Molly poured the boy – who she now knew was called Archie – a glass of gin, not his first. He gulped down the gin between ravenous bites of another meat pie as she nervously glanced up to the ceiling, wondering what the hell was going on up there.
"You ought to slow down a bit, lad," She cautioned, "It'll go to your head."
"Weaned on the stuff, I was. They used to give it to us at the workhouse, so's we could sleep. Not that you'd ever want to sleep in that place, ma'am. Not with the things wot happen in the dark." Archie screwed up his face in a grimace.
"That's nice, dear…" Molly answered, not paying attention, "I think I'll just pop in on Mr. Holmes for a tick. You'll be all right here?"
"Leave the bottle."
Molly rolled her eyes as she left.
Mrs. Lovett entered the room. Sherlock was methodically cleaning his razor.
"God, the lad is drinking me out of house and home; how long until Anderson gets back?"
"He won't be back."
"Sherlock, you didn't!"
Sherlock casually pointed the razor toward the chest.
Molly lifted the lid and saw Anderson's body at the bottom of the chest. "You're barking mad! Killing a man wot done you no harm!" She accused, spinning on Sherlock.
"He recognized me from the old days. He tried to blackmail me — half my earnings," Sherlock informed with distaste.
Molly gave a relieved sigh. "Oh well, that's a different matter! For a moment there I thought you'd lost your marbles!" She looked into the chest again, "Ooh! All that blood! Enough to make you come all over gooseflesh, ain't it? Poor bugger. Oh, well." She started to close the chest, but then had an idea. She reached in and rummaged around the body, pulling out Anderson's chatelaine purse, and then dropped the lid of the chest. Molly looked through the purse, "Three quid! Well, waste not, want not, I always say…" she tucked the purse into her dress, "… Now what are we going to do about the boy?"
"Send him up," Sherlock muttered.
Molly's eyes widened, "Oh, we don't need to worry about him, he's a simple thing. I'll pawn him off with some story."
"Send him up, woman," Sherlock ordered coldly.
"Now, Sherlock, surely one's enough for today. Don't want to indulge yourself, after all…" she says quickly, as she busily starts to straighten up the room, "… 'Sides, I was thinking about hiring a lad to help around the shop, me poor knees not being what they used to be."
Sherlock sighed and moved to his familiar post at the window. "Anything you say," He muttered, distracted.
"'Course we'll have to stock up on the gin, the boy drinks like a Barbary sailor –"
Sherlock suddenly gasped; a great, shocking intake of breath as his whole body tensed like iron. Mrs. Lovett spun to him.
"The Judge," Sherlock says simply.
Molly hurried to the window. Below, they could see Moriarty and Moran approaching. They see them exchange a few words before Moran left, as Moriarty approached the shop.
"Justice… Justice…" Sherlock whispered, his eyes blazing.
Molly gave him a quick kiss and then very quickly left. Sherlock prepared himself.
He turned from the window and looked around the shop, shifting in anticipation. Now that his great moment of revenge was at hand, he didn't quite know what to do with himself.
He snatched up his large razor, coils by the door, ready to attack. No. He wanted to savour this. He quickly moved and puts the razor down.
Finally he just stood; all his demons settled into a bizarre sort of calm.
He heard the Judge's footsteps approaching on the stairs; then Moriarty entered.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock slowly turned to him. "At your service… An honour to receive your patronage, my lord."
"You know me, sir?"
Sherlock gave a polite bow, "Who in this wide world is not familiar with the honoured Judge Moriarty?
Moriarty grunted and glanced around the shop, "These premises are hardly prepossessing and yet Moran tells me you are the most accomplished of all the barbers in the city."
"That is gracious of him, sir…" Sherlock indicated for the Judge to sit, "Sit, if you please, sir. Sit."
The Judge settled into the parlour chair.
"And what may I do for you today, sir? A stylish trimming of the hair? A soothing skin massage?"
You see, sir, a man infatuate with love,
Her ardent and eager slave.
So fetch the pomade and pumice stone
And lend me a more seductive tone,
A sprinkling perhaps of French cologne,
But first, sir, I think — a shave.
The closest I ever gave.
He whipped a sheet over the Judge, then tucked the bib in. Moriarty hummed and flicked some imaginary dust off the sheet; Sherlock whistled gaily.
"You're in a merry mood today, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock began to mix the lather.
'Tis your delight, sir, catching fire
From one man to the next.
'Tis true, sir, love can still inspire
The blood to pound, the heart leap higher.
What more, what more can man require–
Than love, sir?
More than love, sir.
What, sir?
"Men," Sherlock's eyes glistened slightly as he said this.
"Ah yes, men," Moriarty conceded.
Pretty men.
Moriarty hummed jauntily, Sherlock whistled and started stropping his razor rhythmically; he then lathered the Judge's face.
Still whistling, Sherlock stood back to survey Moriarty, who was now totally relaxed, eyes closed.
Sherlock retrieved his razor, singing to it gently.
Now then, my friend.
Now to your purpose.
Patience, enjoy it.
Revenge can't be taken in haste.
Moriarty opened his eyes.
Make haste, and if we wed,
You'll be commended, sir.
My lord…
Sherlock casually strolled over to Moriarty.
And who, may it be said,
Is your intended, sir?
"My ward," A shocked tremor ran through Sherlock as the Judge closed his eyes again and settled in comfortably. "And pretty as a rosebud."
"Pretty as our mother?" Sherlock asked spitefully.
