[Sherlock] Circo de Pastel - 5/13
Title: Circo de Pastel
Author: Mesita
Words: 5106/17433/50,000+
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 FIVE
THE PSYCHIC MIND
Sherlock Holmes hated his job.
Well, he said hate. To anyone observing from a completely subjective outside view, he probably seemed indifferent to his career choice.
However, Sherlock was only nineteen. He hadn’t yet found his niche in the world and what with his brother’s crazy scheme to start a circus of all things; Sherlock thought his future was rather limited. Mummy had reveled in everything Mycroft had ever done, and Sherlock felt almost helpless in following in his brother’s footsteps.
He did wonder why he could not have gone straight to university after schooling had ended. Mycroft had suggested he come travel with him in the circus. It would be fun.
Sherlock hated fun. Or rather, he hated most people’s concept of fun. His version of fun did not include patrons patronizing him every ten seconds. Most of the time he closed his stall down and wandered about the circus grounds or sat in his trailer experimenting on various ideas that plagued his mind.
For as long as Sherlock could remember, he felt compelled to beat his brother at something. Mycroft always got the better grades. While both Holmes brothers always received such high marks, Mycroft would always take it one step further and add extracurricular activities or social events into the mix. Somehow, Mycroft knew how to function in a normal society and basically deal with other people in such a way that it allowed him to surpass Sherlock intellectually, again from an outsider’s point of view.
In Sherlock’s eyes, he was the smarter one, but of course some people begged to differ and Sherlock had to deal with it in the best way he knew how: to ignore everyone.
Sherlock could remember clearly the day his brother had asked him to join his little circus. Mycroft already had a job working for the British government, but he somehow managed to find time to waste. Mycroft had already been gallivanting about the countryside with his partner in crime: Greg Lestrade and playing circus for a few years by that point, so Sherlock thought he was safe from recruitment.
Sherlock was rarely wrong and when he was, he made it so the rest of the world wished he were right.
Of course, Sherlock tried to blame Lestrade as much as he could, but Lestrade had to be so damn accommodating and nice and not that much of an idiot compared to the rest of the circus employees that Sherlock almost felt compelled to join. At least he would not have to work in the big tent doing any stunts for the audience. That was a relief.
But really, the entire thing was Lestrade’s fault. Somehow, he had convinced Mycroft that this was a good idea, and together, the two of them envisioned this grand circus. Originally, Lestrade had been working for a circus since he was 15, and he had been a clown of all things: a clown named Tomato. Lestrade managed to gather together a few of his buddies, probably from old circus jobs or school, and slowly built his circus empire. With Mycroft’s hands in the government, the circus managed to acquire some fabulous benefactors. This helped a great deal with the budget.
Part of Sherlock’s deal in joining the circus was to have his own trailer. The trailer, however, had to be of much higher caliber than anyone else’s, even the apparent star of the show, The Magnificent Professor Moriarty. Mycroft had obliged probably more for Mummy’s sake than for his own. Sherlock had a hot water heater and a very well adorned kitchen. His flat had a slightly larger floor plan and called for a full-sized shower. If Sherlock was going to help make his brother’s stupid business profitable, he sure as hell was going to get something out of it.
For Sherlock’s entire life, he had had a keen eye for observation. From a young age, he could tell so much about a person based solely on the state of their shoes. As he grew older, he began to research certain aspects of the world (types of cigar butts and the differences between soil samples throughout different parts of Britain) to bring about more accurate deductions about people.
It was Mycroft’s idea for Sherlock to be a psychic. He had argued that it would not be much of a difference than who he was before. Sherlock already told everyone he met everything he knew about them. Now he could do it for a living-and then give the client an educated guess as to how their futures would be.
Not to mention this way, people actually wanted to be deduced, as opposed to Sherlock pissing them off. The only thing he changed was that he never, ever explained how he came to his conclusions. It took the mystery away and stupid people loved to remain in ignorance.
He absolutely refused to wear any of the silly psychic garb that his brother had suggested. Sherlock was very content to wear his usual suits or button downs. He even refused to decorate his trailer according to the usual getup for a psychic. He kept things the way he wanted them. He argued in a fit of passion to Mycroft that people were more likely to believe someone who appeared relatively normal than someone who built up a fake persona. To the outsider, Sherlock looked like a normal person with an extraordinary gift and that brought patrons to his door as opposed to someone with a pompous name like the Magnificent Professor Moriarty.
And yet, Mycroft argued, Moriarty had had much more success than Sherlock. Sherlock could care less, however. He refused to take part in any shows and since half the time his door was not open to receive customers, many people stopped trying to find out when he was open.
Most of all, Sherlock hated his current situation because he had been called a freak all throughout school-and now he was making a living in being one. It was as if he were proving every single one of those bullies right.
The circus had began in London and travelled all throughout the United Kingdom and neighboring countries. They had been to France and Spain and Germany. Spain had not been as welcoming. A British troupe that had a faux Spanish theme had been insulting to some patrons, and hilarious to others, but overall, their welcome was so mixed, they vowed to take Spain off their list of touring countries.
The Irish loved them, but probably for Moriarty’s sake than anything.
Come dreary October, the circus had planted its roots in London once again. Sherlock was more than happy to be home. In fact, he found that he let his consulting hours be a bit more flexible than usual and he even dared to venture out into the main circus to watch the show for a bit.
He hadn’t expected to see John that day, although at the time, the man had been a complete stranger to Sherlock.
He had been alone in his trailer, checking on the progress of some decaying frogs in an enclosed environment when he heard the announcement over the speakers that another show was about to start. The circus had been in full swing and Sherlock had been open to receive customers earlier that day. He had grown tired after telling the fifteenth girl that she was going to meet the love of her life within the next sixteen months and closed up shop.
