[Sherlock] Circo de Pastel - 8/13
Title: Circo de Pastel
Author: Mesita
Words: 6368/32381/50,000+
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 EIGHT
THE SUSPECT
After John had taken a shower and changed his clothes, he felt much less angry at Sherlock. In fact, he could hardly even remember why he had been so mad at the taller man in the first place. He knew it had something to do with the case and something about how John was not very good at observation, but John had never had to do something like that in his life, so he knew it would be a miracle for him to be so good at it from the start.
He was in a rather good mood when he came into the sitting room. Sherlock was in the kitchen doing experiments and keeping to himself, and for that John was grateful. He could sit back and enjoy some alone time for once.
John sat down on the couch with a sigh and leaned into the cushions. They were very comfortable. Leave it to Sherlock to own comfy furniture. He probably thought uncomfortable furniture would cause his brain work to suffer or something.
Well, now that John had some time for himself, he figured he could do anything. He looked around the room for the television and frowned because he had never realized just how severely lacking the room was of technology. Sherlock probably did all of his work on his laptop.
John sighed. That was just great. He would have to amuse himself in some of Sherlock’s books, then. He stood up and stretched. His muscles nearly screamed with fatigue. They were already used to his sitting position on the couch. John hobbled over to the bookshelf and scanned its contents.
Sherlock really had some odd preferences in his literature. He had zero fiction. What he did own, however, was everything from anatomy and physiology to Intermediate Chemistry. He owned several books of sheet music, a little bit on biology, geology, and quite a bit on the streets and history of London. Sherlock’s bookshelf looked like it belonged to a professor in a university, not to a nineteen or twenty something kid in a circus. He most certainly had a weird flat mate, but he did not care. He much preferred weird to boring.
Except for maybe the part where in this case, weird was boring. John had no desire to read about rocks just for fun.
“Sherlock?” John called, bracing himself for being ignored.
Sherlock grunted from the kitchen and John’s eyes widened a bit when he realized Sherlock was actually paying attention. John took the opportunity to walk into the kitchenette.
Sherlock was sitting on a stool near the counter, looking into a microscope.
“Sherlock,” John began again, “Do you own any fiction at ALL?”
Sherlock almost looked up from the microscope, thought the better of it, and then went back to his observations. “I hardly pinned you as the type of person to read fiction at a time like this.”
“What type of person did you pin me as?” John asked, curiously.
“I don’t know, I thought you’d go out there and mourn with everyone?” Sherlock wrote something down in a notebook beside the microscope.
John rolled his eyes and made his way to the sink. There was a growing pile of dishes and if Sherlock was not going to wash them, they would probably never get done in the next month. John started the water. “My condolences go out to everyone who knew him as a friend, but I barely knew him, and what I did know of him, he immediately squashed any hope of us being friends when he turned out to be a complete arse.”
John could see Sherlock smirk next to him and it made him smile. For a couple of moments, it was very peaceful in that kitchen. Sherlock did his work in silence and John hummed a soft tune to himself as he washed the few dishes they had.
It honestly felt a little domestic to John. John had lived his life in fear for when his father would walk into the same room. He lived in fear for his mother and despite his sister leaving everyone, he worried about her welfare, anyway. Now his mother was in a better place, he could not give two shits about his father and his sister hadn’t kept in touch long enough for John to care how she was, anymore. Distance surely did not make the heart grow fonder.
In fact, despite Sherlock’s inability to experience real human emotion (at least from how little John had seen of him), his strange tastes in everything and his messy tendencies, he was a much better alternative to John’s previous life. He hadn’t pressured John about his family. It was almost as if he knew John was trying to start anew, accepted it as fact and proceeded to treat John thusly.
And really, he enjoyed Sherlock’s company. Sherlock had interesting points of view. Sherlock could play the violin. Sherlock respected privacy. Sherlock was considerate enough to let John stay in his trailer. John realized he may have been biased, but he did not mind. This was nice.
Suddenly, Sherlock looked up from his microscope and grabbed John’s arm. John had rolled his sleeves up so that they would not get wet with the dishwater, so Sherlock’s icy fingers gave John a bit of a start.
“Do you suppose enough time has passed?”
“Time, Sherlock?”
“For the police to have dispersed, John, don’t be dull.”
John almost retaliated at that remark. He was used to insults, but not generally from people he wanted to like him, but Sherlock caught his remark before he could make it, “Don’t look like that, nearly everyone is dull. What time is it?”
John glanced around the kitchen for a clock, and saw one on the wall behind him. His shoulders fell. Sherlock could have just as easily looked up and determined the time for himself. “Quarter past one.”
“I think we should be able to get past them. They should have cleaned up the body by now. They’re probably not investigating and treating it like a suicide. How fortunate for us.”
It was not very fortunate for Carl, but John did not say that out loud. “Fortunate, Sherlock?”
Sherlock stood up and pushed his microscope away from the edge of the counter so it would not fall. “Come, John. We need to look through those bushes outside. They have been teasing and nagging me at every point of my mind.”
John dried his hands and pulled down his sleeves. “Sherlock… it’s one fifteen in the MORNING,” he called as Sherlock disappeared out of the kitchen.
“Oh,” came Sherlock’s voice from the sitting room. “Do you need to sleep?”
“No.” John’s face twisted into an almost smile and he followed Sherlock into the sitting room so that he could get his coat and shoes on. “I was only pointing that out in case you missed it.”
“I never miss anything.”
“I see.” John was still smirking. He was tired as all hell. His muscles yelled at him in protest. His eyes burned a bit in the back of his head, threatening to give him a headache if he stayed up any longer, but John easily pushed the feeling of lethargy aside. He would not miss investigating with Sherlock for the world. After all, he was incredibly happy for some excitement in his life. Sherlock allowed him to breathe for the first time and he is grateful for the adrenaline rush-especially since it knocked John’s fatigue right out the window.
Once outside, John followed Sherlock around the maze of trailers. Sherlock explained that in order for them to be properly stealthy, they could not be seen by anyone, police, performers and crewmembers included.
It was fun creeping about in the areas between each trailer. John crouched under windows, dashed in between rows and ducked around bright lights. John’s heart beat faster with each passing minute, but he did not seem to mind. He felt more alive that he had ever felt.
Upon finally arriving at the crime scene, Sherlock had been correct in saying the police were finished. There was police tape everywhere, but Sherlock completely disregarded it and John followed suit.
Once the two of them crouched into the safety of the offending shrubbery Jennifer had pointed out earlier that night, John felt it safe to address Sherlock. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“Footprints,” concluded Sherlock. “Careful where you step. Don’t mess anything up.”
John’s looked down quickly, making sure he hadn’t tread on anything that would mess up their investigation and was happy to see that he was in the clear.
The lighting was not very good, but it was enough for Sherlock. John mostly acted as a lookout in case anyone came by. During that time, he tried to look around and notice things that perhaps Sherlock would notice. It was harder than he realized. He knew he would have to open his ears a bit more and did so-but the resulting experience only left him more paranoid, so he turned his attention to that of a meerkat, just to make sure they were safe.
He glanced down at Sherlock. The taller man looked much like a grasshopper. His long limbs made it almost impossible for him to dig around the grass and bushes properly. He was muttering a few things to himself, and John strained to hear what they were.
