Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   Greg Lestrade, a young sailor, stood at the bow of the ship; the damp air of London mixed with the smog of the industrial factories that plague the town ruffled his dark hair. It should be noxious, but how he has missed that chocking air while away at sea. There is only so much sea spray one can take at a time.

I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders

From the Dardanelles

To the mountains of Peru,

But there's no place like London--!

   There was truly no place like London. He had the satisfaction, also, of knowing he saved a life; one Mr Sherlock Holmes; a tall, thin, pale man with sunken, haunted eyes with dark smudges below them betraying countless nights’ lost sleep. Speak of the man; he came strolling behind Greg adding, in a rather grave voice, to the balled for London.

No, there's no place like London.

   “Mr Holmes?” the sailor asked, anxiously. Mr Holmes was the silent type who hadn’t said much of anything to anyone; and on the rare occasions he had said something, it was not taken kindly. He had betrayed the crew’s darkest secrets as they tried to rouse him and let him eat. Greg was intrigued to hear that his Captain was a cross-dresser behind closed doors – but had not let on for fear of execution.

You are young.

Life has been kind to you.

You will learn.

   “Lord ... takes your breath away, doesn't it?” Greg asked, almost overwhelmed by the scale of the city. Mr Holmes seemed to almost shudder at the question.

There's a hole in the world

Like a great black pit

And the vermin of the world

Inhabit it

And its morals aren't worth

What a pig could spit

And it goes by the name Of London.

At the top of the hole

Sit the privileged few

Making mock of the vermin

In the lower zoo,

Turning beauty into filth and greed.

I too

Have sailed the world, and seen its wonders

For the cruelty of men

Is as wondrous as Peru,

But there's no place like London!

   Greg looked towards Mr Holmes as the mysterious man closed his eyes and the demons melted from his vision, his expression softening slightly. “I beg your indulgence, Lestrade... My mind is far from easy. In these once familiar streets I feel shadows everywhere...”

   As the two made their way off the, now docked, ship, Greg felt the need for further elaboration; “Shadows?” Greg asked, curious.

   “Ghosts.” Greg gave the man a questioning look.

There was a barber and his love,

And he was beautiful,

A foolish barber and his love,

He was his reason and his life,

And he was beautiful,

And he was virtuous.

And he was...

   Sherlock remembered the last time he had seen John, in that market place all those years ago; just strolling and talking. It had been bright and sunny, flowers and bakery bread aromas raised from the side stall pulling the two men in. The last time Sherlock was anywhere near happy.

There was another man who saw

That he was beautiful,

A pious vulture of the law,

Who with a gesture of his claw

Removed the barber from his plate.

Then there was nothing but to wait

And he would fall,

So soft,

So young,

So lost,

And oh, so beautiful!

   That day, years ago, Judge Moriarty, eyed John through the luxurious bunches of flowers. He stalked him, desiring him.

   With the Judge was his nefarious creature, Beadle Moran. The Beadle was a tall, muscular man.

   The Judge whispered to the Beadle, indicating Sherlock; the queue for the Beadle and several policemen swept in and drag Sherlock off. The Judge moved in on John like a predator, wrapping an arm around his waist; John flinched at the gesture.

   Greg interrupted the dark thoughts in Sherlock’s head, “And the man, sir ... did he succumb?”

Oh, that was many years ago...

I doubt if anyone would know.

   Sherlock took a breath to try to cut through the constant droning of his mind. “I owe you my life, Lestrade. If you hadn't spotted me, I would be lost on the ocean still... Thank you.”

   Greg felt pride swell in his chest as the haunted man hauled his duffle bag over his shoulder. “Will I see you again?” he asked.

   “You might find me, if you like, around Baker Street.”

   “Until then, my friend.” Greg offered his hand to Sherlock, who accepted it and turned to leave. Lestrade stared after the man and wondered what cloud of darkness it was that seemed to continually loom over Sherlock’s head.

   As he walked down the damp, dark streets, his mind reeling, he muttered darkly; “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...” He disappeared into the darkness.

Chapter Text

   Sherlock hesitated before entering the pie shop in Baker Street (Mrs Hooper’s meat pie emporium), but curiosity got the better of him. The bell above the door rang its message as Sherlock strode into the dusty building. A woman – not overly tall, brunette hair tied into a tight ponytail; Mrs Hooper, herself – chopped suet, with a lethal looking knife, standing behind the counter. “A customer!” She exclaimed; which, in all fairness, spooked Sherlock a little. He turned to leave.

Wait! What's yer rush?

What's yer hurry?

   She stabbed the knife into the worn wood and wiped her greasy hands on her apron.

You gave me such a

Fright. I thought you was a ghost.

Half a minute, can't you?

Sit!

Sit ye down!

   “Sit!” she ordered. Sherlock hesitantly obeyed.

All I meant is that I

Haven't seen a customer for weeks.

Did you come here for a pie, sir?

Sherlock nodded. The woman flicked a bit of dust off a pie with a rag.

Do forgive me if me head's a little vague

   “Ugh! What is that?” She questioned as she plucked something off the pie and examined it.

But you'd think we had the plague

   She dropped the oddity on the floor and stamped on it – ridding it of its life, if it ever had one.

From the way that people

Keep avoiding

   Sherlock saw the woman’s eye stray to a particularly large cockroach.

No you don’t!

   She crushed it with her hand and smiled in satisfaction.

Heaven knows I try, sir!

But there's no one comes in even to inhale

   She blew the dust off a pie and dropped it on a filthy plate as she brought it to Sherlock.

Right you are, sir. Would you like a drop of ale?

   Sherlock nodded. As the woman turned back to the counter, her mood seemed to change.

Mind you, I can't hardly blame them

These are probably the worst pies in London.

I know why nobody cares to take them

I should know,

I make them.

But good? No,

The worst pies in London

Even that's polite.

The worst pies in London

If you doubt it, take a bite.

   Sherlock took an experimental taste of the pie. It was as horrid as she described. He could hardly bring himself to swallow. He kept gagging on the vile thing, but kept his mouth closed – John would not approve of turning the mess of ‘food’ into a projectile.

Is that just disgusting?

You have to concede it.

It's nothing but crusting

Here, drink this, you'll need it

   She handed him his ale.

The worst pies in London.

   Mrs Hooper made her way back over to the counter. She slammed a lump of dough on its surface and began to knead it ferociously.

And no wonder with the price of meat

What it is--

When you get it.

Never

Thought I'd live to see the day

Men'd think it was a treat

Finding poor

Animals

What are dying in the street.

Mrs. Mooney has a pie shop,

Does a business, but I noticed something weird--

Lately all her neighbors' cats have disappeared.

Have to hand it to her--

What I call

Enterprise,

Popping pussies into pies.

Wouldn't do in my shop--

Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick.

And I'm telling you them pussy cats is quick.

   Mrs Hooper leaned on the counter, exhausted from the exertion.

No denying times is hard, sir – Even harder than

The worst pies in London.

Only lard and nothing more

   Sherlock tried another mouthful – John would have wanted him to; but it was just as ghastly as the last.

Is that just revolting?

All greasy and gritty,

It looks like it's molting,

And tastes like –

Well, pity

A woman alone

With limited wind

And the worst pies in London!

   She sighed heavily as she slumped against the counter – her head resting on slimy hands.

Ah sir,

Times is hard. Times is hard.

   Sherlock gulped down his ale in an attempt to rid his palette of that abomination, for want of a better word. Mrs Hooper smiled sadly at him. “Trust me, dearie, it's going to take more than ale to wash that taste out. Come with me and we'll get you a nice tumbler of gin.”

   Sherlock allowed her to lead him through the curtains at the back of the pie shop and into the parlour. She proceeded to pour him a, quite large, glass of gin. “You may call me Molly, by the way. Isn't this homey now? Me cheery wallpaper was a real bargain too, it being only partly singed when the chapel burnt down...” She handed him the strong drink. Usually, he did not drink, but that pie was so vile he decided that the preservation of his senses were better sacrificed to be rid of the lingering taste. “There's a good boy, now you sit down and warm your bones, you look chilled through.”

Following her instruction – he sat in the thread-bare mauve sofa by the fire place. “Isn't that a room over the shop? If times are so hard, why don't you rent it out?” He asked. No deductions. John always said to be nice to ladies; the gentleman that John was. He might have slipped when aboard the naval ship, but he was deep into his depression and could hardly be roused to eat.

   Molly glanced at the roof, obviously in thought. “Up there? Oh, no one will go near it...” her expression intensified, “People think it's haunted.”

   “Haunted?” Sherlock fought hard to keep the tone of amusement from his voice – however, he lost the battle with disbelief.

   “And who's to say they're wrong…? You see, years ago, something happened up there. Something not very nice...”

There was a barber and his love,

And he was beautiful,

A proper artist with a knife,

But they transported him for life.

   Molly sighed, dreamily.

And he was beautiful...

   “Baker, his name was – Benedict Baker,” she answered the unspoken question.

   “Transported? What was his crime?” Sherlock asked; though he knew fully well of the charges.

   “Foolishness,” there was an edge to her voice that Sherlock couldn’t place. Molly was plunged into reverie.

   John paced, Mycroft, Sherlock’s much younger brother, attempted to console him. John was distraught, strained, tears in his eyes.

   The room was full of dead and dying flowers: dozens of dried bouquets tossed aside and ignored.

He had this man, you see,

Handsome little thing,

Silly little nit

Had his chance for the moon on a string

Poor thing. Poor thing.

   John moved to the window, looking out. He saw Judge Moriarty and Moran waiting below. Moriarty held yet another bouquet.

There was this Judge, you see,

Wanted him like mad,

Every day he'd send him a flower,

But did he come down from his tower?

Sat up there and sobbed by the hour,

Poor fool.

   John moved away from the window, sobbing for his lost love. Mycroft attempted to comfort him, but was pushed away.

Ah, but there was worse yet to come,

Poor thing.

   Moran was leading a nervous John along an exclusive street of dark stone mansions, grand but somehow menacing. John was wearing his best clothes.

Moran calls on him, all polite,

Poor thing, poor thing.

Moriarty, he tells him, is all contrite,

He blames himself for her dreadful plight

He must come straight to his house tonight!

Poor thing, poor thing.

   Moran ushered John into a ballroom. He was shocked to see a fancy-dress ball in progress.

   Masked couples swirled around the ballroom, their number sinisterly multiplied by the distorting mirrors that framed the room. The hanging chandeliers, draped in red cloth, cast a disquieting incarnadine glow on the proceedings. John felt trapped and uneasy.

Of course, when he goes there,

Poor thing, poor thing,

They're having this ball all in masks.

   John wandered lost through the swirling dancers, the horrifying masks of distorted animals and demons adding to his confusion and distortion.

There's no one he knows there,

Poor dear, poor thing,

He wanders tormented, and drinks,

Poor thing.

Moriarty has repented, he thinks,

Poor thing.

“Oh, where is Judge Moriarty?” he asks.

   Moran found John again and graciously gave him his arm, leading him through the party. He was thankful for the salvation he provided. He brought him to Judge Moriarty.

He was there, all right

Only not so contrite!

He wasn't no match for such craft, you see,

And everyone thought it so droll.

They figured he had to be daft, you see,

So all of `em stood there and laughed, you see,

Poor soul!

Poor thing!

