Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s early afternoon by the time the two of them make it back to their little hideaway above the restaurant. Billy left them to their own devices shortly after their chat, ambling off still firmly grasping their mug. After his departure they’d spent a good portion of the morning with the florists helping with idle tasks and chatter before attempting to make their way back home. Hard emphasis on attempting. Sherlock huffs, exasperated, long legs taking the steps two at a time with Liam trailing just behind. Some days they don’t make it ten feet before someone or another stops them, their community’s infatuation with Liam endearing and irritating in equal measure. He’s never interacted with his neighbors this much in his life. Damn friendly Americans. 

‘Oh Mr. Liam, could you take a look at my cat Fluffy? Something seems to be wrong with her paw.’

‘Liam! Thank you for saving my prize winning cabbages. That slug repellant really did the trick! Here’s some loaves of bread for the trouble, come back when they’re done growing and you can try the cabbages yourself!’

‘How’s it there Mr. Liam, I’m tryin a figure out how many bricks I need to order for this retaining wall and was hopin’ you could help me decide.’

‘Mr. Liam! Thank you for helping dispel our generational curse through the power of good looks and friendship!’

He hears the disapproving tisking in his head before the ghost-of-Mycrofts-past chimes in ‘Now, now Sherly. Jealousy is not a good look on you. Shameful, really. Just can’t stand to share your criminal, can you?’  Pah. He’s not jealous. He’s not, he thinks furtively in the way someone does when they are decidedly not jealous. 

In some ways he’s actually quite grateful the people around here have taken to Liam so thoroughly. Not surprising considering it’s Liam, and there’s no one in their right minds who wouldn’t. And it means they’ll keep an eye on him, as was just proven with the little florist girl. With all the trouble Liam seems so invested in getting into, he’s loath to admit he needs all the help he can get making sure his little crime lord stays intact some days. He makes a mental note to give Mina some sort of thank you gift from him personally. Do young girls like coffee? 

He scowls as he unlocks their front door, pledging to also reach out to the locksmith to have a deadbolt installed. Maybe a slider or chain lock as well for good measure. Maybe he just ties Liam himself up. Wait, no. Down boy. Not the time to be thinking about that visual. He’s grateful Liam can’t see the suddenly treacherous shade of his face from his position. He ignores Liam’s amused stare as he steps over the threshold into their apartment, tension melting away when the familiarity of home washes over him. He slinks over to their couch and flops onto the well-worn cushions, jaw slowly unclenching for the first time in an hour. He was going to get tempro-mandibular joint pain at this rate, or at the very least chip a molar. To add insult to injury, despite realistically having done very little today, he’s already dog tired. How Liam is able to keep up with all the inane social interaction he does and still come out looking fresh as a daisy he’ll never understand. He shudders at the thought of having to waste as much time on meaningless frivolities as Liam has, especially when playing the part of Lord Moriarty. At least most of these people were of the good, honest sort, if not a bit overly loquacious.

Familiar footsteps accompanied by a light floral aroma approach steadily, breaking him out of his drifting thoughts. He must have been very obvious in his petulant stewing if Liam broke out the chamomile. The slight shift of cushions nearest him is the only encouragement he needs to take the cup he knows is being offered, not even bothering to open his eyes as it’s placed delicately in his outstretched hand. Warmth seeps into his hands pleasantly and just a little more of that tight knot unwinds. 

“Thanks for the tea, Liam.” He blows on the liquid to cool it for several seconds before taking a cautious sip. The sweetness of the honey the blonde mixed in washes over his tongue, a perfect compliment to the herbal tones of Chamaemelum nobile. 

“Yes, well. It seemed like you needed it. You were beginning to get a little harried by the time I was, what was it, solving generational curses with good looks and friendship?” he teases. Sherlock chokes on his tea a little, face quickly growing red for the second time in 5 minutes while he sputters indignantly, which only serves to make Liam laugh. The blonde relaxes, crossing his legs and resting his head in his palm on the arm of the couch in what Sherlock has come to think of as his signature pose. 

“Sorry Sherly. You were mumbling your displeasure quite fervently and it was impossible to resist listening in.” There’s a distinct twinkle in his eye that hints he maybe isn’t really as sorry as he claims. Sherlock opts to say nothing in his defense and focuses on his delicious tea. 

“Gettin’ better at making tea at least,” he retorts, not unkindly. It only makes Liam laugh again, head tilting back and eye crinkling as that infectious sound leaves his lips. Sherlock can’t help but smile in return. Liam’s joy comes much easier these days. Something he foolishly hopes he has something to do with beyond the cheap thrills the blonde gets from teasing him.

“I’m glad it’s to your tastes, Detective. Though I’m afraid a cup of chamomile is still the extent of my culinary prowess. It’s rather difficult to oversteep herbal blends. I am still woefully bereft of any talent in the kitchen for the most part. Dear Louis spoiled me too much in that regard.” Liam trails off a little, a wistful look ghosting across his features only briefly before it’s gone again. It’s no secret Liam misses his brothers and colleagues, even if he hides it well most days. Sherlock misses John, Ms. Hudson, hell, even Mycroft and Lestrade, just the same.

He gives a sympathetic squeeze to Liam’s shoulder. Words aren’t always necessary between them in times like these. His intent gets across all the same. 

“Can’ be perfect at everythin’ Liam. Jus’ means now it’s my turn tah spoil ya.” He looks away and rubs the back of his head, mildly embarrassed he said that. “ ‘Sides, not like I can claim tah be any sorta master chef. Ms. Hudson made all my meals for me for years.” 

He works up the bravery to look back at Liam. The blonde regards him with a look that’s far too soft, a gentle smile right at home upon his face. He looks like he’s about to say something, but is suddenly interrupted by the jangling of spurs on familiar leather boots quickly stomping up their hall stairs. He barely has time to grumble at Billy’s flawlessly inconvenient timing before their door swings open without further ado and the man himself confidently waltzes in like he owns the place, still carrying around their damn cup and the case files. 

Liam stands to greet the gunslinger, shepherding him to what’s become his designated chair while swiping the near empty glassware he’s coveting to give it a quick wash. He places it on their drying rack and disappears into his bedroom, undoubtedly to retrieve their newly requisitioned caseboard. From Pinkerton this time, not the bakers. The low drum of small wheels on the wood floor echo across their cozy apartment as Liam reappears pushing his organizational prize into place, push-pins and labels at the ready. Sherlock can’t help but roll his eyes. Ridiculous man. He gets comfortable, hand absently making its way to comb through his messy black hair and gives Billy a little wave to go ahead. Their handler wastes no time in popping back up from his chair to requisition the pins and labels and ushering Liam back to his rightful place on the couch. Surprised and intrigued, Liam complies with only an amused glance in Sherlock’s direction. He shrugs, content to see how this plays out.