“Perfume smell… bent branches… pounded ground… here… down…. Lied… across…” He spun in place and branched out his circle to encompass more area. “Someone must have watched from here… or here…” He half crouched, half crawled around the perimeter he made. He all but disappeared into the shrubbery when John suddenly heard a sharp, “AHA!”
John made a quick sweep of the perimeter to make sure no one had heard Sherlock’s outburst and he crouched low, following the direction from which Sherlock’s sound came. “What is it?”
“Look John, a boot print! A large, combat boot.” He pointed to the edge of a toe-print in the mud. The grass was a bit sparse and would therefore not cushion a foot as it normally would. Even in the dim light, John could see the distinct markings of a combat boot.
Sherlock grew even more excited. “Yes… steel toe by the looks of it. The woman would have been wearing heels, and Carl’s boots looked nothing like this, and his footprints would be far too small for something like this. A third person stood here. This is our suspect, no, our murderer.” Sherlock looked triumphant. John suddenly found himself wondering if he smiled like that for anyone else.
“Can you get anything else from this?” John asked. He hadn’t known Sherlock for long, but automatically assumed he could get the make, model and pin the killer down just from this.
Sherlock shook his head, but he pulled out his phone and took a picture of the print anyway. “If I could get a second print around here, I’d be able to get his height and weight based on his stride, but he would not have been walking normally. Not in these circumstances. No, John, this is where I wish I had the correct computer software to cross reference these type of shoes with who wears them in this circus!”
“You mean, you DON’T know what type of shoe everyone here, wears?”
“There’s a lot of people in this circus, John. It would be absurd to memorize all of that.”
John opened his mouth to speak up but shut it again. Perhaps there were limits to Sherlock’s walking computer syndrome.
“Wishing will get us nowhere, John. Come, let us retire. This is an interesting bit of information I much dwell upon.” Sherlock said and stood up entirely. John freaked out a little and brought him arms up to grab a hold of Sherlock’s grey coat, bringing the taller boy back down into the bushes.
“You’ll get us caught, you idiot!” John growled.
“Did you see anyone coming?”
“No.”
“I rest my case.” Sherlock stood up again and began the long walk back to the trailer. John groaned and followed, but a bit more conspicuously.
When John had caught up with Sherlock, he was out of breath. “Sherlock, if we were so worried about getting caught on the way here, why aren’t we worried about it on the way back?”
“Most people are in bed about now,” Sherlock replied.
“But suppose someone sees us? How are we supposed to explain that?”
Sherlock glanced at John through the side of his eyes and held out his hand. “Give me your hand.”
John hesitated.
“Oh, come off it, John.” Sherlock reached behind him and took a hold of John’s hand and laced their fingers together. “There. If anyone asks, we were taking a walk together.”
John could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and his ears. He was thankful for the darkness otherwise Sherlock would see his blush. Sherlock’s hands were cold, but not uninviting. John did not know what type of pressure to apply back. Should he squeeze Sherlock’s hand for credibility or let his hand go limp, to show that he did not welcome the contact?
He needed to say something, anything, to get his mind away from his hand. He was well aware of the silence that fell between the two of them. Sherlock even slowed his long strides down so that John could keep up. John thought that was awfully considerate.
He cleared his throat. He needed to sound composed. Perhaps he should talk about their find? “Surely, um…” he cleared his throat again. His voice sounded a little too high for his liking. “Surely you know who around here would wear combat boots. That’s a little specific for a circus performer. We can rule out all the acrobats, for one.”
Sherlock walked in silence for a few more strides, and John was afraid he was being ignored again when suddenly the grip on his hand tightened. John glanced upward to see Sherlock’s eyes shining. “That’s it, John! In this circus, we need a man who is tall, strong, possibly bald or at least has short or thinning hair. Someone… with combat boots. Who fits that description?”
“I’ve only been here a day, Sherlock, I don’t know if I’ve even met everyone.” John pointed out.
Sherlock stopped and turned toward John. He did not let go of his hand, but instead took John’s other hand in his own. “Don’t you see, John? Moran!”
“Who?” John squinted into Sherlock’s eyes and shook his head slightly to indicate he had no idea as to whom Sherlock was talking about.
“The strong man, John.”
“The strong-Oh!” All the buttons click inside John’s mind. The circus’ strong man was probably one of the stands John hadn’t yet had the chance to see personally, but now that he looked back on it, he could remember seeing the strong man amongst the throng of circus performers. He often wore a plaid shirt and came off to John as a lumberjack, but he most certainly fit the description Sherlock had laid out.
Suddenly John felt himself being pulled in the opposite direction. Before he could even ask Sherlock where they were going, he already knew: no doubtedly the trailer of this Moran guy.
Sherlock only let go when they came to the trailer. John nearly died from holding in his laughter. How come he had never seen this trailer, before?
It was obnoxious. It had been painted with sparkling swirls. The word incognito had never even occurred to this trailer. John wondered if Moran had painted it himself, or if he was sharing it with someone else who had painted it. When John got close enough, he saw the big, 60’s style groovy lettering stating The Magnificent Professor Moriarty in bold, yellow font.
The strong man lived with the magician? John had assumed Molly and Moriarty lived together. Maybe they all lived together? It probably was not important, but John still found it silly. He could not help but wonder if Moriarty had a say in all of this.
Sherlock did not even need to stand on the tops of his toes to see inside the trailer. He did not have to look long, however, when he let out a string of almost silent curses.
“Not home?” John offered.
Sherlock shook his head. “Perhaps it was too much to ask for him to return so soon after the crime was committed. He may be on the run… but why would not Moriarty be home? This is very, very interesting…”
“Do we go after them?”
Sherlock shook his head and looked up at the starless sky. “I don’t have a lead as to where they might be. I’m afraid we have hit a dead end for the time being.”
“Ah…” John rubbed his hands together, as it was still quite chilly. He could feel the absence of Sherlock’s hand just as much as he could feel the hand when it was entwined with his own. “Should we head back, then?”
Sherlock took one last look at the trailer in frustration and gave in. He did not offer to hold John’s hand this time, and John’s heart fell a little. He should have thought better than to think Sherlock would continue such a charade. John rather reluctantly stuffed his hands into his pockets to warm his cold fingers.
He could not help but to notice, however, that as they walked back to their trailer, they subconsciously walked closer and closer to each other so that when they finally arrived home, their shoulders were touching.
John hadn’t even noticed until Sherlock unlocked the front door and the cold hit John’s side like he was slammed into a block of ice.
The following morning, John was not surprised to see that Sherlock had woken up before him. He had fallen asleep in his street clothes as soon as he lay down. Sherlock had barely had time to announce that he would be trying to find Moran’s whereabouts before John had fallen asleep face first on the couch. He had even forgotten to take his shoes off.
He woke when the sunlight reached a point that it annoyed him enough to keep his eyes open. He stretched and felt his bones popping all down his back. Sleeping on the couch was not good for him, he knew it. It had only been two nights, but he felt as though each time he woke up, he was being pulled out of the depths of the ocean.
After a good yawn, John realized the sun was too bright for it to be early morning. With a panic, he grabbed his phone to check the time. The battery was low so he plugged it in to charge. It was nearly ten in the morning.
“Aw, Sherlock, why did not you wake me? I needed to be at the big tent hours ago!” John complained as he sauntered into the kitchenette.
