rest of the available space. John had been expecting to see perhaps a chemistry set or some Petri dishes in the room. When Sherlock had said “experiment,” that was the image that first came to John’s mind. Instead, Sherlock seemed to be growing things in pots and bags and old food storage containers.
John cautiously entered the room, well aware from common sense and context clues alone that he should probably not touch anything. He did, however, allow his curiosity to get the better of him and he peered over the edge of one of the containers, just to see what it was that Sherlock was doing. Instantly, he recoiled. Sherlock had halfway submerged some fingers in potting soil. To John, it looked as if Sherlock were literally growing fingers much as someone would grow plants.
Moreover, John thought, where did Sherlock get the fingers in the first place? John was almost positive they were real human fingers, although he hadn’t ever seen any fingers physically detached from a living or dead person for any length of time, so he could not be completely sure.
He sighed and set his things down into a corner of the room and finally began to unpack a little of what he had brought. Most of his bag was filled with his clothing, but he had thought to bring just a few bare essentials with him.
He made sure to pack some everyday items he knew he would need no matter where he went. He pulled out his deodorant stick, some shampoo, soap, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. He hoped Sherlock had some extra towels. John had only packed spare clothes-no blankets or towels or pillows or sheets. Although, in retrospect, he probably should have packed a towel. Towels were completely useful for so many different occasions that John now thought it was absolutely silly to not have packed one in the first place. He made a mental note to always remember a towel; towels were important.
Unfortunately, he could not dwell on that point for too long, because he was incredibly tired, but he felt as though he were in desperate need of a bath or a shower, whichever came first. He made his way back to the sitting room to see Sherlock had not moved from his previous position. He was still sitting on his chair, his laptop open in front of him. He still had that eerie blue glow shining on his face.
A bit unnerved, John cleared his throat to gain Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock did not remove his gaze from his laptop. Instead, he gave a very slight nod in John’s direction to show that he was listening. John took a deep breath, “May I use your shower?”
“You live here now, John. For the most part,” said Sherlock as he ran his finger down the touch pad on his laptop. “You don’t need my permission to take a shower.”
“Right, thanks,” John said and made a bee line for the shower. Once inside the bathroom, he quickly stripped himself of his clothing, located a precious towel, got all of his toiletries ready and finally took the plunge into the shower stall.
It took a moment for the shower to get heated enough for John’s liking. The water probably had to go through an old water heater and it was probably recycled and filtered a few times. He did not mind, though. He was still able to get clean enough. He did not want to waste too much of the water, however, based on the fact that there probably was not much of it. This was a traveling circus, after all. This meant that the trailers all moved with the circus and each time the troupe set up camp, the water had to be hauled or bought or moved along with everything else. It was probably a precious commodity for the performers and the crew. Although, John thought, that did say something for the management and human resources department of the circus for each trailer to have its own working shower.
Once he emerged, he stayed in the heated bathroom to change as he had brought his clothes with him. He did not pack any pyjamas, but he put on a clean shirt and shorts thinking that that would have to do. He then dug through his things to grab his toothbrush and toothpaste and turned toward the mirror. He frowned at his reflection. The bags under his eyes were terrible. He hoped a good night’s sleep would fix that.
When he felt refreshed enough to grace Sherlock with his presence again, he walked casually back into the living room, Sherlock’s towel still on his head. That had been a mistake.
Seeing Sherlock again after the brief intermission had gotten John all riled up again, and this time he was wearing a tee shirt and boxer shorts so he felt incredibly vulnerable. He quickly rubbed his hair with the towel, hoping Sherlock would think he was completely normal.
Sherlock was no longer sitting with his laptop. The computer lay forgotten on the side table next to Sherlock’s chair. John noticed, however, that the mugs were gone. He found it strange that a person as messy as Sherlock would take the time to clean up a bit of tea mess.
Instead, he had found Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room, hands on his hips as if he were waiting for John to exit the shower. The strangest expression rested on his face.
John sighed inwardly. Was he welcome, or was he not? The constant worry would give him a headache so he decided that he would not care anymore. He casually held the towel toward Sherlock to indicate that he was well aware of any boundaries he had overstepped. “Thought you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed one.”
