[Sherlock] Circo de Pastel - 7/13
Title: Circo de Pastel
Author: Mesita
Words: 4861/26013/50,000+
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 SEVEN
THE CASE
Sherlock wasted no time in appearing directly at Lestrade’s side. In fact, Sherlock hadn’t wasted any time since he had seen John outside his trailer. Even though he did not hear the scream himself, he noticed John’s abrupt dash toward the gate.
Of course, Sherlock hadn’t actually been spying on John. It was a bit of a coincidence that he looked out the window at all. At that moment, he had been wondering why in the world it was taking John so long to get back. Sherlock actually could not wait to unload the long meanderings of the day onto someone that wasn’t as dead as the skull precariously perched in his sitting room. The chance moment he had taken to look out the window had also been the moment John heard the scream and taken a gut reaction.
Sherlock could see the entire reaction as smoothly as it had been recorded and played back. One moment John had been shuffling his way toward the trailer, obviously spent, and the next, he was running in the opposite direction. The change had been lightning quick and Sherlock took note of John’s reflexes. Having a gut instinct like that was good. Very good.
And so Sherlock followed John. As it turned out, several other people had had the same reaction as his new flatmate, and it did not take any sort of special deducing to figure out that they were following a scream. Sherlock’s mind immediately brainstormed all the reasons why someone’s scream would attract so much attention and among a few other things, his brain kept coming to the same conclusion: murder.
He cursed himself for not arriving on the scene quick enough. By the time he got there, John was already holding the cause for the commotion in his arms. Sherlock couldn’t help but to feel a twinge of jealousy and he didn’t know where it came from. Surely other people were allowed to interact with John. They had been interacting with John all day. Of course, Sherlock hadn’t been there. It was Sherlock’s turn to have John to himself.
Not that John was his to have.
Sherlock mentally chastised himself and brought his attention back to the case at hand as it deemed itself much more interesting.
When Lestrade had stepped in, Sherlock let him, mostly because he could mentally take down some of the details no doubt the rest of the people would miss.
He scanned the ground discreetly, trying to see if any prominent footsteps remained, but the area had been pounded out by all the recent feet. Due to the scuffle, any evidence had been wiped. That, of course, left the bushes and shrubbery behind the trailer to be checked. No one had tampered with that, as of yet, and Sherlock made a mental note to go over them, later.
In the mean time, Lestrade had opened the door to the trailer where the true mystery was revealed: Carl Powers hanging by a rope in the middle of his sitting room.
Sherlock became very aware of John’s presence at his side. In fact, John’s presence actually did a great deal to help Sherlock think. He had barely any time to honestly get to know the guy, but already he felt better just for having known him. Apparently anyone who managed to sleep on his couch and survive automatically made a very lasting impression on Sherlock’s busy mind.
Therefore, he wasted no time in appearing just behind Lestrade, beckoning John to join him. When Lestrade heard the steps, he turned around and gave Sherlock an incredulous look, but he did little to stop him.
“We’ll have to call this into the police. And… shut down the circus until the investigation is over,” Lestrade gave a great sigh and rubbed his forehead. It did not need to be mentioned that this was the last thing they needed.
Sherlock’s mind immediately went to John. What an unfortunate thing to happen so soon after his initial arrival to the circus. Sherlock doubted Mycroft would let any employees go, even though he had yet to officially receive John into the business. Sherlock did not want John to leave. John was useful.
However, there were more pressing matters at hand. “Then let me in, before the police arrive.”
Lestrade gave Sherlock a look that clearly stated needed no explanation.
Sherlock bounced a little in anticipation, “Come on. You know as well as I do that I can get more from a single sweep of that room than anyone that force sends in.”
Lestrade looked out at all the eyes of the circus. Surely one of them would say something. Lestrade could get in a lot of trouble. Sherlock could see the indecision written all over his face. Complete with a roll of his eyes, Sherlock leaned in to say, just barely above a whisper: “It obviously looks like a suicide. Tell them as such and that we have to collect the body for the police.”
