Hey, everyone, this is my first multi-chapter Sherlock fic, so please feel free to leave your comments/constructive criticism when you're done reading. One thing I'm worried about is the cockney accent; do you guys feel I should write it out, or just say a character talks that way? Let me know.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
The air is cold and crisp in Alnwick, humidity low and skies clear. The sun has already set, and the darkness is beginning to fall as the train arrives.
Her black smoke can be seen spitting into the air, the iron beast barreling across the plains, trapped by its need of wood and steel tracks. The train is raw power, a force with no competition out here in these barren plains, only an occasional tree or small hill dotting the horizon. A thousand tons of hot metal push against cold air as the wheels turn and the cogs and disks and screws of the machine work in perfect harmony, and the coal feeds the fire with such excessively delightful heat, making this beauty move.
The motion is as important, as extraordinary, as its ending, and the train begins to slow. The screech of brakes can be heard all around, especially to those who begin pulling open the doors of the many cars. When the train decelerates enough, people jump from its cars, not very visible in the dusk, but enough light is present to show anyone watching that these people are different. These people are unique.
They're yelling to each other as the train slows, calling out to friends, to those who are with them and for them despite what they are and what they do in this world. Beyond, they can all see a light, warm and familiar. Many view it as they would a friend: light, loving. But now is not the time for staring.
Men are jumping off the train, all strong, most of them with thick muscles. The air around their mouths fogs over, and the faint light around them makes the scene almost eerie. They carry ropes and chains, and they walk off towards the light. Then the others go the same direction, carrying all manner of objects, some to redden their lips, some to balance upon, some to throw and catch.
The noises are just as exciting as the view. The deep voices of the masculine, the light voices of the feeble. The sounds of the fantastic machine creaking and groaning as its metal cools. And the roars and growls and calls of the creatures, the creatures locked away in cages that need to be lifted down from the train and taken to the light.
One of the men begin to do so, but he is younger, barely out of his teenage years. He fumbles with the strap on the cage, and jumps back in fear when he hears the cat's roar.
And out steps the lion tamer. He is calm, even around the large beasts he must tame. There is a powerful air of mystery about him, this unusual looking man with the blank face. He stares at the boy near his cage, near his precious cats.
"Hurry up." He says, composing himself. He's frightened, but doesn't show it. "We're late."
"Understood." Replies the lion tamer, baritone voice ringing out into the din. The boy turns and leaves, and the man quietly calms his creatures.
The young man walks in the same direction they all do, looking up in awe at a sight he commonly sees, but still reveres. The warm, yellow light is spilling from the largest tent in the world, its vinyl covered in blue, red, green, and every bright, cheerful color available in thick, lasting paint.
It is 1953, and the circus is nearing its decline. But to these people, this is unimportant. They are looking at the present, they are looking at now, and now the audience is always hungry for thrill-seeking, comedic, legendary entertainment. And that's what they offer here. So they unpack their things and go to their tent, and prepare to excite and captivate those from all walks of life, with no idea that beyond the light, in the close distance, someone is watching, someone is waiting.
The men rush in from the train, grunting under the strain of the heavy objects they take with them. They set to work immediately, and the whole tent is buzzing with the noises of labour. Buzz might be an understatement: the clanging sound of metal on metal is frequent. The men's gravelly voices shout back and forth to each other as they have done time and time again. Hammers slam nails, wood creaks, feet shuffle on dirt. The sounds of hurried work are in the air.
They set up as if they are a machine, all parts working as fine as they usually do, because that's what they've been doing for awhile now. They don't all have to be friends, though most are (in a not so traditional sense), they just have to trust that the others can put their lives aside for a moment and complete their tasks, for the sake of what they do. For the sake of the circus.
Time speeds forward, and the train is unloaded, as are the four large trucks that are parked behind the tent, their metal creaking as the air cools even further. The sky, now a dark purple dotted with the night's first stars, is clear, and the moon is absent. The only light around them, at least for now, is that of the circus tent.
They are ready for what's to come, and now they wait, the calm before the storm. The tension is easy to feel in the air, like electricity surging forth, extending between each being who sits in wait, connecting them in their suspense.