“I dropped by the office just to see if they made any headway on the files I asked for and we were in luck. Turns out because all the cases we asked about were relatively close to here, the main files for them were at a warehouse not that far away. I pulled a couple favors and managed to have them sent via express courier.” 

Billy starts pinning label headers on the board behind him, a stream of rambling information bursting forth from his mouth fervently as he looks around for something to write with. Liam helpfully offers him the marker from his breast pocket with a flourish. Clowns, both of them.

The first label goes up. ‘Victims.’ Two more quickly follow it. ‘Cause of Death’ and ‘Pertinent Facts.’ Liam shoots him an admonishing glare when Sherlock snorts at the last heading. Bit of a broad category that, innit? Oblivious to their exchange, Billy spins around and scoops up the files he brought with him, placing the marker between his teeth for safekeeping. He opens the first file and swipes the top page to pin it beneath the ‘victims’ heading. There’s a mugshot of a man staring back at them. Dark brown hair and eyes, middle aged by the looks of it. It’s easy to see what singles him out from the general public. His skin is a mural of tanned olive offset by stark white patches, the largest of which is on his cheek. Billy quickly writes ‘vitiligo’ beneath the man’s photo. 

“This is a feller by the name of Jackson Henderson. He’s an immigrant from Italy, came over to New Hampshire with his parents after a bad few years of crops left them destitute and starving. It ain’t hard to see what drew attention to him.” Billy hesitates before sliding the next paper out, placing it under ‘cause of death.’

“I know neither of you are strangers to brutality, but I still feel it’s my moral duty to warn y’all these autopsy photos are gonna be…graphic,” he grinds out between clenched teeth, a defined tightness around his averted eyes as he steps away revealing the evidence.  

Sherlock harrumphs at the photo he’s just hung, and yeah. It is gruesome. Laying atop a mortuary table is, presumably, the same man covered by a sheet from the waist down in some small attempt to preserve whatever amount of dignity a corpse can hold on to. The hair and build matches, more or less, with one noticeable problem. There is very little of that golden brown skin left on the majority of his upper half. Instead, a tableau of naked muscle fibers are on full display, deep reddish brown stretched tight across exposed bone and viscera. The body is partially desiccated from baking in the summer sun, likely for days, though that didn’t seem to discourage the wildlife. They’re lucky something larger than rodents didn’t seem to find the body before the police did. Despite the extensive exposure to the elements it’s not difficult to see the skinning was poorly done– clearly amateur work. There are several jagged lacerations along where the perpetrator began to rend off the flesh unevenly, leaving behind bits of rancid yellow fat and even some small parcels of withered skin. 

It’s poor work, to be sure. Sherlock suspects the same lack of finesse was deployed on his lower half from the way the stained white sheet seems to stick to his legs. Not even his face has been left unmarred. In their haste, or inexperience, the criminal sliced off large chunks of facial structures while trying to take their desired trophy, leaving the poor bastard with only part of his nose and a missing section of ear. Mutilation, pure and simple. At least the lack of major hemorrhaging implies the bulk of this dark work was done post mortem. Small mercies.

Billy points out several punctures along the musculature of the torso. 

“Here, here, and here. Stab wounds. Nasty ones too according to the autopsy report, poor sap probably bled out in minutes,”  Billy swallows loudly and averts his eyes from the photo, “and as you can see the skinning wasn’t very cleanly done.” 

Henderson’s final sheet of paper goes up, only a few lines written on it in hasty scrawl. Sherlock grimaces. The broadness of the last category makes a little more sense.

“Mr. Henderson was reported missing by his parents after they hadn’t heard from him in several days. Despite his criminal record for petty theft here in the States, he was apparently a dutiful and attentive son, so this was out of character for him. His body was found a couple days later by some farmhands in one of the cattle pastures in much the state you see it here,” he absently gestures back at the autopsy photos. 

The next profile to go up shows a squat, middle-aged man with an angular jaw and long, thick dark hair streaked through with silver. He’s even darker skinned than the last one, clearly a full-blooded Native American. Billy sighs heavily, turning to face them fully and places his hands on his hips, gun shifting slightly at the disturbance. 

“I’m ashamed to say this file is even thinner than the last one, if that’s even possible. Don’t even have a name for this gentleman other than what his boss in the shipyards called him. Squanto. It’s unlikely this was even close to his real name, probably more of a racist remark in all honesty, but it’s all I got. Wasn’t much of a talker from what I’ve gathered. Hell, I’m not even sure what kinda native he was. His boss and fellow workers didn’t know either, just said he mentioned once he came from a tribe out west that was long gone now, probably a result of the American expansion into the Western territories if you ask me. He was reported missing by his employer, and found washed up in the Boston Harbor not long after that.” He digs the next paper out of the file and pins it up.

This photo depicts poor “Squanto,” what a disgrace to be calling him that really, on yet another autopsy table. There are clear ligature marks around his throat, leaving no question on cause of death even with the severe bloating and numerous scrapes from being battered about in the harbor. Much like the prior victim this man was desecrated post mortem before being tossed in the water. The thick dark hair was missing from his head, along with much of his scalp, exposed bone starkly white against the pale, turgid flesh of his face. 

“I woulda chalked this one up to a hate crime all told, if not for one thing,” Billy holds up a single finger in front of his face, waiting for one of them to pick up the thread. 

“The circus,” Sherlock answers easily. He’d read the files after all.

“The circus,” Bill parrots back. “This is one of the only times that a circus is mentioned in an investigation. According to the victim’s boss, he and a bunch of other guys from the yard were headin’ to a circus on the outskirts of town. They’d just gotten paid, and wanted to blow off some steam.” 

“At the very least the perpetrator appears to be improving,” Liam remarks offhandedly while recrossing his legs, gesturing towards the autopsy photo. “The cuts along his forehead have far less hesitation than the last victim’s, though the gouges in the frontal bone still reek of inexperience.” 

Sherlock hums his agreement. Leave it to Liam to critique a guy’s scalping skills. 

“The next victim is Miss Roselyn Beauregard. A spinster of French descent who lived with her two roommates in Providence. They reported her missing after she didn’t come home from a planned engagement, though they were not privy to where she intended to go. Miss Beauregard was a very private sort, even with them.”