With hardly more than a nod, Lestrade allowed Sherlock access, and nearly blocked the doorway for John, but Sherlock reached behind him and took a firm grip on John’s wrist. He flashed Lestrade a look that told the ringleader he was to have his way, and Lestrade reluctantly allowed John inside as well.
Sherlock closed the door behind him. He could hear Lestrade giving an explanation to everyone outside, but he ignored it. People would no doubt be angry. Why, several of them had started crying the moment they saw the body. Sherlock filed it all under unnecessary data to be deleted. He cared little for everyone’s reactions, here. They were all so human and boring.
“Sherlock,” whispered John, as if he were afraid of being overhead. Sherlock did not acknowledge him. If John wanted to say something, he could say it, didn’t he know that? Sherlock was busy allowing his eyes to devour the room. “Sherlock, what are we doing here?”
“I’m getting clues.”
“Clues?!” John demanded.
Again, Sherlock didn’t answer as the question really wasn’t a question at all. He hopped around various parts of the sitting room on tip toe. Trace amounts of sweat and a few other choice bodily fluids stained the couch cushions. They were fresh. Carl had been here with a girl, most definitely. The same one Jennifer had seen in the bushes with him, no doubt. There was a faint hint of perfume left in the air that did not belong to anyone at the circus, so the girl had been a customer. Carl was known for picking up girls to take back to his trailer and this was no different.
No, the girl was a distraction. Her heavy perfume masked much of what Sherlock’s olfactory senses would normally pick up. It was almost as though she were deliberately wearing copious amounts of cheap perfume just to hide anything else incriminating.
He checked the floor for scratches. The mock hardwood floor was littered with them, but very few had that fresh streak of white that indicated a recent mark. Most of them lingered around the foot of a chair. Sherlock examined the chair but it appeared as though it were not out of the ordinary. It looked worse for wear and obviously sat in, but it was a chair. The scuff marks under it were much more interesting. Sherlock contorted his body to get the precise angle on how these marks were actually made.
Yes, it was very clearly obvious. He checked Carl’s shoes to be sure. He was wearing boots, but they weren’t put on properly, probably due to him getting dressed quickly after his bit of fun with the perfume girl. The tell-tale marks on the backs of his heels told the whole story. It was Carl who had been making those scuff marks in the floor-but why?
Carl was petite, and the type of girl he picked up had a tendency to be more petite than him. There was no way she could have done the deed by herself. She must have played a part in the crime, but only as the accomplice. No, a man had to have done this, and Sherlock needed to find a way to tell who, or at least get more information.
He turned to John, his eyes glinting. He had felt the shorter boy’s eyes on him the whole time, but they only enhanced his performance-as if he were trying harder to locate observations just to impress him. “We need to find a way to identify the killer.”
John looked as though he were going to say one thing, probably chastise Sherlock on his behavior-boring-but he instead threw his hands up, “Okay, what do I need to do?”
Sherlock smiled. He knew there was a reason he liked John. Anyone else would have given Sherlock a hard time, stormed out, or worse, never even come to the site in the first place. “You helped your mother out when she was sick, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So you know a little bit about medical expertise.”
“Well I’m by no means an expert.”
“But you know a bit more than I may on the subject. I haven’t bothered too much with it, as of late. My mind has occupied other pursuits of knowledge.” Sherlock hated admitting to something in which his mind obviously fell short, but he trusted John to give him what he needed.
“I suppose so, yes, what do you need Sherlock? The police will be here any minute!”
Sherlock inclined his head toward Carl’s hanging body. “I need to you carefully examine his body without getting your finger prints on it. Use a tissue or something. Let me know if you find any bruising. I need more info on the killer.”