However, suddenly the circus seemed like a good idea and he silently cursed the loud speaker for reminding him. He had seen the show only a few times, but some of the performances were pretty good.
Except maybe Anderson’s segment. His bit with the lion was a complete and total joke. The lion probably inwardly laughed at the trainer the entire time.
As Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf he happened to glance out his window and saw a young man staring at his trailer from a distance. It was rare for Sherlock to get male customers. Generally, women came to seek their love fortunes. Men only came if they were accompanying their girlfriends or on dares. He had a sort of dark sand quality to his hair and a he carried an oversized bag with him.
What intrigued Sherlock the most was the look of sadness that engulfed the boy’s eyes. Sherlock could not get a second glance because the loud speaker had inevitably drawn the other man back toward the main tent.
As he pulled his mind back into the trailer, Sherlock pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck and headed out into the cold air toward the main tent.
He tried to make himself inconspicuous as he took a seat in a darkened corner of the tent. As he watched the show, he grew bored every so often and dallied a bit with his cell phone. Occasionally he would scan the crowd just to see what type of reactions they came up with. This generally occurred during any of Anderson’s segments. He would rather look anywhere else other than at the stage.
About halfway through the show, as Sherlock ran his eyes over the crowd, growing ever more disgusted at the general annoying quality of humanity, his eyes fell upon that strange man again. He was sitting by himself and it was almost sad to see how much he was enjoying the show. That faraway sad look Sherlock had seen outside his trailer had all but dissipated and was replaced with sheer excitement, suspense, and awe.
For a split second, Sherlock was secretly glad to be a part of something that brought some joy to this man, and he had no idea why.
After The Magnificent Professor Moriarty finished embarrassing himself, Sherlock began to gather his things and leave, but that man had started a standing ovation and Sherlock found himself trapped. He growled and sat back down in his seat. He would just wait for more and more people to leave before he could do so himself. He hadn’t found out why he’d wanted to see this show. No one had performed much better or worse than normal. About all Sherlock got out of this show was to watch that strange, lonely young man gain a bit of joy.
Well, that was stupid and a waste of time. Sherlock hardly cared what happened to other people anyway, much less strangers. What made this sandy haired busy body any different from the rest of the world? Sherlock could tell he was not a genius, but he was not entirely stupid, either. He was, if anything, average. What could Sherlock want with an average man?
He hadn’t even noticed he had been absent mindedly staring until he accidentally caught the man’s eye and the stranger started to make his way toward him. Sherlock panicked. He held quickly donned his coat and scarf and made his exit as quick as possible.
There honestly had not been a reason for Sherlock’s panic. The man could have come up to him any said anything and Sherlock could have blown him off. What was his problem? Why was he here? If he could get a better look at him, he’d know in an instant.
To calm his irritatingly shot nerves, Sherlock lit a cigarette once he was outside. He had to give his brother credit on that one-the outdoors and general devil-may-care setting of a circus had given him the freedom to smoke whenever the hell he wanted, and for that Sherlock was grateful. He took a long drag of his cigarette-allowing the smoke to give him that familiar burning in his chest. He liked the way it felt in the cold hair. Rather than feeling like they were damaging his lungs, which he knew was happening and he did not care, the smoke felt warm and comforting to him, much like hot cocoa on a snowy day.
After Sherlock’s head cleared, he was unaware of how much time had passed. It seemed most of the patrons had cleared the tent by now, and Sherlock decided it would be a good idea to head back to his own trailer. He could hear Mike Stamford’s unusually loud accent behind him. It looked as though he found himself a new recruit. This was nothing new. Mike was always finding runaways after shows. Those he could not get to leave or go back to their own parents, he took under his wing. It hadn’t happened for a while, mostly because they were running out of room and staffing opportunities. A recession did that to a circus. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock as he turned to glance at who he had found this time.
His blood froze when he saw that lonely young man with the sandy hair.
Sherlock bolted back to his trailer. He knew what would happen from that point forward. Mike would take the kid back to Mrs. Hudson. She, in turn, would bring him to the only available living space: Sherlock’s trailer.
He could protest. Yes, yes, he would definitely protest. She had no right to bring him back to his place. She knew how little he could associate with people outside of his profession! His spare room was important to him, anyway. Of course, for the first few months he had let the bed stay in there in case Mycroft decided he would be in need of a roommate, but after a while it became apparent that Sherlock was definitely going to get his way and live alone. He had moved the bed to accommodate someone else in the other trailers and turned the room into an extra room for his experiments. For Sherlock, it was ideal.
And now this snot nosed brat was going to ruin everything Sherlock had going for himself-even if it was not much. Stupid stranger and his sad eyes and his lonely disposition.
By the time Sherlock had made it back to his trailer, he was in a complete rage. The calm the cigarette had given him quickly wore off. Instead, he found ways to keep his brain in check. At first he tried to go through some old experiment data he had been going over, but when that hadn’t sufficiently calmed him down he turned to the kitchen where he had some ideas for growing some cultures. He rarely, if ever, even used the small kitchenette for cooking anyway. Mould cultures seemed like a perfectly normal thing to grow in a kitchen to Sherlock.
He set to work immediately. He took swabs from various places throughout his trailer just to see what type of mould grew where, the patterns for growth and how much bacteria had found a home there. Soon he became encased in the experiment, getting a solution ready to mix with the mould, sterilizing his equipment, and making pre-experiment observations through his microscope to see if any of his test swabs had any growth before the experiment began.