This could work. At least Sherlock was not boring. John could tell that already.
Next Chapter
Author: Mesita
Words: 5429/12327/50,000+
Pairings: Sherlock/John (Eventual) Lestrade/Mycroft (Implied)
Warnings: Slight torture, kidnapping, violence, death
Summary: John Watson runs away to join a circus where he is forced to live with the resident consulting psychic. After one of the circus members is murdered, it's up to John and Sherlock to solve the case.
First Chapter
CHAPTER FOUR
SHERLOCK HOLMES: CONSULTING PSYCHIC
John had no need to even strain his memory. “Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Psychic?” he asked.
“The very same,” Mrs. Hudson replied. She briefly held herself in place a moment as if she were debating on whether or not to move or to speak. She settled on the latter. “Chances are he is in his trailer right now. He doesn’t leave for any reason other than to do his job, and even half the time he’s not even doing that. Says it’s boring.” She sighed and shrugged. “But that’s Sherlock, I suppose.”
Watson must have looked as confused as he felt. “Then why is he still here if he barely works?”
“Oh because he’s good,” Mrs. Hudson breathed. “And, for the most part, it keeps him out of trouble.”
“Trouble?” John’s eyed widened. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Mrs. Hudson nearly laughed. She only gave a small chuckle as if to tell John not to take her comment too seriously. “He’s not all bad,” she said with a little wave of her hand. “Once you get used to him, he’s really sweet. Er, well…” she frowned, “maybe ‘sweet’ isn’t the right word. Well, he’s certainly interesting. At least you won’t be bored. I’m no psychologist but you look like a strong man, despite all that you have been through. You can handle Sherlock Holmes.”
John did not feel reassured. If other members of the circus had trouble getting close to Sherlock, then why should John be able to? He had a few close friends at school, but he often felt as though they liked him more than he liked them. He had a tendency to float from group to group and never quite fit in with one, while simultaneously being accepted. He was not an outcast by any means, but he felt that he had more acquaintances than friends. If he found it hard to keep up with normal people, what gave him the right to keep up with someone like Sherlock?
And, if Sherlock could not hold any meaningful relationships with anyone due to attitude or behavior, John was not entirely sure staying with Sherlock would trigger any hidden feelings he had built up about his father.
It was not as though he had survived a war or anything, but at nineteen, he felt as though it was just as traumatic. He was still very much in recovery mode from the stress and the injuries (mental and physical) sustained from his home. Perhaps immediately throwing himself into a stressful situation was not the best remedy for his particular malady.
Nevertheless, John found himself following Mrs. Hudson out into the cold of the night. She had a torch with her to make sure neither of them tripped over anything in the dark as they made their way through the circus grounds toward Sherlock’s trailer.
John figured Sherlock would live in one of the trailers similar to the other performers, but he was mistaken. Sherlock, apparently, lived exactly where he worked. Mrs. Hudson took John back through the gate and onto the main grounds right where the old gypsy wagon sat.
It must have been strange to live and work in the same place. To John, there always had to be a degree of separation. His apprehension grew, however, when he noticed how small and cramped it must be inside. If Mrs. Hudson’s trailer was of any indication, John could not imagine how a sitting room, a kitchen, a lavatory, and two bedrooms could fit into such a place. And, on top of it all, where did Sherlock do most of his work? Was there a separate room for that? John wondered briefly if the interior was decorated in shrouds and crystal balls, incense, strange statues and crystals.
However, John thought just as both he and Mrs. Hudson came to the door of the trailer, he had been to a few mates’ houses in the past that looked as tiny and cramped as could be from the outside, but once indoors, they had proven to be quite spacious. Perhaps he was just a bad judge at space from an outside point of view.
Mrs. Hudson tapped lightly on the intricate wooden door. John had to admire the handiwork. The door had been painted with cool colors to give the trailer that authentic look. Even though its placement was merely for advertisement, John could not help but to feel impressed with it.
Nothing had happened when Mrs. Hudson knocked. She gave John a furtive glance and tried again. This time, an annoyed voice came from somewhere within the trailer. “It’s unlocked. Enter!”