“All right,” John didn’t argue further. He glanced about the room until he found a tissue box, grabbed a few and went to work meticulously examining Carl’s body. Sherlock only observed him for a moment just out of the corner of his eye, but he was very impressed with what he saw. John was thorough, and didn’t even seem embarrassed about what he was doing. Someone like John had already gone through enough shock value, so the dead body hanging from the ceiling fan obviously wasn’t bothering him, at least not yet.
Sherlock went back to his work, and tried to locate signs of the culprit. After some time, he found a little information. The man was tall, probably as tall as Sherlock himself, if not taller. Sherlock reached over his head to make sure. Yes, the murderer was tall enough to fasten the rope to the ceiling fan without having to stand on anything. The ceilings in the trailers were relatively low, but Sherlock could touch the ceiling with his fingertips if he stood on his toes. For someone as short as Carl, this was an impossible feat-so even the act of getting the rope onto the fan would be difficult for him.
If there had been a struggle, Sherlock should have been able to find perhaps the hair of the perpetrator, or perhaps blood, but he could not find any. Either the killer had covered their footsteps very well, or he was strong enough to overpower Carl without Carl drawing any blood-and he was bald.
He could probably get Mycroft to hack into the forensics team’s files to get more information to Sherlock, but that was too far away. The longer they waited, the more the killer had the chance to hide.
“I think I may have found something, Sherlock,” sounded John’s voice. It tugged at Sherlock’s mind and brought him back to the surface from the depths of his observations. “Take a look at his neck.”
Sherlock stood up to examine Carl’s body. His clothes were roughed and wrinkled, partly from their hasty reapplication and partly due to the fact that he had been handled roughly. Sherlock’s gaze landed to where John indicated. Carl had some slight discoloration near the base of his neck and obvious bruising. He hadn’t been dead for long, so the color was fresh. By the time the police arrived, this would look more like a suicide and less like a murder. Clearly, the lowered marking indicated strangling, but in an effort to make it look like a suicide, Carl had been hung from the ceiling fan. At least the killer had made an effort for it to look like Carl had jumped off the coffee table. Bits of mud and the telltale sign of an insole were stamped onto some papers on the table, but the angle was wrong-no doubt, in part by the killer having to hold little Carl up on his own.
“So the killer was clever, but not clever enough,” Sherlock said after a while.
John looked up at him, “Oh?”
“It’s obvious. Carl had been strangled, had fought near the chair, lost, and the killer hoisted him up on a rope and hanged the body,” he rubbed his chin in thought, and then continued, “We’re looking for a man, taller than 6’2’’, possibly bald and very strong. The murder weapon is missing, so it must be something the killer had on his person-not something that would be found in this trailer. This was, therefore, pre-meditated.” He smiled. “That makes it so much more interesting.”
“But who would want to kill Carl?” John asked.
“Why would anyone want to kill anyone? Maybe Carl knew something, witnessed something, or made someone angry…” Sherlock began to pace. No doubt he would have to interview a few people--at least those that had seen Carl last.
John looked completely at awe. “Brilliant!” he ejaculated. Sherlock could feel John’s smile illuminate the room. He spun around to look at John. The look on his face must have confused the shorter boy because his smile faded, “I’m sorry, I’ll stop doing that.”
“No, no!” Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss the matter, “You’re fine, please, do go on.”
John laughed and Sherlock found that he rather enjoyed John’s laughter. He didn’t know if he could laugh after experiencing what John had gone through in the past few years. He couldn’t help but to smile warmly in response.
Sherlock cleared his throat for his own benefit and not for John’s. He had no time to waste on such frivolity. He needed to get more information and fast. They were running out of time.
Without warning, Lestrade opened the front door and poked his head inside. Sherlock felt as though the ringleader knew Sherlock needed more time and purposely refused him such a privilege.
“Wrap it up, you two. The police are on the circus grounds. Wouldn’t want you two caught in there. People may talk.” Lestrade beckoned the pair outside. Sherlock reluctantly exited the trailer with John close behind him.