He had been so thoroughly immersed in his work when the knock came on his door that he honestly did not even hear it the first time-and Sherlock usually prided himself on always being aware of his surroundings. He quickly forced himself into a reason to stop his work, and accidentally jingled a few test tubes in the process. After a moment, he realized he probably did not even need to answer the door, anyway. These were not his patrons. This was just Mrs. Hudson and a life-ruiner. He cleared his throat and called for the two of them to come inside.
Having this stranger in Sherlock’s home gave Sherlock a distinct feeling of being invaded. He had had many different patrons inside his trailer before, but he knew they would all eventually leave after Sherlock gave them what they wanted. But this man… he was going to stay, probably.
Now that Sherlock saw him up close, however, his insides churned but in the other direction. Standing before him was a visibly defeated man, defeated but not without intelligence or resolve. He was a man that had gone through so much his entire life and was finally free from the shackles that bound him. He was a hard worker, Sherlock could see that, and he was not even all that unattractive.
Sherlock stopped himself right there. The last thing he was supposed to notice was how attractive or unattractive a person could be. He frowned inwardly, mentally chastising himself. Never before had he even had a remote thought like that. There may have been someone, a long time ago, at school…. But Sherlock wiped that memory from his mind, like he had so many times before (but obviously part of him hadn’t deleted it entirely because the memory always found a way to keep floating back, like a virus).
Mrs. Hudson introduced the man as John Watson and with the simplest movement of leaning in toward Sherlock, he was able to deduce to much more. Without even realizing he was saying it, suddenly Sherlock was apologizing for the loss of John’s mother. He had never so much as sympathized with someone, before.
Obviously the man was taken aback by Sherlock’s deduction, but he did not appear to be angry. That was odd, Sherlock thought. Most people would have been angry at such a sudden invasion of personal privacy, but this man stood solid and accepted the sympathy for what it was. Sherlock was impressed-maybe he had been testing John without realizing it-and without realizing it, John had passed.
As it turned out, John was even impressed with his skills of deduction! Sure, many patrons had expressed their opinion of Sherlock’s skills with wonder, but Sherlock was not using any parlor tricks on John. He exposed all of his secrets by letting John know just how he had come to each of these conclusions. He never exercised that practice with his customers. He made his money off the unknown and awe that inevitably radiated from the entire experience.
No, he put himself out there for John. If this man was going to room with him, he was going to throw everything out at once, and if John accepted it, then he would be okay. Sherlock knew he was not each to get along with. He knew this and he could do nothing to change it. He even wanted to do nothing to change it. To Sherlock, if people could not accept him for who he was, they were not worth his time-which meant that most people weren’t worth his time.
By the time Mrs. Hudson left the two of them alone, Sherlock was certain that this arrangement could work out. John was normal. He was ordinary and average, but something about him screamed a sort of devil-may-care intelligence that perhaps only Sherlock could see. He needed someone to help him with experiments or to maybe observe the little nuances in human behavior that he himself had trouble with picking up. Social interaction was no strong point for Sherlock Holmes, despite his very social job.
Now, if he could be given a chance to use his skills in the real world, instead of this fantasy circus life his brother had concocted for him, he would be much happier. He was not even sure he could be happy, but he would not mind discovering the feeling, if only to record the different changes it would inevitably make on his body, both physically and mentally.
However, he still was not done testing John. John wanted further information on Sherlock’s skills and Sherlock obliged, even giving him a little more than he probably had bargained for. Sherlock could have said a lot more, but he held himself back. For some reason, he wanted to continue to amaze John in little ways. It gave him a sort of mini high and for that Sherlock was incredibly thankful. He wanted John to praise his work for a long time.
He made John get his laptop for him and deliberately kept his outward attention on the laptop and his work. However, he kept his inward attention on John. Every movement, every facial expression and sound John Watson made was carefully documented by Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock listened long and hard when John had disappeared into the spare room. The sounds John made could only be setting his things down and changing clothes. That was all very interesting. John did not bother his experiments. Sherlock had thought for a moment to shout out to John that he probably shouldn’t touch anything, but John did not without even asking if he could. Sherlock found that pleasantly polite-something Mycroft or Lestrade or Anderson would never stoop to.
In fact, Sherlock had come so far into his conclusion that he wanted John to stay that he became noticeably (for him, anyway) relaxed when John requested to take a shower. Sherlock hoped his retort would let John know that he was to be as welcome into this home as he would be in his own-or, well, considering John had all but runaway, or rather, ‘escaped’ as John had so eloquently put it, from his home, maybe Sherlock’s place of residence would be even more welcoming.
Either way, with John in the shower, Sherlock could focus on his work again. He poked at a few research sites online, wrote a few things on his website and closed his laptop. Depending on how long a shower John took, Sherlock would be able to get a few things done on his experiment-probably write up a few observations at least. For a moment, Sherlock listened in on the shower just to hear about where John was in his washing so he could be a judge of time. John did not appear to be the type of guy to stand for long periods in the shower, and the varying sound levels of water hitting the tub floor indicated he was at least washing his hair. Sherlock would have maybe fifteen minutes tops-that included drying and dressing time.
Sherlock gracefully meandered back toward his little kitchenette, making sure to take the empty tea mugs with him. He had never made so much tea before, but he found he liked it. It was easier to have tea for two people as opposed to just one. Kettles, it seemed, were almost built that way.
He set the mugs in the sink and turned back toward his experiments on the counter. The Petri dishes hadn’t noticeably changed, but Sherlock knew that would be the case and he was not surprised. Instead, he cleaned and sterilized a bit around the area and made sure to move his experiments to a more concealed location. If he had to share his trailer with someone, the last thing he needed was to have his new flat mate messing about with his work accidentally.