Both Mrs. Hudson and John exchanged a looks of exasperation, possibly for two very separate reasons or for the very same reason. Mrs. Hudson opened the trailer door and disappeared inside with John following her shortly after.
The interior of the trailer looked absolutely nothing like John had imagined. There were no silly crystal balls or rocks of any sort. No multi-colored shrouds adorned the walls, nor did over decorated cloths drape themselves across any tables. No, the trailer looked very… normal. Well, normal for a circus, at least.
The walls were covered in obnoxious wallpaper that reminded John of a fleur de lys. The main sitting room held two very comfortable looking chairs with a small table between the two of them. Bookshelves lined the walls, there appeared to be a sort of chemistry set in the corner, a green couch hugged one wall and every surface was covered in some kind of document or book. One table had a stack of letters with a knife holding them in place. The only surreal or supernatural object in the entire room was a skull perched amidst the rubble of papers and stationary at a nearby desk.
On the whole, the place looked very comfortable and spacious while still retaining its quaint charm. John was impressed.
Sherlock, it seemed, was nowhere in sight, but Mrs. Hudson did not appear to be worried. She made her way toward an archway at one end of the room. It looked as though it led to the kitchen.
“Sherlock?” She called. “I have someone here I would like you to meet.”
There was an audible clang accompanied by the sound of tinkling glass and in seconds Sherlock came into view from the kitchen. “I am not receiving visitors just now, Mrs. Hudson. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Oh, but Sherlock… this is important,” chimed Mrs. Hudson. She angled herself toward the sitting room to direct Sherlock’s attention to John. “Sherlock, this is John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes.”
John could not speak. He felt like a fool for standing in the middle of the sitting room with his bag slumped haphazardly on his shoulder. He must have looked tired and unkempt. He hadn’t minded until before but it bothered him that moment because when Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, he had looked absolutely divine.
Although John had never used the word “divine” on a person before, he could not think of any other word to describe Sherlock during those brief seconds. All the air left John’s lungs, and he could not quite place why. His heart thudded so loudly in his chest; he wanted to tell it to shut up. Surely both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson could hear it. Surely the entire circus could hear it!
The slight tugging John had felt since the drive in the cab simultaneously grew stronger and stopped. If John had wanted to find the source of magnetism or the reason he felt compelled to get out of the cab and experience the circus for himself, this was most definitely it. John recognized Sherlock as that strange, tall man he had seen in the circus tent just after the show. No wonder he had wanted to speak to him, then. They both had somehow gravitated toward this moment without even realizing it.
And, well, John said man, but seeing Sherlock this close, he realized just how wrong he had been. Sherlock could not have been much older than John, himself. He dressed as though he was in his thirties, but clearly he was just a boy, or rather, a teenager, a young adult, a young man. Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?
The most incredible aspect of that moment, the one memory that John found the most vivid, was the sight of Sherlock’s eyes. The first time John had seen Sherlock had been from such a distance in such horrible lighting that his eyes looked nothing out of the ordinary. Here in the closeness of the trailer, John could see just how striking Sherlock’s almond eyes were. They had such an ethereal shade of blue to them that John would not have been surprised if Sherlock had told him he wore contacts. John felt shamefully ordinary under that gaze.
John forced himself to move. With great effort he attempted to take a step forward and held out his hand to shake Sherlock’s. He could be civil about this. The shock of actually meeting this strange, enigmatic man for the first time would wear off eventually.
Instead of shaking John’s hand, however, Sherlock stared at it for a moment and then looked up directly into John’s eyes. John could not help but to feel a tiny jolt of electricity at the glance. Finally, Sherlock said in a flat tone, “I’m sorry about your mother.”
A shot of pain began in John’s heart and radiated outward toward his limbs and he felt his knees go weak. “My mother? How could you know about my mother?”