Sherlock thrust his hands deep in his pockets as he and John began their trek back to their trailer. Sherlock’s mind raced. He knew he was missing an obvious detail, but what was it? Images floated around in his mind but he couldn’t piece them in the correct order and it was frustrating.
“I’m missing something obvious, John,” said Sherlock, well aware that he was exposing himself.
John did not miss a beat. “Could we, maybe, interview Jennifer? She might have seen something other than what she said when I found her.”
Sherlock stopped walking and turned to John with a sharp twist. He grabbed John’s upper shoulders and held them tight. “What did you say?” he asked.
John winced under Sherlock’s unscrupulous grasp. “We could interview Jennifer?”
“Impossible,” Sherlock said with an air of disregard. “She’s a key witness. The police will detain her back at the station for questioning. She’s untouchable. I’m afraid her account will have to do for now. But I must ask you, John, to repeat what you said following the matter.”
“I didn’t say anything!” John tried to struggle beneath Sherlock’s grip.
“Focus, John! You said she might have seen something else. Why would you say that?”
John’s mouth opened and closed much like a fish. “I don’t know! When I found her she was in such a state… I thought her testimony seemed pretty vague for her to be in that much of a shock. I mean, well, she had a pretty weak reason for turning ‘round and coming back, didn’t she?”
Sherlock disregarded John’s obviously inaccurate deductions. Of course Jennifer would turn around to scold Carl. She was the type of woman who herself had multiple lovers. She couldn’t resist the urge to chastise someone who was stupid enough to get caught. John hadn’t known the woman that long, yet. Sherlock himself cared very little about such petty squabbles. What mattered was John. “John, when you arrived on the scene, what did it look like?”
“Well, Jennifer was alone.”
“Think, John! Was it just you two?”
“John Ferrier arrived around the same time,” John explained. “But I didn’t see much, honest. When I got there, Jennifer was trying not to cry and shaking, and the only thing I could think of was to comfort her. I held her, she cried. She was nearly inconsolable. I couldn’t get her to tell me what happened. She saved that bit for Lestrade.”
Sherlock finally let go of John’s arms and rubbed his chin in thought. He would have to talk to John Ferrier to see if he had seen anything, himself. “And you didn’t think to look around for what had caused her to scream?”
“It all happened so fast, Sherlock!” John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and stormed away into the darkness. “You can’t get mad at me just because I actually care about people!”
Sherlock refused let John get far. His long strides were no match for John’s determined march. “I never said that. Don’t put words where they don’t belong. Listen. Do you think Ferrier saw anything?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” John’s pace continued, unrelenting.
They were back at their trailer in record time. Sherlock took out his key to unlock the front door. He supposed he should make John a key at some point. It was such a tedious task. Maybe John could do it, himself. He had a spare, though, but preferred to keep it as such.
The moment Sherlock unlocked the front door, John pushed his way inside and disappeared into the spare bedroom. Sherlock let him have his little tantrum. He didn’t even know why John was so angry. Sherlock only said what was true-if John didn’t want the truth repeated, then why bother with anything? John should have looked around for a killer-not only because it would have been helpful to the case but also because if the killer had been nearby, John’s life would have been in danger. Surely he could have seen such an outcome?
Nevertheless, Sherlock found himself in his kitchenette, again, going through the data on his experiments. His mind was in full swing by that point. He played out several scenarios and endless lines of dialogue that would contribute to what had happened to Carl. He knew he needed more data and that it was fruitless to explore such options, but his mind did not let up. The experimental data he recovered in the kitchenette helped ease his troubled thoughts a bit. He almost forced himself to immerse himself in his slime moulds.
Despite all of his distraction, a nagging part of Sherlock’s mind kept itself centered on John. John was this new enigma that had entered his life and sewn himself so seamlessly into all of Sherlock’s happenings. They were not just sharing a trailer at this point, anymore. They were most definitely trailer mates. Flat mates. Roommates. Friends?