   Moriarty descended on John, forcing himself on him. The other guests crowded around ravenously, enjoying the spectacle. It seemed a feverish nightmare.

   “No!” Sherlock yelled, horrified; his cry brought Molly out of her memories. He had bolted up from the sofa, eyes wide and crazed. His hand fought the urge to tangle and pull at his dark, curled locks. “Would no one have mercy on him?”

   “So it is you – Benedict Baker,” she sighed.

   “Where's John?! Where's my love?!” Sherlock asked. He needed John.

   “He shot himself. I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen to me. And… he's got your brother.”

   “He? Judge Moriarty?”

   “Adopted him like his own.”

   Sherlock’s expression grew darker as he tried to make sense of his waking nightmare. “Fifteen years of sweating in a living hell on a false charge. Fifteen years dreaming that I might come home to find a loving man and brother...”

   Madness pulled him into the void, overwhelming him, as he stared into the fire. “Well, I can't say the years have been particularly kind to you, Mr. Baker, but you still –” Molly was cut off midsentence by Sherlock’s correction.

   “No, not Baker. That man is dead. It's Holmes now. Sherlock Holmes... And he will have his revenge,” Sherlock smiled a crooked smile as he continued to gaze into the dancing flames; “Judge Moriarty and Moran will pay for what they did.”

   After what seemed like an age, Sherlock turned to Molly with what little sanity he had recovered, “First I must have my shop back.”

Chapter Text

   Molly and Sherlock climbed the exterior stairs to the room above the pie shop. Sherlock hesitated. Too many thoughts, whispers, that would not be quiet. This place was haunted for him.

   Molly turned back to look at him, “Come along...” She continued up the staircase as Sherlock carefully followed.

   The room appeared as more of a dusty spider’s liar. He shuddered at the memories. The furniture paraded as ghosts under the thick, white cotton sheets and the broken mirror contained demons.

   The door creaked and groaned as Molly entered, “Not to worry, a touch of oil will put that right…” Sherlock had not dared to enter the room, Molly noticed as she looked back over her shoulder, “Nothing to be afraid of, love, come in.”

   Molly knelt on the grimy floor and tore up a loose floor board. Underneath there was a small compartment; something covered with a velvet cloth. She removed it and carefully unwrapped it with a particularly gentle and respectful touch.

   It was a fine leather case. She turned to Sherlock, dusting it off. Sherlock entered the room, “I don't believe it...” he gasped. Surly they wouldn’t still be here after all these years?

   “When they came for the boy, I hid 'em. I thought, who knows? Maybe the silly blighter'll be back again. Cracked in the head, wasn't I?” A small smile quickly tugged at one corner of her mouth, but quickly dispersed.

   Sherlock opened the box to reveal a beautiful set of razors. He stood for a long moment, gazing down at his beloved razors.

   “Those handles is chased silver, ain't they?” Molly gasped.

   “Silver, yes...” Sherlock confirmed.

These are my friends,

See how they glisten.

   He picks up a small razor, flicking the blade open.

See this one shine,

How he smiles in the light.

My friend, my faithful friend.

   He held it to his ear, feeling the edge with his thumb. Just as sharp as when he left.

Speak to me friend,

Whisper, I'll listen.

I know, I know –

You've been locked out of sight

All these years –

Like me, my friend.

Well, I've come home

To find you waiting.

Home,

And we're together,

And we'll do wonders,

Won't we?

   Molly leaned over him, in her own kind of trance as well. Sherlock picked up a larger razor, opening it with a metallic flash. They harmonised in a slightly demented balled.

You there, my friend,

Come, let me hold you.

Now, with a sigh

You grow warm

In my hand,

My friend,

My clever friend.

   He put it back.

Rest now, my friends.

Soon I'll unfold you.

Soon you'll know splendors

You never have dreamed

All your days –

I'm your friend too, Mr. Holmes.

If you only knew, Mr. Holmes-

Ooh, Mr. Holmes,

You're warm

In my hand.

You've come home.

Always had a fondness for you,

I did.

– My lucky friends.

Till now your shine

Was merely silver.

Friends,

You shall drip rubies,

You'll soon drip precious

Rubies...

Never you fear, Mr. Holmes,

You can move in here, Mr. Holmes.

Splendours you never have dreamed

All your days

Will be yours.

I'm your friend.

And you're mine.

Don't they shine beautiful?

Silver's good enough for me,

Mr. Holmes...

   Sherlock stared at one of his razors, “Leave me now...”

   Molly did as she was told, unquestioning.

   Sherlock held the largest razor open, stood proudly, “At last my arm is complete again.”

   The small bed in the corner caught his eye. He slowly walked over to it. He lifted the sheet, a cloud of dust rose into the stale air. An old umbrella lay discarded across the mattress. The judge didn’t even let Mycroft come back for his beloved umbrella… He stood alone, staring at the rotted handle, holding his razor.

Chapter Text

   Gregory, now back into his civilian’s clothing, was walking along the streets, trying to find his lodgings, absorbed in a copy of Baedeker’s London. He stopped, finally admitting to himself that he was lost, and tried to get his bearings, studying his map.

A tuneful humming drifted through the air, as if smoke and vapours from fine incense. He span, trying to find its source, when his eyes fell on a beautiful young man.

   He mustn’t have been older than twenty five. His ginger hair was cropped short but had grown into a small curl at his fringe and his steel-blue eyes gazed sadly out of the barred window. He brought a soft-looking hand up and pressed it to the cold metal.

   Greg watched him, absolutely mesmerized.

The young man’s eye caught a Bird Seller passing; carrying a long, wooden pole with little bird cages attached. He swallowed a lump in his throat, and sang.

Green finch and linnet bird,

Nightingale, blackbird,

How is it you sing?

How can you jubilate,

Sitting in cages,

Never taking wing?

   The young man seemed lost in his thoughts as his gaze shifted to the permanently dark grey sky of London.

Outside the sky waits,

Beckoning, beckoning,

Just beyond the bars.

How can you remain,

Staring at the rain,

Maddened by the stars?

   He turned away from the window, looking into his own bird’s cage; as if looking for an answer.

How is it you sing

Anything?

How is it you sing?

He turned away from the bird and Greg’s longing look from the street below. His intense, melancholy expression moved Greg.

   He continued to sing, the strange anguish and yearning of his words seemed intended only for the sailor. The room’s captive studied him as the melancholy song continued.

My cage has many rooms,

Damask and dark.

Nothing there sings,

Not even my lark.

The ginger turned to the bird cage and felt the golden bars lightly with his fingertips.

Larks never will, you know,

When they’re captive.

Teach me to be more adaptive.

Green finch and linnet bird,

Nightingale, blackbird,

Teach me how to sing.

   The young man turned back to the polluted sky.

If I cannot fly,

Let me sing.

   The mystery man turned away quickly, alarmed, when someone entered his room. He looks terrified. Greg wanted nothing more than to gather the man in his arms and protect him from the other and their fears.

   He saw him move from the window. He craned his neck and stretched his back, even went to the indignity of standing on his toes, to see better when a beggar — a filthy man, his foul clothes of rags like a second skin — suddenly moved in on him, pleading his case.

Alms! … Alms! …

For a miserable man

On a miserable chilly morning…

   Greg dropped a coin into his hand. “Thank you, sir, thank you.”

   “Sir…” Greg began, “Could you tell me whose house this is?”

   “That’s the great Judge Moriarty’s house, that is,” he informed, shoving the coin into a grubby coin purse.

“And the young man who resides there?”

   “That’s Mycroft, his pretty little ward. Keeps him snug, he does, all locked up…” There was a touch of sadness to the man’s tone, which confused Lestrade, “So don’t you go trespassing there or it’s a good whipping for you — or any other young man with mischief on his mind…”

   Greg considered this as the man scurried away to continue his petition of others.

Alms! … Alms!…

For a desperate man…

   He regarded the mansion and He saw a figure standing at a window, unclear behind the shutters, watching him. The sailor sat heavily on a bench outside the mansion.

I feel you,

Mycroft,

I feel you.

I was half convinced I’d waken,

Satisfied enough to dream you.

Happily I was mistaken, Mycroft!

I’ll steal you,

Mycroft 

I’ll steal you…

   The figure disappeared from the window above. Gregory stood and waited. Then the doors to the mansion swung open. He was expecting Mycroft; but it was Judge Moriarty, who stepped into the doorway.

   The judge seemed paternal and warm as he smiled and beckoned to Greg.

   Greg hesitated, unsure. The Judge beckoned again, the warm smile still on his lips. “Come in, lad. Come in…”

   Despite what one may call better judgment, Greg went into the mansion.

Chapter Text

   Judge Moriarty led Greg through the expensive mansion into the dark library, filled with books. Greg looked around for Mycroft warily, this was all very strange.

   “You were looking for Hyde Park, you say?” Moriarty inquired lightly, but the tone seemed forced.

   “Yes,” Greg clarified, “It’s terribly large on the map but I keep getting lost…”

   “Sit down, lad, sit down,” He gestured to a plush, soft chair. Greg sat, uncomfortable, as the Judge poured two snifters of brandy.

   “It’s embarrassing for a sailor to lose his bearings, but, well, there you are,” Greg chuckled nervously.

   The tall, muscular form of Moran appeared from the shadows; no introduction made. Greg glances to him, uneasy.

   “A sailor, eh?” There is something in the judge’s voice he couldn’t place.

   “Yes, sir. The "Bountiful" out of Plymouth,” Greg nodded, unsure of the tone the judge had set.

   Moriarty handed him a snifter of brandy. “A sailor must know the ways of the world, yes?” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed almost undetectably, “Must be practiced in the ways of the world… Would you say you are practiced, boy?”

   “Sir?”

   The Judge moved to consider some beautiful volumes, bound in the richest leather. He ran a finger along the spines of the books; his large library of pornography. “Oh, yes… such practices… the geishas of Japan… the concubines of Siam... the catamites of Greece… the harlots of India. I have them all here – drawings of them…” He turned again to Greg, “All the vile things you’ve done with your whores.” Lestrade was speechless; the Judge just smiled at him amiably. “Would you like to see?”

   Greg stood to leave, “I think there’s been some mistake –”

   “Oh, I think not,” Moriarty interrupted, “You gandered at my ward, Mycroft – Yes, sir, you gandered.”

Moran moved behind Gregory, who glanced back nervously at the large, strong man. “I meant no harm –”

   “Your meaning is immaterial,” Moriarty growled, “Mark me: if I see your face again on this street, you’ll rue the day your bitch of a mother gave you birth.”

   Greg was stunned. The Judge proceeded with shocking venom, “My Mycroft isn’t one of your whores! My Mycroft is not to be gandered at!

   He nodded to the Beadle, who instantly grabbed Greg and brutally hauled him out of the room.

Chapter Text

   Moran dragged Greg through a rear door of the mansion and threw him into a grimy alley.

The sailor pulled himself up – stunned.

   “Hyde Park is that way, young sir… A right and then a left, then straight on, you see?” Moran instructed, “Over there.” Moran pointed the way.

Flustered, Greg turned to look.

   The instant his back was turned, Moran swung the cane Greg didn’t notice he’d acquired and whipped him hard from behind, brutally, in the kidneys. Lestrade’s knees buckled.

   Moran then beat Greg across the back of the neck and the young sailor fell hard. Moran used one heavy, boot-clad foot to roll him over.

   Lestrade gazed up at him, panting for breath, in agony.