Sherlock paused a moment, as if he were choosing the correct words or as if he were embracing himself to talk for a while without breathing. “You have bags under your eyes, but they don’t look new. They have been there for some time. There is a small lingering smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant on you that can be traced back to a morgue or funeral parlor, either or, but the conclusion remains: someone close to you has died recently. Judging by the hastily packed bag on your shoulder and the clothing choice, that person was very close. Immediate family? Can’t be a brother or a sister, or you would not be here. No, you’re at the circus by yourself-that means it’s a parent. Now: mother or father? The haphazard bandage on the side of your head: no parent would dress their own son’s wound like that, no you dressed it yourself… in a hurry. You knew what you were doing, though, so you must have taken care of the dying relative-enough to learn some first aid. The statistical likelihood on which parent gave you that wound, however, must go to the father. That was a bit of a shot in the dark, I’m afraid, but based on how well Mrs. Hudson has received you, you feel more comfortable around older women. Therefore, your mother has passed away, leaving you alone with a less than pleased father who has wounded you, probably thrown you out and here you are.”
John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes rested easily on John. He seemed braced for a certain type of reaction, but John was tired. He was still in a bit of shock about recent events and felt somewhat detached from them for the time being. Instead of feeling offended that Sherlock had deduced his darkest secret, he felt relieved. Sure, it was not fair for Sherlock to know so much about John and for John to know so little about Sherlock in return, but oddly enough, that did not bother John at all. Instead, he said, “Fantastic. That was… brilliant.”
Sherlock actually looked surprised. Mrs. Hudson simply beamed at the two of them. She had looked uncertain when Sherlock had been talking, but the look on John’s face had eased her fears. Sherlock did not bother with masking his curiosity when he asked, “Oh?”
“Yes,” breathed John. “That was… I’m impressed. You got all that from just a glance?”
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do they normally say?”
“Boys!” Mrs. Hudson chimed in before Sherlock could answer and clapped her hands to get both boys’ attention. “I’m sorry to speed things along, but I have so much to get done, tonight, in preparation for our busy day of shows tomorrow! Sherlock, do you think you can spare some room for John for a bit? It seems he will be helping out around the place for the time being.”
Sherlock acknowledged Mrs. Hudson with a nod of his head, but he never took his eyes off John. “Yes, of course, by all means. He can take the spare room, so long as he doesn’t touch my experiments.”
“Oh, lovely!” Mrs. Hudson pressed her hands to her heart. “Bless you, Sherlock.” She turned to John and took his hands into her own and squeezed them gently. “Don’t be a stranger, dear. If you need anything, just come and see me. I hope you get settled in nicely. I wish I could help you a bit more but, you know, busy busy!” She smiled widely and John could not help but to feel safe and warm around her. Mrs. Hudson had a way of taking in strays and making them feel at home.
John returned the sentiment to Mrs. Hudson. She said her farewells to Sherlock and was out the door in seconds.
A few moments went by and the silence in the trailer was so profound, John could hear the clock ticking. He awkwardly shifted his bag on his shoulder and the movement seemed to have brought Sherlock out of his own mind.
“John,” Sherlock began in his smooth baritone. John nearly jumped when he heard his named uttered.
“Yes?”
“Do you like tea?”
John gave Sherlock an incredulous look and said, “I’m English. I’m made of tea.”
Sherlock merely smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen. John felt himself immediately relax the moment Sherlock was out of sight. Out of the two chairs in the room, John sat down in the chair that appeared as though Sherlock did not use it for himself, much. The other chair had an end table with papers and books around it, while the other seemed rather alone. John assumed this chair was for clients, but as he was so tired from the events of that day, he did not mind that he was not a client at the moment. He slumped down onto the cold leather and sighed audibly.
The trailer really felt cozy to John, and he would have dozed off in the chair right there if it weren’t for the little adrenaline shot Sherlock had given him merely by existing. Just when John felt as though he were calming down, Sherlock came out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea and John’s heart started up all over again. Sherlock offered John a mug and then sat down in his chair. He pulled his feet up onto the seat, his knees tucked up under his chin as he blew lightly over the top of his tea.
John watched Sherlock with growing interest. The exact reason for John’s attraction was unknown. He hadn’t felt a connected with a human being for such a long time, he must have forgotten what it felt like. Didn’t Mrs. Hudson say Sherlock was hard to get along with? John wondered when that personality trait would start to surface. He took a sip of his tea to calm his nerves and it surprisingly worked.