Maybe.
Next chapter
Author: Mesita
Words: 4861/26013/50,000+
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 SEVEN
THE CASE
Sherlock wasted no time in appearing directly at Lestrade’s side. In fact, Sherlock hadn’t wasted any time since he had seen John outside his trailer. Even though he did not hear the scream himself, he noticed John’s abrupt dash toward the gate.
Of course, Sherlock hadn’t actually been spying on John. It was a bit of a coincidence that he looked out the window at all. At that moment, he had been wondering why in the world it was taking John so long to get back. Sherlock actually could not wait to unload the long meanderings of the day onto someone that wasn’t as dead as the skull precariously perched in his sitting room. The chance moment he had taken to look out the window had also been the moment John heard the scream and taken a gut reaction.
Sherlock could see the entire reaction as smoothly as it had been recorded and played back. One moment John had been shuffling his way toward the trailer, obviously spent, and the next, he was running in the opposite direction. The change had been lightning quick and Sherlock took note of John’s reflexes. Having a gut instinct like that was good. Very good.
And so Sherlock followed John. As it turned out, several other people had had the same reaction as his new flatmate, and it did not take any sort of special deducing to figure out that they were following a scream. Sherlock’s mind immediately brainstormed all the reasons why someone’s scream would attract so much attention and among a few other things, his brain kept coming to the same conclusion: murder.
He cursed himself for not arriving on the scene quick enough. By the time he got there, John was already holding the cause for the commotion in his arms. Sherlock couldn’t help but to feel a twinge of jealousy and he didn’t know where it came from. Surely other people were allowed to interact with John. They had been interacting with John all day. Of course, Sherlock hadn’t been there. It was Sherlock’s turn to have John to himself.
Not that John was his to have.
Sherlock mentally chastised himself and brought his attention back to the case at hand as it deemed itself much more interesting.
When Lestrade had stepped in, Sherlock let him, mostly because he could mentally take down some of the details no doubt the rest of the people would miss.
He scanned the ground discreetly, trying to see if any prominent footsteps remained, but the area had been pounded out by all the recent feet. Due to the scuffle, any evidence had been wiped. That, of course, left the bushes and shrubbery behind the trailer to be checked. No one had tampered with that, as of yet, and Sherlock made a mental note to go over them, later.
In the mean time, Lestrade had opened the door to the trailer where the true mystery was revealed: Carl Powers hanging by a rope in the middle of his sitting room.
Sherlock became very aware of John’s presence at his side. In fact, John’s presence actually did a great deal to help Sherlock think. He had barely any time to honestly get to know the guy, but already he felt better just for having known him. Apparently anyone who managed to sleep on his couch and survive automatically made a very lasting impression on Sherlock’s busy mind.
Therefore, he wasted no time in appearing just behind Lestrade, beckoning John to join him. When Lestrade heard the steps, he turned around and gave Sherlock an incredulous look, but he did little to stop him.
“We’ll have to call this into the police. And… shut down the circus until the investigation is over,” Lestrade gave a great sigh and rubbed his forehead. It did not need to be mentioned that this was the last thing they needed.
Sherlock’s mind immediately went to John. What an unfortunate thing to happen so soon after his initial arrival to the circus. Sherlock doubted Mycroft would let any employees go, even though he had yet to officially receive John into the business. Sherlock did not want John to leave. John was useful.
However, there were more pressing matters at hand. “Then let me in, before the police arrive.”
Lestrade gave Sherlock a look that clearly stated needed no explanation.
Sherlock bounced a little in anticipation, “Come on. You know as well as I do that I can get more from a single sweep of that room than anyone that force sends in.”
Lestrade looked out at all the eyes of the circus. Surely one of them would say something. Lestrade could get in a lot of trouble. Sherlock could see the indecision written all over his face. Complete with a roll of his eyes, Sherlock leaned in to say, just barely above a whisper: “It obviously looks like a suicide. Tell them as such and that we have to collect the body for the police.”
