[Sherlock] Circo de Pastel - 9/13
Title: Circo de Pastel
Author: Mesita
Words: 4269/36650/50,000+
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 NINE
MORIARTY
Sherlock found himself in his first real moral dilemma.
Over the years, Sherlock had prided himself in his solitary existence. He never bothered to meet new people or to make friends. When he pursued an interest with great enthusiasm, he just happened to meet a few people along the way. It was not his fault that these people all seemed to trust Sherlock implicitly after their meetings. Things just so happened that way.
The trust, however, did not go far. Sherlock never would have called any of these people his friends. He had a network, but not a social network. He never saw the reason.
But when John came into his life, suddenly he understood why people had a tendency to place so much emphasis on friends and family.
Because for the first time, Sherlock felt as though he needed to protect someone-and wasn’t that what friends or families did? They protected each other?
And right now, Sherlock needed to protect John. Up until that point, he and John had done everything together, but now Sherlock knew that he needed to be by himself in the next part of his investigation. The stakes were too high. The last thing he needed was for John to be hurt. He didn’t feel as though he needed to take John’s feelings into consideration. He mostly centered his thoughts on keeping John alive and safe and well.
John’s safety was important to Sherlock. Such a concept had never happened before, and Sherlock had no idea if it would ever happen again. He didn’t know what to do with the new information that he need to keep John safe.
At the same time, however, he wanted John by his side. He thought better with John there. John asked all the right questions. He kept Sherlock’s brain on the main road instead of letting it branch off into a million different directions as it so often did. He could think out loud around John and found that it worked better for him.
Not only was John’s presence calming, but it was also invigorating. Sherlock left his trailer more. Sherlock found he rather enjoyed this experiment in becoming a detective. John had inadvertently helped Sherlock find meaning to his life.
So he found that he was in a tight spot. He both wanted John to be by his side and to be safe at the same time. It was, if anything, a paradox. Normally a paradox would have intrigued Sherlock. This time, it did not.
When Sherlock finally reached his conclusion, he was glad he had found a way for John to stay with Mrs. Hudson at the time. It greatly influenced his decision.
He grabbed his coat and scarf and stalked out into the night air, away from Mrs. Hudson’s trailer, where he knew the two people he cared about the most would be sharing tea. His long, even strides were pointed directly toward the big tent where he knew someone would be waiting for him…
A few hours before...
Sherlock and John barely even left the morgue before Sherlock knew what he had to do and how he could get a hold of Moriarty. If there was one person in the entire world that would know Moriarty’s whereabouts, it would be Molly.
He knew time was critical and sent Molly a text as John gathered the clothing from the storage locker at the laundry facility. All throughout the drive home, Sherlock waited for a text back, but received nothing. Molly was generally a chatterbox when it came to Sherlock’s texts, and seeing as the circus employees had the day off, surely she would text back quickly.
When they reached their trailer, and Sherlock still hadn’t received a message, he knew something was up. John was in good spirits despite having just had a conversation over a corpse. He didn’t even complain when Sherlock made no move to help bring in the laundry, and he didn’t even ask Sherlock to help put it away.
That was convenient.
John disappeared into Sherlock’s room to set his folded clothing on the bed, or put it away, or whatever it was he felt like doing. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with it. He crouched on his favorite chair in the sitting room and opened his laptop. After a few clicks, he navigated his way to a social networking site where he could look up Molly’s page. Perhaps she had updated it. Women liked that sort of thing, right?
Sherlock frowned when he saw that her last update had been the day before, just before the show. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her in some time. John was at the performance last night, so there was a very good chance he would know.
“John?” Sherlock called over his shoulder.
After a few seconds, nothing happened, so Sherlock called again. This time a faint response sounded from Sherlock’s bedroom. When Sherlock called again, he could hear much louder this time, “Get your arse in here if you want to talk, Sherlock. I’m busy!”
Sherlock grumbled and closed his laptop so that he could set it to the side. Stupid John making him get up and move when it would be so much more efficient for John to come to him. He trudged back to his bed room where John was putting Sherlock’s shirts onto hangers.
When John looked up, he cracked a wide grin and fought back a laugh, “Don’t give me that face, Sherlock! You had to walk, what, a whole twenty feet?”
“I was busy, too,” Sherlock said. He glanced down at John’s work. He was even buttoning all of Sherlock’s shirts so that they would hang properly. Honestly, the man was more like a maid rather than a roommate.
“What were you doing, thinking? You can think in here.” John smoothed out the wrinkles in a shirt and frowned, “We might have to iron this.”
The idea that John could be worrying about ironing a shirt when there was a case baffled Sherlock-and few things baffled Sherlock.
He decided it would be a good idea to bring John’s attention back to the case at hand. “When was the last time you saw Molly?”
“Molly?” John repeated. He looked upward, as if that would help him remember. “Uh… last night, I believe. I helped her backstage just before she went on with Moriarty. Nice girl.”
“But you haven’t seen her, since.” Sherlock did not ask, but merely confirmed a conclusion.