“Thank you, for letting me stay here,” John said after a while. He knew Sherlock’s eyes were scrutinizing over his entire body; he could feel it. It did not seem to bother him, however. He took it in stride. Sherlock obviously noticed things more than the average person. John would just have to be careful.
Sherlock waved the thanks off with the slightest flick of his head. “There is no room anywhere else at the moment. I trust Mrs. Hudson implicitly. She would not have brought you here if she felt you would bore me.”
“Oh, so I don’t bore you?”
“No…” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John-though not in a malicious way-more out of curiosity than anything. “Why don’t you bore me? I don’t even know you.” Sherlock inquired.
John shrugged. It was all he could do. “Could it be because I saw you earlier? In the big tent, after the show?”
Sherlock frowned. “Hardly. I saw you, noted you as a runaway, and proceeded to go about my business as usual. And here you are. Although, I must admit, I had wanted to have an assistant for some time. Someone to weed through my customers when I have a line. Perhaps this is just as well.”
“I see.” John nursed his tea and stole a few furtive glances up at Sherlock when he could. He finally mustered up the courage to ask what had been nagging at him for some time. “How much do you know about me? I mean, have you picked up anything else?”
Sherlock gave John a mysterious grin, “You are inquiring about my services. I should charge for that.”
“You mean, that’s what people do? They pay you to tell them things about themselves?”
“In a way,” said Sherlock. “They pay me to tell them their fortunes. I honestly just deduce it for them.”
“Can you tell me mine, then? My fortune? I can pay…”
Sherlock looked at John hard, as if he were both studying him and contemplating something complex in his mind. After a bit, he set down his tea and moved his feet to the floor so that he could learn forward. “All right… but no charge. You’re my new flat mate, after all. Consider it a housewarming gift.”
John smiled and set down his tea as well. This was certainly an interesting turn of events! John had no idea that he would be ending his day with a professional “psychic.” Although, now, John had a pretty good idea about how Sherlock made a living, but he did not judge. It was really a very useful trait, and he probably helped a lot of people without realizing. “All right, then. What do you need me to do?”
“You don’t need to do anything,” Sherlock said. He held his hands together, resting his index fingers on his lips in concentration. After a moment or two, he held out his hand. At first John thought Sherlock was going to read his palm, but instead he asked for a personal possession of John’s. Something he carried with him a lot.
“Well, there’s my mobile, I guess.” John held out an old, dying mobile phone for Sherlock to see. It was nothing special. Harriet had given him her own pay-as-you-go mobile before she left, and John hardly ever used it. It could only call and text, and John had to add airtime minutes as he used it. Since the phone did not get much use, it was extra cheap-he just used it for emergencies or to contact anyone on behalf of his mother. He always carried it with him, however, out of habit.
Sherlock took the phone, flipped it open and shut, and rolled it over in his hands for a short while before handing it casually back to John. “This was not originally your phone. Going by your watch and the state of your shoelaces, you take very good care of your possessions. The amount of scratches and knicks on this phone is severe. Someone else had it for some time-probably carried it around with keys or coins. Your father would be a highly unlikely candidate for the donor going by his life choices, and your mother’s current state suggests she has been sick for some time which takes her off that list as well. This leaves another close relative: an older sibling. Someone used to giving out hand-me-downs. It’s a flip phone, no contract, so you just put airtime minutes on it. Probably doesn’t get much use from you-the buttons are warn, but not freshly so. Who carries an old flip phone and never uses it? Someone who does not get close to others. You probably don’t have a lot of close friends. Had to keep it close to home all the time to care for your mother. Or perhaps you were ashamed? Did not like your father’s behavior. Drunk, possibly? So your older brother or sister looked out for you; gave you their old phone. But where are they now? They’ve left you a long time ago. I could probably learn more if I went inside the phone, but I can say this off the bat: the most recently dialed number will be that of your older sibling. No answer. They did not come in your hour of need. You feel lost and betrayed. The only person left for you has driven the rest of your family apart. And that is why you are here.”
John swallowed hard. He would never have to tell Sherlock anything about himself, ever. This man had it all down right off the bat. “Amazing. All of it.”
“Did I get anything wrong?”
“No, nothing. It’s… all true.” John scratched his head in disbelief. “You have quite an eye for detail.”