With hardly more than a nod, Lestrade allowed Sherlock access, and nearly blocked the doorway for John, but Sherlock reached behind him and took a firm grip on John’s wrist. He flashed Lestrade a look that told the ringleader he was to have his way, and Lestrade reluctantly allowed John inside as well.
Sherlock closed the door behind him. He could hear Lestrade giving an explanation to everyone outside, but he ignored it. People would no doubt be angry. Why, several of them had started crying the moment they saw the body. Sherlock filed it all under unnecessary data to be deleted. He cared little for everyone’s reactions, here. They were all so human and boring.
“Sherlock,” whispered John, as if he were afraid of being overhead. Sherlock did not acknowledge him. If John wanted to say something, he could say it, didn’t he know that? Sherlock was busy allowing his eyes to devour the room. “Sherlock, what are we doing here?”
“I’m getting clues.”
“Clues?!” John demanded.
Again, Sherlock didn’t answer as the question really wasn’t a question at all. He hopped around various parts of the sitting room on tip toe. Trace amounts of sweat and a few other choice bodily fluids stained the couch cushions. They were fresh. Carl had been here with a girl, most definitely. The same one Jennifer had seen in the bushes with him, no doubt. There was a faint hint of perfume left in the air that did not belong to anyone at the circus, so the girl had been a customer. Carl was known for picking up girls to take back to his trailer and this was no different.
No, the girl was a distraction. Her heavy perfume masked much of what Sherlock’s olfactory senses would normally pick up. It was almost as though she were deliberately wearing copious amounts of cheap perfume just to hide anything else incriminating.
He checked the floor for scratches. The mock hardwood floor was littered with them, but very few had that fresh streak of white that indicated a recent mark. Most of them lingered around the foot of a chair. Sherlock examined the chair but it appeared as though it were not out of the ordinary. It looked worse for wear and obviously sat in, but it was a chair. The scuff marks under it were much more interesting. Sherlock contorted his body to get the precise angle on how these marks were actually made.
Yes, it was very clearly obvious. He checked Carl’s shoes to be sure. He was wearing boots, but they weren’t put on properly, probably due to him getting dressed quickly after his bit of fun with the perfume girl. The tell-tale marks on the backs of his heels told the whole story. It was Carl who had been making those scuff marks in the floor-but why?
Carl was petite, and the type of girl he picked up had a tendency to be more petite than him. There was no way she could have done the deed by herself. She must have played a part in the crime, but only as the accomplice. No, a man had to have done this, and Sherlock needed to find a way to tell who, or at least get more information.
He turned to John, his eyes glinting. He had felt the shorter boy’s eyes on him the whole time, but they only enhanced his performance-as if he were trying harder to locate observations just to impress him. “We need to find a way to identify the killer.”
John looked as though he were going to say one thing, probably chastise Sherlock on his behavior-boring-but he instead threw his hands up, “Okay, what do I need to do?”
Sherlock smiled. He knew there was a reason he liked John. Anyone else would have given Sherlock a hard time, stormed out, or worse, never even come to the site in the first place. “You helped your mother out when she was sick, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So you know a little bit about medical expertise.”
“Well I’m by no means an expert.”
“But you know a bit more than I may on the subject. I haven’t bothered too much with it, as of late. My mind has occupied other pursuits of knowledge.” Sherlock hated admitting to something in which his mind obviously fell short, but he trusted John to give him what he needed.
“I suppose so, yes, what do you need Sherlock? The police will be here any minute!”
Sherlock inclined his head toward Carl’s hanging body. “I need to you carefully examine his body without getting your finger prints on it. Use a tissue or something. Let me know if you find any bruising. I need more info on the killer.”