And then the action really begins.
The nearby town is not visible to the circus, due to a large hill, so the first lights they see are not those of nearby homes, but those of a car, a classic Cadillac, followed by more, a procession of vehicles all filled with people. The place is instantly noisy once more, with the sounds of sputtering engines, performers getting to work, and gleeful children.
Men park their cars in the empty dirt lot in front of the tent, buy tickets for their families, and purchase sweets for their staring children. In front of the tent, workers swirl pink candy floss and heat up popcorn, drizzling it in butter. Peanuts and lollipops for the little ones, glasses of cheap wine and beer for their parents.
Then the families, prepared with their refreshments for the festivities to come, file into the tent, taking seats along the wooden bleachers. The children are yelling, and the parents are chatting merrily, causing an obvious feeling of excitement and giddy anticipation in the air.
When the total amount, some three thousand people, have filled the audience, the warm yellow, orange, and red lights dim. The noise of the excited people fades as mothers shush their children, and a single spotlight shines onto the patch of earth at the centre of the tent.
Out steps a man in a red tuxedo jacket. He wears a frilled white shirt and a black bow tie, with a matching cummerbund struggling around a wide stomach. Black boots with thick, dirt encrusted heels went almost up to his knees, half covering his pudgy legs adorned in black trousers. Under the black top hat is the chubby, red face and the thick black mustache of the ringmaster.
"Ladies and gentleman!" His voice booms out among the quiet talk between children. "Welcome to the Hayfield Circus!"
Applause echoes around the tent. The ringmaster gets a crooked smile on his face.
"I'm your host this evening, Mr. Swift, here to welcome you to the greatest show on Earth!" More applause, and the man drinks it in like it grants him eternal youth. "Now, to welcome you to this wonderful place of glory and amazement, I present to you, the strongest, the healthiest, and the most beautiful English horses you will ever see!"
The crowd cheers as the lights return and the horses enter from the back of the tent, running around the largest ring on the ground in a circle. More and more horses emerge from the back of the tent to join the ranks, so that there is a blur of brown, white, and black fur whipping past the audience.
Next comes men dressed in bright colors, faces painted into false smiles. They wear giant red shoes and noses, and the children in the audience scream and laugh in delight. Appearing from the front of the tent, they are confused at the presence of the horses, and stare at them as though they're a rough river they must cross. They scratch their brows and exaggerate their confusion, causing laughter in the audience.
One of the clowns act as if he has an idea, and runs away, to the other clowns' absolute fury. There are ripples of laughter through the crowd as the clown returns, this time riding a horse of his own. The other clowns, inspired, leave to do the same, and they ride in together, imitating the cavalry to the delight of the crowd. Soon, unfortunately, they're trapped in with the running horses, going in the same repeating circle, and confused once again. As the audience laughs, more clowns emerge from the front of the tent, each holding a basket full of fruit that they then throw at the ones riding.
The situation is quite hectic now, what with the screaming audience, the dozens of horses, the confused clowns and their friends on the ground laughing at their expense, plus the fruit flying through the air, but it is massively delighting to those in the audience, and that mysterious onlooker mentioned earlier must admit that he is quite amused as well.
The horses leave through the back of the tent, carrying five troubled clowns with them. The remaining walk to the center of the tent and bow. After a moment of applause, the lights change color, going from bright and warm to shades of blue, green, and purple. Out steps a group of people dressed in tight performer's leotards, their outfits all orange and glittering, a strange sight.
They are contortionists, and can bend their bodies to fantastic extremes. They start their work, moving gracefully as if they have no bone, dancing with no music. The clowns leave the center ring through the back, and return with metallic circles, tossing them to the contortionists to squeeze through. All ten of the contortionists succeed in this task, and the audience cheers before laughing again, as the clowns behind them attempt to contort their own bodies, and fail hilariously.
The contortionists spend several more minutes awing the crowd with their artistic fluidity, then, all bowing, they leave through the back of the tent, the befuddled clowns trailing haphazardly behind them.
The lights change from the dark, bold blues to the bright yellows and crimsons once more, and the ringmaster returns. The audience hushes.
