First of all, big, big, gigantic thank you's to my betas and partners in crime and lovely friends MizJoely, AllTheBellsInVenice, and Kuraschenie for helping me with this one and for generally being the most wonderful people in the world! Second of all, I hope you all enjoy it :)
Chapter 1:
London: 1921
Somehow, Molly always knew it would end like this; her limbs locked in the vice grip of cold, smooth fabric, unable to pull in her next breath. Part of her had been expecting Jim's fingers to be the device of her demise, but in an act of defiance to her expectations of him, he had simply replaced his fingers with millions of purple threads. There was almost no difference.
It was no surprise that Jim would make a spectacle of her in her last moments, suspended high over the crowd and lit up by the limelight.
What she'd never intended, never anticipated in her worst nightmares, was for him to see her like this. She'd wanted him to remember her as he'd always seen her: ethereal, untouched…his. But he came through the curtains of the tent anyway, defying her thoughts, his face contorting in horror as he rushed towards the center of the ring, screaming at someone she couldn't see.
"Cut her down!"
No good, Sherlock, she thought. It's too late.
As her vision started to star and spark, she kept her eyes on him, drinking in the blue of his eyes and the wild darkness of his hair, the pink flush of lips that had worshipped her for one night and never would again. The chaos of the crowd and the shouts of the workmen became a dull roar in her ears and she slipped into darkness, grateful that if she was going to be ripped from this world, she went with the memory of his love.
Two months earlier...
The air was…different. That was the only way he could describe it. There was something heavy and warm about it, making anything other than linen trousers and a light shirt unimaginable to wear outside. Streaks of thin clouds covered the sun as he strode across the grass, heading towards the large pen that was erected near his caravan. Three lines of caravans, plus a few permanent wooden structures, stood in the middle of the field that served as home, just outside of London. It was land rented at a bargain from a farmer's widow; it was owing to the Holmes brothers that she was the one who owned the land in the first place, having been the ones to save her from the abuses of her husband and alert the authorities, and she had gladly agreed to let them use the field for a more than fair price. It was far enough away from the prying eyes of the public, but not so far from the city that they couldn't take advantage of being so near supplies and transport. The open field was surrounded by old growth trees; a somewhat beatific spot to call home for a collection of unique characters.
The chain link rattled under his hands as Sherlock Holmes pulled his keys from his pocket, inserting one into the padlock and yanking it open. He dumped the canvas bag he'd been carrying on the ground, somewhat piquing the interest of the lazy beasts who were watching him with one eye apiece as they lounged. Pocketing the keys once more, he bent his knees and lowered himself to the ground, making himself comfortable and waiting. In a matter of minutes, his oldest girl casually made her way to her feet, taking a leisurely stretch before jumping down from her box and sauntering across the pen towards him. She curled her lips back slightly and let out a noisy huff, then stepped up to him and butted her large, furry head against his.
He smiled and lifted a hand to scratch behind her ear as she rubbed her scent on him before vocalizing again, asking for her treat. He obliged, reaching into the bag to pull out a chunk of meat that he'd bought off a butcher who owed him a favor and feeding it to her. Apis tossed her head back and plodded away, gnawing happily on her breakfast.
The scent of the meat attracted the others and Sherlock stood up, taking more meat from the bag one piece at a time and tossing it to the other three girls, and finally to the timid male. He accepted his and skulked off to the corner, hoping to be ignored by the women in his pen.
"Coward," Sherlock said with a chuckle.
Tacitus was a consummate performer for Sherlock, showing his teeth and offering up a thunderous roar in front of the crowds, but offstage, the lion was a kitten. He liked to lean his weight against Sherlock and have his mane combed out and generally pretend that he didn't let the ladies walk all over him.
"You need to exercise them before we load up tomorrow."
His brother's voice came from behind him. He sounded in rather a good mood. Perhaps he'd had a chance to indulge in the chocolates he'd been hoarding in his cottage.
"Fantastic idea," Sherlock deadpanned. "You start running and I'll open the gate."
He looked over his shoulder in time to see his brother's thin, not amused smile.
"Charming," Mycroft replied, pulling his pocket watch from his vest and checking the time.
"They're not the only ones who could use a little exercise," Sherlock quipped with a pointed look at Mycroft's midsection.
"They're also not the only ones who could use a good whipping from time to time," his brother said, more than a little irritation coming through in his words.
"That will never happen," Sherlock said seriously, looking back at his beasts. "You know my methods."
"I do. I know the methods of every damn person in this operation. It's why we survive, Sherlock. Secrets don't make money."
"But cheap parlour tricks do," Sherlock replied, glancing at the new caravan that had been parked at the far end of the field.