“No, we’ve been a bit busy,” John admitted. “Why, did something happen to her?”
Sherlock moved to the window to glance outside as he spoke. “There is a small chance something might have. She hasn’t answered any of my texts and her last update on her most frequently used social networking site was early last night.”
“Everyone has the day off; maybe she’s hanging out with friends?” John offered.
Sherlock shook his head slightly. “If she were, she would have answered a text from me. This is not normal for Molly’s usual behavior. I think we should seek her out.”
John had finished with all of Sherlock’s shirts and had folded Sherlock’s clothing into neat piles on the bed. He stretched a little. “All right, but if we don’t find anything, we’re getting something to eat. I’m starved.”
Sherlock glanced briefly at John. “I never eat when I’m working on something. It slows me down.”
“Slows you down?” John looked appalled. “I’m no doctor, but isn’t food supposed to speed the processes of your brain up? How can you function without eating?”
“I manage. Come, John. We cannot waste any more time.” Sherlock settled the matter and rushed back to the sitting room to don his coat and scarf once more. In moments, the two of them were hustling toward Molly’s trailer. She shared a trailer with Irene, the contortionist and Mary Morstan, one of the few female clowns.
Sherlock promptly knocked on the door and a petite woman with her brown hair tied back into a ponytail opened the door. It was Mary. Sherlock smiled at her with a forced politeness. It was no secret that Sherlock did not particularly care for Mary. She blended into the background, mostly. He wished it were Irene that had opened the door, however. It was somehow easier to talk to her. She spoke on a level that was almost on par with Sherlock. Mary spoke like she should move to the states and live in California.
“Ooooh, Sherlock!” Mary giggled and looked deliberately past him. “Who is your friend? Is this the new bloke? I haven’t gotten to meet him, yet. Hi! I’m Mary! Aren’t you just a treat for the eyes?”
Sherlock could feel the heat coming from John and felt a twinge of jealousy welled somewhere inside Sherlock’s chest. John was his friend and he found him first.
“Hi, Mary, I’m John,” John said from behind Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mary giggled some more.
“Mary, will you let us in? We’re looking for Molly.” Sherlock said, irritated.
Mary stuck her bottom lip out in an oversized pout, “She hasn’t been home since last night. She texted me though. Said she was going out with Jim. I knew there was something going on between those two…”
Sherlock and John exchanged a very quick look, and Sherlock dashed off. After a few moments, he could hear John’s footsteps behind him. He must have stayed behind to say goodbye to Mary, but Sherlock was too caught up in his brain to worry about that now.
Moriarty had Molly. Moriarty was Moran’s roommate and the only person with whom Moran had any real contact. Both Moran and Moriarty had not returned to the circus premises for some time…
Molly was either in a hostage situation, or dead. Seeing as she texted Mary that she was with Moriarty pointed to the former. Moriarty probably saw everything that went on in Molly’s phone. That meant that Moriarty had seen Sherlock’s text. Moriarty would see anything Sherlock texted to Molly. That gave him an idea.
Molly, I need to discuss a few things with you. Meet in under the big top ASAP. Come alone. -SH
After he sent the text, he stuffed his phone in his pocket and in a split thinking decision, Sherlock turned toward Mrs. Hudson’s trailer and banged on the door. Mrs. Hudson was there in a split second.
“Sherlock! John!” She stepped aside to let them in. “You’re all out of breath!”
“I need to see my brother about something, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock breathed.
Mrs. Hudson immediately moved to make a pot of tea. It was almost a reflex to her. “Yes, okay, but what would you have me do about it?”
“I don’t have any time to explain, but I’ll need your help in a bit. John,” Sherlock turned toward his companion. “I need you to stay here and get Mrs. Hudson caught up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
John’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. When he finally got out words, they were simply, “I can’t go with you?”
Sherlock sighed. “I need you here, John. It will only take a moment,” he lied. He knew what he was getting himself into, and he needed John out of it.
Sherlock hesitated outside the tent flaps. He knew Moriarty would be inside, and he needed a couple of seconds to formulate a plan of action. Moriarty could have any amount of weapons at his disposal, and to have a man as strong a Moran by his side, that was something to worry about. Sherlock held a tight grip on his phone. If things got terribly bad, he could have his brother and the police in here in seconds. In fact, perhaps it was a good idea to have his brother on standby already…
No, not his brother. Lestrade.
Sherlock sent a text to the ringleader asking when the circus hoped to re-open. Lestrade would be confused by Sherlock’s enthusiasm and grow concerned. His close relationship with Mycroft would only force him to show Sherlock’s brother the text. There would be a time delay, but Mycroft would get the half-haphazard code. In this way, Sherlock would have a back-up plan just in case.
With renewed vigor, Sherlock opened the tent flaps and stepped inside.
The bleachers were folded and set around the outside edges of the tent. In the center of the largest ring stood another tank, but this one filled with bags of sand. Sherlock made sure to keep his pace calm and collected as he made sure to be one hundred percent aware of his surroundings.