"Ladies and Gentleman, those were the courageous contortionists, assisted by our friends, the greatest performers of all time, the Hayfield Clowns!" His voice is perfect for narration, crisp and clear, and it is obvious he has chosen his job well. "Now, that was quite entertaining, but let's do something a bit more daring, shall we?"
A spotlight starts at the ringmaster's feet and climbs up to the top of a tall pole at one side of the tent. At the cap of the pole there stands the young man from earlier, the one who would never admit to being startled by the big cats, or really, by anything. He is of average height, but quite slender, and wears a red coat adorned with large gold buttons that sparkle in the light, with a tight white leotard that he will surely change out of after his performance ends and before he talks to any of the young ladies in the crowd.
"Jimmy Hayfield, our esteemed wire-walker, will now cross this wire-" The spotlight travels down the length of the high wire suspended above the dirt. "With no net to catch him!"
The crowd gasps, a reaction which the ringmaster is aiming for. He hides his smirk and continues.
"This wire, my great friends, is a grand total of thirty feet, that's over nine metres, above the ground!" The ringmaster says excitedly. "And is ten whole metres in length!"
The audience is nervous, but in awe, as they stare up at the man about to cross it. A drumroll begins, and the man, after a deep breath, extends his arms and takes his first step onto the wire. The shoes he wears are thin with leather bottoms, which allow him to flex his feet and keep them protected at the same time.
He inches along the wire, arms still extended at his sides, and, after passing two metres, looks as though he's doing rather well. On the ground, thirty feet below him, whistles and bells are heard, distracting the audience. It's the return of the Hayfield clowns, and they, with large grunts, begin lobbing small coloured balls at the man on the tightwire. This, of course, induces screams from the audience, but the man on the wire, with incredible skill, catches them all, and proceeds to juggle them, resulting in a rumble of applause.
He disposes of the props after a minute or two more, then continues down the wire, inducing nervousness in his observers once more. He makes it halfway down the wire when the clowns start throwing again, this time with what appears to be large leather sticks. The young man catches them all, as he did last time, and the audience claps again.
The wire-walker, with all five leather objects in hand, lets the leather fall to the ground, and even at his tremendous height, the audience can see what he truly holds, and gasps. The leather bits are sheaths, to the knives he now begins to juggle. He succeeds to do this, and as the audience cheers, the clowns below blow up giant balloons with some helium. They throw them into the air, and as the man walks, he pops each balloon with a precise throw of his knife, and all five knives land safely on the ground. The audience is enthralled.
The man finishes traveling across the wire, and standing atop the other pole that connects the wire, he takes a bow, then falls.
Half the audience shrieks and screams, the women who were just swooning over this man now fearing for his life. His fall is graceful, and he looks like an angel coming to Earth, with his eyes closed and arms raised, but this is something in the back of most minds, as they now expect to witness a very gruesome death.
They are, however, quite unaware that this man is merely performing, and when he is halfway to the ground, he is caught by a man on a trapeze. Such a stunt causes wild fame and fortune in the world of the circus, and the man has mastered it, to his and everyone else's extreme pleasure.
The trapeze artists, donned in shimmering red and silver, do their work, to high entertainment and satisfaction, but as they are of little importance to the onlooker, detail is unnecessary. But the next act, the most beautiful of the night, is one the man shall never forget.
"I see we're all enjoying ourselves!" The ringmaster returns with his loud articulation. "Now, however, what we have here is the greatest performer I have ever seen, the lovely, the light, the flawless, Swift Ballerina!"
The crowd begins to clap, but pauses when the ballerina steps out in her powder pink ensemble. Her light brown hair is twisted into a bun, and her creamy skin glimmers beneath the lights. She is just the size a professional ballerina should be, and seems to have the perfect amount of grace. With only a spotlight on her, the music begins, timid and elegant.
She begins to move, her form perfect, her shoes barely touching the ground as she twirls. Bach's Air on the G String wafts through the tent and reaches everyone's ears, its delicate tune immersing them all and giving them an unexpected contentedness as she dances. Spinning, leaping, flowing, she is the very essence of grace, class, and tact. The little girls in the crowd are reminded of their porcelain skinned dolls, with their large eyes and thick hair, but the ballerina's eyes remain closed, for she is concentrating on her craft, her dream.