   “You heard Judge Moriarty, little man,” he pressed the end of his cane into Greg’s forehead, grinding it hard, “Next time it’ll be your pretty brains all over the pavement,” Moran smiled sickeningly; and, with that, returned to the mansion and slammed the door.

The sailor slowly pulled himself to his knees, doubled over and coughed up blood which oozed from his chapped lips.

Greg caught his breath, wiping the blood from his face.

I’ll steal you,

Mycroft,

I’ll steal you!

Do they think that walls can hide you?

Even now I’m at your window.

I am in the dark beside you,

Buried sweetly in your ginger hair.

He pulled himself up, every movement agony, and made his way down the alley, leaning on the wall for support.

   Greg limped from the dark alley into the bright sunlight. He made his way along the filthy street.

I feel you, Mycroft,

And one day I’ll steal you.

Till I’m with you then,

I’m with you there,

Sweetly buried in your ginger hair…

Greg stopped at a park across the street from Moriarty’s mansion, and bravely gazed up at Mycroft’s window.

Chapter Text

   Sherlock and Molly were moving quickly; Molly struggled to keep up with the barber’s long stride. He carried his razor case, she carried a shopping basket.

   “He’s here every Thursday?” Sherlock asked.

   “Like clockwork. Eye-talian. All the rage he is,” Molly informed.

   “Not for long,” Sherlock stated gravely.

   They rounded a corner and moved into the bustling marketplace. Sherlock and Molly made their way toward a hand-drawn caravan dominating one corner of the marketplace.

   It was painted like a Sicilian donkey cart and on its side a sign declaims: "Signor Philippe Anderson — Haircutter to His Royal Majesty the King of Naples."

   “Oh Sherlock, do you really think you can do it?” Molly fretted.

   “By tomorrow they’ll all be flocking to me like sheep to be shorn,” He began to boast, but stopped abruptly when he saw Moran casually strolling through the crowd. Sherlock was transfixed, his ancient enemy so close.

   Molly saw Moran and pulled Sherlock away by his arm. “Come along now, dear, he might recognize you…”

   A boy, hardly 13-year-old – a bit small for his age, malnourished and consumptively pale — emerged from Anderson’s caravan. He banged on a tin drum, drawing customers.

   A crowd began to gather at the caravan as he sang the bally.

Ladies and gentlemen!

May I have your attention, p-lease?

Do you wake every morning in shame and despair

To discover your pillow is covered with hair

Wot ought not to be there?

Well, ladies and gentlemen,

From now on you can waken at ease.

You need never again have a worry or care,

I will show you a miracle marvelous rare,

Gentlemen, you are about to see something wot rose from the dead!

On the top of my head.

   He dramatically doffed his cap, revealing mountains of flaxen blond hair which cascaded to his shoulder.

‘Twas Anderson’s

Miracle Elixir,

That’s wot did the trick, sir,

True, sir, true.

Was it quick, sir?

Did it in a tick, sir?

Just like an elixir

Ought to do!

   The boy turned to a bald man in the crowd.

How about a bottle, mister?

Only costs a penny, guaranteed.

   The boy pours a drop on the bald man’s head.

Does Anderson’s

Stimulate the growth, sir?

You can have my oath, sir,

‘Tis unique.

   Archie applied the bald man’s hand to the wet spot.

Rub a minute,

Stimulatin’, i’n it?

Soon you’ll have to thin it

Once a week!

   More customers were stepping up and buying bottles.

   Sherlock opened a bottle of the Elixir, taking a whiff. Disgusting.

   He smiled to Molly, his plan falling into place.

   Sherlock turned to Molly, loudly asking, Pardon me, ma’am, what’s that awful stench?

   Are we standing near an open trench?

   Sherlock turned to a woman in the crowd. Must be standing near an open trench!

   The crowd responded to Sherlock and Molly, sniffing at the bottles. Archie nervously tried to distract them. Buy Anderson’s Miracle Elixir:

Anything wot’s slick, sir,

Soon sprouts curls.

Try Anderson’s!

When they see how thick, sir,

You can have your pick, sir,

Of the girls!

Want to buy a bottle, missus?

   Sherlock sniffed a bottle of Elixir. What is this?

   Molly sniffed another customer’s bottle. What is this?

Smells like piss

   “Smells like — phew!” Molly turned away in disgust.

This is piss. Piss with ink.

   Archie was getting desperate. Let Anderon’s

Activate your roots, sir–

Keep it off your boots, sir–

Eats right through.

Yes, get Anderson’s!

Use a bottle of it!

Ladies seem to love it–

   Molly smiled smugly, Flies do too!

Suddenly, the curtains on the caravan are dramatically flung wide to reveal Anderson – a flamboyant Italian with a velvet suit, thick hair and a dazzling smile. Anderson posed splendidly for a moment.

I am Philippe Anderson,

Da king of da barbers, da barber of kings,

E buon giorno, good day,

I blow you a kiss!

   His lips smacked as he did so.

And I, da so-famous Anderson,

I wish-a to know-a

Who has-a da nerve-a to say

My elixir is piss!

Who says this?!

   “I do.” Sherlock moved forward boldly. “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. I have opened a bottle of Anderson's elixir, and I say to you that it is nothing but an errant fraud, concocted from piss and ink.” The crowd gasped. Anderson is about to respond, outraged, but Sherlock interrupted. “And furthermore — "signor" — I have serviced no kings, yet I wager I can shave a cheek with ten times more dexterity that any street mountebank.” He snapped open his razor case and held it up for the crowd to see, turning to display his razors, “You see these razors?”

   “The finest in England,” Molly announced to the crowd.

   Sherlock glared at Anderson, “I lay them against five pounds you are no match for me. You hear me, sir? Either accept my challenge or reveal yourself as a sham.”

   “Bravo, bravo,” Molly cheered.

   The crowd was enjoying that, whispering eagerly about the bold challenge.

   Anderson studies the razors for a moment and then turns to the crowd with a confident smile. “You hear zis foolish man? Watch and see how he will regret his folly!” Anderson laughed.

   Sherlock moved into action, preparing the challenge. “Who’s for a free shave?” Two men step forward. A plain wooden chair is brought for Sherlock as he moves into the boldest part of this plan. He carefully turned to Moran. “Will Beadle Bamford be the judge?” Sherlock practically announced. Molly’s eyes shot to him, alarmed.

   Moran moved toward Sherlock, who smiled amiably, but quivered internally at being so dreadfully close to his prey.

   Molly watched, concerned. Would Moran recognize the features of Benjamin Baker?

   Apparently not.

   Moran stopped right before Sherlock. “Glad, as always, to oblige my friends and neighbours,” He smiled a fake smile at Sherlock before he turned to the crowd, “Let the challenge commence!”

One man sat in Sherlock’s plain chair as the other moved to an elaborate chair on Anderson’s caravan. Anderson shook out a bib, coloured like the Italian flag, with a flourish and covered his man. Archie prepared Anderson’s ornate shaving supplies as Todd takes a plain towel and tucks it around his man’s neck.

   “Ready?” Moran inquired.

   “Ready!” Anderson called.

   “Ready,” Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbled.

   “The fastest, smoothest shave is the winner,” Moran announced before he blew his shrill whistle.

Anderson stropped his razor quickly, Sherlock in a leisurely manner.

   The street barber kept glancing at Sherlock in various paranoid ways throughout; frightened of Sherlock’s progress. He starts whipping up lather rapidly:

Now, signorini, signori,

We mix-a da lather

But first-a you gather

Around, signorini, signori,

You looking a man

Who have had-a da glory

To shave-a da Pope.

Mr. Sweeney-so-smart –

   Anderson splattered the customer with shaving cream.

Oh, I beg-a you pardon — he‘ll

Call me a lie, was-a only a cardinal –

Nope!

It was-a da Pope!

Unexpectedly, Sherlock still showed no signs of starting to shave his man. He merely watched Anderson’s performance. Molly looked at him nervously, wishing he would start soon.

Anderson, now feeling he could take his time, sings lyrically as he lathered and shaved with rhythmic scrapes and elaborate gestures of wiping the razor.

To shave-a da face,

To cut-a da hair,

Require da grace

Require da flair,

For if-a you slip,

You nick da skin,

You clip-a da chin,

You rip-a da lip a bit

Beyond-a repair!

Sherlock stropped his razor slowly and deliberately – disconcerting Anderson and drawing the crowd’s attention.

To shave-a da face

Or even a part

Without it-a smart

Require da heart.

Not just-a da flash,

It take-a panache,

It take-a da passion

For da art.

Sherlock was unconcerned; he just continued to slowly strop his razor – which flustered Anderson.

To shave-a da face,

To trim-a da beard,

To make-a da bristle

Clean like a whistle,

Dis is from early infancy

Da talent give to me

By God!

   The razor cut the air as Anderson drew it across himself triumphantly.

It take-a da skill,

It take-a da brains,

It take-a da will

To take-a da pains,

It take-a da pace,

It take-a da grace…

   While Anderson played to the crowd, Sherlock, with a few deft strokes, quickly lathered his man’s face, shaved him and signalled Moran to examine him.

   Moran blew his whistle. “The winner is Todd.”

   Magnussen immediately deflated.

   Molly felt the customer’s cheek, “Smooth as a baby’s arse!” She turned to Sherlock, “Well done, dear!”

   The crowd laughed and applauded Sherlock as Anderson stalked over to him and bowed, “Sir, I bow to a skill far defter than my own.”

   Sherlock held out his hand impatiently, ignoring the underlining bitterness to the words, “The five pounds.”

Anderson produced a distinctive chatelaine purse and removed a five pound note, giving it to Sherlock. “Here, sir. And may the good Lord smile on you until we meet again.” He bowed his head quickly and moved away, beckoning to Archie, “Come, boy.”

   “We’re pulling out, sir?” Archie asked innocently.

   Without warning, Anderson slapped Archie viciously across the face and the boy almost fell from the force. “We’re pulling out, yes. Quickly,” he snarled.

   Molly observed all of this as she moved away with Sherlock, who was making his way inexorably toward Moran. But before he can, some eager customers surrounded Sherlock – making him feel claustrophobic. “Mr. Holmes, sir, do you have an establishment of your own?” One interrogated.

   Molly was on him like a hawk. “He certainly does. Sherlock Holmes’ Tonsorial Parlour — above my meat pie emporium in Baker Street.”

   Sherlock slipped past the crowd, striding toward Moran, “I thank you for your honest adjudication, sir. You are a paragon of integrity.”

   “Well, I try to do my best for my friends and neighbours…” he smiled falsely, “Your establishment is in Baker Street, you say?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “Then, Mr. Holmes, you will surely see me there before the week is out.”

   “You will be welcome; Beadle Moran,” Sherlock smiled faux-pleasantly, “And I guarantee to give you, without a penny’s charge, the closest shave you will ever know.”

Chapter Text

   Mycroft sat, framed by the window, quietly cutting out silhouettes; aimless Victorian handicrafts, to keep his mind off what was happening – but there were tears in his eyes.

   He stole a glance across the room; at the small hole in the wallpaper. Through this hole, he knew, Moriarty was watching him from another chamber. Lascivious. Perverse. The thought made him sick.

   Mycroft finally stood and casually glanced out from between the shutters at his window. He saw Greg stood at the park across the street, keeping up his lonely vigil, gazing up at the mansion. He watched him for a moment and then made his decision. He moved to a table and opened a drawer; reaches in and removes a key.