Suddenly, Sherlock heard the sound of one person clapping and was not at all surprised to see Moriarty step out from behind the tank of sand as the person making the sound. He had a wide smile on his face. When he finished clapping, he held his clasped hands together at his chin.
“Good afternoon, Sherlock! Fancy meeting you, here!” Moriarty’s slight accent echoed throughout the tent.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. There was no doubt that Moriarty was behind the killings, now. Moran was just a pawn, and Molly… “Where is Molly?” he asked.
“She’s safe if that’s what you want to know,” Moriarty drawled. He kicked his feet forward in a lazy walk toward Sherlock. “I have to admit I’m impressed you’ve gotten this far. You see, I thought I had a few more days, at least. It’s a good thing I work ahead.” Sherlock wanted to wipe that sinister grin off his face.
“It was an easy trail to follow. Your wingman could have been a bit clumsier. Or was it Jennifer? She must have messed everything up from the start.” Sherlock could fight words with words if he needed to. Too bad he couldn’t get enough evidence that would hold up in court against Moriarty. His confession to Sherlock wouldn’t hold water unless it had been recorded.
Moriarty stopped walking and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He had also stopped grinning, now and his jaw was set. “The problem with you, my dear, is that if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”
Before Sherlock could answer, he heard the footsteps behind him a moment too late. There came a flash of pain and then everything went black.
When Sherlock opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a pane of glass. He reached up to feel it, but found that his wrists were handcuffed behind him. He was sitting on a wooden chair with his ankles bound to the legs. Immediately he struggled, trying to see just how trapped he had become. Fortunately, he had not been gagged, but he knew yelling would do no good in this situation.
He looked above him and saw, with a sick realization, just what Moriarty had in store for him. Hanging overhead were the bags of sand that had previously lined the tank.
A tap on the glass in front of him drew Sherlock’s attention back to eye level. Moriarty grinned back at him, his face slightly distorted by the glass.
“Nice to have you back with us, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s voice was loud and clear and almost had a tunnel effect as it reached Sherlock’s ears in the glass tank.
Sherlock glared at him.
“Oh, don’t be like that…” Moriarty frowned. “You brought this on yourself. I would love for this to go another way, you know, for you and me to work together. Brilliant minds like ours are wasted on a dump like this. We have to set our sights higher. You, with your skills of deduction and me with my skills of manipulation-we could have used them to achieve the greatest of means.” He paced back and forth in front of Sherlock’s prison.
“But, no… you have to go and investigate. You have to try and stop me.” Moriarty’s high, lilting voice reached lower levels of anger at this point. “And now you’ve gone and pissed me off by getting in my way.”
“I would get in your way a thousand times, Professor.” Sherlock spat. “I couldn’t give two shits about your greatest of means.”
Instead of answering, Moriarty’s face grew red with rage and in a fit of anger he wielded one of his prop knifes that still had a sharp edge to it and stabbed a bag over Sherlock’s head. Sand poured out of it, pooling at Sherlock’s feet.
“You see that Sherlock? Silicon dioxide. Unfortunately for you, you can’t breathe it. I can stab as many of these as I like.” Moriarty nodded to someone Sherlock could not see and Sherlock heard another bag’s lining puncture. Moran was probably behind him.
Moriarty continued with his speech. “It’s so sad that you’re going to die, now, Sherlock. Really, it is. I sincerely hoped we could have worked together… but now you’ll just meet the same fate as the others. Although I have to admit, this is not as fun as Carl’s death. Now he deserved to die. His entire existence was a thorn in my side. I could care less about all those women he took back to fuck senseless, but he went too far. He hit on Molly. You of all people should understand what it’s like to have one of the few people you tolerate messed with.”
For a split second, Sherlock could see the connection between himself and Moriarty. Neither of them could make lasting social connections. Their intellect prohibited such frivolities. Now that Sherlock had John, would he have gone to such lengths to procure his safety? Would he have killed for John the way Moriarty killed for Molly? Certainly not. That must be where his similarity with Moriarty ended.
“I, Moriarty, will always get the last laugh. Always.”
Sherlock’s blood was boiling, but he could do little to help his situation. He rubbed his hands vigorously over the handcuffs. He was thin enough… if he could just get the cuffs off, he would at least have a fighting chance.
Moriarty had Moran cut a few more holes in the sand bags because the sand was not flowing fast enough for him. The sand had already reached the level of Sherlock’s ankles, and grains were threatening to get into his eyes as they swirled around him in a mini cloud of dust and grit. Sherlock felt as though he would suffocate before the sand even reached him.
He closed his eyes, tight and thought hard. Sherlock would not give up, now. Not for anything or anyone. He felt as though he had so much more to do. And, after all, his experiments in the kitchenette weren’t even finished. Sherlock had perspective.
Moran cut a bag just over Sherlock’s head and the sand poured into his hair. Sherlock gritted his teeth together and held his head down instinctively, trying his hardest to keep the sand from his nostrils.
