Sherlock and Molly hurried down the stairs from the barber shop; Sherlock gripped a razor, white-knuckled. "… I got him locked in — but if he escapes he'll go to the law!" Molly panicked
"Then he can't escape."
"Sherlock — I don't know — maybe we could –"
"The Judge will be here soon! I have no time, woman! Come on–!"
They turned a corner, and walked straight into Moran.
"Excuse me, sir! You gave me a fright," Molly gasped.
"Not my intention, good madam, though I am here on official business. You see, there's been complaints; about the stink from your chimney. They say at night, it's something most foul. Health regulations — and the general public welfare, naturally — being my duty, I'm afraid I'll have to take a look at your bake-house."
"Of course … But first why don't you come upstairs and let me attend to you?" Sherlock asked smoothly.
"Much as I do appreciate tonsorial adornment, I really ought see to my "official" obligations first," Moran dismissed.
"An admirable sentiment — But I must ask you, out of professional curiosity you understand, is that a cream or a tallow pomade?" Sherlock asked, smiling.
Moran touched his cheek, "Oh, not a pomade at all! Me secret is a touch of ambergris."
"But, sir, hair that delicate requires a genuine pomade! Come along, let me show you the difference," Sherlock offered.
"Well… you are the expert in these matters…" Moran considered.
"And we'll finish you off with a nice facial rub of bay rum."
"Ooh, bay rum is bracing." Moran conceded. 'May be the judge would notice me then'.
"And all on the house, for my friend, Beadle Moran," Sherlock added.
Moran smiled his toothy, unnerving smile, "Well, sir, I take that very kindly… Lead on."
Sherlock bowed, "I am, sir, entirely at your —" he gave a quick glace to Molly, "— disposal." He led Moran away.
Molly allowed herself a breath.
From across the street, the beggar watched the scene unfold.
Archie was eating a pie as he slowly wandered around the bake-house. He stopped to consider the many stained cleavers and bone saws… curious.
He took another bite of the pie… and bit on something hard. He stopped, reached into his mouth and pulled something out and looked at it: it was the severed tip of a finger.
Archie dropped it in horror and starts back–
Suddenly, a loud thumping and clanging makes him spin, alarmed –
As the bloody body of the Beadle fell from the mouth of the chute.
Archie screamed and raced to the door and pulled at it. Locked. No use. He banged on the heavy iron door wildly. "MRS. LOVETT! MRS. LOVETT! LET ME OUT! MRS. LOVETT!" he yelled feverishly.
In panic, Archie raced to the sewer grate, yanked it up, and disappeared down into the sewers.
Sherlock stood by the chair, his razor high, his eyes blazing, his face covered in a spray of blood; lost in rapture.
Sherlock and Molly were searching for Archie through a horrible catacomb of decaying sewers. Sherlock carries his razor.
Their voices echo bizarrely:
"Archie! Where are you, love?" Molly called.
"Archie! Where are you, lad?" Sherlock vociferated.
Nothing's gonna harm you…
Sherlock's eyes scanned the sewer. "Archie!"
Not while I'm around…
"Toby!" Sherlock shouted.
Nothing's gonna harm you,
Darling…
"Nothing to be afraid of boy…" Sherlock called.
Not while I'm around.
"Archie!" Sherlock yelled.
Demons are prowling everywhere
Nowadays…
Sherlock's voice morphed into a growl, "Archie!"
Greg and Mycroft hurried into the barber shop. Mycroft was distracted and disturbed.
"Mr. Holmes…?" Greg called out before shrugging, "No matter. You wait for him here — I'll return with the coach in less than half an hour…" He gently touched Sherlock's collection of razors. "Don't worry, darling, no one will recognize you… You're safe now."
He picks up the largest razor, looked at it, an eerie echo of his brother. Oh, what he longed to do with that razor; what would not leave his mind. "Safe … So we run away and then all our dreams come true?" Mycroft questioned darkly, staring into the refection in the razor.
"I hope so…
"I have never had dreams. Only nightmares," Mycroft stated, detached and cold.
"Mycroft… When we're free of this place all the ghosts will go away," Greg insisted.
Mycroft looked at him very intensely, "No, Gregory, they never go away."
Greg gently touched Mycroft's face, carefully soothing the man when he flinched. "I'll be right back to you… Half an hour and we'll be free."
With that, the sailor left.
Mycroft turned to the window, and watched him go. His expression was sad: Greg will never fully comprehend his depth and keen intelligence.
He heard someone climbing the stairs and looked around urgently, before he saw the large chest. He quickly climbed into it and shut the lid as Sherlock entered.
Sherlock paced, manic; his hands tangling in his curls.
After a few minutes, Moriarty ran in. "Where is he? Where's the boy?" he demanded.
"Below, your Honour. With my neighbour. Thank heavens the sailor did not molest him. Thank heavens; too, he has seen the error of her ways." Sherlock stated calmly.
"He has?"
"Oh yes, sir, your lesson was well learned. He speaks only of you, longing for forgiveness."
"Then he shall have it. He'll be here soon, you say?"
"I think I hear him now."
"Oh, excellent, my friend!" Moriarty exclaimed in excitement.
"Is that his dainty footstep on the stair?" Sherlock asked
"I hear nothing."
"Yes, isn't that his shadow on the wall?"
"Where?"
"There!"
Primping,
Making himself even prettier than usual–
Even prettier…
If possible.
Oh,
Pretty men!
Pretty men, yes…
Moriarty straightened his coat. "Quickly, sir, a splash of bay rum!" he ordered.
"Sit, sir, sit," Sherlock smiled as he got a towel, put it carefully around the Judge, and moved to get a bottle of bay rum.
Pretty men…
"Hurry, man!" Moriarty exclaimed impatiently.
Pretty men
Are a wonder…
"You're in a merry mood again today, barber," Moriarty commented.
Pretty men!
What we do for
They sang simultaneously as Sherlock smoothed bay rum on the Judge's face and then reached for his razor.
Pretty men!
Blowing out their candles
Combing out their hair–
Then they leave–
Even when they leave you
And vanish, they somehow
Can still remain
There with you there…
Pretty men!
Blowing out their candles
Or combing out their hair,
Even when they leave,
They still
Are there,
They're there…
"How seldom it is one meets a fellow spirit!" Moriarty smiled.
"With fellow tastes — in men, at least," Sherlock growled darkly.
"What? What's that?"
"The years no doubt have changed me, Sir," Sherlock smiled smugly before sobering into a grim expression, "But then, I suppose the face of a barber — the face of a prisoner in the dock — is not particularly memorable.
"Benedict Baker!" Moriarty gasped in a horrified realization.
"BENEDICT BAKER!" Sherlock yelled.
As he drew the razor high, there was a yell from the chest accompanied by the crash of the lid, "No, Benedict!"