"People believe anything, and you know it. They're ready for a little magic these days," Mycroft told him. "Besides, those two are rather good, even for magicians."
Sherlock shrugged, not entirely sure he believed his brother. He'd never found himself impressed by magicians, able to find the secrets behind their tricks far too easily and generally frustrated when other people failed to see the obvious. Sleight of hand and doves bursting from beneath handkerchiefs did not amuse him. Of course, he hadn't seen their audition and had yet to see their act, so he could only take Mycroft's word for it that the magician and his assistant were impressive. Since they'd lost their strong man to a competing company, they really did need a new act to fill the void.
"When you're done here, find Irene and Janine and tell them to bring the horses to the drive. The farrier is on his way to re-shoe them," Mycroft instructed, giving Sherlock a half-hearted wave of his hand as he turned and walked back to his little cottage, no doubt to discuss finances with their bookkeeper, Anderson.
Sherlock looked back at his little pride and gripped the bag, walking forward. All five of them lifted their heads, at attention. He stopped in the middle of the pen and centered his weight.
"Up!" he shouted, throwing his hand into the air. As a unit, all five cats stood up, tails swishing and ears pointed forwards. "Here!" he commanded, holding his fisted hand straight out in front of him. The cats loped into position, lining up perfectly in front of him with Tacitus in the middle. He smiled at them. "Now sing."
The field echoed with the sound of lion roars and he heard the shouted curses of those performers and workers who had had a bit of a lie-in and had been awakened by the noise. He laughed and reached into the bag one more time, tossing a few more scraps to each cat before heading out of the pen.
After he delivered Mycroft's message to the pair of trick riders and washing up, he made his way through the line of caravans to one at the end. He hopped up the steps, rapping on the wooden door and waiting for a response. For once, there was no shriek of amused embarrassment from the newlyweds who occupied the dwelling. John had made it clear that Sherlock could avoid the awkward encounters if he would leave them alone between the hours of ten at night and nine in the morning, but Sherlock still considered that an unreasonably long time to be chucked away from his friend. The newly minted Mrs. Watson had threatened to answer the door naked as a jaybird the next time he arrived at their stoop at an inopportune time. She was laughing when she said it, but he knew she had meant it.
Fortunately, on that morning she answered the door in her nightgown and robe, her short blonde hair tousled about her brow.
"Lovely wake up call, Sherlock," Mary said with a grin, leaning her weight on the doorframe. "You trying to lose the few friends you have?"
"And good morning to you, too, Mary," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek briefly before nosing his way into the cozy home. "Coffee on?"
"Just finished," John said from his spot at the little built in stove. He was wearing beige trousers with the bracers hanging loose about his hips, a towel draped over his shoulders to protect his white vest from his morning shave. "Sugar?"
"Two," Sherlock clarified, plopping down onto their small sofa and making himself comfortable.
"You seen the new ones?" Mary inquired, still standing at the door and looking out across the field to the dark brown caravan a dozen or so meters away.
"Nope," Sherlock said, popping the p and leaning forward to pick up the previous day's newspaper from the table. He glanced at the headline. The Custom House in Dublin had been taken and burned by the IRA. Clash with the British Army. Bad news and politics, all around. He tossed the paper down again. "Apparently they are quite the talent."
"Is Mycroft breaking them in? Or are they going in blind?" John asked, handing Sherlock his coffee before sitting in his chair.
"They're getting a rehearsal before the first show," Sherlock explained, leaning his head against the back of the sofa and looking at the wooden planks of the ceiling. "Something to do with ropes and needing to practice the timing."
"Ropes?" Mary repeated, walking towards John and settling on his knee, one arm wrapped around his shoulder. "For a magic act?"
"Perhaps it's so they can 'fly,'" Sherlock said with a chuckle, knowing he was being unkind about people he hadn't met, but his expectations weren't high.
John joined in his laughter; Mary simply rolled her eyes, pushing off of his lap and walking towards the stove to start breakfast.
It was on the train north out of London the next morning that Sherlock first caught a glimpse of the Moriarty siblings. He was in the dining car with John and Mary, enjoying a humble breakfast of eggs and potatoes with spices. The couple was discussing adding a new trick to their act and debating whether or not they would need new rope for the trapeze before they returned to London. One of the workers was rotating records on the gramophone and jazz music filled the car. Irene and Janine were dancing between tables and enjoying themselves, humoring some of the clowns (teasing, really) by laughing at their advances and accepting a few drinks here and there. The men stood no chance with the two women, of course, and they knew it, but still tried out of habit. The contortionists were grouped in a corner, playing a game of cards and sharing their last pack of cigarettes. The rest of the car was filled up with the hired hands, shoveling in as much food as they could to maintain their strength for the day to follow.