He thought of John, suddenly. He didn’t know where the thought came from, but it was clear and bright in the front of his mind. He suddenly wanted John to be there. Even if John were in this tank next to him, dying with him, he would feel as though he mattered. He always knew he would die alone, but this time, alone would no longer cut it. He could hear John saying his name. It was quiet, but not at all like a whisper. He felt as though John were calling his name from far, far away.
Moriarty’s laughter stopped abruptly. Something from outside the tank had interrupted him. “And what are you planning on doing with that?” he said coolly-as if he were talking to a newcomer.
And then Sherlock realized that he was not imagining things. John’s voice was real. Sherlock could not open his eyes to look up quickly, but he felt the strain of sand on his hair stop and a loud thump sounded from either side of him. When his vision came to him, he could scarcely believe his eyes.
John stood before him, wielding a mallet he had stolen from one of the circus games. It was a silly game that determined how strong a person was by slamming the mallet down on a platform and trying to ring a bell. He had managed to swing the mallet over the bags of sand and knocked them from their ropes.
All at once, Moran was on John, wrestling with him, trying to get the mallet from his grip. Moriarty was shouting orders that Sherlock could not hear.
John’s face was red with anger. He swung the mallet with a sort of merciless abandon. It was as if he didn’t care where his blows landed. One blow hit Moran square in the chest and did very little. Moran’s lumbering figure caused him to be too slow to catch the mallet, and John was able to pull it back once more. This time, when he swung, the head connected with the glass tank and caused a great crack to appear throughout it.
Sherlock found his voice, finally. He coughed a bit as the sand scratched his throat. “John, aim for that crack again!”
John nodded. He spun in a circle to gain both momentum and speed, and also to put Moran off. It was suicide to jump in front of a spinning madman with a hammer. John was off his mark by a few inches, but it did the trick. The glass shattered around Sherlock with a resounding CRACK.
Moriarty screamed and lunged for Sherlock’s neck. “I’LL KILL YOU WITH MY OWN BARE HANDS IF I HAVE TO!”
Sherlock could no longer see if John was struggling with Moran or not. In the heat of the moment, a surge of adrenaline had cause Sherlock to slip out of the handcuffs without Moriarty realizing. He ignored the sharp stings as the sand worked its way into the fresh wounds on his wrists. Getting Moriarty off his neck was a much higher priority.
The loud struggles of John and Moran died down, and Sherlock thought he was losing his hearing due to the oxygen being cut off from his brain, but Moriarty must have noticed as well, because he inadvertently loosened his hands slightly in order to turn around and look behind him.
John was standing just barely, the mallet hoisted and poised in the air, waiting. He was breathing hard and had a bloody lip, but he was smirking all the same.
“It seems I’ve knocked the wind out of your friend before you could knock the wind out of mine,” John said. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes from the cockiness in John’s voice but at that moment, John was the most beautiful thing in all of existence.
Moriarty scrambled to his feet and backed away. “You haven’t heard the last from me, Sherlock. You and your boyfriend got lucky. Next time, you may not be so fortunate.” He doubled back and ran out the tent.
John set the hammer down with a relieved sigh. “Should we go after him, Sherlock?”
Sherlock reached a bloody hand up to rub at his sore neck. He was covered in sand and blood and it hurt nearly every muscle in his body to move. “No. We have Moran, for now.” His voice caught a little. The sand in his throat and the recent strangulation gave him a bit of a raspy edge to his tone.
And then John’s cold hands were on Sherlock’s face and neck and brushing sand from his hair and from his clothes. “You stupid idiot.” John said, but his voice did not sound menacing. It sounded sadder than anything. “I can’t believe you would run off without me like that.”
Sherlock forced a smile. He liked John’s hands on him. It felt nice. His whole body was screaming with pain, but John’s strong hands kept the hurt at bay. “I couldn’t have you getting hurt on me. See? You’ve gone and bloodied your lip.”
John gave a relieved laugh and shook his head softly. “We need to get you some proper medical attention.”
Sherlock sighed and settled down in the sand. Moriarty had knocked him over, but he was still strapped to the chair. It was a most awkward position. John must have noticed because he began working on the knots at Sherlock’s ankles.
The unmistakable sound of voices filled the tent. Sherlock could make out Lestrade’s above all the others. In a few moments, Sherlock found himself being helped out of the sand and back into the chair so that he could sit properly.
Lestrade put a steadying hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You all right? We’ve got an ambulance on the way.”
Sherlock looked around him for John. He didn’t care about anyone else at the moment. He hurt and he needed to have John next to him to take the edge off. He wished he had a few other things to help take the edge off, but John would suffice perfectly at the moment.
He was not aware that he said John’s name until he realized his throat hurt and John was at his side again. John had no doubt been answering questions brought on by Lestrade at the accompanying police force. John did not need to answer questions, Sherlock thought. John needed to be by his side.
Sherlock reached a bloody hand up and found John’s own steady hand and held it until the paramedics arrived.