The music ends, and the ballerina takes a quaint bow, humbled by the loud applause. The circus continues, with just one more act of true importance to the onlooker, this one with almost as much elegance and beauty.
It begins with the ringmaster walking back into the centre of the tent, and the crowd looking to him in wonder of what spectacular performance could possibly come next.
"Our next performers are some of the most exotic you'll ever see, and trust me when I guarantee to you fine folk that you will never witness anything like this for the remainder of your lives." He starts off dramatically. "Please, you may clap as much as you like, but keep your cheering to a minimum, in order not to disturb...the great cats of the wild!"
He walks off with a sweep of his hand, and just a moment later, a tiger walks in through the back of the tent. The audience, doing as they were instructed, holds back their yelps of fright, as another two tigers and a lion walk into the tent and stand in the centre. Then, in comes the lion tamer.
He wears black trousers and a matching black shirt, a steep contrast to his pale skin. His hair is dark and curly, but well kept. He has an unusually sculpted face, with highly defined cheekbones and a burning stare. He observes his cats carefully, watching the flick of their tales as they prowl around the ring. The three tigers seem to ignore the audience, with a casual knowledge of their beauty that makes the attention of the crowd expected and unimportant. The lion, however, with his large mane and radiant fur, stands to look at the crowd as if they're meant to kneel for him, the king of Africa.
"Don't worry." The lion tamer says, his baritone voice intriguing everyone watching. "The cats, should we take proper precautions, will not harm us. What they will do, however, is excite and delight you in ways your mind could never fathom." The way he says it sounds almost as though he's talking down to them, and as he does it, men enter and drop wooden chairs in a large circle, nervously eyeing the cats.
"Alright, then, now that we've got some props, it's time for you lot to take your seats." He says loudly to the cats, and the audience is amazed when the animals calmly walk over to the chairs and sit on top of them.
"Good, good. But where are the rest of you?" He questions, and on que, in walks a lion, a lioness, and a snow leopard, all looking regal. They look to him, and he motions his hand to the chairs. The crowd claps, albeit quietly in fear of causing an animal to go mad, as the three cats take their seats.
"Good." He says again. "Now - hey, who said you could move?" He cut off in an exasperated voice, looking to the snow leopard who had casually leapt from his chair. "Get back there." And the audience gives a little laugh when the snow leopard, like a child caught stealing sweets, returns to his chair.
"Alright. I have with me a volunteer-" A clown walks over, holding a flute and looking levelheaded around the creatures. "Here to help the lioness and I have a little dance."
The emphasis on his last word shows how he holds back a smirk, and the sentence again seems to be talking down to the audience. But the clown begins to play his flute, a slow and simple song, and the lion tamer motions his hand, as if calling to the girl. She steps off her chair and walks towards him, then jumps back on her haunches so she's standing on her hind legs. The lion tamer puts his hands out, and she rests her massive paws on them, so they are facing each other, hand-in-hand.
The cat starts moving her back paws slightly, and the lion tamer sways to the music, studying the animal carefully to ensure she doesn't feel anxious or threatened. She acts as though she's fine, not growling or reacting angrily to the situation, so the lion tamer nods to the clown, and he changes to an upbeat tune. She releases his hands, and stands back, twirling and jumping. He starts dancing more wildly, going from swaying to kicking his legs and flailing his arms. Despite looking slightly ridiculous, he and the dancing cat receive laughter and applause from the audience.
"Thank you." He says to the audience, ceasing his dancing, then he bows to the cat. The cat stops dancing and stares at his lowered head, and after a long moment, raises her behind in the air and lowers the front portion of her body, so she is bowing back. The crowd applauds, and the clown breathes a sigh of nervous relief, as if there's been situations where the lioness decided against cooperating.
"Good. Now back to your seat." The lion tamer stands straight, and the lioness, with a low growl, returns to her chair. The audience claps again.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, onto more serious events." The lion tamer announces, and the clown picks something up from the ground beside him. It's a metallic hoop, shining in the warm lights.
