A/N: Way too long. Once again, comes in two parts for easier reading. Also - alert - plenty of clichés around. -csf
. First Part .
Sherlock drives me mad. Never having been a police officer or a private investigator myself, I don't understand much of how this undercover work goes. When I told Sherlock I'd join him, I expected – foolishly, I suppose – to go around London as someone else for a couple of hours, with a tape recorder hidden under my jumper.
Tape recorder; maybe that's where I went wrong. That was a long time ago, in a movie, I'm sure. Old fictional clichés hardly summing up to my current situation.
I went to Baker Street to collect my tape recorder, or its modern equivalent. From his armchair, Sherlock raised a tired glance off his newspaper to my eagerness at 221B's door and gestured towards the coffee table. Among a chaotic jumble of old clothes, produced by some charity shop's spare pile, I found myself drawn to my old Browning, its steel cold surface sleek and shinny. I enveloped it in my hand at once.
Mary asked me not to keep it in the house this past week, for the neighbour's child has been spending some time there, babysat by a gleeful Mary. In this beautiful world of hers, a baby has no place in a house with a gun, even if hidden and locked, and the baby hardly sits up yet. Somehow I ended up agreeing with her, and 221B was the natural place to put away temporarily my gun. Sherlock, on the other hand, rolled his eyes to the flawed reasoning, despite his immediate acceptance to be the gun's guardian, shooting statistics on domestic gunfire accidents. I stopped him short before he could ramble on about friendly fire statistics at war. He does this more often now. Rambles on about facts when our highly pregnant Mary is in the room. I think he's still chewing on the idea that I'm going to be a father. As if it's driving away his memories of us at 221B, doing the Work. So my gun at 221B is to him as if I'm keeping one foot back in my old life.
I pick up my gun from the colourful pile of clothes and look up inquiringly at my friend.
'Undercover, you said?' I try to make sense. As a general rule, it's not easy to permeate into Sherlock's world. He's impatient, as if it was obvious, when he states:
'Yes, John, we are going to join a traditional travelling circus from the Old Europe that is touring the UK.'
I take a stunned seat in the leather sofa by the coffee table. 'Join a circus?' I repeat.
He nods, still impatient. 'You and me both. Scotland Yard needs our help to solve a series of daring thefts scattered across the country. So far I've managed to prove that all thefts occurred during the circus stay in each town. Hence the inference that the culprit travels along with the circus. They are a tight-knit community and so far I cannot tell if it was the Strong Man, the Magician (he's rubbish, by the way), the first or the second Clown, the Bearded Lady...'
'I don't think they do the Bearded Lady anymore, Sherlock. It's not... as politically correct.'
He frowns like a disappointed five year old. 'Why not? What does she do for a living now? Did she take up a regular boring job, like yours at the clinic?'
I sigh. 'I don't know, Sherlock, she can do whatever she wants.'
Sherlock crosses the room in a couple of eager steps towards me. 'You don't look... interested.'
I look up to my friend, who once again has positioned himself too close to me, studying my expression, and state the obvious: 'I don't have a circus talent, Sherlock. I have a boring job.'
He won't believe me. 'I'll be there too', he promises. He's promising me we'll run to join a circus together.
'As what?'
'The Second Magician. "Challenging the mysteries of the Universe and breaking the Laws of Physics"!'
Sounds nice. With his chemistry and science skills he might just pull it off. I smile with ease. He takes the opportunity to add on: 'I've decided you'll be the Dagger Thrower, John. "With unchallenged accuracy—" '
I cut him off, smirking: ' "A former Army Captain that has been shipped home joins a circus, showing his amazing skills at popping balloons from a distance"... Yeah, I don't think that's an act that will sell a lot of tickets.'
'You'd be surprised', he states, in what I can only assume to be loyalty display.
Dagger Thrower at a circus. Why not a dragon slayer while we're at it?
'Mary has already agreed to your holidays', he adds.
He talked it over with Mary? 'It's not holidays.'
'She gave me your passport.'
'I thought you said they were in the UK.'
'They are leaving tonight. We'll join them as they head back to Europe. You don't expect me to go unrecognised in front of an audience in London, do you?'
Oh, this is turning way more complicated than a tape recorder.
Before I can say something, Sherlock adds: 'And I need to perfect my routine. Can't just whisk it out of my hat, can I?'
I sigh. Scotland Yard will be owing us big time.
At least throwing daggers was once part of my one-on-one combat training as a soldier. Sort of. Told you it's not much of an act...
.
The big fabric tent is stretched to its limit to welcome hundreds of people that come to see the old style circus, and the dozens of performers and workers putting the show together. Modern trailers substituting the retro caravans of the old days, keeping in with all the commodities of the contemporary world. As Sherlock and I walk the premises, a couple of men are convincing an elephant to move, leading it away slowly.
'So that's how the elephant got into the room', Sherlock murmurs as we pass them by. I giggle instantly.
'Not that other time', I recall.
'That was a brilliant case', he sates longingly, about the elephant in the room. Before I can ponder it through, he nudges me with his shoulder, sensing someone approaching us.
'Evening', Sherlock says, taking the conversation's lead.
'You're too early for the show, fellows!' The man smiles at once, exhibiting both his foreign accent and his gold teeth in one go.
'We came looking for a job. This is John, and I'm Sherlock.' My friend smiles innocently. It always comes across as silly.
'Sherlock, that's a funny name.'
'I'm a funny man.'
'We don't do stand up comedy.'
'Neither do I. I'm a magician.'
'We already have one.'
'Thought you might use another one.'
'No, we're a small circus.'
Sherlock shrugs, giving up way too easily. 'Okay.'