Sherlock opened the door to the refrigerator to see what he would need to shuffle around in there. What little food he owned took up such a small portion of the top shelf. He decided that nearly all of his refrigerated experiments were fine just where they were. What did John really need to buy as far as groceries went anyway, right?
The water had long since stopped running from the shower, so Sherlock left the kitchen and allowed his gaze to run over the sitting room. It was a mess, yes. He hoped that John was an exceptionally tidy person. Maybe he could clean up a bit.
Yes, Sherlock decided, if he was going to be nice enough to give John a place to sleep and shower and eat, then the least John could do is clean up a bit around the place. Sherlock felt it fair. John had already proved that he could take orders well when he had gotten Sherlock’s laptop for him almost without question. Sherlock would have to work on that.
To test this, John chose that exact moment to exit from the bathroom. He was using one of Sherlock’s own towels to try his hair. When John turned to see Sherlock nearly staring at him, he held up one of the ends of the towel in defense.
“Thought you would not mind if I borrowed one,” he said, a little sheepishly. “I’ll wash it…” he looked about him in exasperation for a moment and his expression almost turned to defeat but he quickly wiped it clean. “Do you take the washing into town to have it cleaned?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock.
“Ah,” said John. “Then I’ll do just that, tomorrow, I suppose. It depends on what I have to do. What DO I do?”
Sherlock frowned, “That really is none of my concern. You should see the clowns. They’ll direct you from there.” Oddly enough, Sherlock would rather have John stay with him, but as the feeling was generally unprecedented, he decided maybe it was best for John to go about his work far from Sherlock’s curious gaze.
Really, this set up was going a lot better than Sherlock had originally thought. He was going to have John hand him his phone or something, but John had basically volunteered to do Sherlock’s laundry. Sherlock had a lot of washing to do, because going out to wash his own clothes was tedious and boring and he would much rather buy new clothes than to wash the old ones. John would have his hands full.
“All right, thanks,” John said as he tugged a bit on the towel, allowing it to fall across his shoulders. He looked as though he had just gotten back from the gym, but instead of covered in sweat, he was freshly washed and smelled of soap. He must have scrubbed hard because the skin on his forearms was red and raw. What reason would John have to scrub so roughly? Maybe he-
“If you’re deducing something about me from the way I shower, you can stop,” said John, but his words weren’t harsh. Sherlock was astonished to find the man smiling, instead. “I’m tired, Sherlock, and would very much like to get some sleep. Will you be in here on your laptop all night?”
“Maybe. Will that bother you?” Sherlock inquired.
John shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve slept though much worse than a few typing clicks and monitor glow.”
“I sometimes play the violin at odd hours of the night. It relaxes my mind, does that bother you?”
Again, John shook his head. “I love music.”
“There is a difference between violin music and music the rest of the world plagues their ears with,” Sherlock scowled.
Once more, John easily passed another mini test from Sherlock because at that moment he chuckled slightly and shook his head again, “I think it’s relaxing. Sure, I’ll listen to more modern music, but there’s a decent reason music from say, the violin or the piano has been around for as long as it has.” He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “It’s actually good.”
Sherlock could not help but smile. He felt the edges of his mouth curl up before he could even stop himself. “Excellent.”
John motioned toward the couch. “May I, then?” He did not even wait for Sherlock to nod. It was as if he had only asked to appear outwardly polite. He took the throw blanket from the back of the couch and curled up on the couch, resting his head on one of the pillows and tucking the blanket up around him.
Sherlock took a step toward John and reached over the other boy to grab his violin case that sat on a shelf behind the couch. He could feel John’s gaze on him as he moved. He threw John’s own remark back at him and nearly smirked. “May I, then?”
“What type of music do you play?” John asked another question instead of answering, but Sherlock took it as a yes.
“Anything that strikes the mood. Have you a request?” Sherlock took the violin from its case and examined the strings a bit, tuning it slightly.
John yawned. “Not in particular. I’m open for anything at this moment.”
Sherlock chose not to explain to John why that was not a good choice of words, and instead brought the violin up to his chin and raised the bow. He took one last glance at John’s still form on the couch, closed his eyes and began to play.
He did not play anything by anyone in particular. Instead, Sherlock allowed himself to play one of his few original compositions. He reserved these songs for no one other than himself, but John’s steady breathing indicated that he had fallen asleep before Sherlock had gotten past a few measures.
Sherlock did not stop playing. The bow slid gracefully over the strings as Sherlock drifted off into the music, himself. He did not know how long he played, but he did not mind the passage of time. John did not stir, but he instead had a slight smile on his lips as Sherlock moved over the bow. Sherlock was almost afraid to stop-in his mind, he somehow had concocted the idea that if he stopped playing, he would disturb John and the serenity of his sleep would be almost unattainable.
Despite his best efforts, fatigue got the better of him and Sherlock finally ended his song. He brought the violin down and carefully set the instrument in his case. He gracefully balanced the case over his outstretched arms and meticulously set it back on the shelf above the couch. John still hadn’t moved.
John was a different person when he slept. The early creases and worry in his face faded and Sherlock’s earlier observation that John had been slightly attractive came back to the surface. He did not allow this idea to get to him, this time. He pulled his gaze from John’s sleeping form.
On a different night, Sherlock would have gotten back on his laptop and spent the next few hours lost in the artificial light. On this night, however, he went to the back of the trailer, where his room lay, and changed into his night clothes. When he sank into his bed he was pleased to find that his thoughts were not a jumbled mess inside his brain. In fact, he had very little thoughts. The concept was so comforting that Sherlock fell asleep before he even realized that he liked it.
