"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and we'll meet at the blue tent across the road in an hour. We'll get a late dinner before we start training. Afternoon!"

And with a wink and a twitch of that black-defined mouth, he was gone.

Lestrade chuckled at John's wide-eyed expression.

"Yeah, he's always like that. You still want to meet with him, or has he scared you off already?"

"No, it was - " Amazing, John wanted to say, but he caught himself. "Fine. It's all fine."

"Well, let's see if you'll be saying that in an hour when you've got to work with him," said Lestrade with an air of amusement, but at the same time with a resigned sense of a defeated man. "Want me to stick around with you?"

"No, it's alright," John said, shaking his head.

"Okay, well, I'd better go find Anderson. Good luck with Sherlock, you'll need it."

John wasn't exactly reassured by Greg's parting words, but he didn't let them bother him. He was mainly preoccupied with the fact that he was going to be performing with that regal whiteface clown, and that he was meeting him in an hour for dinner. When he was onstage, he seemed so otherworldly and separated from everybody else; was he going to have the same demeanour when he was out of his costume and make-up free? Was that an act, or simply the way he was?

John limped his way out of the tent and decided he would go for a short stroll to clear his head. The sun was nearly down and the air was growing cooler, but the crowd had not yet dissipated. The smell of carnival food filled John's nostrils, and his mouth began to water. He didn't get his hopes up, though; he wasn't expecting the food for the staff to be nearly as delicious.

John was careful not to wander too far from the block of tents he had started at. Especially with the disappearing light, it would not do him any good to get lost and be unable to find his way back in the dark.

John began making his way back towards the specified blue tent after about forty minutes. He didn't want to be late, and his leg was starting to twinge painfully at every step. This jogged another round of questions inside John's brain - How did he know about the psychosomatic limp? And how could he possibly know about the therapist?

John pushed his way inside the tent to find what looked like a miniature version of the one that he had seen Sherlock Holmes perform in. A small stage sat in the centre, and rickety wooden benches lined the outside of the space. John sat down on one of these, after pulling on a string hanging from above to illuminate a single dirty light bulb. No spotlights in this tent, it seemed.

A few minutes later, the tent flap was pushed aside, bringing a waft of cool air with it. A person stepped inside the small space, and it was several moments before John recognised the figure. It was, indeed Sherlock Holmes.

But he was just as breathtaking without the makeup.

His skin was nearly as pale as the white makeup he sported earlier, and even without the black accents, his facial features were clearly defined. His black curls were the same, so they were clearly natural. Sherlock was wearing a long, thick, dark grey coat, and he was carrying two trays of food.

"Oh good, you're here," Sherlock said, sweeping over and handing one of the trays to John. "I would apologise in advance for the food here, but I daresay you've had to deal with similar conditions with Bartholomew's."

The thanks got lost on its way out of John's mouth and instead, he said, "How did you know about Bartholomew's?"

"I didn't know, I saw," said Sherlock. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says medical training. But your conversation...'Bit different from my day'...said you were familiar with the travelling circus - so you grew up in the circus, obvious. Your face is tanned...but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand - so it's at least partly psychosomatic. Regarding the suntan, there were very few notable circuses travelling abroad with sunny weather in the past five years, and that narrowed down the choices considerably. So, Adler or Bart's."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. And since you've refused to follow their advice and came back to the circus, you've obviously fired them."

John stared at Sherlock, blinking slowly.

"That...was amazing," he said finally, shaking his head in awe.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, the shock showing clearly on his porcelain face.

John nodded.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," said Sherlock.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

The two men stared at each other for a moment and then began to laugh, their bland meals forgotten.

"So...where exactly are the sleeping quarters here?" John asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his thin jacket. Sherlock had quickly gotten bored with the idea of starting training that evening and instead he had taken to showing John around the rest of the outdoor circus. The circus was closed for the day and all of the guests had gone home, but various workers and performers were wandering around. The circus did not, in fact, span miles, like it had seemed to John, but was actually much smaller and cosier than John had initially suspected. He could see himself growing comfortable in this environment within a few days, at the very least.

Sherlock swept out a long arm and pointed in the direction to their left, but John really couldn't see much.