"My dear assistant-" The clown waves and makes a funny face, causing the youngest children to giggle. "-will be holding up this hoop, as all of the cats jump through."
The clown raised the hoop next to him with one hand, holding it steady. The lion tamer, with a wave of his hand, nodded to the cat sitting closest to the hoop, the largest tiger. The large feline steps off his chair and walks to stand in front of the hoop, staring at the lion tamer. He raises his hand and brings it down, a symbol to the cat, who runs and successfully jumps through the hoop. The audience, forgetting they shouldn't, cheers as the other six cats pass through the hoop.
There's no doubting the beauty and agility of these fine creatures. Although wild, they work with the lion tamer with surprising ease, proving the tamer to be unique. The onlooker, who had been battling with himself in attempt to make a decision since he began watching the performers, has now made up his mind, certainty gripping him and pushing him forward, a newfound motivation burning inside him.
The show, which is entertaining and enchanting to all, ends a while after the lion tamer's performance, but outside the tent, the action is not over. When the ringmaster announces the end of the show, all of the families abandon the tent in favour of the food, face-painting, balloon animals, and the friendly monkey awaiting them outside. The onlooker, driven, passes all of this, and, looking around, spots the young wire-walker, who himself is looking over to a gaggle of young ladies, gathering the nerve to approach them.
"Hey." The onlooker steps forward, finally done observing and ready to take action. "Who's the boss around here?"
"Ha! Depends on who you're talking to." The wire-walker says in a loud cockney accent, then looks around. "Here, I'll bring you to my brother, he's really in charge."
He looks longingly for half a second at the girls, then turns and walks away, with the adventurer following in his wake. After a short walk, the young man speaks again.
"Hey, Dick!" He yells out, and a tall clown, currently bending a balloon into the shape of a dog for a little girl, looks over. "This guy wants to talk to you."
"Of course." He says, and finishes the balloon, handing it to the little girl. She thanks him with a shy smile, and he nods to her grateful mother as he turns to look at the man waiting to speak to him.
"You're, erm, you're the boss?" The man asks the clown, a little hesitant.
"Yes, sir, I'm Richard Hayfield, and the circus belongs to my family." Answers the clown, his accent more polished than his younger brother's.
"Jimmy! Don't harass the girls." He calls out to his brother, who's walking away from the pair.
"I won't." Jimmy Hayfield responds, in the biting tone of a younger sibling who doesn't like being told what to do.
"So, did you enjoy the show?" Dick asks the man, turning back to him.
"I loved it, actually. More than anything in a long time." The man says, and Dick smiles.
"The circus has that affect on some people. Reminds them of being a kid."
"Yeah, looks like one of those big adventures everyone dreams about." The man replies, looking far off for a moment. Returning, he continues. "Listen, I was wondering, do you happen to need any more workers? Maybe someone to put up the tent or something?" He looks a bit nervous to ask, and the clown is sympathetic.
"Maybe. Come with me, we'll talk to Swift to see what we can do for you." Dick nods, and they set off around the tent, towards the back.
"Oye, Jimmy, watch yourself." He points to Jimmy as he passes by him, chatting with a girl.
"I'm fine." Jimmy responds, about to shake his older brother off, before noticing his brother's still in the company of the man he introduced him to. "What're you doing with him? Don't have a complaint, do he?" He asks, slight concern in his still defensive voice.
"Nah. He wants in." The clown answers, and Jimmy perks up.
"Oh, I wanna see this." He says, with a bit too much excitement, and looks to the girl he was speaking with. "Sorry, love, got business to attend to."
He steps in line with the two men on their way to the back of the tent, and they fall into a silent stride. The man related to neither takes a moment to examine the pair; they look similar, but Dick is slightly taller and heavier. Both have creamy skin and clean-shaven faces, with matching dark brown eyes, and the man must assume Dick's hair matches Jimmy's brown locks, as his is hidden beneath a massive orange bowler with an emerald green ribbon tied around it.
They arrive to the back of the tent to see the four large trucks, and standing beside one of them, the ringmaster. He wears his same red, black, and white outfit, now sans top hat, revealing his thinning black hair.
The ringmaster turns, examines the trio, then gives Dick a questioning look.