Next Chapter
Author: Mesita
Words: 5106/17433/50,000+
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 FIVE
THE PSYCHIC MIND
Sherlock Holmes hated his job.
Well, he said hate. To anyone observing from a completely subjective outside view, he probably seemed indifferent to his career choice.
However, Sherlock was only nineteen. He hadn’t yet found his niche in the world and what with his brother’s crazy scheme to start a circus of all things; Sherlock thought his future was rather limited. Mummy had reveled in everything Mycroft had ever done, and Sherlock felt almost helpless in following in his brother’s footsteps.
He did wonder why he could not have gone straight to university after schooling had ended. Mycroft had suggested he come travel with him in the circus. It would be fun.
Sherlock hated fun. Or rather, he hated most people’s concept of fun. His version of fun did not include patrons patronizing him every ten seconds. Most of the time he closed his stall down and wandered about the circus grounds or sat in his trailer experimenting on various ideas that plagued his mind.
For as long as Sherlock could remember, he felt compelled to beat his brother at something. Mycroft always got the better grades. While both Holmes brothers always received such high marks, Mycroft would always take it one step further and add extracurricular activities or social events into the mix. Somehow, Mycroft knew how to function in a normal society and basically deal with other people in such a way that it allowed him to surpass Sherlock intellectually, again from an outsider’s point of view.
In Sherlock’s eyes, he was the smarter one, but of course some people begged to differ and Sherlock had to deal with it in the best way he knew how: to ignore everyone.
Sherlock could remember clearly the day his brother had asked him to join his little circus. Mycroft already had a job working for the British government, but he somehow managed to find time to waste. Mycroft had already been gallivanting about the countryside with his partner in crime: Greg Lestrade and playing circus for a few years by that point, so Sherlock thought he was safe from recruitment.
Sherlock was rarely wrong and when he was, he made it so the rest of the world wished he were right.
Of course, Sherlock tried to blame Lestrade as much as he could, but Lestrade had to be so damn accommodating and nice and not that much of an idiot compared to the rest of the circus employees that Sherlock almost felt compelled to join. At least he would not have to work in the big tent doing any stunts for the audience. That was a relief.
But really, the entire thing was Lestrade’s fault. Somehow, he had convinced Mycroft that this was a good idea, and together, the two of them envisioned this grand circus. Originally, Lestrade had been working for a circus since he was 15, and he had been a clown of all things: a clown named Tomato. Lestrade managed to gather together a few of his buddies, probably from old circus jobs or school, and slowly built his circus empire. With Mycroft’s hands in the government, the circus managed to acquire some fabulous benefactors. This helped a great deal with the budget.
Part of Sherlock’s deal in joining the circus was to have his own trailer. The trailer, however, had to be of much higher caliber than anyone else’s, even the apparent star of the show, The Magnificent Professor Moriarty. Mycroft had obliged probably more for Mummy’s sake than for his own. Sherlock had a hot water heater and a very well adorned kitchen. His flat had a slightly larger floor plan and called for a full-sized shower. If Sherlock was going to help make his brother’s stupid business profitable, he sure as hell was going to get something out of it.
For Sherlock’s entire life, he had had a keen eye for observation. From a young age, he could tell so much about a person based solely on the state of their shoes. As he grew older, he began to research certain aspects of the world (types of cigar butts and the differences between soil samples throughout different parts of Britain) to bring about more accurate deductions about people.
It was Mycroft’s idea for Sherlock to be a psychic. He had argued that it would not be much of a difference than who he was before. Sherlock already told everyone he met everything he knew about them. Now he could do it for a living-and then give the client an educated guess as to how their futures would be.
Not to mention this way, people actually wanted to be deduced, as opposed to Sherlock pissing them off. The only thing he changed was that he never, ever explained how he came to his conclusions. It took the mystery away and stupid people loved to remain in ignorance.
He absolutely refused to wear any of the silly psychic garb that his brother had suggested. Sherlock was very content to wear his usual suits or button downs. He even refused to decorate his trailer according to the usual getup for a psychic. He kept things the way he wanted them. He argued in a fit of passion to Mycroft that people were more likely to believe someone who appeared relatively normal than someone who built up a fake persona. To the outsider, Sherlock looked like a normal person with an extraordinary gift and that brought patrons to his door as opposed to someone with a pompous name like the Magnificent Professor Moriarty.
And yet, Mycroft argued, Moriarty had had much more success than Sherlock. Sherlock could care less, however. He refused to take part in any shows and since half the time his door was not open to receive customers, many people stopped trying to find out when he was open.
Most of all, Sherlock hated his current situation because he had been called a freak all throughout school-and now he was making a living in being one. It was as if he were proving every single one of those bullies right.
The circus had began in London and travelled all throughout the United Kingdom and neighboring countries. They had been to France and Spain and Germany. Spain had not been as welcoming. A British troupe that had a faux Spanish theme had been insulting to some patrons, and hilarious to others, but overall, their welcome was so mixed, they vowed to take Spain off their list of touring countries.
The Irish loved them, but probably for Moriarty’s sake than anything.
Come dreary October, the circus had planted its roots in London once again. Sherlock was more than happy to be home. In fact, he found that he let his consulting hours be a bit more flexible than usual and he even dared to venture out into the main circus to watch the show for a bit.
He hadn’t expected to see John that day, although at the time, the man had been a complete stranger to Sherlock.
He had been alone in his trailer, checking on the progress of some decaying frogs in an enclosed environment when he heard the announcement over the speakers that another show was about to start. The circus had been in full swing and Sherlock had been open to receive customers earlier that day. He had grown tired after telling the fifteenth girl that she was going to meet the love of her life within the next sixteen months and closed up shop.