Sherlock knew most of them would be hungover the next day, the efforts of a large dinner lost and relying mostly on strong coffee to help them with 'recting the tents.
It was in the middle of all of this that Mycroft opened the door to the car, the sound of the train rattling down the tracks increasing for a moment before the door closed again. Sherlock looked up and saw them. The man was on the shorter side for a magician, but he had a bearing that demanded attention. His black hair was slicked into a fashionable coif and he looked smart in his dark blue suit, a garnet ring glimmering on his right hand. His eyes were dark and sharp, scanning the room with precision as he smiled at whatever Mycroft was saying to him.
The young woman…
She was petite, delicate looking, with serious brown eyes and a thin mouth. Her long hair was curled and swept up into an intricate bun at the base of her neck. She lacked the popular bows and bands that many of the other women used to adorn their hair. Her dress was modest, with a fashionable hemline and drop waist. Mint green with a sequined sash around her hips and three-quarter sleeves. Just like her companion, she scanned the room, but her eyes moved carefully, slowly taking in her new surroundings.
They locked on his and lingered, commanding his focus until she finally looked away and nodded at Mycroft. She took her brother's arm as they walked further into the car, released by Mycroft to mingle and get to know their new family.
He watched them stop and introduce themselves to the contortionists, who looked at the girl like she was fresh meat.
Sherlock grunted as he felt a shoe collide with his shin. Grimacing, he glared at Mary who had her arms crossed over her chest, grinning at him in complete amusement.
"Stare longer, I don't think you've made her uncomfortable yet," she said cheekily.
"I'm not staring," he muttered. "I'm studying."
"Studying what, exactly?" John asked, cocking his head to the side.
Sherlock didn't get a chance to answer as the two newcomers made their way to their table.
"Jim Moriarty," the man said, smiling in an easy way and shifting his weight as he stopped, holding a hand towards Sherlock. "Mycroft tells me you're his brother."
"I don't know why, he also tells people he's ashamed to be related to me," Sherlock replied, looking coolly at the proffered hand.
Jim faltered ever so briefly and Sherlock thought he saw a small flash of interest in his eyes. He was amused, that was certain. Sherlock's eyes flicked over him.
Expensive suit, but not unreasonable. His act had made him money and he had joined the Holmes' show out of desire, not unemployment. He hadn't faced the hardship that many performers had, but having started with Sanger (as Sherlock had heard through the gossip line), it didn't surprise Sherlock that Jim would obviously have his pick of shows.
Next to him, John cleared his throat and extended his hand and shook Jim's.
"John," he said, then nodded to Mary. "This is my wife, Mary."
"Pleased to meet you," Jim said, his voice lilting a bit with his northern dialect. Pulling his hand back, he placed his arm around the young woman, pushing her forward a step. "My sister, Molly."
"Hello, Molly," Mary said kindly with a smile.
"Hello."
Oh, that was interesting. Sherlock had pegged her for a somewhat sharp personality, expecting a drop of acid when she spoke, but her voice was light and almost quavered. She seemed comfortable enough, not very nervous. It had to be a common way of talking, nothing to do with being anxious. Her eyes met Mary's easily enough, but when she met Sherlock's once more, her gaze quickly turned to the ground.
"Have you had your breakfast?" Mary asked the young woman. Molly shook her head, her lips pursing into a tight-lipped smile. Mary stood up and held out a hand. "Then come with me. Cooper is a good cook, but he likes to take the piss out of the newcomers. I'll make sure he doesn't put spoiled cream on your scone," she told Molly with a wink, escorting her away from the table and out of the dining car.
The moment the two women had gone, a tense silence fell on the table. Jim shoved his hands nonchalantly into his pockets and glanced between Sherlock and John.
"So what is it you two do, John?" he asked, his voice smooth and friendly.
"Acrobats," John answered in a clipped manner. "Trapeze."
Sherlock could tell John was not instantly enamored with this new member of the family, but he had always been far more inclined to act friendly until given a reason to do otherwise.
"And Mycroft says you work with the animals," Jim said to Sherlock, a glimmer of a joke in his eyes.
His lips curled back slightly at the hidden insult.
"Lion tamer," Sherlock clarified, his jaw tensing. "Since the age of ten."
"Charming act," Jim said with a raise of his eyebrows, his weight shifting as he started to walk away. "Glad to meet you both."
"And you pull rabbits out of top hats?" Sherlock shot out before he could think, stopping Jim in his tracks. The gentleman turned and looked at him, his eyes scanning Sherlock's face for several moments. It felt like being inspected by a snake. "Or so I heard."
Jim smiled at him, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You'll see tomorrow, won't you," he said, turning away again and following the path that Mary and Molly had taken.