"Is there a problem?" He asks in the Queen's English. His accent is that of a rich man, but his clothes, albeit clean, are inexpensive. His polished words are the result of pride.
"No, sir. This is - sorry, sir, what's your name?" Dick asks the man, who looks at the ringmaster.
"John Watson." He puts out a hand for the ringmaster to shake, and as they do so, the ringmaster thoroughly inspects the new stranger. He wears black leather shoes, the thick ones that men wear when working with dangerous objects. Above that, he has on blue denim jeans, and, strangely, an oatmeal colored, thick looking jumper, resting beneath a black leather jacket. His sandy-colored hair looks slightly longer than it should be, and dirty, and his chin is dark from a few days without a shave.
"Clive Swift." The ringmaster says, but nothing more, so Dick intervenes.
"Watson here has offered himself up to work. Do we got - have - any positions?" Asks Dick, and Watson notices his need to correct his grammar in the ringmaster's presence, but not other's. Despite this being a family circus, the authority clearly goes to Swift.
"Maybe he could clean up after the elephants, or help pitch the tent?" Jimmy chimes in, wanting to help in the adult matters that only recently he's been allowed to help with.
"We already have enough working men. Too many. Ought to fire some." Swift said bluntly.
"I understand, but maybe you need someone to clean up after, or maybe someone to assist a performer?" John questions, but he's nervous, and can feel his plan crumbling around him. He wants to join the circus, to have another adventure, but can feel that this might not be the venue with which he'll be working.
"That's not a local accent." Swift says suddenly. "How did you get here?"
"My motorcycle." John responds, slightly confused, but going along with it.
"Seriously?" Jimmy perks up once more. "The Vincent Black Lightening out front?"
"He was eyeing that almost as much as the girls." Dick comments, almost laughing, but he would never dare do so when discussing business- at least, not when discussing business with Swift.
"They stopped producing those last year." Swift notes.
"Yeah, I bought one of the last ones. Had an older one back in '46, but it needed replacing."
"Crashed it?" Swift inquires, and for some reason, John feels unsettled, as though being interrogated.
"No, I just travel a lot. The bike couldn't take the years of stress." He answers.
"Listen." The ringmaster says, and John loses even more hope. "We already have enough workers. But we could always use performers."
"This guy? Performing? As what, we already have way too many clowns." Jimmy points out, incredulous. Dick gives him a look.
"Clowns, yes. We have plenty of humour, if I'm honest. But what we need is a little more action. That's what people want nowadays, isn't it? A little thrill?"
He hums, and parts from the group, slowly walking towards the trucks, then back to them, pacing as if it will help him put his newfound idea into words.
"Kids now don't need the circus for a thrill, they can go to their local cinema. We need to provide a bigger bang than a moving picture."
"Kids don't buy the tickets, though. Parents buy the tickets." Dick says smartly, he being the one in the circus since he was a boy. "Parents see the circus is in town, they get nostalgic, they buy the tickets. Kids don't have a choice in the matter."
"No. Children are starting to be heard as well as seen. They've grown more independent, we can all see it's been happening since the war. Their opinions are starting to matter, their thoughts actually considered." Swift retorts.
"If they don't want to go, they say so, then discuss it, then lose that discussion. They don't control their parents, nor do they significantly influence their actions."
"That was the past. Now children throw fits and tantrums. They get more of what they want. The age of gentlemen died when the Second Great War began, and that extends to the children as well. Manners are fading, music is getting louder. We are clinging to a traditional England, but in a decade I guarantee we will change more in that time than we did the hundred years before the first Great War." Swift declares, and Dick fights back.
"Things have changed, but only slightly, only because of the new technologies. We're advancing, but that doesn't mean we're leaving everything just behind. The kindness and gallantry of the world isn't going to disappear over night."
John, although caught in a fight of philosophies, has hope restored in him. His chances of joining these people, who personally seem well enough to get on with, are climbing higher with each passing moment.
"I'm not saying it will. But it will decrease, hell, it already has. Take you and your brother: you're five years older, but look at the difference in manners between you."
"Hey!" Jimmy looks like a bird whose feathers have been ruffled.