“The circus shows are all cancelled until the investigation settles,” Sherlock explained. He was putting the finishing touches on some work in the kitchenette. His laptop lay open on the counter. John saw that Sherlock was trying to do a mobile search of a certain number-probably one associated with Moran or possibly even Moriarty.
“So, what, we get the day off?”
“Convenient, isn’t it?” Sherlock smiled.
John took a mug from the cupboard and made himself a cup of coffee. Sherlock had been making it in the coffee maker. John thought about possibly getting some beans and showing Sherlock how to make some fresh coffee, rather than from powder out of a can.
“Guess I’ll get the laundry done today, then,” John said absent-mindedly. Despite the case and Sherlock’s eagerness to investigate, John only had a limited amount of clothing. Life needed to go on in the background as normal.
Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat in recognition. John finished his coffee and began to gather all the clothing he could find. He could kill two birds with one stone and get all of Sherlock’s washing done, as well. When he had gotten everything he could into some folding baskets, John realized he was a few supplies short.
“Say, Sherlock, I’m going to do the washing. Do you have a laundry card? Or a key?”
The question was apparently pressing enough for Sherlock to raise his head from the Petri dish. “There is a spare key on the shelf over the couch. Mind the violin. And the laundry takes 50p per load.”
John nodded in acknowledgment and Sherlock went back to his work. John did not want to have to use his own money to be doing almost all of Sherlock’s laundry, but he felt awkward asking the man for a few pounds. Sherlock had been paying for the food, and John felt that perhaps that was an even enough trade for the time being.
Laundry, as it so happened, was an all-day experience. It took forever to get a cabbie to take him to the nearest facility. Once there, John had to wait for a unit to open up and even then the process seemed to take forever. He contemplated going across the street for a book, but he was afraid to leave both his and Sherlock’s belongings. The last thing he needed was to be responsible for stolen clothing.
After a time, his phone buzzed and John jumped at the opportunity to answer it. He rarely received text messages.
Come as soon as possible. There has been another incident. -SH
John fumbled with the keys on his phone. It seemed to take him forever. Texting was awkward and John hadn’t been given enough time or friends to practice the art.
How did you get this number?
From your phone. Come at once. -SH
I have a few more minutes on the machine. I’ll come as soon as it’s done. What happened?
Can’t say. -SH
In the middle of texting back, John’s phone buzzed again with another message from Sherlock. It took a minute for John to delete his message so that he could read his new one, and in the mean time, he received one more.
Actually, it would be more beneficial for me to come there. -SH
Use a locker for the clothing. Pick it up later. -SH
Sherlock seemed to answer all of John’s questions before he could even ask them. He did not want to have to tote the clothing all over London if Sherlock had a notion that they needed to be somewhere.
John spent the next few minutes wondering what possibly could have happened to have Sherlock need to come out to a laundry facility of all places. It made the time go by much faster, in retrospect. John made a note to think about Sherlock more often, but then blushed at the thought. Even his own mind took it the wrong way.
John jumped every time the bell on the door rang; hoping Sherlock would come storming in with his gray coat billowing behind him. Eventually, the clothing was finished and John even had time to fold everything so that it would fit into the baskets easier. He rented a locker from the fragile old man behind the counter and put his clothes inside. He hoped they would be able to come back before they closed for the day.
As if right on time, Sherlock pulled up in a cab just as John was exiting the facility to wait for Sherlock outside. John opened the door to the cab and slid inside. Before he could even ask Sherlock what had happened, the taller man began to explain by leaning toward the cabbie.
“St. Bart’s, please,” he requested and sat back in the comfort of the seat. Sherlock had gotten them a nice luxury black cab. John bounced a bit in the seats, clearly impressed. Sherlock really knew how to arrive in style.
“Did someone else get attacked? Who are we visiting in the hospital?” John asked in a hushed voice, well aware that the cabbie could be listening in. Sometimes cabs unnerved John.
“Once step further,” Sherlock said, “Jennifer is dead.”
John could not stop his jaw from dropping. “But-she was taken into police custody last night! How could she have died?”
“I received news of this via Lestrade this morning, shortly after you left,” Sherlock explained. “She has been taken to the morgue at St. Bart’s, but the coroner’s report has not been released to the public. We’re going to find out how she died.”
“But, we’re just teenagers!” John protested. “They are never going to let us into the morgue! -let alone to see someone who died in police custody!”
Sherlock gave John a smirk that John had learned to associate with finding out an interesting tidbit of information that Sherlock liked to keep hidden up his sleeve. “How do you think I got all of those body parts, John? Don’t look at me like that, I know you’ve seen them and just been too polite to speak up.”
John swallowed, hard. Sherlock was right. Sherlock was always right.
“You need to learn how to get connections, John,” Sherlock said, “that’s the secret to everything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said John, and he looked out the window to watch London pass by in silence.
When they arrived at the hospital, a man every bit as tall as Sherlock stopped them. Despite it being sunny outside and they were obviously indoors, the man carried an umbrella. He had a long nose and a receding hairline despite being less than a decade older than the two of them. He could not have even reached thirty, yet.
Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed noticeably. He had first entered the hospital with a sense of self confidence, pride and determination. Upon seeing this stranger, he assumed a slump, and all previous signs of his aforementioned qualities were replaced with frustration, anger and mostly annoyance.
John’s gaze flickered between the two of them in confusion. They were staring hard at each other, so it was obvious to assume they at least had met before, or possibly knew each other quite well. John immediately felt intimidated by the man with the umbrella. Surely anyone who could have that kind of effect on Sherlock was not someone with whom John wanted to get involved.
The man was the first to speak. “I thought you might turn up here, Sherlock.”
Sherlock did not answer. If his jaw could be any more set, John would become a clown. John felt a strange urge to reach out and touch Sherlock’s shoulder or maybe even hold his hand just to calm him down, but resisted the temptation.
The man spoke again. “I have half a mind to let you get caught in your little illegal bit of escapades. Have you gone detective on me?”
Sherlock still did not answer. John wondered why his own presence was not acknowledged. He wondered if he was nothing more than a shadow to Sherlock-someone there just to stand beside the ‘consulting psychic’ and make him look even more brilliant.
Umbrella man sighed once more and took a step toward Sherlock, using his umbrella as a cane. His voice had a smooth drawl to it that made John feel uneasy-as if anything he wanted to say would not matter. “And you’re picking up strays, it seems.” Suddenly the man’s eyes shot to John and he could feel the gaze shoot all the way through him. It was a piercing, scary sensation, and was most unwelcome.
“John is my friend,” Sherlock snapped, suddenly. John stole a glance at the taller boy from the corner of his eye and felt a wash of pride go over him. Did Sherlock really think so? John hadn’t yet had a real proper friend. He had a few buddies growing up, and he got along with people very quickly, but so far, no one had ever called him a friend-at least not that he knew of.
“Friend!” The man did not appear to believe it for a second. John frowned. He could be Sherlock’s friend. He could be Sherlock’s best friend. After all, Sherlock was his friend, right? The amount of time they had known each other was not long, true, but John did not want to base his feelings off of that. He and Sherlock clicked together in some strange way. He liked Sherlock. He just hated that it took this creepy old man in the middle of a hospital lobby to unknowingly point it out to them both. “I did not know it was customary to put one’s friend in danger.”
