four.five

"A lead?" John repeated as he hurried after the receding back of his fleet-footed friend, brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn't been much thinking about their so-called case—in fact, he'd rather settled down to his lunch, and was far from keen on being interrupted in the middle of it. Sherlock, however, was relentless. The intensity of his movements was one that John knew quite well, and he was aware even as he protested that there was no way out, that the best thing to do was simply go along with whatever the dark-haired boy's ideas were—leave the thinking to Sherlock; that was usually the best approach, as he had learned over time.

"Yes, a lead, are you deaf? There's another girl, Soo Lin Yao. She asked to go home, but wasn't allowed to... it isn't much, but she could have received the threats as well, sought out refuge and been denied. She should be in the nurse's office now, so if we can get there, we'll be well on our way to cracking the case."

John only understood about a good half of the words pouring forth, but they were enough to convince him that their situation was indeed a critical one. The mystery of the piggy bank, though it had been a bit obscured by the fascinating new presence of Sarah Sawyer, was still significant, and it would be absurd to try and drop it now, tempted as he was.

They reached the nurse's office in less than a minute, assisted by Sherlock's excellent knowledge of the hallways, and John was breathing heavily as they skidded to a halt outside of it, though his companion seemed unfazed. Shoving a dark curl out of his pale eyes, Sherlock rapped quickly on the wooden door, which was soon after opened by the tall, familiar figure of Ella Thompson, the nurse who had reassigned John to Mrs. Hudson's room after his bad dodge-ball experience with his former classmates.

"Sherlock? And John Watson," she greeted, clearly puzzled. "Are you two doing alright?"

"We need to speak to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock cut across before John got the chance to reply, or even so much as ask how and why Ella seemed so familiar with Sherlock. "I heard that she's in here."

"Are you a friend of Soo Lin's?"

"Of a sort. We may know why she's feeling badly, and it's mandatory that we get the chance to discuss it with her."

Ella's brows lifted at the word mandatory, and the way that Sherlock forced out the tight, clipped syllables was apparently enough to persuade her into agreement. "Very well. Only for five minutes, though; she's feeling quite down."

"If she feels so horribly, perhaps you should allow her to go home as she wishes," Sherlock muttered under his breath, but ducked under Ella's arm all the same. John, after shooting an apologetic half-smile in the nurse's direction, followed suit, and soon they were inside Ella's spacious, sun-stained quarters, bare save the delicate form of a dark-haired girl crouched on the bed nearest the desk.

"Soo Lin?" Sherlock questioned, taking a step closer. She glanced up, fright clear in the flicker of her eyes and tremble of her lips, and her fingers shook, nearly dropping the steaming teacup clutched between them, before she processed the unfamiliar face across from her.

"Who are you?" she breathed. Her voice was a faint stream, barely audible from where John stood less than a meter away.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to ask you about the threats."

"The... threats?" Her throat moved in a quick, nervous swallow, and she set the teacup down, shaking her head until her previously silky hair was a mussed tangle. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do, you do. Are you one of them? The gang? It is more than one person; it must be. You are the victim of their symbols—the letters—but what do they mean? D A N, yes? Was it the same for you?"

"D... A... N," Soo Lin repeated slowly. John was well aware that her hesitance came from anything but ignorance; she knew perfectly well what she was saying, but also remained aware that, in telling, she would put herself in almost greater danger—danger...

"Danger," Soo Lin finally sighed, and John's chest clenched with her timing, how it coincided with his own stabbing revelation. Sherlock's lips traced the syllables, and a triumphant smirk drew itself over his own lips—not one of understanding, but rather satisfaction; he had long understood the significance of the scratches. Soo Lin had only confirmed what he was already aware of.

"Yes. Danger," he purred. "Those who see the scratches... and they must be former members of the gang itself, of course, to realize the significance—know that their time is running out. A group that turns on itself. How beautifully wretched... what do they do, then? These bullies? Do they hurt? Steal?"

Soo Lin's eyes flickered on the second word. "Steal," she acknowledged, her tone quieter than ever, so that John had to strain his ears to make out any sound at all. "They steal... money. Lunch money. When you see the DAN—they put it somewhere that they know you'll be by, and only you'll know what it means—when you see it, it means that they're going to get you next. Maybe for a day, or maybe for lots of days, but you won't get lunch... it means they want you to go. And people will go, because they want lunch—there's lunch at home, but they need to pretend to be sick... it's so mean."

"And yet you were one of them, to have received the signal now."

Sherlock's interrogation was merciless, but had a profound enough effect on Soo Lin; she nodded miserably, tears swelling in her dark eyes. "Yes. They're going to take mine... and I'm already hungry..."

"Thank you." Sherlock was already turning, the next words tossed over his shoulder as an afterthought, and John scrambled in his wake, flashing another apologetic half-grin in the direction of the still-trembling Soo Lin. "And your classroom? We should be able to take the money from your cubby, if we get there soon enough."