He places the picture of Roselyn Beauregard up on the board and an involuntary shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine. Ghostly pale skin, platinum blonde hair so light it was almost white, ethereal lashes set over rose-pink irises. Features a bit too familiar on a dead stranger’s face. 

“Albinism,” Liam remarks easily. 

“Correct Mr. William,” Billy replies as he writes it under her picture. “Miss Beauregard was albino. Her condition was severe enough that she rarely went out during the day, according to her roommates. However, she still had a very active social life and frequently went out in the early evening, staying out well into the night. They only got worried when she still hadn’t turned up by the next morning. While the circus was not explicitly mentioned, I was able to confirm with our field operatives in Rhode Island there was one in town that week, though not much else can be pinned down about the case.” 

Billy groans and scrubs his hands roughly over his face before turning to place the autopsy photos. He slowly spins back around, but keeps his eyes firmly on the ground. A harsh chill descends upon the room. This woman was brutalized, plain and simple. Every inch of skin that can be seen is mottled with harsh bruising so purple it’s nearly black, interrupted only by the stark scarlet of countless bloody tears marring her flesh. Her face is so swollen it would be unrecognizable if not for the platinum hair that hangs limply from her scalp, though a large patch was torn out from the roots along her right temple. Dried blood is crusted around her mouth and nose, both of which have been battered into deformity. Large handprint bruises around her upper arms and throat somehow still manage to stand out in all the carnage. Despite that, it doesn’t look like she was strangled, just simply beaten to death. It’s a ghastly scene. He finds he’s unable to help imagining the hair a little more golden before he blinks rapidly to clear away the vision with a small shake of his head.

“The autopsy report claimed no signs of an assault beyond what you see here.” Billy’s heavy-handed inference did not go unnoticed. Yet again small mercies, if that can even be said in this case. It was not mercy that found this woman. Sherlock quietly fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. He’s doubtful Liam will scold him for smoking in the house this time. He pulls a deep drag of nicotine into his lungs and leans back in his chair. Liam clears his throat to break the charged silence. 

“This one breaks the pattern,” he comments softly. “The first two victims were killed in a manner that was far more efficient. Perhaps not clean, nor painless, but in a way that would get the job done as quickly as possible for our murderer. Then they were desecrated post-mortem before being disposed of. The very things that made them unique stolen from them. But this?” Liam’s voice holds a steady iciness to it that cuts deep, anger underlying every clipped syllable. Sherlock watches him intently as smoke curls lazily upwards, swallowing hard around the lump that’s formed in his throat.  

“This is rage. Violence beyond just a murder. Something happened with this victim that did not with the others. Notice the defensive wounds on her hands.” 

Sure enough, her fingers were bloody where several nails had been torn off in a struggle. Nothing escapes his Liam, he thinks with a morbid sort of pride.

“Unlike the other two, she fought back against her assailant. Perhaps the perpetrator does not kill his victims immediately, but immobilizes his victims in some way to be dealt with later. It would help explain the lack of clear defensive wounds on the first two. But somehow, this woman was able to fight back. She may have broken free, or tried to escape, which led to the murderer changing up his modus operandi with her. Rather than killing her as intended, he likely beat her to death in a fit of rage.” Liam rubs his chin thoughtfully. 

“Additionally, despite the brutality, she appears mostly intact. No partial skinning, no mentions of missing body parts per the autopsy report. Just a chunk of missing hair, but it’s unclear if this was done by the perpetrator intentionally, or if this occurred after she was dumped. The damage to her head was too extensive to tell for sure.” Billy squares his shoulders before pinning up her last piece of paper under his arbitrary columns. This sheet is improbably even more pathetic than the last. A mere sentence or two across crumpled paper. More than one pattern has become glaringly apparent in this case.

“Where her body was found also supports our theory on how the circus is likely moving. She was discovered alongside railroad tracks. The police blamed some local tramps for her death and arrested them, but her roommates weren’t convinced and contacted Pinkerton.”

Liam’s eyes light up at the new information. Sherlock knows his train of thought before he even says it.

“That lends some credence to our theory of abduction before murder at any rate. If we are to operate under the assumption that Miss Beauregard was killed mid-escape attempt then it is highly possible the assailant had her on the very train the circus travels by. When she escaped, they had to act quickly to neutralize her. For whatever reason, containment may not have been feasible anymore, or the assailant simply let their anger get the better of them. Once she was dead it would have been a simple task to dispose of her by tossing her off the train.”

Sherlock looks at Liam and can see the gears turning lightning quick in that beautiful brain of his. If the murderer keeps his victims alive before killing them, for how long? He rakes his hand through his increasingly frizzy hair as he runs the same calculations Liam undoubtedly is. How long between when each victim went missing to when they were found? How far away were the dump sites from train tracks, or from the circus for that matter. How long has it been since Sheila went missing? Are they already too late? 

His thoughts are interrupted when Billy grabs the last folder to pin their final confirmed victim’s picture. He feels as much as sees Liam tense. Staring back at them is a child. Young. No more than ten or eleven. Curly blonde hair and freckles like constellations across cheeks still filled with baby fat beneath lively bright green eyes. He grins widely in the photo, showing off an interesting dental abnormality. Billy writes hyperdontia/vampire teeth underneath the formerly lively young boy. 

“The last suspected victim is a boy named Jeremy Weaver. He has a genetic condition where his fang teeth grew extra long, and what’s more there’s two sets of them. Each condition on their own is rare. One person having both of them is close to unheard of as far as I can tell.”

Sherlock leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees, letting his eyes go unfocused on the floor between his feet while he listens to the sordid details of their last victim. 

“He lived with his parents in New Haven. They reported him missing the same night they lost track of him at a traveling circus. The police took their report and did a cursory search of the grounds, but only after the parents became distraught. They found nothing and told the parents to just wait to see if he’d come back on his own by morning.” Billy spat out bitterly. “When he still hadn’t turned up by the next day they went back to the station. This one got more of an effort from the authorities on account of his age, far as I could tell. But after three days of searching nothing had turned up. His body turned up in an alley a few cities away a couple days after that, missing his teeth.” 

Billy’s whole demeanour sags when he places the autopsy photo on the caseboard, pausing to somberly run the pads of his fingers over the young boy laying broken and pale on the table. It doesn’t take a professional to deduce his neck was viciously snapped. The bruising around his throat is nearly as deep as Miss Beauregard and despite the best efforts of the coroner it’s impossible to overlook the unnatural angle his head rests at. 