"Baker Circus has its own train, and there are sleeping compartments in the cars. We can stop by and speak to Lestrade before we head down there; he should still be in the main tent working out the details for the elephant show tomorrow afternoon. He can tell you where to sleep."

The two men strolled in companionable silence to the huge tent that dominated the circus layout. They slipped inside, and Lestrade was indeed there. He was standing about halfway up the tall bleachers that lined the outside of the tent, waving his arms over his head and shouting half-heartedly at a couple of young stage hands who were pushing around wooden platforms and colourful hoops.

Greg saw them a moment later and immediately climbed down off of the bleachers to talk to them.

"God, these new stage hands are bloody awful! How's your new one doing, then?" Greg asked Sherlock, grinning at them both.

"He's performing admirably," replied Sherlock with what John could only describe as glowing pride.

"Yeah, well, it's not as though we've actually done any training or anything yet, have we?" said John, smiling up at Sherlock sheepishly.

"You've managed to stick around Sherlock's company for more than ten minutes, and that's an accomplishment in anyone's book," said Greg, glancing between the two of them with amazement and curiosity.

"John, didn't you have something to ask Lestrade?" said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, and John jumped guiltily, realising that he had been staring up at Sherlock's face for that whole time.

"Oh, yeah. Um, Greg, I was just wondering about my sleeping arrangements? Anything'll do, really, after my time with Bart's I'm certainly not picky."

Lestrade stuffed his hands into his pockets, tilting his head to the side as he considered.

"Oh, we can certainly find somewhere for you. Now I'll admit, we're a bit tight at the moment..."

Lestrade reached for a clipboard that was sitting on a small folding table near the door and began to flip through it.

"Looks like we've got no less than eight people to a compartment..." Lestrade muttered, skimming through the pages. He sighed, glancing up at Sherlock with an apprehensive expression.

"Sherlock, can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked, jerking his head back towards the entrance of the tent, and the two men retreated away from John.

"Now look, Sherlock, I know you've made a point of getting your compartment to yourself since you've arrived here, and quite frankly I can't see how you've managed it, although I think it must have something to do with that mysterious brother of yours..." Lestrade paused for a moment and regrouped himself. "Anyway, Sherlock, basically, you're going to have to share your compartment with John."

"Yes, yes, fine," replied Sherlock distractedly, waving his hand.

Lestrade gaped at him.

"Fine?! Since when has that ever been fine with you? We've been trying to get to you share your car with other workers for years but you've always put up the biggest tantrum the world's ever seen from a grown man! Why is this suddenly fine?"

"Well of course I don't want to share with them," Sherlock sneered, bunching up his nose and gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stage workers, who had somehow managed to upend one of the wooden platforms and were having quite a bit of trouble getting it back down.

"So why in the world are you suddenly fine with sharing with John Watson? You've known him for, what, four hours?"

"I trust him," Sherlock stated simply. "And he intrigues me."

"...Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that to be so easy," said Lestrade, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'll go let John know, and then you can show him - "

"What?" Sherlock interrupted sharply. "John doesn't know yet?"

"Of course he doesn't know, I expected you to put up a fight and refuse anyway!" cried Lestrade.

"I got the impression from you that he had already agreed to it," said Sherlock. "There's quite a small chance that he will be fine with rooming with me."

"Yeah, well, difficult to live with as you are, I'm sure there are quite a few who would choose sharing with you over sharing with seven other people."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade shrugged resignedly.

"Well, there's no way to be sure until we ask, right? Come on."

The two men walked back over to John, who had been watching the new stage hands struggle with an air of amusement.

"So, John, we've managed to find some space for you..." began Lestrade.

"Oh, good. Like I said, I'm not picky, so anywhere'll do," replied John amiably.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a look, who pointedly ignored it.

"That is, John," said Sherlock, "if you don't mind rooming with me?"

Sherlock's sentence turned up at the end, sounding more like a question than a statement.

"No, of course I don't mind!" replied John, smiling. "At least I get to stay with the only friend I've made here so far."