Next Chapter
Author: Mesita
Words: 4269/36650/50,000+
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 NINE
MORIARTY
Sherlock found himself in his first real moral dilemma.
Over the years, Sherlock had prided himself in his solitary existence. He never bothered to meet new people or to make friends. When he pursued an interest with great enthusiasm, he just happened to meet a few people along the way. It was not his fault that these people all seemed to trust Sherlock implicitly after their meetings. Things just so happened that way.
The trust, however, did not go far. Sherlock never would have called any of these people his friends. He had a network, but not a social network. He never saw the reason.
But when John came into his life, suddenly he understood why people had a tendency to place so much emphasis on friends and family.
Because for the first time, Sherlock felt as though he needed to protect someone-and wasn’t that what friends or families did? They protected each other?
And right now, Sherlock needed to protect John. Up until that point, he and John had done everything together, but now Sherlock knew that he needed to be by himself in the next part of his investigation. The stakes were too high. The last thing he needed was for John to be hurt. He didn’t feel as though he needed to take John’s feelings into consideration. He mostly centered his thoughts on keeping John alive and safe and well.
John’s safety was important to Sherlock. Such a concept had never happened before, and Sherlock had no idea if it would ever happen again. He didn’t know what to do with the new information that he need to keep John safe.
At the same time, however, he wanted John by his side. He thought better with John there. John asked all the right questions. He kept Sherlock’s brain on the main road instead of letting it branch off into a million different directions as it so often did. He could think out loud around John and found that it worked better for him.
Not only was John’s presence calming, but it was also invigorating. Sherlock left his trailer more. Sherlock found he rather enjoyed this experiment in becoming a detective. John had inadvertently helped Sherlock find meaning to his life.
So he found that he was in a tight spot. He both wanted John to be by his side and to be safe at the same time. It was, if anything, a paradox. Normally a paradox would have intrigued Sherlock. This time, it did not.
When Sherlock finally reached his conclusion, he was glad he had found a way for John to stay with Mrs. Hudson at the time. It greatly influenced his decision.
He grabbed his coat and scarf and stalked out into the night air, away from Mrs. Hudson’s trailer, where he knew the two people he cared about the most would be sharing tea. His long, even strides were pointed directly toward the big tent where he knew someone would be waiting for him…
A few hours before...
Sherlock and John barely even left the morgue before Sherlock knew what he had to do and how he could get a hold of Moriarty. If there was one person in the entire world that would know Moriarty’s whereabouts, it would be Molly.
He knew time was critical and sent Molly a text as John gathered the clothing from the storage locker at the laundry facility. All throughout the drive home, Sherlock waited for a text back, but received nothing. Molly was generally a chatterbox when it came to Sherlock’s texts, and seeing as the circus employees had the day off, surely she would text back quickly.
When they reached their trailer, and Sherlock still hadn’t received a message, he knew something was up. John was in good spirits despite having just had a conversation over a corpse. He didn’t even complain when Sherlock made no move to help bring in the laundry, and he didn’t even ask Sherlock to help put it away.
That was convenient.
John disappeared into Sherlock’s room to set his folded clothing on the bed, or put it away, or whatever it was he felt like doing. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with it. He crouched on his favorite chair in the sitting room and opened his laptop. After a few clicks, he navigated his way to a social networking site where he could look up Molly’s page. Perhaps she had updated it. Women liked that sort of thing, right?
Sherlock frowned when he saw that her last update had been the day before, just before the show. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her in some time. John was at the performance last night, so there was a very good chance he would know.
“John?” Sherlock called over his shoulder.
After a few seconds, nothing happened, so Sherlock called again. This time a faint response sounded from Sherlock’s bedroom. When Sherlock called again, he could hear much louder this time, “Get your arse in here if you want to talk, Sherlock. I’m busy!”
Sherlock grumbled and closed his laptop so that he could set it to the side. Stupid John making him get up and move when it would be so much more efficient for John to come to him. He trudged back to his bed room where John was putting Sherlock’s shirts onto hangers.
When John looked up, he cracked a wide grin and fought back a laugh, “Don’t give me that face, Sherlock! You had to walk, what, a whole twenty feet?”
“I was busy, too,” Sherlock said. He glanced down at John’s work. He was even buttoning all of Sherlock’s shirts so that they would hang properly. Honestly, the man was more like a maid rather than a roommate.
“What were you doing, thinking? You can think in here.” John smoothed out the wrinkles in a shirt and frowned, “We might have to iron this.”
The idea that John could be worrying about ironing a shirt when there was a case baffled Sherlock-and few things baffled Sherlock.
He decided it would be a good idea to bring John’s attention back to the case at hand. “When was the last time you saw Molly?”
“Molly?” John repeated. He looked upward, as if that would help him remember. “Uh… last night, I believe. I helped her backstage just before she went on with Moriarty. Nice girl.”
“But you haven’t seen her, since.” Sherlock did not ask, but merely confirmed a conclusion.