“I don’t like it,” he says to no one in particular. He doesn’t need to elaborate. Liam quietly leans over to pluck the cigarette out of where it rests between his lips and steadily places it between his own. He takes a long drag while he thinks, ruby eye darting to and fro across the embarrassingly insignificant amount of information they have at their disposal. The culmination of four lives lost resulting in less words than would be wasted on the latest gossip in some seedy backroom tabloid publication. Hell, the separate files were pointless. They could have fit the whole of their information on a single page. Billy pads over and slumps into the wingback chair with an air of defeat. 

“Neither do I, I’m afraid. Whoever our killer is, they’re sloppy. Unrefined,” Liam pauses to scan over the pictures once more. “But in spite of how little investigation was done on any of these cases, there’s still a lot of information we can glean from these photos and circumstances. At least the medical examiners did a decent job, more or less.”

He feels more than sees Liam turn the weight of his attention on him with a challenge in his eye. Another long drag of his pilfered cigarette and he’s moving to return it, lips quirked in an almost grin so subtle anyone but he would miss it. Sherlock feels his blood rush in response to the wordless provocation. 

“Well detective? Would you care to elaborate or shall I?” Liam is trying to goad him into a competition, knowing it will help distract him from the grimness that stares them all down. He hates that it’s working, that Liam is well aware it’s working, but he refuses to give him the satisfaction. 

“By all means Liam, I’d hate tah steal yer thunder.” He raises an eyebrow in return, challenge volleyed back expertly. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Billy internally groans and sinks further into his seat. Leave it to these fools to be flippant in the face of such a stark example of human cruelty. Don’t get him wrong, he knows how deadly serious they’re taking this despite their seemingly callous attitudes. Even he can see the turmoil sloshing around Mr.William’s head now that it’s been pointed out to him. This game they play, getting each other all riled up, is just the way they cope with these things. He’s no idiot. He may have seen some awful terrible things in his time, but he’s more than well aware at this point they have seen much worse. Especially Mr.William. It breaks his heart to think of all the things he’s probably had to endure that not even Sir Ponytail knows. Doesn’t mean in moments like these he doesn’t wish he smoked too. He leans his head on a fist, waiting for the deduction wizardry to begin. No sense in making waves now.

“Very well Sherly, I’d be happy to illuminate some of the facts of our case.” Mr. William stands purposefully, gliding over to the board . Billy doubts he needed to be standing for this but it’s all part of the production. The show has begun and they are but the captive audience to its macabre unveiling. Huh. Maybe he’s been hanging around these two a bit much if he’s becoming this prone to dramatic turns of phrase. 

He’s brought out of his silent musing by Mr. William gesturing pointedly at each victim’s autopsy photo in turn.

“Let us start with the most obvious deductions shall we? Our assailant is a male, approximately 6’ to 6’4 inches in height. They have an extremely well muscled build, likely have a job that is centered around physical labor, are left-handed, and there is a distinct probability they have dark brown or black hair.” 

Billy’s jaw drops open, astounded. He looks at Ponytail, who doesn’t even look remotely surprised. Just returns Mr. William’s declaration with a slight nod of agreement. The gunslinger rubs at his eyes with his free hand. No matter how many times he sees them in action, it’s always a shock how much they can find in so little. It’s nothing short of pure magic the way they pull answers out of thin air with such confidence between the two of them. It could only be fate these two men were even alive at the same time, let alone able to find each other. He won’t even linger on all the other, extremely unlikely similarities the two share.

“Excellent observations as always Liam.” Ponytail is so proud, the way he chirps his praise. These two will drive him stock raving mad one day. 

“Why don’t we save some time and just say our thoughts out loud as we have them for those of us without superhuman cognitive abilities? Just so we all start and end on the same page throughout this little presentation?” he bites out, a little more exasperation leaking into his tone than he intended. Sue him, he’s tired. 

“Forgive me Billy,” Mr. William replies quickly, shooting him an apologetic smile. Sherlock’s eyebrows raise in mild surprise at his mood, but says nothing ultimately. Mr. William is a little more sheepish as he restarts his presentation. 

“For starters, let’s discuss height. The assault against Miss Beauregard left quite distinct impressions of the perpetrator’s approximate hand size. Using a linear regression equation we are able to approximate a height for our mystery attacker. The bruising pattern would leave some uncertainty in his actual hand measurements, thus the range of several inches in my supposition.” 

A linear regression equation. Sure. It would be pointless to bring attention to the fact Mr. William apparently did this calculation in his head in the blink of an eye. 

Mr. William steps forward to bring attention to the bruising on Beauregard’s arms. “The wounds on the unfortunate Miss Beaugard also allow us to find some answers on hand dominance. You’ll notice the handprints on her right arm are slightly more stark than the one on her left. And the impressions on her neck indicate she was held down by a right hand, not the left. Tell me Billy, when you strike someone, do you favor your dominant hand or your non-dominant one? Which one typically has more grip strength?” 

He then shifts to the picture of the Italian. 

“And these stab wounds here. Look at the angle of their entry. All were made by someone holding the blade with their left hands. Furthermore, bring your attention to these small indents next to several of the stab wounds.” Both Billy and Sherlock lean forward and squint. He hadn’t noticed before, but some of the punctures are flanked by almost small, rectangle-like punctures.

“It takes remarkably little force to stab someone,” Mr. William begins to explain matter-of-fact like.

What a chilling statement that is, Billy muses to himself. Of any of them, the blonde would know exactly how much force it takes to run someone through. 

“However, most people erroneously think that it is a difficult task. Our murderer, clearly inexperienced, likely labored under that same misconception. So they used far more force than required, and furthermore, used force excessive enough they were able to drive the blade so far into our victim the knife guard left indents on the muscle beneath any surface flesh or fat. That speaks to the musculature I suggested earlier, but I digress.”

 He’s on to the Native man next. 

“And here. The scalping was started on the left side of his forehead, see how the lacerations here are jagged? I want you to imagine trying to scalp someone lying before you personally. Which hand do you hold the blade in? On which side of the forehead do you start?” 

Billy rubs his jaw thoughtfully, chewing on the now obvious clues Mr. William stacks up so neatly. In retrospect, all the observations he’s making are obvious. Anyone could have made those same deductions, even if they never do. It’s a grim reminder of the ocean of difference between the men beside him and himself. The blonde is picking up speed now, firing off fervent observations one after another, gaining momentum with each new sliver of information he lets out. The gunslinger peeks at Sir Ponytail again. His expression is a strange mingling of excitement and pride; a potent mixture his other half often drags out of him. He doesn’t let his attention wander long, Mr. William shows no signs of slowing down, even if his next point causes him to hesitate.