Before Sherlock could say anything, John felt it necessary to speak up. “I came along of my own accord. I know what I’m getting myself into.” He looked over at Sherlock to hopefully catch his eye, but unfortunately Sherlock’s gaze was locked on the other man’s.
Somehow, the older man’s eyes softened and his features relaxed, slightly. It was as if he had made up his mind, somehow. On what, John had no idea, but if it stopped making him look so intimidating, John was all for it. “I see…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card key. He held it out for one of them to take. “This will get you into the morgue without any trouble. You have clearance through me.”
Sherlock hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward to take the card key without thanks.
“Be careful, Sherlock,” the man warned. “You may not like where this is headed.”
“I don’t need you to tell me to be careful,” Sherlock said, letting his anger seethe into the words. John had yet to hear Sherlock’s voice drip with so much malice. He decided he would rather not like to hear it often. Sherlock’s hand reached out to his side with precision and grabbed the sleeve of John’s jacket. He pulled John with him past the man with the umbrella toward the lifts.
“Don’t make yourself a target, Sherlock. At this rate my entire circus will be killed just to sate your curiosity.”
John did a double take as Sherlock mashed every down button on every lift he could find. “Wait, his circus? He’s the owner?”
Sherlock was silent. The owner of the circus was about to say something to confirm or deny John’s question, but the lift doors opened and Sherlock quickly pulled John inside and hit the ‘close door’ button.
John immediately addressed Sherlock. “Did I just talk back to my BOSS? How am I ever going to keep a job, now?”
“You’ll still have your job,” Sherlock said. He was much more relaxed now that their boss was out of sight, but John noticed he was still a little on edge.
John hesitated on asking, but his curiosity got the better of him. Sherlock was rubbing off on him, already. “How come he’s so worried about you, but still helped you do exactly what he did not want you do to?”
“I don’t like to delve into the psyche of my idiot older brother. I cannot begin to fathom what trifle nuances go on in that head of his.”
That tidbit of information was not lost on John. Sherlock’s brother owned the circus? How come everyone had failed to mention that? Did anyone else even know? John wondered if that meant that Sherlock owned any part of the circus, himself, or if that was why he had such nice living quarters. John swallowed hard. “But that would mean…”
“It doesn’t matter that Mycroft is my brother, or that he owns the circus. What matters is that he’s gone and bypassed all of my connections just to suit his own will. What was he thinking? Showing up like that, just to throw me off my game. He wasted a valuable bit of my time.” Sherlock glanced up at the top of the lift, to where the numbers showed what floor they were on. He tapped his foot impatiently.
“But we can just walk into the morgue, now. Doesn’t that save us a bit of time, Sherlock?” John asked, but immediately regretted it once he saw the look Sherlock gave him.
The lift finally reached the correct floor and Sherlock bounded away down a corridor, forcing John to follow. Sherlock obviously knew his way around the hospital. He had been here more than once, most definitely. John did not know whether to be impressed or mortified.
“Let me do all the talking,” said Sherlock just before he burst into a set of double-doors.
It was cold in the morgue-something John should have anticipated, but he did not realize it until the wave of temperature change hit him. He hugged his arms to himself out of reflex. In no time at all, Sherlock had talked to an assistant and located the body of Jennifer Wilson.
John thought it would be a good idea to start bracing himself to see her, knowing full well that she was just alive last night, but when the coroner’s assistant pulled the sheet off her face, John felt nothing. He had barely known this girl, and to make matters even stranger, they had shaved her beard, so she was hardly recognizable.
“Can you give us a few moments?” Sherlock said to the coroner. For a moment, John could have sworn he saw a tear in his friend’s eye. “If you don’t mind.”
“You have five minutes,” the man sad, and went back to his desk.
Sherlock turned back toward the body, both the tear and all signs of remorse gone. “It is almost safe to say, now, that Moran did it.” Sherlock was back into detective mode again, for sure. Either he was over John’s comment from before, or he had deleted it from his mind. John did not mind either way.
John bent over Jennifer’s left side while Sherlock stood on the right. He had half a mind to put on some gloves and examine the body himself, to see if he could notice what Sherlock did. “But… how do you know how she died? It almost looks like she’s asleep.”
“Because it’s obvious she was poisoned. She has no bruising, cuts, scrapes or contusions of any kind. The coloring is not appropriate for a drowning or a strangling, and, it is as you said, John. She looks to be sleeping. She has been poisoned.” Sherlock put the cover back over Jennifer’s face, himself.
“Brilliant…” John murmured.
“Our main suspect, Moran, has no alibi. He was not at his trailer last night, and that corresponds to her time of death, here.” Sherlock pointed to a makeshift chart at the head of the table with all of Jennifer’s stats on it. “Sometimes, John, there are no coincidences.”
“So,” John said in a hushed tone, to be sure the coroner’s assistant would not be able to hear from over at his desk. “Carl takes a girl home, an accomplice of Moran’s, probably. She helps with the cover-up a bit. Moran strangles Carl and makes it look like a suicide. He runs into Jennifer, and she is taken into custody as a police witness. In order to keep her quiet, he poisons her. The trail should end here, shouldn’t it?”
“Well,” Sherlock grinned, “There’s still us, isn’t there? Now we know.”
John supposed he should have felt fear, but that was not the correct name for what he was feeling. He did not quite know if it had a name, “We’re the new targets.”
“Possibly, but Moran has to know we’re investigating for us to be targets,” Sherlock pointed out.
John suddenly frowned. “Why Moran would do this, though? Did he have a vendetta against Carl? I can understand why he killed Jennifer-just to keep the scent off him, but why Carl in the first place?”
“Now, you’re asking all the right questions!” Sherlock grinned and clapped his hands together.
“Ah! So, you know?”
“I have no idea, John.” Despite this, Sherlock looked like he was living on cloud nine. “Moran doesn’t talk much to other people and often keeps to himself. If he is seen with anyone it is Moriarty, possibly because they share a trailer, or possibly for other reasons, but even those are limited.”
“What about Moriarty, then?” John brought up. “He was not at the trailer, either. Could he have something to do with all of this?”
“It is most definitely something to consider,” Sherlock mused. “What bothers me is that Mycroft knew how Jennifer died.”
“How?”
“He knew what we would find when we came down here,” Sherlock explained. “Otherwise he would not have made an appearance. He knew how she died, and I’m willing to bet he also knows who did it, and possibly why. If that’s the case, why keep it a secret. Why not have the culprit arrested? Surely he has the resources.”
“Maybe he only found out just now?” John offered. It was a shot in the dark. “That’s why he’s letting us investigate-so we can catch him so-“
“So he won’t have to,” Sherlock finished for John and narrowed his eyes. “That lazy, pompous git.”
“Well, it looks like in order to find Moran, we’ll have to find Moriarty,” John summed.
“Yes….” Sherlock stroked his chin in thought; John felt it was more for his sake than anything. He had a feeling this little trip was more to confirm Sherlock’s accusations rather than to gather new information. “Come, Watson. We must make haste if we are to be back at the circus at a reasonable hour.”
John had to remind Sherlock to stop by the laundry facility on the way home. He knew Sherlock would forget, and chuckled a little when the taller boy grew angry to have his trip home lengthened.
John could almost hear the gears turning in Sherlock’s head. His friend was on to something, and John did not know what.