"Fine. I'm not saying I agree with you on everything, but maybe a bit more bang is what we need in this show." Dick concedes.
"And how will Mr. Watson provide the spark for this 'bang?'" Jimmy retorts.
They all look to John, Swift pausing in his slow pace. John, this short, simple looking man, completely ordinary to anybody who looks his way. But he isn't. And they can't figure out what it is, but something makes him different. Something makes him more than everyone else, more alive.
"A dare devil." Swift declares, and the brothers raise their eyebrows.
"That's not a bad idea, actually." Jimmy says after a moment of silence.
"But can he do it?" Asks Dick, and they turn and look at John once more.
"I can do that, yeah." He says simply.
"Excellent! Jimmy, get him settled. Dick, come with me, we'll work out the business and performing bits, write out a contract." Swift begins to walk away with the elder brother. "Nothing to worry about, Mr. Watson, we'll work it all out for you!" He yells over his shoulder as the pair departs, heading for one of the trucks.
John looks to Jimmy, a little disoriented.
"Welcome to the circus, mate." He shrugs, then takes a new action before John can react. "Come on."
They leave the area where the large tent rests, and notice that the night's customers are beginning to do the same. They head north, where John can see the large train he was observing earlier, still resting on the tracks.
"Right, most people oughta be back at the train by now, probably not the clowns or clean-up crew. I'll introduce you to some people, find a car for you to stay. Got all your things with you?"
"I do, thanks." John says, not owning much. He stays light on his feet, something one who travels mostly on a motorcycle must do.
"Hey, Valentina!" He calls out to a woman chatting with a man in a blue uniform, a worker but not a performer. "This is our gaucho!"
"Really?" She calls back, approaching them. "I remember those days."
"John Watson, this is Valentina the Sword Swallower." Jimmy introduces him to an older woman, perhaps fifty, dressed in a red corset and sheer black tights, with a feather boa dyed black and red wrapped around her shoulders.
"Mouthful." He comments, and she bursts into a large, full laugh, and shakes his hand.
"I like him already, Jimmy. Ta-ta, boys!" With a small flutter of her fingers, she sashays away, her hips moving heavily from side to side. John quickly averts his eyes, and they continue walking.
"Did you hear her accent? It's lighter now, but she's from the east. She came to us ten years ago, after she escaped the Nazis." Jimmy looks at her over his shoulder, pity on his face. "She was Christian until she was nine, then her mother remarried a Jew and the family converted. Damn Hitler thought she should've died for that." He shakes his head. "She's the only one who got over here, her whole family died."
"That's awful." John Watson mutters, but the last thing he wants to think of is the war.
"Bobby! Come see the gaucho!" He calls out to a large man. "Newcomer." He explains to John, aside.
"Hey, I'm the strongman. They call me Hungry Bobby." The man steps forward, and shakes John's hand with his huge one. He's black, with thick muscles, and he towers above both men. His head is shaved, shining just like his large smile.
"John Watson." His hand hurts from the tight squeeze it's in. "I saw your performance, thought you were brilliant."
"Thanks so much." His smile grows, if that's possible. "Listen, I've got to go clean off the weights before I get some rest, so I must leave. Don't worry, friend, we'll speak again tomorrow."
He releases John's hand, and John holds back a sigh of relief.
"Watch yourself around Jimmy, he's a wily one." Bobby winks as he departs.
"Hey!" Jimmy yells again. "They all love kidding around, mate, just the way to go about it here." He says to John, then starts walking again. "Okay, we all sleep in the train cars, so you're gonna take one, too. It's already pretty crowded, so you've got limited choices as to where - alright, Adelinde?"
He stops and calls out to someone, which, to John, seems to happen frequently.
"I'm fine, thank you." A young lady calls out from the door of a train car. It's the graceful little ballerina, her dress replaced with a thick robe, and her pastel pink slippers replaced with bare feet. "Who's your friend?"
"New guy, John Watson."
"Good evening, miss." John says, nodding his head politely. He doesn't come forward to shake her hand, his own dirty.
"Good evening. Are you looking for a car to stay in?" Her words are polite, just as prim and polished as her appearance.