   Greg saw a figure at the shutters – then heard a clinking sound; metal on pavement.

   He quickly moved across the street and saw a key, dropped from Mycroft’s window.

   Greg looked up to the shutters and smiled, then snatched up the key and hurried away before Moriarty or Moran could see.

   Peering through the shutters, Mycroft watched him go – hoping to be taken away from this nightmare.

Chapter Text

   Sherlock stared out the window, intense and brooding; seething with discontent.

   “It’s not much of a chair, I’ll grant, but it’ll serve. Was me poor Albert’s chair. Sat in it all day long he did, after his leg give out from the gout, poor dear,” Molly stated, obviously detached. Didn’t love her husband, she loved another – Shut up!

Sherlock moved from the window and paced manically, like a caged tiger, in the small barber shop.

Though it had been cleaned, it was still a Spartan room. A tatty parlour chair, a large chest, a few counters with meagre bottles of tonsorial supplies, and his gleaming razors; always waiting.

   “Why doesn’t the Beadle come?” Sherlock growled feverishly, “’Before the week is out,’ that’s what he said.”

   “And who says the week’s out?” Molly frowned, “It’s only Tuesday.”

Sherlock moved away from her, tugging at his dark curls; but she pursued, trying to calm and soothe him…

Easy now.

Hush, love, hush.

Don’t distress yourself,

What’s your rush?

Keep your thoughts

Nice and lush.

   Sherlock continued to pace.

Hush, love, hush.

Think it through.

Once it bubbles,

Then what’s to do?

Watch it close.

Let it brew.

   He didn’t respond; she dared to move closer.

I’ve been thinking, flowers –

Maybe daisies –

To brighten up the room.

Don’t you think some flowers,

Pretty daisies,

Might relieve the gloom?

Ah, wait, love, wait.

Sherlock sourly tossed himself into the chair; he picked up his largest razor and looked at it intensely. “And Moriarty? When will we get to him?” Sherlock asked his razor.

   Molly sighed. “Can’t you think of nothing else? Always brooding away on your wrongs what happened heaven knows how many years ago…”

Don’t you know,

Silly man,

Half the fun is to

Plan the plan?

All good things come to

Those who can

Her gentle words had calmed him considerably. She moved even closer; Risked touching him softly…

Gillyflowers, maybe,

`Stead of daisies…

I don’t know, though…

What do you think?

Sherlock tilted the razor in his hand, enjoying the weight and smooth, cold silver.

   A bell rings from outside the shop; Sherlock bolted up, senses alert — Molly spun to the door.

   Sherlock held his razor open as he moved strategically toward the door. He could hear footsteps ascending the stairs outside quickly.

   Greg burst through the door, breathless. “Mr. Holmes! Thank God I’ve found you –” Sherlock turned and closed the razor, as Greg saw Molly, “Oh, I’m sorry, excuse me…”

“Molly Hooper, sir,” Molly provided

   “A pleasure, ma’am,” Greg greeted, then turned back to Sherlock, “You see, there’s a boy who needs my help — such a sad boy, and lonely, but beautiful too and –”

   “Slow down, Lestrade,” Sherlock instructed.

   Greg took a breath, “Yes, I’m sorry … This boy has a guardian so tyrannical that he keeps him locked away. But then this morning he dropped this…” Greg snatched the key out of his pocket, “It must be a sign that Mycroft wants me to help him — that’s his name, Mycroft — and Moriarty that of his guardian. A judge of some sort…” Sherlock and Molly exchanged a quick glance, “… I’ve met the judge, Mr. Holmes, and he is… unnatural. Once he goes to court, I’m going to slip into the house and release him and beg him to come away with me. Tonight.”

   “Oh, this is all terribly romantic…” Molly sighed dreamily.

   “Yes, but — you see — I don’t know anyone in London —” Greg turned to Sherlock, “— and I need somewhere safe to bring him till I’ve hired a coach to take us to Plymouth.” He looked at the barber deeply, “If I could keep him here, just for an hour or two, I would forever be in your debt.”

Sherlock stared at him, his mind racing to figure out how this new twist might aid in his plans.

   “Bring him here, dear,” Molly offered.

“Thank you, ma’am…” Greg turned to Sherlock, “… Mr. Holmes?”

   “The boy may come,” Sherlock stated, keeping his voice monotonous.

   Greg took his hand “Thank you, my friend,” He bid as he went.

   “Seems like the fates are favouring you at last, Sherlock,” Molly smiled. Sherlock just grunted, unhappy. “What is it, love? You’ll have him back before the day is out.”

   “For a few hours? Before he carries him off to the other end of England?” Sherlock spat.

   “Oh, him? Let him bring him here and then, since you’re so hot for a little —” Molly drew her index finger across her throat – making a throat-cutting gesture “— that’s the throat to slit, dear.”

Sherlock moved again to his post at the window, and stared out; deep in thought.

Meanwhile, Molly happily moved around the shop, straightening things up and trying to make it all a bit cosier. “Poor little Mycroft… All those years without a scrap of motherly affection. Well, we’ll soon see to that…” Molly commented off-hand; her words, along with their meaning, was ignored.

   Sherlock startled alert, seeing something, “What’s this?”

Molly joined him at the window. Below, they could see Anderson approaching with the boy from the market in tow. “Look at that face, he’s up to mischief.”

   “Go — keep the boy below with you,” Sherlock instructed. Molly nodded and scurried out.

Chapter Text

   Molly quickly moved down the steps outside the barber shop to greet Anderson and the boy as they were about to ascend.

   “Signora, is Mr. Holmes at home?” Anderson asked.

   “Plying his trade upstairs, don’t you know…?” Molly shrugged as she stood on the staircase, blocking their way, and smiled at Toby, “Would you look at it, now! Don’t look like it’s had a kind word since half past never!”

   “Ma’am…?” The child inquired.

   “You wouldn’t mind if I gave him a nice juicy meat pie, would you?” She asked Anderson

“Yes, yes, whatever you like,” He waved off impatiently.

Anderson climbed the stairs, as she took the boy by the hand and led him toward the pie shop door. “Come with me now. Your teeth is strong, I hope?” Molly smiled as they went into the pie shop.

~*~

   Sherlock was standing, arms folded. Waiting. Anderson casually walked into the room. “Mr. Holmes,” He greeted.

   “Signor Anderson.”

“Call me Phillip,” Anderson said in his natural English accent, “Phillip Anderson’s the name when it’s not professional… I’d like me five quid back, if you don’t mind.”

   “Why?”

   “Because you entered into our little wager on false pretences, my friend… And, so you might remember to be more forthright in the future, you’ll be handing over half your profits to me, share and share alike…” Sherlock shook his head, amused, and began to turn away when Anderson continued, “Mr. Benedict Baker.”

Sherlock froze.

~*~

   Molly handed the boy one of her grisly pies, which he devours eagerly. “That’s my boy, tuck in,” she encouraged, but her attention was almost entirely on the roof above. The muffled voices. The sound of shoes walking. Her eyes keep darting up as she chatters distractedly with the boy. “Like to see a man with a healthy appetite. Reminds me of my dear Albert, like to gorge himself to bloatation, he did. He didn’t have your nice full head though –”

   “To tell the truth —” He began, pulling off the wig which covered his own short-cropped hair, “It gets awful hot.”

~*~

   Anderson was expansively strolling around the shop, taking it all in, savouring every second. “Yes, this will do very nicely… You don’t remember me. Well, why should you? I was just a kid you hired for a couple of weeks — sweeping up hair and the like…” He picked up one of Sherlock’s razors, “But I remember these. And how could I ever forget you, Benedict Baker? I would sit right there and watch you, and dream of the day I could be a proper barber, myself… You might say you were an inspiration to me.”

   Sherlock glared at him. “You really are an idiot – you barely changed your name.”

   Anderson ignored him. “So, do we have a deal, or should I run down the street for my pal Beadle Moran? What do you say to that now,” Anderson slipped back into a mocking, Italian accent, “Mr. Sherlock H–?”

   Without a word of warning, like lightning, Sherlock was on him; he leaped across the shop and brutally grabbed Anderson by the neck — violently strangling him; but Anderson was surprisingly strong and put up a desperate struggle. They thumped awkwardly around the shop.

~*~

   Molly heard the muffled sounds of the struggle above. She nervously began to shift and clang some things around as she cleaned the counter, trying to cover the sound, “My, my, my; always work to be done. Spic-and-span, that’s my motto. Cleanliness is next to whatever-it-is. So, ah, how did you end up with that dreadful Eye-talian?”

   He was still eating happily, answering with a mouthful of masticated food, “Got me from the workhouse, he did. Been there since I was born. Got no mum, got nobody. A wasted soul, that’s what I am –” a sudden, urgent look took his expression and changed his tone, “Oh God! He’s got an appointment with his tailor!” He bolted up, clearly terrified of Anderson. “If he’s late, he’ll blame me!”

   Molly went to stop him leaving, “Wait–!” But he was gone.

~*~

   Sherlock was standing calmly when the boy burst in. “Signor, you got an appointment –” He stopped when he realized Anderson was nowhere to be seen.

   “Signor Anderson has been called away,” Sherlock stated, “You better run after him.”

   “Oh no, sir. I better wait for him here or it’ll be a lashing. He’s a great one for the lashings,” the boy insisted.

   He moved past Sherlock to the large chest and sat. Sherlock tried not to stare at the fingers of one of Anderson’s hands protruding from the chest, dangling limply. The boy didn’t notice it.

   “So, Mrs. Hooper gave you a pie, did she?” Sherlock inquired.

   “She’s a real lady. Model of all true, kind virtue,” the boy beamed. Then Anderson’s hand twitched.

The boy still didn’t notice. Sherlock does, though. “That she is… that she is. But if I know a growing boy, there’s still room for some more pie, eh?”

   “I’d say, sir —” He patted his stomach, “An aching void.”

Anderson’s hand began to twitch more desperately, perilously close to where the boy’s hand rested. “Then why don’t you run downstairs and wait for your master there? There’ll be another pie in it for you, I’m sure…”

   Anderson’s hand was twitching closer to the boy’s.

   “No, I should stay here,” He dismissed.

   Sherlock had a sudden inspiration. “I know — why don’t you tell Mrs. Hooper I said to give you a nice big tot of gin?”

   The boy leaped up. “Gin, sir?! Thanking you kindly, sir! You’re kind, indeed!” He raced out happily and clattered down the stairs.

Sherlock went to the trunk, leaned down to open it, when he rises he spots his largest razor on the counter. The point of no return.

   Sherlock strode to the razor and he snapped it open with a sharp, quick flick of his wrist.

   He moved to the chest and, with great ferocity he hauls Anderson up. Anderson’s eyes snap open. And Sherlock slashes his throat.

Chapter Text

   Judge Moriarty lurked over the proceedings of the court. He sat, the personification of power, very high at the bench. He glared down a starved boy. Moran stands next to the boy – idly musing of how he would love to be supressed by that power, to be overcome by that power, held by the judge.

   “This is the second time, sir, that you have been brought before this bench. Though it is my earnest wish to ever temper justice with mercy, your persistent dedication to a life of crime is an abomination before God and man,” Moriarty announced, “I therefore sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

The boy collapsed into sobs and Moran was pleased with the verdict. He always enjoyed those verdicts – he liked to think of them as twisted gifts to him, not those stupid bouquets that stupid man James, or whatever his name was, with the blond hair, always ignored. Moriarty gave him the gift of death – powerful, beautiful, more permanent than flowers. “This court is adjourned.”