Next Chapter
Author: Mesita
Words: 6368/32381/50,000+
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 EIGHT
THE SUSPECT
After John had taken a shower and changed his clothes, he felt much less angry at Sherlock. In fact, he could hardly even remember why he had been so mad at the taller man in the first place. He knew it had something to do with the case and something about how John was not very good at observation, but John had never had to do something like that in his life, so he knew it would be a miracle for him to be so good at it from the start.
He was in a rather good mood when he came into the sitting room. Sherlock was in the kitchen doing experiments and keeping to himself, and for that John was grateful. He could sit back and enjoy some alone time for once.
John sat down on the couch with a sigh and leaned into the cushions. They were very comfortable. Leave it to Sherlock to own comfy furniture. He probably thought uncomfortable furniture would cause his brain work to suffer or something.
Well, now that John had some time for himself, he figured he could do anything. He looked around the room for the television and frowned because he had never realized just how severely lacking the room was of technology. Sherlock probably did all of his work on his laptop.
John sighed. That was just great. He would have to amuse himself in some of Sherlock’s books, then. He stood up and stretched. His muscles nearly screamed with fatigue. They were already used to his sitting position on the couch. John hobbled over to the bookshelf and scanned its contents.
Sherlock really had some odd preferences in his literature. He had zero fiction. What he did own, however, was everything from anatomy and physiology to Intermediate Chemistry. He owned several books of sheet music, a little bit on biology, geology, and quite a bit on the streets and history of London. Sherlock’s bookshelf looked like it belonged to a professor in a university, not to a nineteen or twenty something kid in a circus. He most certainly had a weird flat mate, but he did not care. He much preferred weird to boring.
Except for maybe the part where in this case, weird was boring. John had no desire to read about rocks just for fun.
“Sherlock?” John called, bracing himself for being ignored.
Sherlock grunted from the kitchen and John’s eyes widened a bit when he realized Sherlock was actually paying attention. John took the opportunity to walk into the kitchenette.
Sherlock was sitting on a stool near the counter, looking into a microscope.
“Sherlock,” John began again, “Do you own any fiction at ALL?”
Sherlock almost looked up from the microscope, thought the better of it, and then went back to his observations. “I hardly pinned you as the type of person to read fiction at a time like this.”
“What type of person did you pin me as?” John asked, curiously.
“I don’t know, I thought you’d go out there and mourn with everyone?” Sherlock wrote something down in a notebook beside the microscope.
John rolled his eyes and made his way to the sink. There was a growing pile of dishes and if Sherlock was not going to wash them, they would probably never get done in the next month. John started the water. “My condolences go out to everyone who knew him as a friend, but I barely knew him, and what I did know of him, he immediately squashed any hope of us being friends when he turned out to be a complete arse.”
John could see Sherlock smirk next to him and it made him smile. For a couple of moments, it was very peaceful in that kitchen. Sherlock did his work in silence and John hummed a soft tune to himself as he washed the few dishes they had.
It honestly felt a little domestic to John. John had lived his life in fear for when his father would walk into the same room. He lived in fear for his mother and despite his sister leaving everyone, he worried about her welfare, anyway. Now his mother was in a better place, he could not give two shits about his father and his sister hadn’t kept in touch long enough for John to care how she was, anymore. Distance surely did not make the heart grow fonder.
In fact, despite Sherlock’s inability to experience real human emotion (at least from how little John had seen of him), his strange tastes in everything and his messy tendencies, he was a much better alternative to John’s previous life. He hadn’t pressured John about his family. It was almost as if he knew John was trying to start anew, accepted it as fact and proceeded to treat John thusly.
And really, he enjoyed Sherlock’s company. Sherlock had interesting points of view. Sherlock could play the violin. Sherlock respected privacy. Sherlock was considerate enough to let John stay in his trailer. John realized he may have been biased, but he did not mind. This was nice.
Suddenly, Sherlock looked up from his microscope and grabbed John’s arm. John had rolled his sleeves up so that they would not get wet with the dishwater, so Sherlock’s icy fingers gave John a bit of a start.
“Do you suppose enough time has passed?”
“Time, Sherlock?”
“For the police to have dispersed, John, don’t be dull.”
John almost retaliated at that remark. He was used to insults, but not generally from people he wanted to like him, but Sherlock caught his remark before he could make it, “Don’t look like that, nearly everyone is dull. What time is it?”
John glanced around the kitchen for a clock, and saw one on the wall behind him. His shoulders fell. Sherlock could have just as easily looked up and determined the time for himself. “Quarter past one.”
“I think we should be able to get past them. They should have cleaned up the body by now. They’re probably not investigating and treating it like a suicide. How fortunate for us.”
It was not very fortunate for Carl, but John did not say that out loud. “Fortunate, Sherlock?”
Sherlock stood up and pushed his microscope away from the edge of the counter so it would not fall. “Come, John. We need to look through those bushes outside. They have been teasing and nagging me at every point of my mind.”
John dried his hands and pulled down his sleeves. “Sherlock… it’s one fifteen in the MORNING,” he called as Sherlock disappeared out of the kitchen.
“Oh,” came Sherlock’s voice from the sitting room. “Do you need to sleep?”
“No.” John’s face twisted into an almost smile and he followed Sherlock into the sitting room so that he could get his coat and shoes on. “I was only pointing that out in case you missed it.”
“I never miss anything.”
“I see.” John was still smirking. He was tired as all hell. His muscles yelled at him in protest. His eyes burned a bit in the back of his head, threatening to give him a headache if he stayed up any longer, but John easily pushed the feeling of lethargy aside. He would not miss investigating with Sherlock for the world. After all, he was incredibly happy for some excitement in his life. Sherlock allowed him to breathe for the first time and he is grateful for the adrenaline rush-especially since it knocked John’s fatigue right out the window.
Once outside, John followed Sherlock around the maze of trailers. Sherlock explained that in order for them to be properly stealthy, they could not be seen by anyone, police, performers and crewmembers included.
It was fun creeping about in the areas between each trailer. John crouched under windows, dashed in between rows and ducked around bright lights. John’s heart beat faster with each passing minute, but he did not seem to mind. He felt more alive that he had ever felt.
Upon finally arriving at the crime scene, Sherlock had been correct in saying the police were finished. There was police tape everywhere, but Sherlock completely disregarded it and John followed suit.
Once the two of them crouched into the safety of the offending shrubbery Jennifer had pointed out earlier that night, John felt it safe to address Sherlock. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“Footprints,” concluded Sherlock. “Careful where you step. Don’t mess anything up.”
John’s looked down quickly, making sure he hadn’t tread on anything that would mess up their investigation and was happy to see that he was in the clear.
The lighting was not very good, but it was enough for Sherlock. John mostly acted as a lookout in case anyone came by. During that time, he tried to look around and notice things that perhaps Sherlock would notice. It was harder than he realized. He knew he would have to open his ears a bit more and did so-but the resulting experience only left him more paranoid, so he turned his attention to that of a meerkat, just to make sure they were safe.
He glanced down at Sherlock. The taller man looked much like a grasshopper. His long limbs made it almost impossible for him to dig around the grass and bushes properly. He was muttering a few things to himself, and John strained to hear what they were.