Sherlock was thrown by John's immediate and enthusiastic agreement. He thought perhaps that John would at least need some further persuasion or reassurance, but he seemed perfectly happy at the prospect of living in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes. At the word "friend," the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. Sherlock had never had a friend before; he never saw the point. If friends were like John, though, Sherlock didn't think he would have much of a problem with them.

Although Sherlock was pointedly not looking at Lestrade, he could nearly feel the smug look on his supervisor's face as he glanced between Sherlock and John. Realising that now would probably be a good time to leave, Sherlock began walking towards the entrance to the tent, speaking without turning around.

"Well, now that that's settled, we'd better be off. Come along, John!"

John raised a hand to Greg, before jogging to catch up with his new roommate. Lestrade watched them go with a bewildered smile, shaking his head.

John and Sherlock stopped by the dressing room where John had left his things earlier before they headed off towards the train. John's leg didn't hurt as much, for which he was grateful, and his limp was far better than it had been that afternoon.

Sherlock glanced at the small duffel bag that swung from John's hand.

"You don't have much," he observed. "Three pairs of jeans, I'd say, about three t-shirts and two bulkier jumpers. As well as a pair of pyjama pants, most likely. A few necessities such as a toothbrush, deodorant, razor...No outerwear; you're wearing the only jacket and pair of shoes you own, or more likely, the only ones you bothered to bring with you. The rest of your things are at your brother's place."

John blinked, staring up at Sherlock.

"Brother?"

"Yes, the duffel bag is quite worn, and has special pockets on the side for sports equipment. Specifically: karate equipment. But you don't have the proper muscle development for one who practiced karate for years; no, you played other sports, probably football or rugby. The initials drawn in sharpie on the side of the bag say HW, which are not your initials, but presumably those of a relative, as you share the same last initial. You obviously needed somewhere to stay after you left the circus, and since your parents are clearly deceased, the next step would be to stay with a sibling. When you announced you were leaving, your brother gave you this old bag to keep your things in, and allowed you to keep the rest of your belongings at his place. Am I correct?"

John let out a surprised puff of air, smiling and shaking his head.

"Yeah, my stuff's at Harry's. This is Harry's old karate bag, too. It's got three pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, and two jumpers in it, as well as my toiletries."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Was I spot-on? That's brilliant, there's usually something..."

"Harry's my sister," said John, grinning up at Sherlock.

The taller man's face fell.

"Your sister...of course...Oh, there's always something!"

John laughed, not out of menace but simply out of amusement, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"Still, though, you haven't brought very much at all with you," Sherlock remarked.

"What can I say? I'm a simple man," replied John.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at John as he turned his head to look at him.

"Trust me, John Watson, you are anything but simple."

John looked up at Sherlock, whose angular face was lit only by the light of the stars. How could John have thought that this man was so cold and distant earlier when he saw Sherlock onstage and in the dressing room? His expression towards John at that moment was nothing other than open and warm. But the moment ended far too soon when the two men finally reached the train.

"My - our - compartment's down this way," said Sherlock, correcting himself quickly as he gestured to their left. He caught John's smile and nudged him playfully with his elbow.

"Shut up, I'm just not used to sharing," Sherlock said as they reached their car, pushing open the white door that had a large black "21" on it.

John glanced around eagerly as he entered the small car, while Sherlock stood off to the side with baited breath, waiting for John's reaction.

"This is quite nice," John said, setting down his duffel bag and stepping into the centre of the room to get a better look around.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, a bit dubiously.

"Yeah, it's quite cosy," remarked John, smiling. "I love it."

Sherlock watched John look around the car, quite pleased by John's reaction.

There were bunk beds lining two sides of the room, and John could make out four of them, plus a spot where it looked as though some had been forcibly removed to make room for a small homemade study space. Only one of the bunks was visible, because the others had been stacked with books and papers, as well as other various objects. John thought he even noticed a human skull peeking out from behind a stack of encyclopaedias.

By all accounts, this car should have looked messy and unclean. But it didn't - to John, it just seemed comfortable and well-lived in.