"What? What was that?" Moriarty frowned, mildly puzzled.
"Oh, nothing, sir. Nothing. May we proceed?" Sherlock he stepped behind Moriarty – his razor ready. Sherlock finally put the razor at the Judge's throat. Then –
With an easy flick of his wrist, he just began to shave.
Pretty men…
Fascinating…
Pretty men
Are a wonder.
Pretty men.
Sitting in the window or
Standing on the stair,
Something in them
Cheers the air.
Pretty men…
Silhouetted…
Stay within you…
Glancing…
Stay forever…
Breathing lightly…
Pretty men…
Pretty men!
Blowing out their candles or
Combing out their hair…
Then they leave…
Even when they leave,
Even when they leave you
They still
And vanish, they somehow
Are there.
Can still remain
They're there.
There with you,
There with you.
Ah,
Pretty men…
At their mirrors…
In their gardens…
Letter-writing…
Flower-picking…
Weather-watching…
How they make a man sing!
Proof of heaven
As you're living–
Pretty men, sir!
Sherlock drew closer to Moriarty's throat with the knife, ready to slice.
Pretty men, yes!
Pretty men, sir!
Pretty men!
Pretty men, sir!
Pretty men, here's to
Pretty men, all the
Pretty men–
Sherlock raised his arm in a large arc and just as he was about to slash the Judge's throat –
Greg burst in.
"Mr. Holmes! I've seen Johanna! She said she'll leave with me tonight–!"
Moriarty jumped up, away from Sherlock. "You! — There is indeed a higher power to warn me thus in time –" He tore off the sheet as he advanced savagely on Greg. "Mycroft elope with you? Deceiving slut! — I'll lock him up in some obscure retreat where neither you nor any other vile creature shall ever lay eyes on him again–!" He span with venom to Sherlock, "And as for you, barber, it is all too clear what company you keep. Service them well and hold their custom — for you'll have none of mine!"
He strode out. Sherlock stayed, frozen.
"Mr. Holmes — you have to help me — I've talked to Mycroft and–!"
Sherlock suddenly turned on him, "OUT! OUT, I SAY!" he roared.
Utterly stunned at his friend's ferocity, Greg backed away, leaving the shop. Sherlock stood motionless, in shock – his mind cracking apart.
Molly hurried in, "All this shouting and running about; what's happened–?"
Sherlock's eyes were wide. "I had him — and then –"
"The sailor busted in, I know, I saw them both running down the street and I said –"
I had him!
His throat was bare
Beneath my hand–!
"There, there, dear. Don't fret–"
Sherlock span on her violently.
No, I had him!
His throat was there,
And he'll never come again!
Easy now.
Hush, love, hush.
I keep telling you –
"When?!" Sherlock yelled.
What's your rush?
Why did I wait?
You told me to wait!
Now he'll never come again…
The music becomes ferocious as Todd's wrenching insanity,
always close to the surface, finally explodes:
There's a hole in the world
Like a great black pit
And it's filled with people
Who are filled with shit
And the vermin of the world
Inhabit it–
But not for long!
He suddenly looked to Molly — she started back, alarmed by the pure madness in his eyes.
They all deserve to die!
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett,
Tell you why:
Because in all of the whole human race, Mrs. Lovett
There are two kinds of men and only two.
There's the one staying put
In his proper place
And the one with his foot
In the other one's face–
Look at me, Mrs. Lovett,
Look at you–
He suddenly lurched and grabbed Mrs. Lovett tightly by the neck; her chest heaving with panicked breaths.
No, we all deserve to die!
Even you, Mrs. Lovett,
Even I.
Because the lives of the wicked should be–
He slashed at the air violently with the razor.
Made brief.
For the rest of us, death
Will be a relief –
We all deserve to die!
He clutched her to him very tightly as he suddenly keened, a howl of pure agony.
And I'll never see Mycroft,
No, I'll never hug my boy to me–
He hurled Molly away from him.
Finished!
Sherlock was lost in his mind.
He stalks relentlessly, holding his razor, striding down a busy street like a tiger.
The many pedestrians he passes don't even notice him. He is invisible to them, a wolf among the sheep, as he beckons –
All right! You, sir,
How about a shave?
Come and visit
Your good friend, Sherlock–!
Sherlock continued to stride, beckoning to another delusional man.
You, sir, too, sir–
Welcome to the grave!
I will have vengeance,
I will have salvation!
He went up to another delusion.
Who, sir? You, sir?
No one's in the chair–
Come on, come on,
Sherlock's waiting!
I want you bleeders!
"You, sir — anybody! Gentlemen, now don't be shy!"
Not one man, no,
Nor ten men,
Nor a hundred
Can assuage me–
I will have you!
And I will get him back
Even as he gloats.
In the meantime I'll practice
On less honorable throats–
Sherlock suddenly fell to his knees, keening in anguish.
And my Johnny lies in ashes
And I'll never see my boy again,
But the work waits, I'm alive at last
And I'm full of JOY!
When Sherlock slumped out of his delusion; he was kneeling, sweat pouring through his clothes, panting for air.
Molly stood, looking down at him intently. "That's all very well, but what are we going to do about —" She kicked the chest, "the dear departed?"
Sherlock remains kneeling, motionless. She went to him, firmly, "Listen! Do you hear me? Get a hold of yourself!" She slapped his cheek. He looks up at her, barely seeing her. "Oh, you great useless thing, come on –"
She hauled him up and dragged him out.