~*~

   Moriarty and Moran walked away from the impressive edifices of the Old Bailey. “Thank you, your Honour. Just the sentence we wanted.”

   “Was he guilty?” Moriarty asked casually.

   “Well, if he didn’t do it, he’s surely done something to warrant a hanging,” Moran smirked.

“What man has not?” Moriarty muttered.

   “Sir?” Moran frowned.

   “No matter. Come, walk home with me – I have news for you, my friend,” Moriarty grinned sharkishly, “In order to shield him from the evils of this world, I have decided to marry my dear Mycroft.”

Moran ignored the pang that went through his heart, “Ah, sir, happy news indeed,” he tried to congratulate.

   “Strange, though, when I offered myself to him, he showed a certain… reluctance,”

Moran allowed a flicker of a frown to pass over his expression; ‘Who could not want you?’ he questions internally. But he proceeded with exquisite and obsequious delicacy.

Excuse me, my lord,

May I request, my lord,

Permission, my lord, to speak?

Forgive me if I suggest, my lord,

You’re looking less than your best, my lord,

There’s powder upon your vest, my lord.

And stubble upon your cheek,

And young men, my lord, are weak.

   ‘As am I,’ Moran mentally adds.

As they rounded a corner, the Judge felt his chin, “Stubble, you say? Perhaps at times I am a little… overhasty with my morning ablutions…”

Fret not though, my lord,

I know a place, my lord,

A barber, my lord, of skill.

Thus armed with a shaven face, my lord,

Some eau de cologne to brace my lord

And musk to enhance the chase, my lord,

You’ll dazzle the boy until

He bows to your every will.

   ‘I would do so anyway,’ Moran thinks sadly.

   “A barber, eh? Take me to him,” Moriarty demanded with a voice like ice.

   “I am honoured, my lord. His name is Holmes… Sherlock Holmes. And he is the very last word in barbering,” Moran smiled, ignoring the pain of jealousy in his chest.

   They began to walk towards the barber shop. Moran resisted the urge to place an arm over the judge’s shoulders or around his waist.

Chapter Text

   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. Hooper 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.

Chapter Text

   Molly pulled him into the pie shop. “Sit down,” she ordered gently. Sherlock thumped down, still in his own dark world.

Molly quickly glanced around for Archie and then went into her parlour; where she discovered him asleep on the sofa before the fire and quickly snatched up a bottle of gin from the sideboard and returned to the pie shop.

Molly poured Sherlock a tumbler of gin and handed it to him, “There, drink it down — all the way — that’s right…” Sherlock finished the drink in two large gulps, “Now, we got a body mouldering away upstairs, what do you intend we should do about that?” Molly leaned on the table – forearms pressing into the wood.

   “Later on, when it’s dark, we’ll take him to some secret place and bury him,” Sherlock muttered.

   “Well, yes, of course, we could do that. I don’t suppose he’s got any relatives going to come poking around looking for him…” An idea took her. Sherlock looked at her uncomprehendingly.

Seems a downright shame…

   “Shame?”

Seems an awful waste…

Such a nice plump frame

Wot’s-his-name

Has…

Had…

Has…

Nor it can’t be traced.

Business needs a lift–

Debts to be erased–

Think of it as thrift,

As a gift…

If you get my drift…

   Sherlock’s brows furrowed.

   “No?” She sighed.

Seems an awful waste.

I mean,

With the price of meat what it is,

When you get it,

   “My dear, let me make sure I understand… Are you suggesting we…” Sherlock gestured to one of the dusty pies.

Good, you got it.

Take, for instance,

Mrs. Mooney and her pie shop.

Business never better, using only

Pussycats and toast.

And a pussy’s good for maybe six or

Seven at the most.

And I’m sure they can’t compare

As far as taste –

Mrs. Hooper,

What a charming notion,

Eminently practical and yet

Well, it does seem a

Appropriate as always.

Waste…

Mrs. Hooper, how I’ve lived without you

It’s an idea…

All these years I’ll never know!

Think about it…

How delectable!

Lots of other gentlemen’ll

Soon be coming for a shave,

Also undetectable.

Won’t they?

How choice!

Think of

How rare!

All them

Pies!

For what’s the sound of the world out there?

What, Mr Holmes,

What, Mr Holmes,

What is that sound?

Those crunching noises pervading the air?

Yes, Mr. Holmes,

Yes, Mr. Holmes,

Yes, all around–

   “It’s man devouring man, my dear,” Sherlock smiled eerily.

And who are we

Then who are we

To deny it in here?

“Ah, these are desperate times, Molly, and desperate measures are called for…” Sherlock said, thoughtfully.

She walked to the counter and came back with an imaginary pie. “Here we are now, hot out of the oven…” She held the imaginary pie out to him with a sly and wicked smile.

What is that?

It’s priest.

Have a little priest.

Is it really good?

Sir, it’s too good,

At least.

Then again, they don’t commit sins of the flesh,

So it’s pretty fresh.

Awful lot of fat.

Only where it sat.

Haven’t you got poet

Or something like that?

No, you see the trouble with poet

Is, how do you know it’s

Deceased?

Try the priest.

   Molly went about dusting the worktop. “Lawyer’s rather nice…” She said thoughtfully.

If it’s for a price.

Order something else, though, to follow,

Since no one should swallow

It twice.

Anything that’s lean?

Well, then, if you’re British and loyal,

You might enjoy Royal

Anyway, it’s clean.

Though, of course, it tastes of wherever it’s been.

Is that squire

On the fire?

Mercy no, sir,

Look closer,

You’ll notice it’s grocer.

Looks thicker.

More like vicar.

No, it has to be grocer — it’s green.

Sherlock laughed more heartily than he had in years.

The history of the world, my love –

Save a lot of graves,

Do a lot of relatives favors…

Is those below serving those up above.

Everybody shaves,

So there should be plenty of flavors…

How gratifying for once to know–

That those above will serve those down below!

   Molly offered another pie with a particular, flamboyant panache.

   “What is that?”

It’s fop.

Finest in the shop.

Or we have some shepherd’s pie peppered

With actual shepherd

On top.

And I’ve just begun.

Here’s a politician — so oily

It’s served with a doily–

   “Have one,” Molly offered.

Put it on a bun.

   She looked at him quizzically,

Well, you never know if it’s going to run.

Try the friar.

Fried, it’s drier.

No, the clergy is really

Too coarse and too mealy.

Then actor–

That’s compacter.

Yes, but always arrives overdone.

   Sherlock held the cleaver to her throat and she gasped – his eyes were suddenly dark, “I’ll come again when you have Judge on the menu…”

   “True, we don’t have Judge — yet — but would you settle for the next best thing?” Molly smiled.

   “What’s that?”

She offered him a butcher’s cleaver, “Executioner.”

   He took the cleaver, and felt the heft of it. It was satisfying. Then Sherlock picked up her wooden rolling pin, handing it to her.

Have charity towards the world, my pet–

Yes, yes, I know, my love–

We’ll take the customers that we can get.

High-born and low, my love.

We’ll not discriminate great from small.

No, we’ll serve anyone–

We’ll serve anyone–

And to anyone

At all!

Chapter Text

Mycroft removed some clothes from a drawer, put them into a portmanteau and locked the case.

A voice surprised him, “So it’s true.”

He turned to see Moriarty stand in the doorway. His breath hitched. “Sir… A gentleman knocks before entering a person’s room.”

   “Indeed he does… But I see no person,” He entered, dangerously quiet and terrifically hurt, “I told myself the sailor was lying… I told myself this was a cruel fiction… That my Mycroft would never betray me. Never hurt me so,” his eyes were dark as he said this. He moved toward Mycroft, but he stood his ground.

   “Sir… I will leave this place,” Mycroft said defiantly.

   “I think that only appropriate. Since you no longer find my company to your liking, sir, we shall provide you with new lodgings,” Moriarty growled. He stood very close to Mycroft; the young man couldn’t help but breathe harder. “Until this moment I have spared the rod… And the ungrateful child has broken my heart. Now you will learn discipline…” Moriarty ran the back of his hand down Mycroft’s pale check. The young man flinched back terrified.

   The large form of Moran fills the doorway. Mycroft glances to him, disquieted.

   “When you have learned to appreciate what you have, perhaps we shall meet again. Until then… Think on your sins,” Moriarty advised gravely. The judge nodded to Moran, who surged forward and grabbed Mycroft brutally. He yelled out, fighting like a tiger, but could not break away from the larger, stronger man.

   Moran covered his mouth with one of his huge hands and hauled him out.

~*~

Greg raced toward the front of mansion when he saw a horse-drawn cab, just pulling away and Mycroft’s terrified face looking at him through the window.

   “MYCROFT!” Greg yelled after the young man, and saw Moran pull him away from the window as the carriage clattered off. Moriarty stood on the steps of the mansion. Greg stormed to him in a murderous rage, “Where are you taking him?! Tell me or I swear by God–!”

   The Judge turned and roared — a hellish howl that echoed – “WOULD YOU KILL ME, BOY?! HERE I STAND!”

Greg’s eyes burn into Moriarty — but he was no killer. He turned and raced after the cab. It rounded the corner and is gone.

The Judge watched as the sailor pursued the cab, disappearing around the corner.

Chapter Text

   Molly’s wretched establishment had been transformed. She had created a modest outdoor eating garden with tables, surrounded by glowing Chinese lanterns; a fresh coat of paint, a few bushes in pots and birds in cages add to the feeling of upward mobility. A new sign hung proudly over the entrance to the pie shop: ‘MRS. HOOPER’S WORLD FAMOUS MEAT PIES!’ And then, in smaller letters: ‘LIKE MOTHER USED TO MAKE.’

The eating garden was already crowded; the benches at the tables are filled and other customers stand and mill about. All eating, and eating, and eating.

The customers took great, hungry mouthfuls; the steaming gravy oozing down their pasty faces.

   The beggar whom told Greg about Mycroft stood across the street, ravenously hungry; not put off by the disgusting display.

   He finally got the nerve to approach when Archie — wearing a smart new outfit with apron — burst from the shop and circulated through the customers:

Ladies and gentlemen,

May I have your attention, p-lease?

Are your nostrils aquiver and tingling as well

At that delicate, luscious, ambrosial smell?

Yes they are, I can tell…

   He swerved through the greedily eating customers in the outdoor garden and toward the street as.

Well, ladies and gentlemen,

That aroma enriching the breeze

Is like nothing compared to its succulent source,

As the gourmets among you will tell you, of course.

   He arrived at the street and proceeded to drum up some more business.

Ladies and gentlemen,

You can’t imagine the rapture in store–

Just inside of this door!

There you’ll sample

Mrs. Hooper’s meat pies,

Savoury and sweet pies,

As you’ll see.

You who eat pies,

Mrs. Hooper’s meat pies

Conjure up the treat pies

Used to be!

Just then, Molly swept from the pie shop with a tray of hot, steaming pies.

   Like her shop, she had been transformed as well. She was wearing her somewhat gauche notion of a "fancy dress"; with mountains of décolletage; and her hair had been dyed a rather unique aubergine colour.

Archie!

Coming!