However, suddenly the circus seemed like a good idea and he silently cursed the loud speaker for reminding him. He had seen the show only a few times, but some of the performances were pretty good.
Except maybe Anderson’s segment. His bit with the lion was a complete and total joke. The lion probably inwardly laughed at the trainer the entire time.
As Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf he happened to glance out his window and saw a young man staring at his trailer from a distance. It was rare for Sherlock to get male customers. Generally, women came to seek their love fortunes. Men only came if they were accompanying their girlfriends or on dares. He had a sort of dark sand quality to his hair and a he carried an oversized bag with him.
What intrigued Sherlock the most was the look of sadness that engulfed the boy’s eyes. Sherlock could not get a second glance because the loud speaker had inevitably drawn the other man back toward the main tent.
As he pulled his mind back into the trailer, Sherlock pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck and headed out into the cold air toward the main tent.
He tried to make himself inconspicuous as he took a seat in a darkened corner of the tent. As he watched the show, he grew bored every so often and dallied a bit with his cell phone. Occasionally he would scan the crowd just to see what type of reactions they came up with. This generally occurred during any of Anderson’s segments. He would rather look anywhere else other than at the stage.
About halfway through the show, as Sherlock ran his eyes over the crowd, growing ever more disgusted at the general annoying quality of humanity, his eyes fell upon that strange man again. He was sitting by himself and it was almost sad to see how much he was enjoying the show. That faraway sad look Sherlock had seen outside his trailer had all but dissipated and was replaced with sheer excitement, suspense, and awe.
For a split second, Sherlock was secretly glad to be a part of something that brought some joy to this man, and he had no idea why.
After The Magnificent Professor Moriarty finished embarrassing himself, Sherlock began to gather his things and leave, but that man had started a standing ovation and Sherlock found himself trapped. He growled and sat back down in his seat. He would just wait for more and more people to leave before he could do so himself. He hadn’t found out why he’d wanted to see this show. No one had performed much better or worse than normal. About all Sherlock got out of this show was to watch that strange, lonely young man gain a bit of joy.
Well, that was stupid and a waste of time. Sherlock hardly cared what happened to other people anyway, much less strangers. What made this sandy haired busy body any different from the rest of the world? Sherlock could tell he was not a genius, but he was not entirely stupid, either. He was, if anything, average. What could Sherlock want with an average man?
He hadn’t even noticed he had been absent mindedly staring until he accidentally caught the man’s eye and the stranger started to make his way toward him. Sherlock panicked. He held quickly donned his coat and scarf and made his exit as quick as possible.
There honestly had not been a reason for Sherlock’s panic. The man could have come up to him any said anything and Sherlock could have blown him off. What was his problem? Why was he here? If he could get a better look at him, he’d know in an instant.
To calm his irritatingly shot nerves, Sherlock lit a cigarette once he was outside. He had to give his brother credit on that one-the outdoors and general devil-may-care setting of a circus had given him the freedom to smoke whenever the hell he wanted, and for that Sherlock was grateful. He took a long drag of his cigarette-allowing the smoke to give him that familiar burning in his chest. He liked the way it felt in the cold hair. Rather than feeling like they were damaging his lungs, which he knew was happening and he did not care, the smoke felt warm and comforting to him, much like hot cocoa on a snowy day.
After Sherlock’s head cleared, he was unaware of how much time had passed. It seemed most of the patrons had cleared the tent by now, and Sherlock decided it would be a good idea to head back to his own trailer. He could hear Mike Stamford’s unusually loud accent behind him. It looked as though he found himself a new recruit. This was nothing new. Mike was always finding runaways after shows. Those he could not get to leave or go back to their own parents, he took under his wing. It hadn’t happened for a while, mostly because they were running out of room and staffing opportunities. A recession did that to a circus. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock as he turned to glance at who he had found this time.
His blood froze when he saw that lonely young man with the sandy hair.
Sherlock bolted back to his trailer. He knew what would happen from that point forward. Mike would take the kid back to Mrs. Hudson. She, in turn, would bring him to the only available living space: Sherlock’s trailer.
He could protest. Yes, yes, he would definitely protest. She had no right to bring him back to his place. She knew how little he could associate with people outside of his profession! His spare room was important to him, anyway. Of course, for the first few months he had let the bed stay in there in case Mycroft decided he would be in need of a roommate, but after a while it became apparent that Sherlock was definitely going to get his way and live alone. He had moved the bed to accommodate someone else in the other trailers and turned the room into an extra room for his experiments. For Sherlock, it was ideal.
And now this snot nosed brat was going to ruin everything Sherlock had going for himself-even if it was not much. Stupid stranger and his sad eyes and his lonely disposition.
By the time Sherlock had made it back to his trailer, he was in a complete rage. The calm the cigarette had given him quickly wore off. Instead, he found ways to keep his brain in check. At first he tried to go through some old experiment data he had been going over, but when that hadn’t sufficiently calmed him down he turned to the kitchen where he had some ideas for growing some cultures. He rarely, if ever, even used the small kitchenette for cooking anyway. Mould cultures seemed like a perfectly normal thing to grow in a kitchen to Sherlock.
He set to work immediately. He took swabs from various places throughout his trailer just to see what type of mould grew where, the patterns for growth and how much bacteria had found a home there. Soon he became encased in the experiment, getting a solution ready to mix with the mould, sterilizing his equipment, and making pre-experiment observations through his microscope to see if any of his test swabs had any growth before the experiment began.