“Jeremy..” he trails off solemnly, “Jeremy’s cervical spine was dislocated with a counter-clockwise motion.” His arms drop to his sides, fists clenched and shoulders drawn up close to his ears. He spins on his heel, the blandly pleasant facade he’s projecting doing a piss-poor job of covering up what he’s feeling for once and Billy deflates yet again. Of course Mr. William would have a soft spot for kids. 

Mr. William breathes deeply and relaxes his hands, raising them steadily to grasp an imaginary victim’s chin in his left hand before twisting violently exactly how he’d explained. There was no narratory explanation necessary for this visual. The imaginary victim’s head spins counter-clockwise if he uses his left hand as the primary torsional force. 

“As for hair color, look closely at Miss Beauregard’s fingertips.”

He and Sherlock stand to stalk closer in tandem, further squinting at the grainy black and white photo of the Frenchwoman.

Embedded within the caked blood of her ruined fingertips are several strands of dark hair. Sherlock whistles low, impressed.

“How is it ya got one eye and still somehow the best vision?” he asks playfully. 

Mr. William just rolls his one apparently extra good eye and shoos them back to their seats. 

“Finally, body type,” he begins again, “The murder simply must be a man with decent musculature. We already touched on this briefly with Mr. Henderson. Not to mention the magnitude of damage done to our poor spinster.” He hesitates briefly, considering his next words carefully, barely a whisper when they finally leave him. “Even with an enormous size difference, traumatic cervical dislocation is no easy task.” 

His shoulders sag almost imperceptibly as he strides back to his rightful place on their couch, half collapsing on the cushions but still looking as graceful as a swan while he does it. Sir Ponytail is quick to rejoin him. He lets a heavy sigh escape him before forging on with his deductions.

“Additionally, Mr. Henderson and,” his nose crinkles distastefully, “ Squanto were large. Not just in height but in build. Regardless of how the perpetrator captures or detains these victims, they would still need to be able to move their bodies, both prior to the crime and after. While it is strictly true that a woman could also complete these acts and have the necessary build to pull them off, it is statistically unlikely. Women of that size and strength are relatively rare, even at a traveling circus. Not to mention such a peculiarity would be noticed far more easily than a large man. You’ll recall not a soul ever saw anyone abducting any of these people, nor dumping their bodies? No matter how careful someone is, there’s always a witness. Meaning the criminal was still able to blend in enough they could avoid detection. It would be far more difficult to move unnoticed as a well-muscled woman larger than 6’ than it would be for a man of a similar build.”

He turns to Sherlock and cocks his head, somewhat of a knowing look on his face.

“What’s the first thing you noticed about my dear friend the Madam when you met her, Sherly?”

Sherlock takes a moment to reply, blue eyes going hazy while he chews over his response. Or buys himself enough time to take another drag of his rapidly dwindling cigarette. Never can tell with that one.

“I’m ashamed tah admit because it supports what you’re saying, and I don’ like how easily I fell into the status quo here, but it was how big she was. She’s a big, sturdy gal, tha’ one,” he relents, looking mildly chagrined.

Mr. William gives a pleased little ‘See?’ sort of wave in Sherlock’s direction, who just shrugs while reaching for another cigarette. Mr. William sends a quick look his way, not quite a glare, but enough that it stays Ponytail’s hand immediately. He huffs and lets his hand drop back to his lap, no further word of complaint. 

Billy doesn’t manage to completely hide the chuckle that escapes him, earning him an earnest mean mug from the detective, who proceeds to roll his eyes at him so hard he’s sure he heard them rattle around his big old head. Guess heinous multiple murders only gets you a pass for one smoke in the house. He sure does hate to think what sort of events would earn him two. 

Mr. William sits up again, slapping his thighs lightly when he does. He’s almost chipper with his victory over his housemate when he announces his intent to make them all some tea before they continue discussing the case. He heads into their kitchen, swiping Ponytail’s already used cup along the way. 

Left alone with Sherlock, Billy immediately jumps to start teasing. They’ve been so busy lately he hasn’t had the time to indulge in his God-given right, and he plans to exercise it thoroughly as his own form of stress relief right now. 

“So,” he starts innocently enough. Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, immediately suspicious. “Letting Mr. William make his own tea now, are you? What? Honeymoon over already? Bit soon for you to be devolving into a neglectful husband already. Poor Mr. William,” he laments dramatically while still keeping it quiet enough only the two of them can hear. This is an open concept apartment after all. 

He thinks a scowl might be his only response but Ponytail finally pipes up with a grumbled ‘He wanted to practice it,’ clearly displeased with missing out on some of his pampering duties. Billy clicks his tongue, mischievous smile unfurling across his face.

“I suppose it only makes sense Dear Liam wants a chance to spoil you back a little. I bet you still make him his coffee and breakfast every morning anyways.” He slides to the edge of his seat and lowers his voice even more. “Asides, I couldn’t help but notice how dusty Mr. William’s room looked when we were looking for him the other day.” He sees Sherlock go rigid and refuse to make further eye contact, heat slowly pooling in his cheeks despite his best efforts. The deafening silence is more damning than any weak defense he could have barked out. Perfect, Billy loves when he hits a nail on the head.

“Why do you think that is Sir Ponytail? He doesn’t seem like the kind of man to let his living space fall into disrepair. Almost like he hasn’t been spending a lot of time in there as of late,” he says conspiratorially, eyes flicking up to make sure the man in question is still out of ear shot. “How’s that for an observation based deduction?”

This time Sherlock remains deadly quiet, searching his face so intently Billy feels flayed open, but he stays resolute, eye contact steady. He knows how close to the cusp of being shut down he is, any sign of anything even remotely resembling insincerity or judgement on his part will make the emotionally cagey detective shut down–hard. It reminds him somewhat of how you should never turn your back on a predator in the wild actually. So Billy remains still, expression carefully open and full of genuine interest. Whatever Sherlock was looking for he must have found, because he sags and rubs roughly at the back of his head, a mannerism Billy has begun to think of as somewhat of an awkward tick of the detective’s. He sneaks a furtive glance back at Mr. William on the other side of their apartment, clearly struggling to make tea but not throwing in the towel yet. 

“It’s not….” he trails off, “like that,” Ponytail finishes lamely. Billy stares blankly at the detective while he flounders, falling silent again after several seconds of struggle. 