   Archie pushed past a customer.

‘Scuse me…

Molly pointed out a beckoning customer.

Ale there!

Right, ma’am!

Quick, now!

   Archie scurried inside to get a jug of ale, whisked back out, and started filling tankards as Molly circulated grandly. She was a bundle of activity — serving pies, collecting money, giving orders, addressing the patrons individually and with equal buoyant insincerity:

Nice to see you, dearie…

How have you been keeping?…

Cor, me bones is weary!

Archie–!

   She indicated a customer to Archie.

One for the gentleman…

Hear the birdies cheeping–

Helps to keep it cheery…

   She spots the Beggar approaching, and responds with unusual ferocity.

Archie!

Throw the man out!

   Archie shooed the beggar away, but he soon came skulking back.

   Molly continued to circulate among the customers.

What’s your pleasure, dearie…?

No, we don’t cut slices…

Cor, my eyes are bleary…!

   Archie was about to pour for a drunken customer when Molly called to him.

Archie!

None for the gentleman…!

I could up me prices–

I’m a little leery…

Business

Couldn’t be better, though–

Knock on wood.

She tapped the table with her knuckles.

~*~

   Sherlock worked busily. Sawing, drilling, screwing, hammering. Adjusting his barber chair, tinkering, building. Feverish. Happy.

~*~

   Molly continued to circulate the throng of customers.

What’s your pleasure, dearie?

   Molly accidently spilled the ale.

Oops! I beg your pardon!

Just me hands is smeary –

   Molly spotted a customer trying to sneak out without paying.

Archie!

Run for the gentleman!

Archie caught him and collected the money as Molly turned to another customer.

Don’t you love a garden?

Always makes me teary…

   Molly looked back at the thieving customer quickly, before returning to the one-sided conversation.

What’s my secret?

   Molly turned to chat to a woman.

Frankly, dear — forgive my candour–

Family secret,

All to do with herbs.

Things like being

Careful with your coriander,

That’s what makes the gravy grander–!

   The customers were getting more rabid, stuffing in the gorgeous meat pies in great fistfuls – a display of pure gluttony.

~*~

Sherlock made the final adjustments to his chair and stood back; seemingly delighted with the results of his tinkering.

   The ratty old parlour chair was transformed into a sleek, Victorian barber chair… with unique refinements. He left the barber shop.

~*~

Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, watching the street hungrily – his mind reeling, searching out his next victim. Below, Molly smiled to another customer.

Incidentally, dearie,

You know Mrs. Mooney.

Sales’ve been so dreary–

   She spotted the beggar again.

Archie!

   She continued to the customer, about Mrs. Mooney.

Poor thing is penniless.

   Molly addressed a rising customer, swooping in like a hawk.

And that’ll be thruppence.

Eat them slow and

Feel the crust, how thin I (she) rolled it!

Eat them slow, ‘cos

Every one’s a prize!

Eat them slow, ‘cos

That’s the lot and now we’ve sold it!

   She hung up the "Sold Out" sign.

Come again tomorrow–!

   She spotted a man in need of a shave approaching; looks like they’d have more very soon.

Hold it –

Bless my eyes–!

   She saw the man going up to the barber shop. Sherlock is still standing at the top of the stairs. He smiled secretly to Molly as he ushered the man in.

Fresh supplies!

   The man went into the barber shop as she happily took down the "Sold Out" sign and turned again to the customers.

How about it, dearie?

Is that a pie

Be here in a twinkling!

Fit for a king,

Just confirms me theory –

A wondrous sweet

Archie–!

And most delectable

God watches over us.

Thing?

Didn’t have an inkling…

You see, ma’am, why

Positively eerie…

There is no meat pie –

   Molly then spotted the beggar approaching again, she turned to Archie with truly shocking viciousness; “Archie! Throw the man out!” Molly watched intently, smiling a small, private smile as Archie leads the beggar man away.

   The Customers, meanwhile, were building to a pure frenzy of mastication — chewing and gulping and snapping at the heavenly pies. Molly stood at the door to her shop, triumphant.

Chapter Text

   Sherlock was alone. He sat in the barber chair, smoking a pipe. He was holding an old picture frame; creased, stained and bleached-out.

The photograph showed John smiling and holding an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft’s features were almost completely obscured by a stain on the picture.

   He looked at it deeply.

~*~

   Church bells ring as Greg searched through the streets for Mycroft. He started his search in a luxurious area of wealth.

I feel you, Mycroft,

I feel you.

Do they think that walls can hide you?

Even now I’m at your window.

I am in the dark beside you,

Buried sweetly in your ginger hair,

Mycroft…

   He continued walking; thinking how soft Mycroft’s hair may be, what it might smell like.

~*~

   Sherlock gazed quietly at the photograph.

Mycroft…

And are you beautiful and pale,

With ginger hair, like her?

I’d want you beautiful and pale,

The way I’ve dreamed you were…

Mycroft…

~*~

   Greg moped along the docks.

Mycroft…

~*~

   Sherlock shaved a customer. The picture frame rested on the counter. He remains wistful, detached, dream-like.

And if you’re beautiful, what then,

With ginger hair, so neat?

I think we shall not meet again–

   He quietly slit the customer’s throat.

My little dove, my sweet

Mycroft…

~*~

   Greg ambled past the hanging carcasses of the busy meat market.

I’ll steal you,

Mycroft…

~*~

   A dead customer was slumped in the chair.

Goodbye, Mycroft,

You’re gone, and yet you’re mine.

I’m fine, Mycroft,

I’m fine!

   He pulled a lever on the newly adjusted chair, which becomes a slide, and the customer disappears through a trapdoor in the floor, down a chute. Sherlock pulled the lever again and the chair returned to its normal position.

~*~

   Greg slumped past a crowded tenement, redolent of cholera.

Mycroft…

~*~

Molly descended the long and very claustrophobic series of steps down to the bake-house. She unbolted and pulled aside a heavy iron door and entered.

A fiery red glow spilled out — the roar of the oven within was thundering.

~*~

   The Beggar stood on Baker Street. The hellish metropolis glowed, the smoke from a thousand chimneys created a great pall over the city.

   He was in an almost demented rage.

Smoke! Smoke!

Sign of the devil! Sign of the devil!

City on fire!

   He turned to disgusted passers-by.

Witch! Witch!

Smell it, sir! An evil smell!

Every night at the vespers bell–

Smoke that comes from the mouth of hell–

City on fire!

City on fire…

   He began to scuttle off.

Mischief! Mischief! Mischief…

~*~

   The red glow of sunset filled the shop as Sherlock ushered in another customer and prepared to shave him.

And if I never hear your voice,

My turtledove, my dear,

I still have reason to rejoice:

The way ahead is clear…

Mycroft…

~*~

   Greg walked down a dark alley, dragging his feet. Shadowy figures seemed to lurk along the alley walls.

I feel you…

Mycroft…

~*~

   Sherlock continued to prepare to shave the customer.

And in that darkness when I’m blind

With what I can’t forget–

It’s always morning in my mind,

My little lamb, my pet…

Mycroft…

~*~

   Greg moved past a lonely graveyard.

Johanna…

~*~

   Sherlock walked behind the customer.

You stay, Johanna…

   He quietly cut the customer’s throat.

The way I’ve dreamed you are.

 Sherlock noticed dusk outside the window.

Oh look, Johanna,

   He pulls the lever and the customer disappeared to the floor below.

A star!

   Sherlock tossing the customer’s hat down the chute.

A shooting star!

~*~

   Greg continued to move past the graveyard.

Buried sweetly in your ginger hair…

~*~

Molly emerged from the bake-house with a rack of hot pies. She walked up the steps; the fiery roar of the oven within is overpowering.

~*~

   The beggar was scuttling madly along Baker Street. He pointed to the smoke over rooftops.

There! There!

Somebody, somebody look up there!

   The passers-by continued to ignore him.

Didn’t I tell you? Smell that air?

City on fire!

   He approached the pie shop, her frenzyincreasing. He grabbed a stunned Archie — who was carrying some packages toward the pie shop.

Quick, sir! Run and tell!

Warn ‘em all of the witch’s spell!

There it is, there it is, the unholy smell!

Tell it to the Beadle and the police as well!

Tell ‘em! Tell ‘em!

   He spotted Molly emerging from the pie shop and exploded in desperation, pointing madly.

Help!!! Fiend!!!

City on fire!!!

Archie pulled away from him, as he began to scuttle off.

City on fire…

Mischief … Mischief … Mischief… Fiend…

   He appealed to other pedestrians as he went.

Alms…! Alms…!

   Archie turned to consider the horrible black smoke belching from the chimney of the pie shop. Something about the foul, ebony smoke troubled him.

~*~

   Sherlock was standing alone, contemplative, slowly and methodically stropping his razor.

And though I’ll think of you, I guess,

Until the day I die,

I think I miss you less and less

As every day goes by…

Mycroft…

~*~

   Greg trudged past the sinister opium dens and depraved taverns of the East End.

Mycroft…

~*~

   Sherlock completed shaving a customer; the customer’s wife and daughter were waiting.

And you’d be beautiful and pale,

And look too much like her.

If only angels could prevail,

We’d be the way we were.

Mycroft…

   The customer pays and, with a pleasant smile, Sherlock ushered them out.

~*~

   Greg wandered past the high and impenetrable walls of a madhouse; the demented souls within could be seen moving about in silhouette behind barred windows.

I feel you…

Mycroft…

   Something he couldn’t describe made him stop. He turned to consider the asylum.

~*~

   Sherlock shaves another customer; he glances quickly at the beautiful morning outside the window.

Wake up, Mycroft!

Another bright red day!

   He slits the customer’s throat.

We learn, Mycroft,

To say…

Goodbye…

   He pulled the lever and the customer disappeared down the chute.

~*~

   Greg stared up at the asylum.

I’ll steal you…

~*~

   Sherlock picked up the faded photograph and, again, sat in his barber chair. He gazes at it, lost in reverie.

Chapter Text

   Molly and Sherlock rested on a picnic blanket, just like any other couple out enjoying the fine day.

The remains of a nice picnic lunch were scattered around them and Archie was flying a kite.

Molly watched happy couples moving about; dogs and kids running hither and yon, military officers squiring their ladies, nurses with prams.

   Sherlock was distinctly ill at ease, brooding, as she talks. “… Which is not to say we couldn’t get some nice taxidermy animals to bring a touch of gentility to the place. You know; a boar’s head or two…” She glanced at the unresponsive Sherlock, “Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

   “Of course,” he stated, monotonous.

   “Then what did I just say?” Molly pouted.

   Sherlock was back in his sombre reflections, “There must be a way to the Judge…”

   “The bloody old Judge! Always harping on the bloody old Judge!” She snapped, anger creasing her face for a moment before her features softened. She massaged his neck. “We got a nice respectable business now, money coming in regular and — since we’re careful to pick and choose — only strangers and such like wot won’t be missed — who’s going to catch on?”

There was no response from Sherlock. She leaned across and pecked him on the cheek.

Ooh, Mr. Holmes–

   She kissed him again.

I’m so happy–

   Kiss

I could–

Eat you up, I really could!

You know what I’d like to Do, Mr. Holmes?

   She kissed Sherlock.

What I dream–

   She kissed him again.

If the business stays as good,

Where I’d really like to go–

   No response

In a year or so…

   Still no response.

Don’t you want to know?