Sherlock scoffed. “It’s nothing, really. People just don’t know how to observe anymore. You could pick up any of these deductions if only you were trained to see them. To know what to look for and to exploit it: that is the key method. I call it the science of deduction.”
“So, all you did is tell me about myself,” said John with a smirk. “That’s hardly fortune-telling.”
“The distant past is easy, the recent past is a walk in the park. The future takes a bit of guesswork and generalization,” said Sherlock, with the slightest hint of a wink. Clearly he enjoyed John’s praise for his work. John did not mind, either. He actually enjoyed Sherlock’s acute observations. He did not have to avoid these conversations or find ways to word them-Sherlock already knew. Perhaps in the future John would get annoyed with it, maybe, but at this point it was too early to tell and John simply reveled in the fascination of it all.
“Can you deduce my future, then?” John asked.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then frowned. “I’m afraid your immediate future doesn’t take much guesswork. You ran away-“
“Escaped.” John interrupted.
Sherlock eyed him. “Ran away,” he continued, unabated. “And came across the circus, liked what you saw, and have successfully joined it. I have the only available living space, so you came here. I’m afraid what happens next is very much straightforward.”
“Oh,” John raised an eyebrow in inquiry, “and what is that?”
Sherlock gave John a look that clearly read ‘Don’t be so daft.’
John shrugged and picked up his tea again. It had cooled enough to take the burn off his tongue and he sipped it leisurely. “Well then, can you show me where I’ll be staying?” Honestly, he was surprised at himself for handling his situation so well. He really did feel comfortable here, and with Sherlock. That magnetic pull he had been feeling had softened to a dull tingle. He found he quite enjoyed this trailer, even though he hadn’t even been in it for an hour, yet.
Sherlock looked toward his laptop that was sitting on a table nearby. He had a look in his eye that suggested he would very much like to get up and get that laptop, but he could not be bothered to do it. He did not speak for some time, and John suddenly felt ignored. Sherlock hadn’t acknowledged that John had even asked him a question. Right as John was about to say something to get Sherlock’s attention, the curly haired man turned toward him and asked, “Can you hand me my laptop, John?”
John looked incredulous, “Sherlock, it’s right there! Can’t you get it yourself? And you haven’t even answered my question!”
“I can see it, it’s too far away and what question?” He tilted his head to the side inquiringly.
John gave a huff, rolled his eyes and retrieved the laptop for Sherlock anyway. “I only wanted to know where I would be staying.”
“My spare bedroom is currently being used for my experiments.” Sherlock said casually as he opened his laptop and woke it up from hibernation. “So there is no bed.”
“You’re not suggesting I sleep with-“
“No.” Sherlock stopped John before he could get any further. John pursed his lips. “You can still sleep there. I have extra blankets and pillows, but I think you would find it much more comfortable to lie on the couch in here, rather than on the floor in there.”
“I see.” John frowned. He honestly could have slept on a couch in any of the other trailers. He had been hoping for a bed, but at the same time he could not complain. He had been willing to sleep outside in a tent, earlier. A couch appeared far more appealing than the cold, hard ground. Perhaps, if he worked hard enough and proved himself worthy, Sherlock would accommodate John into that spare room-but this time with at least a mattress. “I can at least store my things in there?”
“Yes, whatever you like.” Sherlock said. He obviously was not listening with his full attention. His face lit up a sickly blue-ish white from the laptop screen and John thought it made him look very alien.
With that thought, John gathered his bag and turned toward the hallway on the opposite end of the room.
There were three doors: one led to Sherlock’s room, one to the spare room and one to the lavatory. Both doors to the rooms were closed, and John felt too awkward to just be banging into random rooms here and there, so he called down the hall. “Which room?”
“The first door. My room is at the end of the hall.” Sherlock called from the sitting room.
John muttered something about Sherlock being an unaccommodating host but he opened the first door, anyway. The room was impossibly small. If it were any tinier, it would be better classified as a closet than a room. Sherlock had a table filled with his so-called experiments on the far wall, and various jars of something littered rest of the available space. John had been expecting to see perhaps a chemistry set or some Petri dishes in the room. When Sherlock had said “experiment,” that was the image that first came to John’s mind. Instead, Sherlock seemed to be growing things in pots and bags and old food storage containers.