“Oh?” Billy encourages, motioning for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock scrubs at his eyes, suddenly looking far more stricken than he had a minute ago. 

“No.”

Oh, this was gonna be pulling teeth the whole time then. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. He peers around Sherlock, checking on Mr. William again. He’s got water on the stove, but doesn’t look too much closer to being done with their tea. Where did they even get the tea? 

“Looks like he’s gonna be working on that for a good few minutes yet,” he comments lightly, trying to reassure poor Ponytail it was safe to continue. Sherlock just grunts an affirmative. 

“One of the neighbors gave it to ‘im. Said they got it from a relative in Wales, and thought we would appreciate it more than she would.” He shrugs again, trying to pretend it wasn’t a very touching gesture. “Liam has been very cautious while learning to brew it so he doesn’t waste any.” He smiles so sweetly with his praise and it’s so precious it sends Billy’s hopelessly romantic heart fluttering. He’s quick to school his face back to pleasant neutrality, lest Ponytail figure out how thoroughly he enjoys this.

“Hard to think there’s anything Mr. William ain’t good at.” A clattering from the direction of the kitchen adds a dramatic underscore to the statement. They share an amused look, some of the tension leaking out of the encounter. 

“Ya know, Ponytail. You can talk to me. About anything. You know I would never judge.” Billy intends to let that be the end of it. Having his fun isn’t worth upsetting the guy over such a sensitive topic. He might be a pot stirrer, but this is one stew he’s gonna let simmer for its own good. Which is why he’s extremely surprised when Ponytail uncharacteristically takes him up on his offer. 

“Listen. It’s not tha’ I wouldn’ want… I’m gettin’ off track here. I guess it’s jus’...I mean, it’s all jus’ really kinda…complicated.” The hesitancy from the normally bold and brash detective is extremely offputting. He waits patiently for him to continue, checking one more time to make sure Mr. William is preoccupied. 

“I won’ get too much into it. ‘S not my place. But I know ya seen it. Liam doesn’ have the best sleep schedule.” 

“I think that would be underselling it a little, Ponytail.” Billy snorts. Underselling it is a huge understatement actually. The enigma that is Mr. William might continue to confound him in many ways, but one of the clearest things about the man was how much guilt chewed at him, often robbing him of entire nights of rest. The rare times he could convince Sherlock to leave the hospital for a good night’s sleep, it was at the cost of Billy taking over his midnight vigil. He’s no stranger to the spectres that haunt Mr.William’s mind, especially in the solitude that night brings. 

“Ya ain’ wrong on tha’ Billy.” Ponytail leans back, absently going for his cigarettes again half-heartedly before remembering he shouldn’t. His adherence to the “no smoking in the house” rule is unfairly endearing. Sherlock’s face contorts a little, dropping into something that looks suspiciously like shame. It’s so out of place on the raven-haired man Billy finds himself cocking his head in confusion.

“I might also be havin’ some difficulties with sleepin’ these days.” 

“What do you mean?” he asks gently. Sherlock’s line of sight flicks back over to Mr. William, who’s finally managed to get water in a kettle and is working steadily towards boiling it. That’s when it clicks for him. “Nightmares?” 

Sherlock’s face falls more, the tips of his ears turning red in unearned humiliation. Billy grimaces. That ain’t right. He reaches over and pats Sherlock’s leg placatingly.

“That ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. We all have things that haunt us. Regrets, fears. What-ifs and the like.” He waits until the detective makes eye contact with him before he continues. “Mr. William and I more than anyone would understand that.” Sherlock’s lips form a firm line. It’s obvious this sort of conversation is very difficult for him to be having, whether it be from discomfort from talking about this type of thing at all, or just the general confusion that surrounds untested human emotions for him in the first place.

“He knows about them. I can’ hide anything from him, even if I tried.” A melancholic half-chuckle escapes him, sounding partially hysterical. 

“It’s just. If he’s with me, they aren’ so bad ya know? And if he’s with me, then he actually sleeps instead of brooding ominously in the window all night, burnin’ his lungs out on my pilfered smokes.” 

If that don’t shoot him right through his big ol’ bleeding heart. He almost can’t keep it together enough to reply in any appreciable way. 

“I’m glad you two have each other, Sherlock. In whatever way that shakes out to be.” The giant, adorable git turns that shy, fledgling smile at him like it isn’t a weapon and Billy feels his insides turn to warm goo. He looks back at the man across from him, far too grateful for a show of basic decency, to the blonde in the kitchen trying very hard to look like he’s not eavesdropping on them and failing spectacularly at it. It’s undeniable he cares for these impossible fools like his own kin. He leans back in his chair, letting the comfortable silence envelope them. 

Damnit all. This session of teasing really went sideways. There will be other opportunities though, probably soon if he knows anything about these two. They seem to be physically incapable of reigning in their awful flirting, even if they don’t call it that, and he’ll get Ponytail alone to have a proper time of giving him the business over his obvious infatuation. 

For now though? This kinda conversation is alright too. 

Mr. William, who either has impeccable timing or impeccable hearing (the more likely of the two options) reappears with three cups of tea shortly after they finish their conversation. He deposits Sherlock and his cups on the table before he walks over to hand him his cup personally. Billy takes it, thankfully not startling when he feels slender fingers ruffle his curls fondly. He looks up just in time to take in the appreciative look on Mr. William’s face as both he and his hand retreats back to the couch. Billy tries to hide how flustered the gesture made him in his cup of tea, surely failing spectacularly. He sips at the drink, testing it.

It’s…not bad actually.  

“Thank you kindly Mr. William. I confess I ain’t much of a tea drinker, but this is pretty good. You even broke out the cream and sugar for me? I’m honored.” 

His attempt at levity is shot straight through when Mr.William very seriously replies ‘Anything for you, Billy’  in that way he does where what he says means more than just the surface of it. Yep, he definitely heard their entire conversation. At least Sherlock hasn’t seemed to realize.

Maybe being a nice guy isn’t too bad when he gets rewarded with sweet drinks and head pats. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock straightens up, extending his arms above his head in a way that treats him to a series of satisfying cracks. He’s been sitting too long and he’s starting to get stiff. Liam reaches out, taking his cup so he can stand up and stretch properly. He takes the few short steps to the caseboard and reviews what little they have. 

“Now that we’ve had some time to internalize what we already know, shall we do a little speculation?” He asks devilishly, rubbing his hands together. Liam lets out a dramatic gasp, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Baseless speculation Sherly? That’s beneath you,” he acts scandalized, clutching at his hypothetical pearls. 