“All right,” John didn’t argue further. He glanced about the room until he found a tissue box, grabbed a few and went to work meticulously examining Carl’s body. Sherlock only observed him for a moment just out of the corner of his eye, but he was very impressed with what he saw. John was thorough, and didn’t even seem embarrassed about what he was doing. Someone like John had already gone through enough shock value, so the dead body hanging from the ceiling fan obviously wasn’t bothering him, at least not yet.
Sherlock went back to his work, and tried to locate signs of the culprit. After some time, he found a little information. The man was tall, probably as tall as Sherlock himself, if not taller. Sherlock reached over his head to make sure. Yes, the murderer was tall enough to fasten the rope to the ceiling fan without having to stand on anything. The ceilings in the trailers were relatively low, but Sherlock could touch the ceiling with his fingertips if he stood on his toes. For someone as short as Carl, this was an impossible feat-so even the act of getting the rope onto the fan would be difficult for him.
If there had been a struggle, Sherlock should have been able to find perhaps the hair of the perpetrator, or perhaps blood, but he could not find any. Either the killer had covered their footsteps very well, or he was strong enough to overpower Carl without Carl drawing any blood-and he was bald.
He could probably get Mycroft to hack into the forensics team’s files to get more information to Sherlock, but that was too far away. The longer they waited, the more the killer had the chance to hide.
“I think I may have found something, Sherlock,” sounded John’s voice. It tugged at Sherlock’s mind and brought him back to the surface from the depths of his observations. “Take a look at his neck.”
Sherlock stood up to examine Carl’s body. His clothes were roughed and wrinkled, partly from their hasty reapplication and partly due to the fact that he had been handled roughly. Sherlock’s gaze landed to where John indicated. Carl had some slight discoloration near the base of his neck and obvious bruising. He hadn’t been dead for long, so the color was fresh. By the time the police arrived, this would look more like a suicide and less like a murder. Clearly, the lowered marking indicated strangling, but in an effort to make it look like a suicide, Carl had been hung from the ceiling fan. At least the killer had made an effort for it to look like Carl had jumped off the coffee table. Bits of mud and the telltale sign of an insole were stamped onto some papers on the table, but the angle was wrong-no doubt, in part by the killer having to hold little Carl up on his own.
“So the killer was clever, but not clever enough,” Sherlock said after a while.
John looked up at him, “Oh?”
“It’s obvious. Carl had been strangled, had fought near the chair, lost, and the killer hoisted him up on a rope and hanged the body,” he rubbed his chin in thought, and then continued, “We’re looking for a man, taller than 6’2’’, possibly bald and very strong. The murder weapon is missing, so it must be something the killer had on his person-not something that would be found in this trailer. This was, therefore, pre-meditated.” He smiled. “That makes it so much more interesting.”
“But who would want to kill Carl?” John asked.
“Why would anyone want to kill anyone? Maybe Carl knew something, witnessed something, or made someone angry…” Sherlock began to pace. No doubt he would have to interview a few people--at least those that had seen Carl last.
John looked completely at awe. “Brilliant!” he ejaculated. Sherlock could feel John’s smile illuminate the room. He spun around to look at John. The look on his face must have confused the shorter boy because his smile faded, “I’m sorry, I’ll stop doing that.”
“No, no!” Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss the matter, “You’re fine, please, do go on.”
John laughed and Sherlock found that he rather enjoyed John’s laughter. He didn’t know if he could laugh after experiencing what John had gone through in the past few years. He couldn’t help but to smile warmly in response.
Sherlock cleared his throat for his own benefit and not for John’s. He had no time to waste on such frivolity. He needed to get more information and fast. They were running out of time.
Without warning, Lestrade opened the front door and poked his head inside. Sherlock felt as though the ringleader knew Sherlock needed more time and purposely refused him such a privilege.
“Wrap it up, you two. The police are on the circus grounds. Wouldn’t want you two caught in there. People may talk.” Lestrade beckoned the pair outside. Sherlock reluctantly exited the trailer with John close behind him.