“Perfume smell… bent branches… pounded ground… here… down…. Lied… across…” He spun in place and branched out his circle to encompass more area. “Someone must have watched from here… or here…” He half crouched, half crawled around the perimeter he made. He all but disappeared into the shrubbery when John suddenly heard a sharp, “AHA!”
John made a quick sweep of the perimeter to make sure no one had heard Sherlock’s outburst and he crouched low, following the direction from which Sherlock’s sound came. “What is it?”
“Look John, a boot print! A large, combat boot.” He pointed to the edge of a toe-print in the mud. The grass was a bit sparse and would therefore not cushion a foot as it normally would. Even in the dim light, John could see the distinct markings of a combat boot.
Sherlock grew even more excited. “Yes… steel toe by the looks of it. The woman would have been wearing heels, and Carl’s boots looked nothing like this, and his footprints would be far too small for something like this. A third person stood here. This is our suspect, no, our murderer.” Sherlock looked triumphant. John suddenly found himself wondering if he smiled like that for anyone else.
“Can you get anything else from this?” John asked. He hadn’t known Sherlock for long, but automatically assumed he could get the make, model and pin the killer down just from this.
Sherlock shook his head, but he pulled out his phone and took a picture of the print anyway. “If I could get a second print around here, I’d be able to get his height and weight based on his stride, but he would not have been walking normally. Not in these circumstances. No, John, this is where I wish I had the correct computer software to cross reference these type of shoes with who wears them in this circus!”
“You mean, you DON’T know what type of shoe everyone here, wears?”
“There’s a lot of people in this circus, John. It would be absurd to memorize all of that.”
John opened his mouth to speak up but shut it again. Perhaps there were limits to Sherlock’s walking computer syndrome.
“Wishing will get us nowhere, John. Come, let us retire. This is an interesting bit of information I much dwell upon.” Sherlock said and stood up entirely. John freaked out a little and brought him arms up to grab a hold of Sherlock’s grey coat, bringing the taller boy back down into the bushes.
“You’ll get us caught, you idiot!” John growled.
“Did you see anyone coming?”
“No.”
“I rest my case.” Sherlock stood up again and began the long walk back to the trailer. John groaned and followed, but a bit more conspicuously.
When John had caught up with Sherlock, he was out of breath. “Sherlock, if we were so worried about getting caught on the way here, why aren’t we worried about it on the way back?”
“Most people are in bed about now,” Sherlock replied.
“But suppose someone sees us? How are we supposed to explain that?”
Sherlock glanced at John through the side of his eyes and held out his hand. “Give me your hand.”
John hesitated.
“Oh, come off it, John.” Sherlock reached behind him and took a hold of John’s hand and laced their fingers together. “There. If anyone asks, we were taking a walk together.”
John could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and his ears. He was thankful for the darkness otherwise Sherlock would see his blush. Sherlock’s hands were cold, but not uninviting. John did not know what type of pressure to apply back. Should he squeeze Sherlock’s hand for credibility or let his hand go limp, to show that he did not welcome the contact?
He needed to say something, anything, to get his mind away from his hand. He was well aware of the silence that fell between the two of them. Sherlock even slowed his long strides down so that John could keep up. John thought that was awfully considerate.
He cleared his throat. He needed to sound composed. Perhaps he should talk about their find? “Surely, um…” he cleared his throat again. His voice sounded a little too high for his liking. “Surely you know who around here would wear combat boots. That’s a little specific for a circus performer. We can rule out all the acrobats, for one.”
Sherlock walked in silence for a few more strides, and John was afraid he was being ignored again when suddenly the grip on his hand tightened. John glanced upward to see Sherlock’s eyes shining. “That’s it, John! In this circus, we need a man who is tall, strong, possibly bald or at least has short or thinning hair. Someone… with combat boots. Who fits that description?”
“I’ve only been here a day, Sherlock, I don’t know if I’ve even met everyone.” John pointed out.
Sherlock stopped and turned toward John. He did not let go of his hand, but instead took John’s other hand in his own. “Don’t you see, John? Moran!”
“Who?” John squinted into Sherlock’s eyes and shook his head slightly to indicate he had no idea as to whom Sherlock was talking about.
“The strong man, John.”
“The strong-Oh!” All the buttons click inside John’s mind. The circus’ strong man was probably one of the stands John hadn’t yet had the chance to see personally, but now that he looked back on it, he could remember seeing the strong man amongst the throng of circus performers. He often wore a plaid shirt and came off to John as a lumberjack, but he most certainly fit the description Sherlock had laid out.
Suddenly John felt himself being pulled in the opposite direction. Before he could even ask Sherlock where they were going, he already knew: no doubtedly the trailer of this Moran guy.
Sherlock only let go when they came to the trailer. John nearly died from holding in his laughter. How come he had never seen this trailer, before?
It was obnoxious. It had been painted with sparkling swirls. The word incognito had never even occurred to this trailer. John wondered if Moran had painted it himself, or if he was sharing it with someone else who had painted it. When John got close enough, he saw the big, 60’s style groovy lettering stating The Magnificent Professor Moriarty in bold, yellow font.
The strong man lived with the magician? John had assumed Molly and Moriarty lived together. Maybe they all lived together? It probably was not important, but John still found it silly. He could not help but wonder if Moriarty had a say in all of this.
Sherlock did not even need to stand on the tops of his toes to see inside the trailer. He did not have to look long, however, when he let out a string of almost silent curses.
“Not home?” John offered.
Sherlock shook his head. “Perhaps it was too much to ask for him to return so soon after the crime was committed. He may be on the run… but why would not Moriarty be home? This is very, very interesting…”
“Do we go after them?”
Sherlock shook his head and looked up at the starless sky. “I don’t have a lead as to where they might be. I’m afraid we have hit a dead end for the time being.”
“Ah…” John rubbed his hands together, as it was still quite chilly. He could feel the absence of Sherlock’s hand just as much as he could feel the hand when it was entwined with his own. “Should we head back, then?”
Sherlock took one last look at the trailer in frustration and gave in. He did not offer to hold John’s hand this time, and John’s heart fell a little. He should have thought better than to think Sherlock would continue such a charade. John rather reluctantly stuffed his hands into his pockets to warm his cold fingers.
He could not help but to notice, however, that as they walked back to their trailer, they subconsciously walked closer and closer to each other so that when they finally arrived home, their shoulders were touching.
John hadn’t even noticed until Sherlock unlocked the front door and the cold hit John’s side like he was slammed into a block of ice.
The following morning, John was not surprised to see that Sherlock had woken up before him. He had fallen asleep in his street clothes as soon as he lay down. Sherlock had barely had time to announce that he would be trying to find Moran’s whereabouts before John had fallen asleep face first on the couch. He had even forgotten to take his shoes off.
He woke when the sunlight reached a point that it annoyed him enough to keep his eyes open. He stretched and felt his bones popping all down his back. Sleeping on the couch was not good for him, he knew it. It had only been two nights, but he felt as though each time he woke up, he was being pulled out of the depths of the ocean.
After a good yawn, John realized the sun was too bright for it to be early morning. With a panic, he grabbed his phone to check the time. The battery was low so he plugged it in to charge. It was nearly ten in the morning.
“Aw, Sherlock, why did not you wake me? I needed to be at the big tent hours ago!” John complained as he sauntered into the kitchenette.