“Not baseless!” Sherlock quips back. “Never baseless.” He clasps his hands behind his back, shoulders hunched and begins to pace in a pantomime of one of John’s book scenes. He feels strangely lighter after his conversation with Billy, even if he’d die before admitting it. He catches the shadow of amusement on the gunslinger’s face at his antics and begins his own segment of the case breakdown.

“Liam did a fantastic job, as expected, laying out the concrete details of the case.” Liam brightens under the genuine praise tucked into his theatrics. 

“Now we can move on to what’s not so easily proven. There’s distinct patterns in his victims that go beyond the obvious. Billy, what stands out to you the most, leaving out their unusual appearances?” Billy freezes, put on the spot by the unexpected questioning. Sherlock can’t help but smirk at his reaction. Just because he feels better after his chat with the strawberry blonde, doesn’t mean he’s not still a bit chuffed he was taken so thoroughly by surprise at Billy’s earlier taunting. Time for a little payback. The man in question buys himself a few seconds of time by taking a particularly indulgent sip of tea before replying.

“Well. If I’m bein’ totally honest, it’s the way the guy seems to target those he knows won’t garner too much attention if they turn up missing or dead.” 

That answer both surprises and doesn’t surprise him at all. It’s one of the patterns he’d picked up on as well. It’s rewarding to see Billy pick up on it as well.

“Elaborate,” he demands. Billy struggles with his thoughts for a few seconds but at last starts  trying to work through the meandering stream of consciousness running through his brain. 

“Well. People with unusual appearances tend to live on the fringes of society anyways, right? Hell, that’s kind of the entire schtick of a circus isn’t it? Taking all those people that were shunned because of their looks and put them on display for everyone to see.” Liam nods at him encouragingly, which spurs Billy to continue.

“But it’s more than that. Mr. Henderson and Miss Beauregard were immigrants, and like we saw with Sean’s case the police aren’t lining up to help in crimes against them. The Native American would probably have it even worse off in that respect. Bigotry takes on many shapes, and racism is a popular one here in the States. That’s probably why the only one of these cases that saw any actual police involvement was Mr. Weaver’s. He was the only victim that was a native born white American, and a child at that. But in the end, he was still a child from the lower class, so his case was dropped pretty quickly too.” 

Sherlock can see Billy mulling over something as he talks in that way his brow furrows. He’s on to something with his ramblings, he just needs a minute to get there. The gunslinger has grown a lot as an investigator in the short time they’ve been working together, far more than he’d expected. Billy’s got a knack for it, and a mind for analysis if he just fosters his talent. 

“That’s another thing about the victims all going missing at a circus. That sorta entertainment isn’t frequented by people of higher social standing. It’s for the everyday, lower class folks. So already it’s far easier to make any one of them go missing without much pushback from the law. There would be far more pressure on law enforcement if someone that came from money disappeared. But with these victims? What alternative do they have if the police brush them off? Sure, they went to Pinkerton, but as you can surely see none of them had the funds to have a proper investigation done. Hell, these are only the possible victims we know about. What if there’s more we don’t because their families never got beyond being turned away by the police?” 

“It’s quite possible Billy. We’ve only found a handful of victims, and the condition of their bodies suggests a man who is inexperienced with his dismal craft, as we discussed. However, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t killed before and the post-mortem mutilations are an evolution of his pattern,” Liam chimes in thoughtfully. 

That’s not a welcome thought, but one they must consider. Sherlock lets his eyes wander from picture to picture. Something nags at him as he looks at each picture in turn. He must be thinking loud enough for Liam to hear him, or more likely he’s having the same thoughts.

“What plagues your mind, detective?” Liam asks, gently dislodging him from his vague musings.

“It’s just like Billy said. The circus is full of folks with physical abnormalities that ostracise them from normal society. Our perpetrator also works with, or at least travels with, the circus. That implies he’s also most likely from poverty, though an odd runaway aristocrat isn’t unheard of I suppose. But usually the simplest answer is the correct one. Furthermore, this could also mean he also has some sort of disability or disfigurement that would result in normal society shunning him. Is it possible that could lend to his motive for murder?”

“What do ya mean by that Ponytail?” 

“I believe I can explain here, Sherlock. Do you mind?” Liam interjects. Sherlock motions for him to go ahead, rejoining him back on the couch. 

“Think for a moment on the duality of human nature. Characteristics that may be desirable in one person may glean the opposite effect when possessed by another. Or a person could be lauded in one circumstance, but vilified under a different one.” He begins again hesitantly. “I’ll offer myself up as an example. I’m well aware that I have somewhat of an…unusual appearance. Not altogether unlike Miss Beauregard honestly, though I have never been diagnosed with any specific medical condition.”

Sherlock cringes. He should have known Liam would immediately pick up on the similarities between himself and one of the victims. It almost seems like testing fate to say it aloud though. ‘Are you being superstitious Sherly? How illogical of you’ his inner irritating voice chides. Call it what you will, but there’s something to be said about going after a killer when you match his preferred victim profile. It puts a hard pit in his stomach he’d rather not think too hard on right now. 

“Before I became a part of the Moriarty household, people often shunned or abused me for my appearance. Honestly, the Moriarty’s did as well, but that’s a story for another time,” Liam says so nonchalantly it takes a second to register.

“What?” Sherlock bites out harshly. Liam gives him a sympathetic look but overall ignores his outburst.  

“After I joined the Moriarty household, and high society at large, that scorn quickly shifted into praise. Suddenly my red eyes weren’t devilish, they were striking. My pale skin wasn’t unnatural, it was beautiful. People stopped being off-put by my looks, and started being covetous.”

Sherlock and Billy share a look, each holding their breaths as Liam continues on, nervous for the direction this narrative is taking.

“It’s actually something that has worked in my favor more than once when infiltrating human trafficking rings or the seedy elite clubs of corrupt nobles.”

“How do you mean, Mr.William?”  Billy asks innocently. Sherlock cringes as soon as he asks, knowing with absolute certainty he’s not going to be happy with the answer. 

“Well, are you familiar with a honey-pot mission Billy?” 

Sherlock’s soul leaves his body. He was absolutely correct in his prior assumption. Billy colors violently, mouth agape and staring Liam down with an inscrutable look.

“I…am,” he replies shakily, hands gripping the chair tightly enough they’re leaving indents.