'Wait!' The manager takes interest. 'And this fellow here, John, what does he do? Third magician?'
Sherlock ponders: 'He has knives.'
'What does he do with them?'
'He cuts bread, spreads butter.' The manager blinks. 'That's what he usually uses them for. He uses the same ones to throw at targets, and around our lovely assistant.'
'Where is she?'
Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Mary's pregnant.' Then he glances at me, accusingly.
The manager smiles. 'Maybe I can find him another assistant for the time being. We can use his skills, if they're any good.'
He's about to put me to the test. It's been a while.
'You said you don't need a magician', Sherlock interrupts.
'I'm the magician', the manager interrupts back. 'I could use someone to stand in for me while I take care of some deliveries this next week. I can use you both. Tonight, after the show, stick around. I'll give you guys a chance to prove your skills. And bring your stuff. If you get in, you're leaving with us tonight. We're leaving England.'
.
As the circus tent slowly deflates back to the ground, being efficiently packed away, Sherlock and I wait for our test in proximity of some lazy circus members' campfire. For the past quarter of an hour, I've been badgered by a very insistent exotic looking older lady to have my fortune read. Being a man of science and medicine, I don't quite take these things seriously.
I see Sherlock signalling me behind her back, telling me to play along. With a sigh, I give in at last. I hand out my dominant left hand, but she makes me swap hands. Apparently non-dominant hands carry fewer scars or are more true to your inner core. I may have to think that one through – seeing that I use my right hand as my trigger hand. Maybe that's my core.
I know what I had to do has become etched in me forever.
'You like firearms', she comments casually, studying my calluses. 'I've seen this pattern before, in soldiers.'
I glance at my friend; she might give you a run for your money here, Sherlock.
'Been a soldier', I admit laconically. 'In another life time', I add, on a whim. Surely she should be using her powers to deduce this herself?
'When you came back life seemed meaningless, slow, boring. You felt detached from everyone else's reality. I suppose joining a circus made you feel more alive, John.'
I open my eyes wide before I can keep myself in check. She read me like a book. I didn't join a circus. For the lack of words, I can't even say what I joined as I became Sherlock's blogger. But it gave meaning back to my life, I owe my mad friend that much.
The exotic lady in front of me smirks. 'Former Lieutenant Rose Chandler, British Royal Army Core... sir!' she adds, reading into my ranking from my physical reaction to the army's mention.
'At ease', I say reflexively. 'And fortune telling, Miss Rose?'
'I had to come up with some talent. Being a soldier was all I've ever been.'
'What got you sent home?' It's a personal question, but somehow it feels like we share a bond already.
'Landmine by the side of the road', she says, as she moves back the scarf covering her neck to present faded burnt scars. 'And you?'
'Was shot.'
'Must have been quite a shot, then.'
'It was enough.'
She nods, slowly. 'Welcome, John, to our home.' The way she says it seems to refer to a comprehensive collection of outcasts finding refuge in each other's company. I realise I'm starting to like this group of underground-weird type of people. They don't seem so foreign to me anymore. 'And your friend? Was he on the army as well? Doesn't seem his type.' I follow her gaze onto Sherlock, pacing impatiently a few feet away. 'He's more of a charismatic leader than the army likes to have in its ranks.'
He'd lead a revolution, I have to agree. 'I trust him', I state out of the blue, like the most important depiction of his personality I could provide.
She smiles. 'You trust the magician, the man of a thousand illusions, of smoke and mirrors', she resumes. I smile to accept her point, and nod again.
'I really do.'
'You are either a very complicated man, John, or a very simple one', she tells me.
'That is not for me to say, Lieutenant.'
Sherlock is finally returning to us, in decided moves. One glance at the fortune teller and he resumes, absent-mindedly: 'Found out if it's a girl or a boy, John?'
The question startles me, as he reminds me of Mary as if I had forgotten her already. I still don't believe in fortune telling. Rose shrugs, saying honestly: 'Fifty-fifty chances, really.' Sherlock actually smiles brightly to her. It's as if they got along at once. But then again, Sherlock's been known to instantly connect with murderers and thieves just as fast as with saintly people. It's rare yet it happens every once in a while.
Sometimes I think he connected with me right at the moment I lent him my phone at St Bart's.
I guess I was a good puzzle at the time.
The first magician and manager comes over to us, at last, business-like and rushed. 'Brought your knives, John?' I nod, quietly. He dictates his conditions: 'The flag on top of the main tent, pierced through the centre, and you're in.'
I watch the waving piece of coloured cloth high up in the air. Not an easy shot at all.
As I go to my rucksack he stops me short, handing me a butter knife instead. He's kidding me, right? See what your humour gets us into, Sherlock?
I take the small knife in my hands. This needs to be more than a precise swing, it needs to be powerful too. Right hand again – my soldier hand – as I handle it mindlessly, trying to get accustomed to the weight and balance centre. I glance at Sherlock, he's looking very serious. Our whole cover depends on this one shot. Then I look back at my target.
In under a second I raise the metal object over my shoulder and throw it, sacrificing the flag. The fabric keeps mostly immobile in the first second, as the knife pierces through, due more to its speed and angle than its sharpness. Next it whiplashes from the air movement or the wind. As it slows down, unfurling, its plain for the audience to see that there is a tiny gash there, of my making.
I can't believe I pulled it through.
'Hurray!' Rose cheers, piercing our collectively stunned silence. We all look back at the manager.
'There. Are we in?' I request calmly. He ponders me, then Sherlock, and finally nods, holding out a hand for us to shake.
I may not be half as bad as I thought at this undercover work, Sherlock.
.
TBC