“No, we’ve been a bit busy,” John admitted. “Why, did something happen to her?”
Sherlock moved to the window to glance outside as he spoke. “There is a small chance something might have. She hasn’t answered any of my texts and her last update on her most frequently used social networking site was early last night.”
“Everyone has the day off; maybe she’s hanging out with friends?” John offered.
Sherlock shook his head slightly. “If she were, she would have answered a text from me. This is not normal for Molly’s usual behavior. I think we should seek her out.”
John had finished with all of Sherlock’s shirts and had folded Sherlock’s clothing into neat piles on the bed. He stretched a little. “All right, but if we don’t find anything, we’re getting something to eat. I’m starved.”
Sherlock glanced briefly at John. “I never eat when I’m working on something. It slows me down.”
“Slows you down?” John looked appalled. “I’m no doctor, but isn’t food supposed to speed the processes of your brain up? How can you function without eating?”
“I manage. Come, John. We cannot waste any more time.” Sherlock settled the matter and rushed back to the sitting room to don his coat and scarf once more. In moments, the two of them were hustling toward Molly’s trailer. She shared a trailer with Irene, the contortionist and Mary Morstan, one of the few female clowns.
Sherlock promptly knocked on the door and a petite woman with her brown hair tied back into a ponytail opened the door. It was Mary. Sherlock smiled at her with a forced politeness. It was no secret that Sherlock did not particularly care for Mary. She blended into the background, mostly. He wished it were Irene that had opened the door, however. It was somehow easier to talk to her. She spoke on a level that was almost on par with Sherlock. Mary spoke like she should move to the states and live in California.
“Ooooh, Sherlock!” Mary giggled and looked deliberately past him. “Who is your friend? Is this the new bloke? I haven’t gotten to meet him, yet. Hi! I’m Mary! Aren’t you just a treat for the eyes?”
Sherlock could feel the heat coming from John and felt a twinge of jealousy welled somewhere inside Sherlock’s chest. John was his friend and he found him first.
“Hi, Mary, I’m John,” John said from behind Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mary giggled some more.
“Mary, will you let us in? We’re looking for Molly.” Sherlock said, irritated.
Mary stuck her bottom lip out in an oversized pout, “She hasn’t been home since last night. She texted me though. Said she was going out with Jim. I knew there was something going on between those two…”
Sherlock and John exchanged a very quick look, and Sherlock dashed off. After a few moments, he could hear John’s footsteps behind him. He must have stayed behind to say goodbye to Mary, but Sherlock was too caught up in his brain to worry about that now.
Moriarty had Molly. Moriarty was Moran’s roommate and the only person with whom Moran had any real contact. Both Moran and Moriarty had not returned to the circus premises for some time…
Molly was either in a hostage situation, or dead. Seeing as she texted Mary that she was with Moriarty pointed to the former. Moriarty probably saw everything that went on in Molly’s phone. That meant that Moriarty had seen Sherlock’s text. Moriarty would see anything Sherlock texted to Molly. That gave him an idea.
Molly, I need to discuss a few things with you. Meet in under the big top ASAP. Come alone. -SH
After he sent the text, he stuffed his phone in his pocket and in a split thinking decision, Sherlock turned toward Mrs. Hudson’s trailer and banged on the door. Mrs. Hudson was there in a split second.
“Sherlock! John!” She stepped aside to let them in. “You’re all out of breath!”
“I need to see my brother about something, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock breathed.
Mrs. Hudson immediately moved to make a pot of tea. It was almost a reflex to her. “Yes, okay, but what would you have me do about it?”
“I don’t have any time to explain, but I’ll need your help in a bit. John,” Sherlock turned toward his companion. “I need you to stay here and get Mrs. Hudson caught up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
John’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. When he finally got out words, they were simply, “I can’t go with you?”
Sherlock sighed. “I need you here, John. It will only take a moment,” he lied. He knew what he was getting himself into, and he needed John out of it.
Sherlock hesitated outside the tent flaps. He knew Moriarty would be inside, and he needed a couple of seconds to formulate a plan of action. Moriarty could have any amount of weapons at his disposal, and to have a man as strong a Moran by his side, that was something to worry about. Sherlock held a tight grip on his phone. If things got terribly bad, he could have his brother and the police in here in seconds. In fact, perhaps it was a good idea to have his brother on standby already…
No, not his brother. Lestrade.
Sherlock sent a text to the ringleader asking when the circus hoped to re-open. Lestrade would be confused by Sherlock’s enthusiasm and grow concerned. His close relationship with Mycroft would only force him to show Sherlock’s brother the text. There would be a time delay, but Mycroft would get the half-haphazard code. In this way, Sherlock would have a back-up plan just in case.
With renewed vigor, Sherlock opened the tent flaps and stepped inside.
The bleachers were folded and set around the outside edges of the tent. In the center of the largest ring stood another tank, but this one filled with bags of sand. Sherlock made sure to keep his pace calm and collected as he made sure to be one hundred percent aware of his surroundings.