He had been so thoroughly immersed in his work when the knock came on his door that he honestly did not even hear it the first time-and Sherlock usually prided himself on always being aware of his surroundings. He quickly forced himself into a reason to stop his work, and accidentally jingled a few test tubes in the process. After a moment, he realized he probably did not even need to answer the door, anyway. These were not his patrons. This was just Mrs. Hudson and a life-ruiner. He cleared his throat and called for the two of them to come inside.
Having this stranger in Sherlock’s home gave Sherlock a distinct feeling of being invaded. He had had many different patrons inside his trailer before, but he knew they would all eventually leave after Sherlock gave them what they wanted. But this man… he was going to stay, probably.
Now that Sherlock saw him up close, however, his insides churned but in the other direction. Standing before him was a visibly defeated man, defeated but not without intelligence or resolve. He was a man that had gone through so much his entire life and was finally free from the shackles that bound him. He was a hard worker, Sherlock could see that, and he was not even all that unattractive.
Sherlock stopped himself right there. The last thing he was supposed to notice was how attractive or unattractive a person could be. He frowned inwardly, mentally chastising himself. Never before had he even had a remote thought like that. There may have been someone, a long time ago, at school…. But Sherlock wiped that memory from his mind, like he had so many times before (but obviously part of him hadn’t deleted it entirely because the memory always found a way to keep floating back, like a virus).
Mrs. Hudson introduced the man as John Watson and with the simplest movement of leaning in toward Sherlock, he was able to deduce to much more. Without even realizing he was saying it, suddenly Sherlock was apologizing for the loss of John’s mother. He had never so much as sympathized with someone, before.
Obviously the man was taken aback by Sherlock’s deduction, but he did not appear to be angry. That was odd, Sherlock thought. Most people would have been angry at such a sudden invasion of personal privacy, but this man stood solid and accepted the sympathy for what it was. Sherlock was impressed-maybe he had been testing John without realizing it-and without realizing it, John had passed.
As it turned out, John was even impressed with his skills of deduction! Sure, many patrons had expressed their opinion of Sherlock’s skills with wonder, but Sherlock was not using any parlor tricks on John. He exposed all of his secrets by letting John know just how he had come to each of these conclusions. He never exercised that practice with his customers. He made his money off the unknown and awe that inevitably radiated from the entire experience.
No, he put himself out there for John. If this man was going to room with him, he was going to throw everything out at once, and if John accepted it, then he would be okay. Sherlock knew he was not each to get along with. He knew this and he could do nothing to change it. He even wanted to do nothing to change it. To Sherlock, if people could not accept him for who he was, they were not worth his time-which meant that most people weren’t worth his time.
By the time Mrs. Hudson left the two of them alone, Sherlock was certain that this arrangement could work out. John was normal. He was ordinary and average, but something about him screamed a sort of devil-may-care intelligence that perhaps only Sherlock could see. He needed someone to help him with experiments or to maybe observe the little nuances in human behavior that he himself had trouble with picking up. Social interaction was no strong point for Sherlock Holmes, despite his very social job.
Now, if he could be given a chance to use his skills in the real world, instead of this fantasy circus life his brother had concocted for him, he would be much happier. He was not even sure he could be happy, but he would not mind discovering the feeling, if only to record the different changes it would inevitably make on his body, both physically and mentally.
However, he still was not done testing John. John wanted further information on Sherlock’s skills and Sherlock obliged, even giving him a little more than he probably had bargained for. Sherlock could have said a lot more, but he held himself back. For some reason, he wanted to continue to amaze John in little ways. It gave him a sort of mini high and for that Sherlock was incredibly thankful. He wanted John to praise his work for a long time.
He made John get his laptop for him and deliberately kept his outward attention on the laptop and his work. However, he kept his inward attention on John. Every movement, every facial expression and sound John Watson made was carefully documented by Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock listened long and hard when John had disappeared into the spare room. The sounds John made could only be setting his things down and changing clothes. That was all very interesting. John did not bother his experiments. Sherlock had thought for a moment to shout out to John that he probably shouldn’t touch anything, but John did not without even asking if he could. Sherlock found that pleasantly polite-something Mycroft or Lestrade or Anderson would never stoop to.
In fact, Sherlock had come so far into his conclusion that he wanted John to stay that he became noticeably (for him, anyway) relaxed when John requested to take a shower. Sherlock hoped his retort would let John know that he was to be as welcome into this home as he would be in his own-or, well, considering John had all but runaway, or rather, ‘escaped’ as John had so eloquently put it, from his home, maybe Sherlock’s place of residence would be even more welcoming.
Either way, with John in the shower, Sherlock could focus on his work again. He poked at a few research sites online, wrote a few things on his website and closed his laptop. Depending on how long a shower John took, Sherlock would be able to get a few things done on his experiment-probably write up a few observations at least. For a moment, Sherlock listened in on the shower just to hear about where John was in his washing so he could be a judge of time. John did not appear to be the type of guy to stand for long periods in the shower, and the varying sound levels of water hitting the tub floor indicated he was at least washing his hair. Sherlock would have maybe fifteen minutes tops-that included drying and dressing time.
Sherlock gracefully meandered back toward his little kitchenette, making sure to take the empty tea mugs with him. He had never made so much tea before, but he found he liked it. It was easier to have tea for two people as opposed to just one. Kettles, it seemed, were almost built that way.
He set the mugs in the sink and turned back toward his experiments on the counter. The Petri dishes hadn’t noticeably changed, but Sherlock knew that would be the case and he was not surprised. Instead, he cleaned and sterilized a bit around the area and made sure to move his experiments to a more concealed location. If he had to share his trailer with someone, the last thing he needed was to have his new flat mate messing about with his work accidentally.