   Sherlock ignored her; he wanted revenge, he wanted John, he wanted Mycroft: he couldn’t care less.

Do you really want to know?

   Sherlock forced a pained smile. “Yes, yes, I do, I do.”

   Molly she leaned back comfortably, beginning to imagine a wonderful, domestic future.

   “I’ve always had this dream of living at the seaside… I got a picture postcard from me Aunt Nettie once. Oh, it seems like such a grand place…” Molly sighed airily.

   She gazed at Archie flying his Kite, “And all that fresh aquatic air’s bound to be good for the lad’s poxy lungs…”

By the sea, Mr. Holmes,

That’s the life I covet;

By the sea, Mr. Holmes,

Ooh, I know you’d love it!

You and me, Mr. H.,

We could be alone

In a house wot we’d almost own

Down by the sea…

   Sherlock mumbled, still somewhat withdrawn.

Anything you say.

Wouldn’t that be smashing?

   Molly began to slip into her daydream.

~*~

   She and Sherlock sat in the exact same position as in reality; only now they were sitting on a beach. They were wearing what she imagined as fashionable seaside bathing clothes.

Archie, who was not consumptively pale but overly rosy-cheeked in her fantasy, was building a sandcastle nearby.

Molly was sitting with her Dream Sherlock, of course, so he had a bland smile on his face; somewhat unnatural. In fact, there was something vaguely unreal and stilted about this entire dream.

With the sea at our gate,

We’ll have kippered herring

Wot have swum to us straight

From the Straits of Bering.

Every night in the kip

When we’re through our kippers,

I’ll be there slippin’ off your

slippers

By the sea…

With the fishies splashing.

By the sea…

Wouldn’t that be smashing?

Down by the sea–

Anything you say,

Anything you say.

   Molly strolled with Sherlock on a boardwalk. Artificially lovely couples move about. Archie runs along ahead of them.

I can see us waking,

The breakers breaking,

The seagulls squawking:

Hoo! Hoo!

I do me baking,

Then I go walking

With yoo-hoo…

   She waved to Archie.

Yoo-hoo…

Molly and Sherlock reclined on comfortable deck chairs, having tea and scones.

I’ll warm me bones

On the esplanade

Have tea and scones

With me gay young blade…

Molly’s notion of a fashionable little seaside cottage; crushing in its bourgeois blandness. She was making Archie try on a sweater; Sherlock was writing a letter.

Then I’ll knit a sweater

While you write a letter…

   Back on the beach, she cuddled into Sherlock.

Unless we got better

To do-hoo…

Anything you say…

Molly and Sherlock snuggled into their bed.

Think how snug it’ll be

Underneath our flannel

When it’s just you and me

And the English Channel…

In the cottage, Molly and Sherlock entertained some unnaturally jolly friends.

In our cozy retreat,

Kept all neat and tidy,

We’ll have chums over every Friday…

They were back on the imaginary beach.

By the sea…

Anything you say…

   Archie pulled Molly over to examine his little sandcastle.

Don’t you love the weather

By the sea?

We’ll grow old together

By the seaside,

   Molly beckoned to Sherlock to join them.

Hoo! Hoo!

By the beautiful sea!

   Sherlock joined them. He kneeled with Archie to help him work on the sandcastle. Molly stood, watching them, the picture of the doting mother.

It’ll be so quiet

That who’ll come by it

Except a seagull?

Hoo! Hoo!

We shouldn’t try it,

Though, till it’s legal,

For two-hoo!

In a bright, beautiful seaside chapel; Molly and Sherlock were getting married. This being her fantasy, she wore white. Sherlock was in a constricting morning coat with a rakish top hat. Archie, the best man, watches proudly.

But a seaside wedding

Could be devised,

Me rumpled bedding

They exchanged vows and kissed. It felt almost real.

My eyelids’ll flutter,

I’ll turn into butter,

The moment I mutter

"I do-hoo!"

Molly was with Sherlock, Archie and a guest in the cottage; she placed a plate of kippers on the table amidst a proper English breakfast.

By the sea, in our nest,

We could share our kippers

With the odd paying guest

From the weekend trippers,

Have a nice sunny suite

For the guest to rest in –

   Back at the beach, Molly, Sherlock and Archie sat comfortably, watching an unnaturally gorgeous sunset. The perfect picture of a happy family.

By the sea.

Married nice and proper,

By the sea–

Bring along your chopper

To the seaside,

Hoo! Hoo!

By the beautiful sea!

   She throws her arms affectionately around her two men.

~*~

   Molly was sitting in the exact same position with Sherlock as in her daydream. It was silence.

   Her smile fades as she considers him. The grim, brooding reality is so clear next to her lovely dream. His and her world was so dark, full of murder and delusions, Sherlock was still thinking of revenge and that pesky John of his; maybe when this was all over, they could live that dream.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was standing at his usual post, the window, gazing intently down at Baker Street.

Molly entered with a tray of food. “Brought you some breakfast, dear, farm fresh eggs and a dollop of lovely clotted cream, only the best for my…” She stopped when she realized he wasn’t even listening to her. Her heart sank seeing him at the window, wearing his obsession like a cloak. She gazed sadly at him. She didn’t count, after all. “Sherlock… might I ask you a question?”

   He didn’t turn, “Mm?”

   “What did your John look like?” Molly asked. “You heard me…” A moment passed, “Can’t really remember can you?”

   “He had yellow hair,” Sherlock said simply, before he turned back to the window.

Molly proceeded with great sincerity, “You’ve got to leave all this behind you know. He’s gone… You keep looking down into the grave, you’re never gonna look up. And life will just pass right by… Life is for the alive, my dear.”

   He didn’t answer.

   “We could have a life we two… Maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like you remember… But we could get by.” Sherlock still didn’t answer her. “Come away from the window,” She instructed softly. It was a long while before He finally did; almost as if to leave his demons behind.

She smiled quietly and held out her hand. She began to cross to him when they heard footsteps climbing the stairs.

   Molly remained standing, her hand out to him as Greg staggered through the door, absolutely exhausted.

   “Mr Holmes… Mrs Hooper, ma’am…” Greg sank into a chair, “… Seems I’ve not slept in a week — but it’s done –”

   “What is it, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked

   “He has him locked in a madhouse…” Greg growled bitterly.

   Sherlock’s head snapped to Anthony, riveted, “You’ve found Mycroft?”

   “For all the good it’ll do — it’s impossible to get to him.” Greg rubbed his eyes.

   Sherlock began to pace, the tiger again, his mind was racing –

   “A madhouse…? A madhouse… Where?” Sherlock questioned. His little brother locked up in such a place…

   “Fogg’s Asylum. But I’ve circled the place a dozen times. There’s no way in. It’s a fortress,” Greg sighed, defeated.

   Greg faded to a brooding silence as Sherlock continued pacing, thinking, and thinking. Molly watched him, concerned. Sherlock suddenly stopped.

   He settled into an inspired sort of calm, as if he could finally see the Promised Land. “I’ve got him,” Sherlock whispered.

   “Mr. Holmes?”

   Sherlock turned to Greg, “We’ve got him… Where do you suppose all the wigmakers of London go to obtain their human hair? Bedlam. They get their hair from the lunatics at Bedlam –”

   “I don’t understand –”

   Sherlock suddenly grabbed Greg, hauled him up, and held him close; forehead to forehead. His whispered intensity was truly disturbing. “We shall set you up as a wigmaker in search of hair — that will gain you access — then you will take him,” Sherlock instructed.

   “Yes…” Greg fought a smile, it was too early for such strong hope.

   “You will not be deterred — You will slaughter the world — To bring him here,” Sherlock studied the sailor’s expression.

   “Yes.” Greg nodded.

Molly watched, troubled, as Sherlock embraced Greg closely and held him for a long moment. Then Sherlock was frantic, hurrying to get some money and give it to Greg. “Go and outfit yourself properly; you are to be a gentlemen wigmaker. When you return we shall dispatch a letter to this Mr. Fogg announcing your arrival. Go — quickly now!”

   Greg clasped Sherlock’s hand, “Mr. Holmes — how can I ever–?”

   “Go!” Sherlock instructed.

   Greg hurried out.

Sherlock immediately hurled himself into a chair and began writing a letter, his violent scrawl slashing across the page.

   “Dear, I wonder if –”

   “Fetch the boy,” Sherlock muttered.

   “Don’t you think it’s time you –”

   “Fetch the boy,” Sherlock growled. Molly did as she was asked.

Chapter Text

   Molly began going down the stairs outside the barber shop; but then she stopped. She stood for a long moment, disturbed that Sherlock’s demons were again devouring him.

She looked down and saw Archie washing the tables in the outdoor garden. He was serious about his work, vigorously scrubbing the tables with soap and water.

She watched him for a moment and then continues down the steps, “Archie… Sherlock requires you,” Molly informed.

   “Yes’m.”

He went up the steps; Molly just stood, deep in thought.

~*~

Sherlock was finishing the letter as Archie entered the room.

   “Mr H?” Archie enquired.

“You know where the Old Bailey is?” Sherlock asked, still writing.

   “Oh, yes, sir. Not that I ever –”

   Sherlock interrupted, folding up letter, “Take this there and seek out a Judge Moriarty. Repeat that. Repeat that.”

   “Go to the Old Bailey. Find Judge Moriarty,”

   Sherlock handed him letter, “Put this into his hands. Only to him. Do you understand?”

   “Yes, sir, and while I’m out do you mind if I stop by the grocer and pick up the –” Sherlock pounced like a panther; he suddenly leapt up and grabbed Archie by the throat with shocking brutality.

   “DON’T CHATTER, BOY! You are not to stop! You are not to speak! You are to deliver this letter! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!” Sherlock yelled. Archie was stunned and terrified. It was the first time he had seen this side of Sherlock

   Sherlock releases him, and Archie races out.

Sherlock immediately begins pacing like a caged animal, back and forth, back and forth, whispering to himself neurotically, as day becomes evening.

~*~

   Archie walked back to the pie shop, upset.

   He stopped when he saw Sherlock at the window above, unblinking, gazing like a falcon into the street.

He continued on to Molly, who was clearing up the remains of a meal in the outdoor garden. “Where you been, lad? We had quite the luncheon rush! Me poor bones is ready to drop…” Molly looked at him, noticing his dark expression, “What is it, Archie?”

   He sat and Molly sat next to him.

   “Mr Holmes sent me on an errand…” Archie informed, “And on the way back I went by the workhouse. And I was thinking … But for you I would be there now; or someplace worse. Seems like the Good Lord sent you for me.”

   “Oh, love, I feel quite the same way–”

   “Hear me out, ma’am… You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Say, if there was someone around — someone bad — only you didn’t know it–”

   “What is this? What are you talking about?” Molly asked, concerned.

Nothing’s gonna harm you,

Not while I’m around.

Nothing gonna harm you,

No, sir,

Not while I’m around…

   Molly frowned, “What do you mean, "someone bad"?”

Demons are prowling

Everywhere

I’ll send ‘em howling,

I don’t care–

I got ways.

   “Darling, hush now, there’s no need for this…” Molly tried to assure, but Archie carried on anyway.

No one’s gonna hurt you,

No one’s gonna dare.

Others can desert you–

Not to worry–

Whistle, I’ll be there.

Demons’ll charm you

With a smile

For a while,

But in time

Nothing can harm you,

Not while I’m around.