"Mrs. Shan."

"Good."

John nearly tripped over himself in an effort to follow the burst of speed that Sherlock then pulled on—it was rapider than any that he had yet forced himself into, and two pairs of frantic feet slammed against the linoleum as they zigzagged through the hallway, tracing a path that apparently only Sherlock himself knew all the twists of. John, for one, had never heard of Mrs. Shan, but he knew that the other boy had a much more accurate knowledge of the building's workings, thanks to the constant supply of information from his older brother, and wasn't about to question the route that they now raced along.

"Mrs. Shan's, Mrs. Shan's—here—no, there," Sherlock snarled, and lifted one hand, index finger extended in furious indication of the dark figure slipping out of a classroom only a few doors ahead of them. The unmistakable ringing of change assaulted John's ears as his eyes locked with the dark ones of the thief, and anger reared in his chest, to match Sherlock's—this had to be one of the gang, and he was escaping, with Soo Lin's money! Much as John's legs ached, he didn't hesitate at all before pulling on another burst of speed, bearing down on the long-legged robber who darted before them, seemingly without effort.

"Come on, come on," Sherlock spat, managing to stay several paces ahead of John and closer to the boy they were pursuing. His lungs tensed, visible from behind in the clench of his shoulders, and his next word was bellowed, thundering through the air. "Stop!"

The amplified syllable, however, seemed to serve only as means for the boy to move faster. In seconds, he had turned a corner and was on the stairs—the stairs to the upper levels, the senior years' classrooms, where kindergarteners such as Sherlock and John—and, presumably, the boy—were anywhere but permitted. John stumbled to a halt, but Sherlock was undeterred, and managed to reach the second step before the cheery ambience of an approaching crowd of students and teacher began to rise around the corner. Sweat sprang to John's palms, and Sherlock stumbled partway up, turning with his eyes wild and his jaw pulled into an expression of pure desperation. There was no way he could reach the next level without being spotted, and wandering the halls without permission was already a major offense; if he got caught trying to reach the other floors, he could be suspended.

Before John could so much as process the significance of the choice, Sherlock was on the ground before him, chest heaving, having leapt the steps down. "Closet," he hissed, and his fingers were then twisted in John's shirtfront; instants later, he was being pulled around and into a sudden curtain of darkness, a door tilting shut before him. Sherlock had pulled them both into a janitor's closet—and just in time, judging by the sea of voices and footsteps that then flowed by, amassing in the space that they had occupied heartbeats before.

"So close," Sherlock breathed out of the corner of his mouth, "so close...

"We were almost caught!"

"Shh!" A hand forced itself over John's mouth, muffling his squeak of protest. "He got away... we have to be ready for our next chance, understand? We have to be ready!"

John could only shake his head, his heart still shuddering with the volume of its pounding.


"A circus!" John was exclaiming an hour later, all thoughts of their near-suspension encounter fully erased from his mind. "I've never been to a circus before!"

Sherlock felt ready to scream with the frustration built up inside of him. They had been so close to saving Soo Lin's money, and John at least seemed able to feel some amount of the ridicule of their failure, but now, as it would appear, it was eclipsed in Mrs. Hudson's announcement of a field trip—the first one so far this year, and to some absurd traveling circus. Sherlock was well aware that John's only focus was the time he would get to spend with Sarah Sawyer, who he had chosen as his safety partner—the two of them, in other words, would remain in unshakable contact with each other throughout the duration of the day-long trip, to maintain that neither got lost; convenient for Mrs. Hudson, perhaps, who could only keep track of so many children, but horribly bothersome for Sherlock, who was well aware that the trip posed a threat as well as a fun experience.

A day out, after all, meant lunch out. And lunch out meant extra money—extra money for the still-anonymous gang to steal. Brian Lukis, Eddie Van Coon, and Soo Lin Yao had all suffered for it, and Sherlock was sure that, even now, one of his classmates was shivering under the weight of their own cold sweat—someone else, he could guess with relative certainty, had received the sign. Whether they were among Mrs. Hudson's students or a different kindergarten class, for all five were going on the trip, they were out there somewhere—and, without the help of John, it would be up to Sherlock alone to make sure that they ate. An empty stomach could result in endless bad effects, for the venture as a whole as well as the single sufferer, and the only way to prevent such a catastrophe was to unveil who was truly behind it all, to prevent whatever devastation was meant to occur—and, as it would seem, to do it without the help of the friend whom he had come to rely on.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, electing not to respond to John's bright-intentioned words. He had no reason to share what his own plans were. If John wished to be useless about the matter, then so be it—he didn't need a distracted assistant, anyways. He had managed perfectly well before the other boy came along, and he should be able to do just fine now.