Suddenly, Sherlock heard the sound of one person clapping and was not at all surprised to see Moriarty step out from behind the tank of sand as the person making the sound. He had a wide smile on his face. When he finished clapping, he held his clasped hands together at his chin.
“Good afternoon, Sherlock! Fancy meeting you, here!” Moriarty’s slight accent echoed throughout the tent.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. There was no doubt that Moriarty was behind the killings, now. Moran was just a pawn, and Molly… “Where is Molly?” he asked.
“She’s safe if that’s what you want to know,” Moriarty drawled. He kicked his feet forward in a lazy walk toward Sherlock. “I have to admit I’m impressed you’ve gotten this far. You see, I thought I had a few more days, at least. It’s a good thing I work ahead.” Sherlock wanted to wipe that sinister grin off his face.
“It was an easy trail to follow. Your wingman could have been a bit clumsier. Or was it Jennifer? She must have messed everything up from the start.” Sherlock could fight words with words if he needed to. Too bad he couldn’t get enough evidence that would hold up in court against Moriarty. His confession to Sherlock wouldn’t hold water unless it had been recorded.
Moriarty stopped walking and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He had also stopped grinning, now and his jaw was set. “The problem with you, my dear, is that if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”
Before Sherlock could answer, he heard the footsteps behind him a moment too late. There came a flash of pain and then everything went black.
When Sherlock opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a pane of glass. He reached up to feel it, but found that his wrists were handcuffed behind him. He was sitting on a wooden chair with his ankles bound to the legs. Immediately he struggled, trying to see just how trapped he had become. Fortunately, he had not been gagged, but he knew yelling would do no good in this situation.
He looked above him and saw, with a sick realization, just what Moriarty had in store for him. Hanging overhead were the bags of sand that had previously lined the tank.
A tap on the glass in front of him drew Sherlock’s attention back to eye level. Moriarty grinned back at him, his face slightly distorted by the glass.
“Nice to have you back with us, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s voice was loud and clear and almost had a tunnel effect as it reached Sherlock’s ears in the glass tank.
Sherlock glared at him.
“Oh, don’t be like that…” Moriarty frowned. “You brought this on yourself. I would love for this to go another way, you know, for you and me to work together. Brilliant minds like ours are wasted on a dump like this. We have to set our sights higher. You, with your skills of deduction and me with my skills of manipulation-we could have used them to achieve the greatest of means.” He paced back and forth in front of Sherlock’s prison.
“But, no… you have to go and investigate. You have to try and stop me.” Moriarty’s high, lilting voice reached lower levels of anger at this point. “And now you’ve gone and pissed me off by getting in my way.”
“I would get in your way a thousand times, Professor.” Sherlock spat. “I couldn’t give two shits about your greatest of means.”
Instead of answering, Moriarty’s face grew red with rage and in a fit of anger he wielded one of his prop knifes that still had a sharp edge to it and stabbed a bag over Sherlock’s head. Sand poured out of it, pooling at Sherlock’s feet.
“You see that Sherlock? Silicon dioxide. Unfortunately for you, you can’t breathe it. I can stab as many of these as I like.” Moriarty nodded to someone Sherlock could not see and Sherlock heard another bag’s lining puncture. Moran was probably behind him.
Moriarty continued with his speech. “It’s so sad that you’re going to die, now, Sherlock. Really, it is. I sincerely hoped we could have worked together… but now you’ll just meet the same fate as the others. Although I have to admit, this is not as fun as Carl’s death. Now he deserved to die. His entire existence was a thorn in my side. I could care less about all those women he took back to fuck senseless, but he went too far. He hit on Molly. You of all people should understand what it’s like to have one of the few people you tolerate messed with.”
For a split second, Sherlock could see the connection between himself and Moriarty. Neither of them could make lasting social connections. Their intellect prohibited such frivolities. Now that Sherlock had John, would he have gone to such lengths to procure his safety? Would he have killed for John the way Moriarty killed for Molly? Certainly not. That must be where his similarity with Moriarty ended.
“I, Moriarty, will always get the last laugh. Always.”
Sherlock’s blood was boiling, but he could do little to help his situation. He rubbed his hands vigorously over the handcuffs. He was thin enough… if he could just get the cuffs off, he would at least have a fighting chance.
Moriarty had Moran cut a few more holes in the sand bags because the sand was not flowing fast enough for him. The sand had already reached the level of Sherlock’s ankles, and grains were threatening to get into his eyes as they swirled around him in a mini cloud of dust and grit. Sherlock felt as though he would suffocate before the sand even reached him.
He closed his eyes, tight and thought hard. Sherlock would not give up, now. Not for anything or anyone. He felt as though he had so much more to do. And, after all, his experiments in the kitchenette weren’t even finished. Sherlock had perspective.
Moran cut a bag just over Sherlock’s head and the sand poured into his hair. Sherlock gritted his teeth together and held his head down instinctively, trying his hardest to keep the sand from his nostrils.