“The circus shows are all cancelled until the investigation settles,” Sherlock explained. He was putting the finishing touches on some work in the kitchenette. His laptop lay open on the counter. John saw that Sherlock was trying to do a mobile search of a certain number-probably one associated with Moran or possibly even Moriarty.
“So, what, we get the day off?”
“Convenient, isn’t it?” Sherlock smiled.
John took a mug from the cupboard and made himself a cup of coffee. Sherlock had been making it in the coffee maker. John thought about possibly getting some beans and showing Sherlock how to make some fresh coffee, rather than from powder out of a can.
“Guess I’ll get the laundry done today, then,” John said absent-mindedly. Despite the case and Sherlock’s eagerness to investigate, John only had a limited amount of clothing. Life needed to go on in the background as normal.
Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat in recognition. John finished his coffee and began to gather all the clothing he could find. He could kill two birds with one stone and get all of Sherlock’s washing done, as well. When he had gotten everything he could into some folding baskets, John realized he was a few supplies short.
“Say, Sherlock, I’m going to do the washing. Do you have a laundry card? Or a key?”
The question was apparently pressing enough for Sherlock to raise his head from the Petri dish. “There is a spare key on the shelf over the couch. Mind the violin. And the laundry takes 50p per load.”
John nodded in acknowledgment and Sherlock went back to his work. John did not want to have to use his own money to be doing almost all of Sherlock’s laundry, but he felt awkward asking the man for a few pounds. Sherlock had been paying for the food, and John felt that perhaps that was an even enough trade for the time being.
Laundry, as it so happened, was an all-day experience. It took forever to get a cabbie to take him to the nearest facility. Once there, John had to wait for a unit to open up and even then the process seemed to take forever. He contemplated going across the street for a book, but he was afraid to leave both his and Sherlock’s belongings. The last thing he needed was to be responsible for stolen clothing.
After a time, his phone buzzed and John jumped at the opportunity to answer it. He rarely received text messages.
Come as soon as possible. There has been another incident. -SH
John fumbled with the keys on his phone. It seemed to take him forever. Texting was awkward and John hadn’t been given enough time or friends to practice the art.
How did you get this number?
From your phone. Come at once. -SH
I have a few more minutes on the machine. I’ll come as soon as it’s done. What happened?
Can’t say. -SH
In the middle of texting back, John’s phone buzzed again with another message from Sherlock. It took a minute for John to delete his message so that he could read his new one, and in the mean time, he received one more.
Actually, it would be more beneficial for me to come there. -SH
Use a locker for the clothing. Pick it up later. -SH
Sherlock seemed to answer all of John’s questions before he could even ask them. He did not want to have to tote the clothing all over London if Sherlock had a notion that they needed to be somewhere.
John spent the next few minutes wondering what possibly could have happened to have Sherlock need to come out to a laundry facility of all places. It made the time go by much faster, in retrospect. John made a note to think about Sherlock more often, but then blushed at the thought. Even his own mind took it the wrong way.
John jumped every time the bell on the door rang; hoping Sherlock would come storming in with his gray coat billowing behind him. Eventually, the clothing was finished and John even had time to fold everything so that it would fit into the baskets easier. He rented a locker from the fragile old man behind the counter and put his clothes inside. He hoped they would be able to come back before they closed for the day.
As if right on time, Sherlock pulled up in a cab just as John was exiting the facility to wait for Sherlock outside. John opened the door to the cab and slid inside. Before he could even ask Sherlock what had happened, the taller man began to explain by leaning toward the cabbie.
“St. Bart’s, please,” he requested and sat back in the comfort of the seat. Sherlock had gotten them a nice luxury black cab. John bounced a bit in the seats, clearly impressed. Sherlock really knew how to arrive in style.
“Did someone else get attacked? Who are we visiting in the hospital?” John asked in a hushed voice, well aware that the cabbie could be listening in. Sometimes cabs unnerved John.
“Once step further,” Sherlock said, “Jennifer is dead.”
John could not stop his jaw from dropping. “But-she was taken into police custody last night! How could she have died?”
“I received news of this via Lestrade this morning, shortly after you left,” Sherlock explained. “She has been taken to the morgue at St. Bart’s, but the coroner’s report has not been released to the public. We’re going to find out how she died.”
“But, we’re just teenagers!” John protested. “They are never going to let us into the morgue! -let alone to see someone who died in police custody!”
Sherlock gave John a smirk that John had learned to associate with finding out an interesting tidbit of information that Sherlock liked to keep hidden up his sleeve. “How do you think I got all of those body parts, John? Don’t look at me like that, I know you’ve seen them and just been too polite to speak up.”
John swallowed, hard. Sherlock was right. Sherlock was always right.
“You need to learn how to get connections, John,” Sherlock said, “that’s the secret to everything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said John, and he looked out the window to watch London pass by in silence.
When they arrived at the hospital, a man every bit as tall as Sherlock stopped them. Despite it being sunny outside and they were obviously indoors, the man carried an umbrella. He had a long nose and a receding hairline despite being less than a decade older than the two of them. He could not have even reached thirty, yet.
Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed noticeably. He had first entered the hospital with a sense of self confidence, pride and determination. Upon seeing this stranger, he assumed a slump, and all previous signs of his aforementioned qualities were replaced with frustration, anger and mostly annoyance.
John’s gaze flickered between the two of them in confusion. They were staring hard at each other, so it was obvious to assume they at least had met before, or possibly knew each other quite well. John immediately felt intimidated by the man with the umbrella. Surely anyone who could have that kind of effect on Sherlock was not someone with whom John wanted to get involved.
The man was the first to speak. “I thought you might turn up here, Sherlock.”
Sherlock did not answer. If his jaw could be any more set, John would become a clown. John felt a strange urge to reach out and touch Sherlock’s shoulder or maybe even hold his hand just to calm him down, but resisted the temptation.
The man spoke again. “I have half a mind to let you get caught in your little illegal bit of escapades. Have you gone detective on me?”
Sherlock still did not answer. John wondered why his own presence was not acknowledged. He wondered if he was nothing more than a shadow to Sherlock-someone there just to stand beside the ‘consulting psychic’ and make him look even more brilliant.
Umbrella man sighed once more and took a step toward Sherlock, using his umbrella as a cane. His voice had a smooth drawl to it that made John feel uneasy-as if anything he wanted to say would not matter. “And you’re picking up strays, it seems.” Suddenly the man’s eyes shot to John and he could feel the gaze shoot all the way through him. It was a piercing, scary sensation, and was most unwelcome.
“John is my friend,” Sherlock snapped, suddenly. John stole a glance at the taller boy from the corner of his eye and felt a wash of pride go over him. Did Sherlock really think so? John hadn’t yet had a real proper friend. He had a few buddies growing up, and he got along with people very quickly, but so far, no one had ever called him a friend-at least not that he knew of.
“Friend!” The man did not appear to believe it for a second. John frowned. He could be Sherlock’s friend. He could be Sherlock’s best friend. After all, Sherlock was his friend, right? The amount of time they had known each other was not long, true, but John did not want to base his feelings off of that. He and Sherlock clicked together in some strange way. He liked Sherlock. He just hated that it took this creepy old man in the middle of a hospital lobby to unknowingly point it out to them both. “I did not know it was customary to put one’s friend in danger.”