"Maybe he could stay with you, Swift!" A man calls out with a friendly wave as he walks past, carrying a large pot.
"Yeah, her father'd love that!" Jimmy calls back. "If you'll excuse us, miss."
"Have a good night, boys." She says to them, retiring to her car. They nod respectfully and walk away.
"That's Adelinde. Stay away from her." He warns John. "You met her dad, he don't like men getting near her. Thinks she's too perfect for everyone. She almost is."
He looks far off, and for a moment John feels sorry for him. Then he resumes his normal appearance, and walks silently until they're at almost the back of the train.
"Hey, Sherlock!" Jimmy shouts. "Cats put away?"
John looks over to the man Jimmy's speaking with. It's the lion tamer, the unusual looking man in black.
"Of course." Sherlock responds, walking over. "I was just about to retire, is anything else needed of me?"
John, for a moment, is invisible, until Sherlock turns and looks at him with silver-blue eyes. He stares him up and down, and John feels uncomfortable, almost as though the stranger is learning about him, figuring out his whole life by just his gaze alone.
"This is our new performer, John Watson. He's a daredevil. John, this is Sherlock Holmes, the lion tamer."
Sherlock merely nods. John feels nervous.
"I have to feed the cats." Sherlock says, still looking at John. "See you two later."
"See you around, Sherlock." Jimmy says casually, but John remains silent, unsure of how to react to this man.
"Right, as I was saying, there's not many options for you. There's two cars that have one person each, so I think the best decision is for you to stay in one of those."
"Agreed." John nods sensibly.
"Lucky for you, you've already met the men you might stay with, Hungry Bobby and Sherlock. Now, I had to stay with Hungry Bobby last year, and his snoring is outrageous. Like cannon fire."
John simply nods again, not commenting on how much he dislikes the sound of weaponry.
"And Sherlock seems like a good enough bloke, but no one knows his background. Where he's from, who he is. And in the circus, as you'll find out, we know everything about each other." Jimmy says, and it feels like a warning.
"I guess I'll stay with Sherlock, then." John decides, and sighs. His breath fogs over, and he realises how cold it is outside. And how late. He's exhausted.
"Alright. This car, here." He points to the one nearest them, the one Sherlock must've come out of earlier. "Listen, you won't be performing tomorrow, but I'll show you around during the day, work out the business side of things, so on and so forth."
"Thanks." John smiles at the young man.
"No problem. Have a good night." He sets off, and John climbs into the car.
It's a small space, just big enough for two little cots and a table with two drawers. Both cots have neatly folded sheets, and John wonders which is the one being used.
"You should collect your motorcycle." Sherlock says flatly from the doorway. John jumps, not knowing he had returned. "It would be safer in here. There's a little space over there to put it."
"Yeah, thanks." John manages, and despite his tiredness, he leaves the place where he can rest, and sets off towards the tent, a ten minute walk he's not too fond of. On his way there, he wonders how Sherlock knew he had a motorcycle. Perhaps there's already been rumours spread about?
When he arrives, the place is empty of guests, but workers and performers are still hanging around, talking or cleaning up. He finds his motorcycle quickly, and it's unharmed. Thankful, he takes it, and slowly walks it back up to the train, a small limp hindering the process. It's the first time he's had it all day.
By the time he gets back to the car and looks in, Sherlock is already asleep, curled in his blankets on the cot further from the door. He is in dismay, not wishing to awaken the man, but fortunately, a burly worker is passing by, and he assists John with getting the bike into the entrance about a metre off the ground.
He rolls the bike to the furthest corner of the room, where lies an old sheet that was not previously there. As he covers the motorcycle, he reminds himself to thank Sherlock in the morning.
He sits down on the cot opposite Sherlock's, staring at the man for a moment in wonder of how anyone can curl up so tightly. He doesn't know why, but the man intrigues him, in a way he's never been.
After a minute, he removes his leather jacket and oatmeal jumper, then his boots and blue jeans. He places his boots at the foot of the cot, then neatly folds his clothes and places them next to the shoes. Wearing only a white T-shirt and boxers, he lifts the thin sheets and settles in for bed, the enormity of the situation looming on his fatigued brain. He had just joined the circus.