He thought of John, suddenly. He didn’t know where the thought came from, but it was clear and bright in the front of his mind. He suddenly wanted John to be there. Even if John were in this tank next to him, dying with him, he would feel as though he mattered. He always knew he would die alone, but this time, alone would no longer cut it. He could hear John saying his name. It was quiet, but not at all like a whisper. He felt as though John were calling his name from far, far away.
Moriarty’s laughter stopped abruptly. Something from outside the tank had interrupted him. “And what are you planning on doing with that?” he said coolly-as if he were talking to a newcomer.
And then Sherlock realized that he was not imagining things. John’s voice was real. Sherlock could not open his eyes to look up quickly, but he felt the strain of sand on his hair stop and a loud thump sounded from either side of him. When his vision came to him, he could scarcely believe his eyes.
John stood before him, wielding a mallet he had stolen from one of the circus games. It was a silly game that determined how strong a person was by slamming the mallet down on a platform and trying to ring a bell. He had managed to swing the mallet over the bags of sand and knocked them from their ropes.
All at once, Moran was on John, wrestling with him, trying to get the mallet from his grip. Moriarty was shouting orders that Sherlock could not hear.
John’s face was red with anger. He swung the mallet with a sort of merciless abandon. It was as if he didn’t care where his blows landed. One blow hit Moran square in the chest and did very little. Moran’s lumbering figure caused him to be too slow to catch the mallet, and John was able to pull it back once more. This time, when he swung, the head connected with the glass tank and caused a great crack to appear throughout it.
Sherlock found his voice, finally. He coughed a bit as the sand scratched his throat. “John, aim for that crack again!”
John nodded. He spun in a circle to gain both momentum and speed, and also to put Moran off. It was suicide to jump in front of a spinning madman with a hammer. John was off his mark by a few inches, but it did the trick. The glass shattered around Sherlock with a resounding CRACK.
Moriarty screamed and lunged for Sherlock’s neck. “I’LL KILL YOU WITH MY OWN BARE HANDS IF I HAVE TO!”
Sherlock could no longer see if John was struggling with Moran or not. In the heat of the moment, a surge of adrenaline had cause Sherlock to slip out of the handcuffs without Moriarty realizing. He ignored the sharp stings as the sand worked its way into the fresh wounds on his wrists. Getting Moriarty off his neck was a much higher priority.
The loud struggles of John and Moran died down, and Sherlock thought he was losing his hearing due to the oxygen being cut off from his brain, but Moriarty must have noticed as well, because he inadvertently loosened his hands slightly in order to turn around and look behind him.
John was standing just barely, the mallet hoisted and poised in the air, waiting. He was breathing hard and had a bloody lip, but he was smirking all the same.
“It seems I’ve knocked the wind out of your friend before you could knock the wind out of mine,” John said. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes from the cockiness in John’s voice but at that moment, John was the most beautiful thing in all of existence.
Moriarty scrambled to his feet and backed away. “You haven’t heard the last from me, Sherlock. You and your boyfriend got lucky. Next time, you may not be so fortunate.” He doubled back and ran out the tent.
John set the hammer down with a relieved sigh. “Should we go after him, Sherlock?”
Sherlock reached a bloody hand up to rub at his sore neck. He was covered in sand and blood and it hurt nearly every muscle in his body to move. “No. We have Moran, for now.” His voice caught a little. The sand in his throat and the recent strangulation gave him a bit of a raspy edge to his tone.
And then John’s cold hands were on Sherlock’s face and neck and brushing sand from his hair and from his clothes. “You stupid idiot.” John said, but his voice did not sound menacing. It sounded sadder than anything. “I can’t believe you would run off without me like that.”
Sherlock forced a smile. He liked John’s hands on him. It felt nice. His whole body was screaming with pain, but John’s strong hands kept the hurt at bay. “I couldn’t have you getting hurt on me. See? You’ve gone and bloodied your lip.”
John gave a relieved laugh and shook his head softly. “We need to get you some proper medical attention.”
Sherlock sighed and settled down in the sand. Moriarty had knocked him over, but he was still strapped to the chair. It was a most awkward position. John must have noticed because he began working on the knots at Sherlock’s ankles.
The unmistakable sound of voices filled the tent. Sherlock could make out Lestrade’s above all the others. In a few moments, Sherlock found himself being helped out of the sand and back into the chair so that he could sit properly.
Lestrade put a steadying hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You all right? We’ve got an ambulance on the way.”
Sherlock looked around him for John. He didn’t care about anyone else at the moment. He hurt and he needed to have John next to him to take the edge off. He wished he had a few other things to help take the edge off, but John would suffice perfectly at the moment.
He was not aware that he said John’s name until he realized his throat hurt and John was at his side again. John had no doubt been answering questions brought on by Lestrade at the accompanying police force. John did not need to answer questions, Sherlock thought. John needed to be by his side.
Sherlock reached a bloody hand up and found John’s own steady hand and held it until the paramedics arrived.
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