Before Sherlock could say anything, John felt it necessary to speak up. “I came along of my own accord. I know what I’m getting myself into.” He looked over at Sherlock to hopefully catch his eye, but unfortunately Sherlock’s gaze was locked on the other man’s.
Somehow, the older man’s eyes softened and his features relaxed, slightly. It was as if he had made up his mind, somehow. On what, John had no idea, but if it stopped making him look so intimidating, John was all for it. “I see…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card key. He held it out for one of them to take. “This will get you into the morgue without any trouble. You have clearance through me.”
Sherlock hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward to take the card key without thanks.
“Be careful, Sherlock,” the man warned. “You may not like where this is headed.”
“I don’t need you to tell me to be careful,” Sherlock said, letting his anger seethe into the words. John had yet to hear Sherlock’s voice drip with so much malice. He decided he would rather not like to hear it often. Sherlock’s hand reached out to his side with precision and grabbed the sleeve of John’s jacket. He pulled John with him past the man with the umbrella toward the lifts.
“Don’t make yourself a target, Sherlock. At this rate my entire circus will be killed just to sate your curiosity.”
John did a double take as Sherlock mashed every down button on every lift he could find. “Wait, his circus? He’s the owner?”
Sherlock was silent. The owner of the circus was about to say something to confirm or deny John’s question, but the lift doors opened and Sherlock quickly pulled John inside and hit the ‘close door’ button.
John immediately addressed Sherlock. “Did I just talk back to my BOSS? How am I ever going to keep a job, now?”
“You’ll still have your job,” Sherlock said. He was much more relaxed now that their boss was out of sight, but John noticed he was still a little on edge.
John hesitated on asking, but his curiosity got the better of him. Sherlock was rubbing off on him, already. “How come he’s so worried about you, but still helped you do exactly what he did not want you do to?”
“I don’t like to delve into the psyche of my idiot older brother. I cannot begin to fathom what trifle nuances go on in that head of his.”
That tidbit of information was not lost on John. Sherlock’s brother owned the circus? How come everyone had failed to mention that? Did anyone else even know? John wondered if that meant that Sherlock owned any part of the circus, himself, or if that was why he had such nice living quarters. John swallowed hard. “But that would mean…”
“It doesn’t matter that Mycroft is my brother, or that he owns the circus. What matters is that he’s gone and bypassed all of my connections just to suit his own will. What was he thinking? Showing up like that, just to throw me off my game. He wasted a valuable bit of my time.” Sherlock glanced up at the top of the lift, to where the numbers showed what floor they were on. He tapped his foot impatiently.
“But we can just walk into the morgue, now. Doesn’t that save us a bit of time, Sherlock?” John asked, but immediately regretted it once he saw the look Sherlock gave him.
The lift finally reached the correct floor and Sherlock bounded away down a corridor, forcing John to follow. Sherlock obviously knew his way around the hospital. He had been here more than once, most definitely. John did not know whether to be impressed or mortified.
“Let me do all the talking,” said Sherlock just before he burst into a set of double-doors.
It was cold in the morgue-something John should have anticipated, but he did not realize it until the wave of temperature change hit him. He hugged his arms to himself out of reflex. In no time at all, Sherlock had talked to an assistant and located the body of Jennifer Wilson.
John thought it would be a good idea to start bracing himself to see her, knowing full well that she was just alive last night, but when the coroner’s assistant pulled the sheet off her face, John felt nothing. He had barely known this girl, and to make matters even stranger, they had shaved her beard, so she was hardly recognizable.
“Can you give us a few moments?” Sherlock said to the coroner. For a moment, John could have sworn he saw a tear in his friend’s eye. “If you don’t mind.”
“You have five minutes,” the man sad, and went back to his desk.
Sherlock turned back toward the body, both the tear and all signs of remorse gone. “It is almost safe to say, now, that Moran did it.” Sherlock was back into detective mode again, for sure. Either he was over John’s comment from before, or he had deleted it from his mind. John did not mind either way.
John bent over Jennifer’s left side while Sherlock stood on the right. He had half a mind to put on some gloves and examine the body himself, to see if he could notice what Sherlock did. “But… how do you know how she died? It almost looks like she’s asleep.”
“Because it’s obvious she was poisoned. She has no bruising, cuts, scrapes or contusions of any kind. The coloring is not appropriate for a drowning or a strangling, and, it is as you said, John. She looks to be sleeping. She has been poisoned.” Sherlock put the cover back over Jennifer’s face, himself.
“Brilliant…” John murmured.
“Our main suspect, Moran, has no alibi. He was not at his trailer last night, and that corresponds to her time of death, here.” Sherlock pointed to a makeshift chart at the head of the table with all of Jennifer’s stats on it. “Sometimes, John, there are no coincidences.”
“So,” John said in a hushed tone, to be sure the coroner’s assistant would not be able to hear from over at his desk. “Carl takes a girl home, an accomplice of Moran’s, probably. She helps with the cover-up a bit. Moran strangles Carl and makes it look like a suicide. He runs into Jennifer, and she is taken into custody as a police witness. In order to keep her quiet, he poisons her. The trail should end here, shouldn’t it?”
“Well,” Sherlock grinned, “There’s still us, isn’t there? Now we know.”
John supposed he should have felt fear, but that was not the correct name for what he was feeling. He did not quite know if it had a name, “We’re the new targets.”
“Possibly, but Moran has to know we’re investigating for us to be targets,” Sherlock pointed out.
John suddenly frowned. “Why Moran would do this, though? Did he have a vendetta against Carl? I can understand why he killed Jennifer-just to keep the scent off him, but why Carl in the first place?”
“Now, you’re asking all the right questions!” Sherlock grinned and clapped his hands together.
“Ah! So, you know?”
“I have no idea, John.” Despite this, Sherlock looked like he was living on cloud nine. “Moran doesn’t talk much to other people and often keeps to himself. If he is seen with anyone it is Moriarty, possibly because they share a trailer, or possibly for other reasons, but even those are limited.”
“What about Moriarty, then?” John brought up. “He was not at the trailer, either. Could he have something to do with all of this?”
“It is most definitely something to consider,” Sherlock mused. “What bothers me is that Mycroft knew how Jennifer died.”
“How?”
“He knew what we would find when we came down here,” Sherlock explained. “Otherwise he would not have made an appearance. He knew how she died, and I’m willing to bet he also knows who did it, and possibly why. If that’s the case, why keep it a secret. Why not have the culprit arrested? Surely he has the resources.”
“Maybe he only found out just now?” John offered. It was a shot in the dark. “That’s why he’s letting us investigate-so we can catch him so-“
“So he won’t have to,” Sherlock finished for John and narrowed his eyes. “That lazy, pompous git.”
“Well, it looks like in order to find Moran, we’ll have to find Moriarty,” John summed.
“Yes….” Sherlock stroked his chin in thought; John felt it was more for his sake than anything. He had a feeling this little trip was more to confirm Sherlock’s accusations rather than to gather new information. “Come, Watson. We must make haste if we are to be back at the circus at a reasonable hour.”
John had to remind Sherlock to stop by the laundry facility on the way home. He knew Sherlock would forget, and chuckled a little when the taller boy grew angry to have his trip home lengthened.
John could almost hear the gears turning in Sherlock’s head. His friend was on to something, and John did not know what.
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