John dropped his duffel bag and walked over to the heavily draped window over the one clear bed in the corner. He leaned over the pillow to brush the curtain aside and look at the landscape outside. In the darkness, John could only just make out rolling, grass-covered hills and brilliant twinkling constellations peppering the navy sky. John barely noticed Sherlock approaching until the taller man was leaning over his shoulder to peer up into the sky with him.

"It's beautiful," whispered John, to which Sherlock replied with a brief hum in his throat. "How much longer are we staying here?"

"We just arrived here yesterday to set up," replied Sherlock, "and today was our first day of performances. We'll be here for another week."

There was a sudden lack of warmth when Sherlock's presence disappeared from over John's shoulder. John glanced behind him, and Sherlock was scooping huge armfuls of books off of the lower bunk across from Sherlock's, where John was currently leaning over.

"Sorry I didn't clear up..." Sherlock mumbled, turning around and searching for a place to put the books before finally just dumping them on his desk next to a microscope. "I wasn't quite prepared for a surprise roommate."

"Sorry for intruding..." John muttered lamely, biting his lip, but Sherlock's head snapped up.

"Not at all!" Sherlock said quickly, but by the time John tried to catch his eye, only his dark curls were visible from where he was ducking over the bunk, gathering up loose papers.

John was wandering around the small space, glancing at the titles of some of Sherlock's books. There were several heavy chemistry textbooks, as well as some on physics and even a few medical texts. This sort of reading seemed to dominate the literature here.

"Have you read all of these?" John asked, flipping vaguely through a physics reference book.

"About two-thirds of them," Sherlock replied, emerging from under the bunk with dust bunnies in his hair. John managed to refrain from giggling at the sight.

"How do you find the time?" John asked, noticing even more books stuffed under one of the bunks and on a makeshift shelf over the door. "Blimey..."

"I make time," Sherlock replied, leaning around John to move a small armchair into the corner so it wasn't blocking the door as much. "I don't usually require as much practice time as the other performers, so I'm often free to return to my room to read or experiment."

"What in the world do you experiment on?" John asked with a huff of laughter.

"All sorts," Sherlock replied vaguely, and John was going to ask him to elaborate when he caught sight of Sherlock, who still had dust bunnies resting in his curls. John smiled fondly, stepping towards him.

"Come here, mate, you've got dust in your hair."

Sherlock blushed slightly, but obediently bowed his head so John could card his fingers through the soft curls and remove the offending dust bunnies, dropping them in the bin.

"I guess I'll do some cleaning tomorrow, shall I?" John said, half-jokingly.

"You're certainly welcome to it, but you'll probably be exhausted by the end of the day," replied Sherlock. "Lestrade has us up early to help set up and get in costume, and I assume that he'll want to go over some scheduling things with you and any other new clowns who've arrived. Since Baker is generally a year-round tour, there's not much of an off-season for training, so there's a good chance you won't be alone. Also, Molly will probably want to meet with you tomorrow - "

"Who's Molly?"

"Molly Hooper; she's in charge of costuming. She'll make sure we have something to fit you. You probably won't be in any of the performances for at least a few days, but Lestrade will find somewhere for you until then. You should catch on pretty quickly, judging by your past experience."

By now, John was stifling huge yawns, and a sympathetic smile was tugging at Sherlock's mouth.

"Bathroom's over there," he said, jerking his head towards the opposite end of the car. "It's tiny, but at least we don't have to share with ten others, like some people do."

"Thanks," yawned John in gratitude, digging out his small toiletry bag and going into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sherlock took that opportunity to change into his pyjamas and put fresh bedclothes onto John's bunk. John came out of the bathroom a few minutes later and the two men swapped places, John pulling on his own pyjamas and falling onto the bunk, feeling sleep tugging at his eyelids already.

John's eyes had already drifted shut when he heard the bathroom door open and light footsteps as Sherlock padded out, barefoot. He heard more footsteps, then the telltale click of a light switch, and the world outside of his closed eyelids went black. The blankets on the other bunk slithered as they were pulled back, then draped over another body. A small poof as a head dropped onto a pillow.

The exhaustion of the day was setting even further in for John, and he felt himself drifting off towards sleep. He was barely conscious when he heard a low voice whisper "Goodnight, John."