Sherlock thrust his hands deep in his pockets as he and John began their trek back to their trailer. Sherlock’s mind raced. He knew he was missing an obvious detail, but what was it? Images floated around in his mind but he couldn’t piece them in the correct order and it was frustrating.
“I’m missing something obvious, John,” said Sherlock, well aware that he was exposing himself.
John did not miss a beat. “Could we, maybe, interview Jennifer? She might have seen something other than what she said when I found her.”
Sherlock stopped walking and turned to John with a sharp twist. He grabbed John’s upper shoulders and held them tight. “What did you say?” he asked.
John winced under Sherlock’s unscrupulous grasp. “We could interview Jennifer?”
“Impossible,” Sherlock said with an air of disregard. “She’s a key witness. The police will detain her back at the station for questioning. She’s untouchable. I’m afraid her account will have to do for now. But I must ask you, John, to repeat what you said following the matter.”
“I didn’t say anything!” John tried to struggle beneath Sherlock’s grip.
“Focus, John! You said she might have seen something else. Why would you say that?”
John’s mouth opened and closed much like a fish. “I don’t know! When I found her she was in such a state… I thought her testimony seemed pretty vague for her to be in that much of a shock. I mean, well, she had a pretty weak reason for turning ‘round and coming back, didn’t she?”
Sherlock disregarded John’s obviously inaccurate deductions. Of course Jennifer would turn around to scold Carl. She was the type of woman who herself had multiple lovers. She couldn’t resist the urge to chastise someone who was stupid enough to get caught. John hadn’t known the woman that long, yet. Sherlock himself cared very little about such petty squabbles. What mattered was John. “John, when you arrived on the scene, what did it look like?”
“Well, Jennifer was alone.”
“Think, John! Was it just you two?”
“John Ferrier arrived around the same time,” John explained. “But I didn’t see much, honest. When I got there, Jennifer was trying not to cry and shaking, and the only thing I could think of was to comfort her. I held her, she cried. She was nearly inconsolable. I couldn’t get her to tell me what happened. She saved that bit for Lestrade.”
Sherlock finally let go of John’s arms and rubbed his chin in thought. He would have to talk to John Ferrier to see if he had seen anything, himself. “And you didn’t think to look around for what had caused her to scream?”
“It all happened so fast, Sherlock!” John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and stormed away into the darkness. “You can’t get mad at me just because I actually care about people!”
Sherlock refused let John get far. His long strides were no match for John’s determined march. “I never said that. Don’t put words where they don’t belong. Listen. Do you think Ferrier saw anything?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” John’s pace continued, unrelenting.
They were back at their trailer in record time. Sherlock took out his key to unlock the front door. He supposed he should make John a key at some point. It was such a tedious task. Maybe John could do it, himself. He had a spare, though, but preferred to keep it as such.
The moment Sherlock unlocked the front door, John pushed his way inside and disappeared into the spare bedroom. Sherlock let him have his little tantrum. He didn’t even know why John was so angry. Sherlock only said what was true-if John didn’t want the truth repeated, then why bother with anything? John should have looked around for a killer-not only because it would have been helpful to the case but also because if the killer had been nearby, John’s life would have been in danger. Surely he could have seen such an outcome?
Nevertheless, Sherlock found himself in his kitchenette, again, going through the data on his experiments. His mind was in full swing by that point. He played out several scenarios and endless lines of dialogue that would contribute to what had happened to Carl. He knew he needed more data and that it was fruitless to explore such options, but his mind did not let up. The experimental data he recovered in the kitchenette helped ease his troubled thoughts a bit. He almost forced himself to immerse himself in his slime moulds.
Despite all of his distraction, a nagging part of Sherlock’s mind kept itself centered on John. John was this new enigma that had entered his life and sewn himself so seamlessly into all of Sherlock’s happenings. They were not just sharing a trailer at this point, anymore. They were most definitely trailer mates. Flat mates. Roommates. Friends?
Maybe.
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