John cautiously entered the room, well aware from common sense and context clues alone that he should probably not touch anything. He did, however, allow his curiosity to get the better of him and he peered over the edge of one of the containers, just to see what it was that Sherlock was doing. Instantly, he recoiled. Sherlock had halfway submerged some fingers in potting soil. To John, it looked as if Sherlock were literally growing fingers much as someone would grow plants.
Moreover, John thought, where did Sherlock get the fingers in the first place? John was almost positive they were real human fingers, although he hadn’t ever seen any fingers physically detached from a living or dead person for any length of time, so he could not be completely sure.
He sighed and set his things down into a corner of the room and finally began to unpack a little of what he had brought. Most of his bag was filled with his clothing, but he had thought to bring just a few bare essentials with him.
He made sure to pack some everyday items he knew he would need no matter where he went. He pulled out his deodorant stick, some shampoo, soap, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. He hoped Sherlock had some extra towels. John had only packed spare clothes-no blankets or towels or pillows or sheets. Although, in retrospect, he probably should have packed a towel. Towels were completely useful for so many different occasions that John now thought it was absolutely silly to not have packed one in the first place. He made a mental note to always remember a towel; towels were important.
Unfortunately, he could not dwell on that point for too long, because he was incredibly tired, but he felt as though he were in desperate need of a bath or a shower, whichever came first. He made his way back to the sitting room to see Sherlock had not moved from his previous position. He was still sitting on his chair, his laptop open in front of him. He still had that eerie blue glow shining on his face.
A bit unnerved, John cleared his throat to gain Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock did not remove his gaze from his laptop. Instead, he gave a very slight nod in John’s direction to show that he was listening. John took a deep breath, “May I use your shower?”
“You live here now, John. For the most part,” said Sherlock as he ran his finger down the touch pad on his laptop. “You don’t need my permission to take a shower.”
“Right, thanks,” John said and made a bee line for the shower. Once inside the bathroom, he quickly stripped himself of his clothing, located a precious towel, got all of his toiletries ready and finally took the plunge into the shower stall.
It took a moment for the shower to get heated enough for John’s liking. The water probably had to go through an old water heater and it was probably recycled and filtered a few times. He did not mind, though. He was still able to get clean enough. He did not want to waste too much of the water, however, based on the fact that there probably was not much of it. This was a traveling circus, after all. This meant that the trailers all moved with the circus and each time the troupe set up camp, the water had to be hauled or bought or moved along with everything else. It was probably a precious commodity for the performers and the crew. Although, John thought, that did say something for the management and human resources department of the circus for each trailer to have its own working shower.
Once he emerged, he stayed in the heated bathroom to change as he had brought his clothes with him. He did not pack any pyjamas, but he put on a clean shirt and shorts thinking that that would have to do. He then dug through his things to grab his toothbrush and toothpaste and turned toward the mirror. He frowned at his reflection. The bags under his eyes were terrible. He hoped a good night’s sleep would fix that.
When he felt refreshed enough to grace Sherlock with his presence again, he walked casually back into the living room, Sherlock’s towel still on his head. That had been a mistake.
Seeing Sherlock again after the brief intermission had gotten John all riled up again, and this time he was wearing a tee shirt and boxer shorts so he felt incredibly vulnerable. He quickly rubbed his hair with the towel, hoping Sherlock would think he was completely normal.
Sherlock was no longer sitting with his laptop. The computer lay forgotten on the side table next to Sherlock’s chair. John noticed, however, that the mugs were gone. He found it strange that a person as messy as Sherlock would take the time to clean up a bit of tea mess.
Instead, he had found Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room, hands on his hips as if he were waiting for John to exit the shower. The strangest expression rested on his face.
John sighed inwardly. Was he welcome, or was he not? The constant worry would give him a headache so he decided that he would not care anymore. He casually held the towel toward Sherlock to indicate that he was well aware of any boundaries he had overstepped. “Thought you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed one.”
This could work. At least Sherlock was not boring. John could tell that already.
Next Chapter