Sherlock opened the door to the refrigerator to see what he would need to shuffle around in there. What little food he owned took up such a small portion of the top shelf. He decided that nearly all of his refrigerated experiments were fine just where they were. What did John really need to buy as far as groceries went anyway, right?
The water had long since stopped running from the shower, so Sherlock left the kitchen and allowed his gaze to run over the sitting room. It was a mess, yes. He hoped that John was an exceptionally tidy person. Maybe he could clean up a bit.
Yes, Sherlock decided, if he was going to be nice enough to give John a place to sleep and shower and eat, then the least John could do is clean up a bit around the place. Sherlock felt it fair. John had already proved that he could take orders well when he had gotten Sherlock’s laptop for him almost without question. Sherlock would have to work on that.
To test this, John chose that exact moment to exit from the bathroom. He was using one of Sherlock’s own towels to try his hair. When John turned to see Sherlock nearly staring at him, he held up one of the ends of the towel in defense.
“Thought you would not mind if I borrowed one,” he said, a little sheepishly. “I’ll wash it…” he looked about him in exasperation for a moment and his expression almost turned to defeat but he quickly wiped it clean. “Do you take the washing into town to have it cleaned?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock.
“Ah,” said John. “Then I’ll do just that, tomorrow, I suppose. It depends on what I have to do. What DO I do?”
Sherlock frowned, “That really is none of my concern. You should see the clowns. They’ll direct you from there.” Oddly enough, Sherlock would rather have John stay with him, but as the feeling was generally unprecedented, he decided maybe it was best for John to go about his work far from Sherlock’s curious gaze.
Really, this set up was going a lot better than Sherlock had originally thought. He was going to have John hand him his phone or something, but John had basically volunteered to do Sherlock’s laundry. Sherlock had a lot of washing to do, because going out to wash his own clothes was tedious and boring and he would much rather buy new clothes than to wash the old ones. John would have his hands full.
“All right, thanks,” John said as he tugged a bit on the towel, allowing it to fall across his shoulders. He looked as though he had just gotten back from the gym, but instead of covered in sweat, he was freshly washed and smelled of soap. He must have scrubbed hard because the skin on his forearms was red and raw. What reason would John have to scrub so roughly? Maybe he-
“If you’re deducing something about me from the way I shower, you can stop,” said John, but his words weren’t harsh. Sherlock was astonished to find the man smiling, instead. “I’m tired, Sherlock, and would very much like to get some sleep. Will you be in here on your laptop all night?”
“Maybe. Will that bother you?” Sherlock inquired.
John shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve slept though much worse than a few typing clicks and monitor glow.”
“I sometimes play the violin at odd hours of the night. It relaxes my mind, does that bother you?”
Again, John shook his head. “I love music.”
“There is a difference between violin music and music the rest of the world plagues their ears with,” Sherlock scowled.
Once more, John easily passed another mini test from Sherlock because at that moment he chuckled slightly and shook his head again, “I think it’s relaxing. Sure, I’ll listen to more modern music, but there’s a decent reason music from say, the violin or the piano has been around for as long as it has.” He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “It’s actually good.”
Sherlock could not help but smile. He felt the edges of his mouth curl up before he could even stop himself. “Excellent.”
John motioned toward the couch. “May I, then?” He did not even wait for Sherlock to nod. It was as if he had only asked to appear outwardly polite. He took the throw blanket from the back of the couch and curled up on the couch, resting his head on one of the pillows and tucking the blanket up around him.
Sherlock took a step toward John and reached over the other boy to grab his violin case that sat on a shelf behind the couch. He could feel John’s gaze on him as he moved. He threw John’s own remark back at him and nearly smirked. “May I, then?”
“What type of music do you play?” John asked another question instead of answering, but Sherlock took it as a yes.
“Anything that strikes the mood. Have you a request?” Sherlock took the violin from its case and examined the strings a bit, tuning it slightly.
John yawned. “Not in particular. I’m open for anything at this moment.”
Sherlock chose not to explain to John why that was not a good choice of words, and instead brought the violin up to his chin and raised the bow. He took one last glance at John’s still form on the couch, closed his eyes and began to play.
He did not play anything by anyone in particular. Instead, Sherlock allowed himself to play one of his few original compositions. He reserved these songs for no one other than himself, but John’s steady breathing indicated that he had fallen asleep before Sherlock had gotten past a few measures.
Sherlock did not stop playing. The bow slid gracefully over the strings as Sherlock drifted off into the music, himself. He did not know how long he played, but he did not mind the passage of time. John did not stir, but he instead had a slight smile on his lips as Sherlock moved over the bow. Sherlock was almost afraid to stop-in his mind, he somehow had concocted the idea that if he stopped playing, he would disturb John and the serenity of his sleep would be almost unattainable.
Despite his best efforts, fatigue got the better of him and Sherlock finally ended his song. He brought the violin down and carefully set the instrument in his case. He gracefully balanced the case over his outstretched arms and meticulously set it back on the shelf above the couch. John still hadn’t moved.
John was a different person when he slept. The early creases and worry in his face faded and Sherlock’s earlier observation that John had been slightly attractive came back to the surface. He did not allow this idea to get to him, this time. He pulled his gaze from John’s sleeping form.
On a different night, Sherlock would have gotten back on his laptop and spent the next few hours lost in the artificial light. On this night, however, he went to the back of the trailer, where his room lay, and changed into his night clothes. When he sank into his bed he was pleased to find that his thoughts were not a jumbled mess inside his brain. In fact, he had very little thoughts. The concept was so comforting that Sherlock fell asleep before he even realized that he liked it.
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