   “What is this foolishness now? What are you talking about?” Molly asked.

   “Little things wot I been thinking… About Mr Holmes…” Archie answered. When Molly’s breath caught, he quickly tried to reassure her.

Not to worry, not to worry,

I may not be smart but I ain’t dumb.

I can do it,

Put me to it,

Show me something I can overcome.

Not to worry, mum.

   He leaned into her and she put her arms around him – but her expression was deeply troubled.

Being close and being clever

Ain’t like being true,

I don’t need to,

I won’t never

Hide a thing from you,

Like some.

   “Now, Archie dear, haven’t we had enough of this foolish chatter…?” Molly reached for her purse, “Here, how about I give you a shiny new penny and you can fetch us some nice toffees?” She pulled Anderson’s chatelaine purse from her dress.

   “That’s Signor Anderson’s purse!” Archie yelled, backing away.

   Molly startled, “No, no, love — this is just something Sherlock gave me for my birthday–”

   “See that proves it — what I been thinkin’,” He stood, urgently pulling her hand, “We gotta go, ma’am, right now — we gotta find the Beadle and get the law her –”

   She pulled him down to her again, agitated, her mind racing. “Hush now, Archie, hush… Here, you just sit next to me nice and quiet… How could you think such a thing of Mr. Holmes, who’s been so good to us?” she kissed his temple in a display of motherly affection. He calmed down a bit as she holds him.

And she comes to a painful, dreadful decision.

Nothing’s gonna harm you,

Not while I’m around.

Nothing’s gonna harm you, darling,

Not while I’m around.

   He leaned into her.

Demons’ll charm you

With a smile

For a while,

But in time

Nothing’s gonna harm you,

Not while I’m around.

There were tears in her eyes as she held him; but her gentle song had calmed him.

“Funny we should be having this little chat right now… ‘Cause I was just thinking, you know how you’ve always fancied coming into the bake-house with me to help make the pies?” Molly asked softly.

   “Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed dreamily.

She quickly dried her eyes and turned him to look at her. Molly smiled, “Well… no time like the present.”

~*~

Molly led Archie down the claustrophobic, long stairway toward the bake-house.

   “My heart bleeds for you havin’ to go up and down all these stairs!” Archie said sincerely.

   “Well, that’ll be your job now,” Molly smiled faintly.

   “Yes, ma’am!” Archie enthused.

   She arrived at the heavy iron door to the bake-house and could hear the seismic rumble of the bake oven within. She unbolted the door and ushered Archie in.

~*~

The roof hung low in this subterranean chamber. The grisly tools of her trade were scattered about the place: a large, stained chopping block; a meat grinder; buckets of questionable viscous liquid; cleavers and bone saws and meat hooks; wet sewer grates for the blood.

A metal sheet, hinged at the top, had been attached to cover an opening in the wall: the mouth of the chute from the barber shop above. There was a thundering roar of flame coming from a large industrial oven against one wall.

   Archie took in the cavernous bake house. “Coo, quite a stink, ain’t there?” He covered his nose with his sleeve.

Molly pointed to the sewer grates, “Those grates go right down to the sewers and the whiffs come up, always a few rats gone home to Jesus down there.”

   “So — where do I start?!” Archie asked as she led him across to the thrumming, fiery oven.

   “Now this would be the bake oven… Ten dozen at a time. Always be sure the doors is closed properly, like this.”

“Yes’m, always closed properly,” He repeated, trying to remember it all.

She leads him to the meat grinder:

   “And here’s the grinder. You pop in the meat, give it a good grind and it comes out here,” She demonstrated.

   He practiced with the grinder. “Good grind; comes out there,” Archie repeated.

   “That’s my boy. Smoothly, smoothly — now I’ve got to pop upstairs, back in two shakes, all right?”

   “Yes’m.” She began to go, but he stopped her with, “Do you think I might have a pie while I wait?”

   She turned. Archie was standing at a rack of cooling pies. “As many as you like, son… As many as you like,” She assured, managing to keep the tears out of her voice.

She climbed the stairs and shut the door behind her. She leaned against the bake-house door, tormented, gasping for air. She slowly bolted the door.

Chapter Text

   Fogg Asylum was a cacophony of madness. The ragged inmates of the asylum were slammed together in a series of cramped cells, the low ceiling pressing down.

Greg, dressed as a fashionable wigmaker, walked past the cells with the odious Mr Fogg. Fogg carried a large pair of scissors in one hand – for cutting clumps of hair away from the inmates’ heads while they thrashed and screamed.

   “Oh yes, sir, I agree it would be to our mutual interest to come to some arrangement in regard to my poor children’s hair,” Fogg smiled. He moved to one of the cells and unlocked it. “I keep the gingers over here. It was orange hair you was looking for, sir?”

   “Yes.”

Fogg entered the crowded cell — the inmates, all ginger men, scurried back, clearly terrified of Fogg. Greg saw Mycroft, wearing a filthy straitjacket, hunched like a feral animal, cowering in a corner of the cell. His hair had gained some length from the last time the sailor set eyes on him – growing into tangled, greasy curls.

Greg pointed to Mycroft, “That one has hair the shade I need.”

   Fogg went to fetch Mycroft and hauled him to Greg. “Come, child. Smile for the gentleman and you shall have a sweetie.”

   Mycroft’s eyes shot wide when he saw Greg, but he said nothing.

Fogg prepared his scissors, ready to more-or-less scalp the young man; but before he could react — Greg pulled a revolver from his clothing, grabbed Mycroft and pushed Fogg back into the cell.

   He swung the cell door shut, locking Fogg in. “Not a word, Mr. Fogg, or it will be your last… Now, I leave you to the mercy of your ‘children’,” Greg spat the word. He grabbed Mycroft and pulled him away.

Mr. Fogg turned; he was locked in with the ginger inmates. They slowly began to advance on him. Menacing. Like they were going to rip him limb from limb…

Chapter Text

   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. HOOPER! MRS. HOOPER! LET ME OUT! MRS. HOOPER!” 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 carried 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…

   “Archie!” 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 picked 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 his 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!”

Chapter Text

   Sherlock stared as Mycroft stepped out of the trunk. “Brother, mine…” The young man greeted tearfully.

   “Mycroft,” Sherlock gasped.

   “How I have missed you my dear brother…” Mycroft sighed, “But, please, hand me the razor.”

   Mycroft took the silver handle and slipped it out of his brother’s hand.

   “What the hell is going on!?” Moriarty demanded.

   “You see, Sir, my brother wanted revenge for what you have done to our family,” Mycroft spat.

   “And you stopped him, my dear,” Moriarty sat up and went to touch Mycroft’s cheek, but the young man staggered backwards.

   “Don’t touch me! I know you watched me; enjoying your perverse fantasies; and imagining me in place of one of your drawings!” Mycroft yelled before surging forward, pushing Moriarty against the chair, “NO MORE!”

With tens of messy stabs, Mycroft hacked away at the judge’s throat; spraying both he and Sherlock with blood. “Mycroft, you’ve killed him! Stop!” Sherlock shouted, bringing Mycroft out of his frenzy.

   “Jesus!” They heard a swear from the doorway. The beggar stood there, taking in the scene, “Benedict… Mycroft…”

   Sherlock knew he recognised the voice, but could not place it… Deduce. It’s ok now.

   It was John. But that was impossible! He was dead! Buried! Six feet under! “John…?” he gasped.

   “Oh, Benedict!” John cried, running forward and sweeping Sherlock into an embrace, “Dear God, I missed you.”

   “I… I missed you too…”

   There was a thump. The two men turned to see Mycroft lying on the floor, shaking, eyes wide. “Benedict, help me.”

   Sherlock and John steadied the youngest Baker. “It will be fine, brother…” Sherlock hardly noticed a tear run over his cheek-bone, “It will be fine.”

   “He kept watching me… When I bathed, when I dressed,” Mycroft sobbed.

   John stroked the young man’s head, “It’s alright, Mycroft; that will never happen again.”

   Molly stormed into the room. “What on earth is all this noise? I –”

   She stopped dead. “John…?”

   “You knew he lived. From the moment that I came into your shop you knew my John lived!” Sherlock yelled.

   “Benedict… It’s alright…” John tried to soothe.

   “I was only thinking of you!” Molly pleaded.

   Sherlock looked to John questioningly, “John…?”

   “Your John! A crazy coot picking bones and rotten spuds out of alley ashcans! Would you have wanted to know he ended up like that?”

   “You lied to me…” Sherlock growled, “And John’s fine!”

   “It was all an act, Molly. I was sick for a long while after Benedict left, but I got better. It was to stop Moriarty from coming after me. But I was selfish, I let him take Mycroft away…” John continued to stroke his fingers through the ginger’s hair as he cried.

No, no, not lied at all.

No, I never lied.

Johnny…

Said he took the bullet –

Never said that she died —

Poor thing,

He lived–

   Sherlock leaned further into John’s protective, comforting imbrace.

I’ve come home again…

But it left him weak in the head,

All he did for months was just lie there in bed–

   John glared at her as she continued to reason desperately.

Johnny…

   “Shh…” John whispered against Sherlock’s hair.

Should’ve been in hospital,

Wound up in Bedlam instead,

Poor thing!

   “Oh, my God…” Sherlock gasped, his hold on John got even tighter.

Better you should think he was dead.

   John gaped at her, brow furrowed, angry and shocked.

Yes, I lied ‘cos I love you!

Johnny…

I’d be twice the love he was!

I love you!

Could that thing have cared for you

Like me?

WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly snapped up to Molly.

Mrs. Hooper,

You’re a bloody wonder,

Eminently practical and yet

Appropriate as always,

As you’ve said repeatedly,

There’s little point in dwelling on the past.

   He stepped toward her; she stepped back, unsure, as they sing simultaneously:

No, come here, my love…

Not a thing to fear,

My love…

What’s dead

Is dead.

Do you mean it?

Everything I did I swear I thought

Was only for the best,

Believe me!

Can we still be

Married?

Sherlock steps toward her darkly.

By the sea, Mr. Holmes,

We’ll be comfy-cozy,

By the sea, Mr. Holmes,

Where there’s no one nosy…

   “Get out,” Sherlock growled, “You have done me harm in these last months; I must be taken care of by my doctor. Leave now; pack your things, your horrific shop; and never return.”

   Molly ran out of the door with tears in her eyes.

   “Benedict… Settle down. You should rest,” John smiled comfortingly. Mycroft had fallen into an uneasy sleep.

   “Do you… wish to keep me? I have killed many and sold their bodies as meat.”

   “Molly sold the ‘meat’; and you were sick, I can’t blame you. I love you, Benedict; no matter what you do.”

   Sherlock lowered himself to the floor and sank into John’s warm embrace. “Molly said you shot yourself…”

“Yes,” John admitted, “The nerves got to me – I ended up with a bullet wound in my shoulder.”

   The door creaked open; Archie and Greg stood in the doorway, a look of horror on their faces at the Baker brothers covered in blood.

   A soft snoring sound came from Sherlock and John smiled. The new-comers’ attention was drawn to the body of Moriarty. “D-did… They…?” Archie stuttered.

   “Don’t worry, boys,” John said softly, “They hurt a man that deserved it, who wronged many people, who was evil. I lost a lot of friends, good people, in the war when I was a soldier, lost a lot of sleep over it… I’ll sleep fine tonight.”