“Oh good. Well, my organization would not typically engage in those types of missions, but in some rare occasions it was a necessary evil. Typically Moran, one of my subordinates, would take on the lion’s share of those. I rather think he liked them. But there would be times when he wasn’t suited to the role. The most common of those circumstances were in situations of human trafficking and illicit sex clubs.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the apartment. Liam somehow took this as the go-ahead to continue.

“Now, in the case of human trafficking it depended on the preferred goods the organizations were moving. We had agents for markets that preferred women, children, and,” he gestures at himself again, “distinctive appearances. I have the very singular honor of knowing exactly what I would fetch on the black market,” he titters mirthfully before pauses, face falling a little when he mindlessly reaches up to place a gentle finger on the edge of his scarred eye.

“Though I suppose my value has depreciated as of late…”

“NO!” Sherlock yells, altogether too loudly, startling both Liam and Billy. Sherlock breathes deeply, trying to will his flaming face back into submission while ignoring both the unrestrained glee on Billy’s face and the confusion on Liam’s. He clears his throat roughly.

“What I mean was, you didn’t depreciate. Not at all.” He can’t look at them, not now. He stares straight at the ceiling. “I think ya look perfect, scars an’ all.” Sherlock sits through several long seconds of silence before he’s willing to chance a look at his companions. He can already tell he’s gonna pay hell with Billy later from the way he’s covering his mouth with a fist, eyes shiny with the laughter he’s trying desperately to hold in.

Liam though. He looks dumbstruck, a light dusting of pink across his pale cheeks as he stares openly at Sherlock. Sherlock coughs a little, desperate to make any noise to break the tension that isn’t him opening his dumb mouth to put his whole foot up to the ankle into it. Liam takes several long moments to just scrutinize the detective before finally looking away, still slightly flustered.

“Thank you Sherly. That’s incredibly kind of you to say,” he whispers. Suddenly Billy, the damnable, wicked creature that he is, pipes up with the absolute worst thing he could have asked. 

“And the sex clubs, Mr. William?” 

The shit-eating grin is undeniable. Sherlock glares at him hotly, screaming every obscenity he can think of with his eyes. Liam either chooses to ignore him or his ire goes right over his head. 

“Ah yes, please forgive me. The sex clubs.” 

Please. Not the sex clubs. He can’t go through this. 

“You see, much of the nobility is made up of depraved sex fiends. This would be none of my concern if it wasn’t for how often this ties in with human trafficking and other heinous crimes, which is where I come in. When there were those of particular tastes, whether male or female, I would step forward to act as bait. I doubt you would be shocked to learn that what the upper class gets up to behind closed doors differs greatly from what they present to the public. So when the need arose I would infiltrate, either as an unwilling victim or traditional honeytrap to distract or otherwise dispose of our target while my team carried out their own missions.” 

“Wasn’t that scary though?” Billy looks like he can’t decide if he’s more horrified or enthralled by the story. Liam looks thoughtful. 

“To the victims it was. To me? Sometimes, I suppose. But you have to remember the sort of sordid activities I was fighting against were unfortunately rather commonplace to me from a very early age. I had been taking part in those sorts of missions since I was young, so something as mundane as openly displaying and practicing all manner of sexual proclivities was nothing that I wasn’t familiar with.”

“What do you mean since you were young?” Sherlock chokes out without thinking. Damn his compulsion to ask questions. Billy too, looks to be on the edge of his seat. 

“Oh, I suppose I was around 12 or 13 when I completed my first mission of that sort. I was small for my age, so I was able to effectively pass as a younger child for that particular mission.” 

He feels rage explode in his chest thinking of a younger, smaller Liam putting himself in danger to face monsters much larger and stronger than himself. He’s so abruptly infuriated he doesn’t manage to control his face in time, and Liam immediately clocks his fury. What he doesn’t expect is the pitying look Liam gives him from his position leaned against his fist on the back of their couch.

“Don’t let it upset you, Sherly. That was a long, long time ago. It wasn’t pleasant, no, but our work saved dozens of children that day, and countless others over the years.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow, just about to argue back when Liam cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“I’m sure you’re imagining a smaller, more vulnerable version of the person you see in front of you. Stop. It’s not reality.” There’s something undeniably cold in his tone. “By that time I had already murdered nearly two dozen people in cold blood, my adoptive family among them. I was far from innocent, and no amount of what I encountered in those clubs would have changed that.” 

That shuts him up quick, even if he doesn’t agree with the sentiment. What Liam said is undeniable fact, even if the truth behind it is far more nuanced. It still doesn’t make it right, or fair. There’s no point in arguing this now though. Billy sighs heavily, looking utterly miserable for a variety of reasons. Liam looks between them and huffs.

“I appreciate how defensive you two are on my behalf, but there’s truly no need. As I said, these missions were not frequent, and often shared between myself and my other associates. I would never ask them to do something I was not willing to do myself and that includes putting myself, body and soul, at risk for the sake of the mission.” He runs a hand through golden hair, smoothing it back out neatly.

“Besides, I’m far from a blushing maiden at this point in my life. Infiltrating a masochistic orgy of drugged up nobles would have been a rather dull day by the end of my run as the Lord of Crime if I’m being honest.” 

“A what?!” Sherlock sputters pathetically, dueted by Billy’s squawk of shock beside him. Liam. At an orgy. Masochism? Did he? Surely not. But what if? If it was for the mission then…no! He’s frantically looking everywhere but the former noble while he cycles through question after question he really doesn’t want answered, each one leading to a more damning thought than the last. He’s spiralling fast and it shows. His whole body is so hot he thinks steam may be coming out of his ears soon from his fried brain. Liam laughs heartily, drawing him out from behind the hands he didn’t realize he was hiding behind. He settles down quickly and positively pins Sherlock with a look that sets all the detective’s internal warning systems off. 

“What a reaction, my dear Detective,” he smiles, a wicked, mischievous thing matched only by the devilish glint in his eye. “I never expected you to be such a prude.” Realization dawns like sunrise across his features, and his expression darkens in a way Sherlock is not familiar with, but somehow sends his guts twisting in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. Liam clicks his tongue and leans forward, closing the distance between them to gaze up at him appraisingly through long, blonde eyelashes. The proximity does not help Sherlock get his head back on straight by any stretch of the imagination. He holds his breath, anticipation not dissimilar from what a man with a noose around his neck feels coursing through his veins. Liam licks his lips languidly, staring him down like he’s the most delicious of meals and the blonde is just starving. 

“I may not be a blushing maiden,” he purrs, piercing mismatched eyes never once looking away from Sherlock’s own, “but perhaps…” Liam is mercifully interrupted by a nigh inhuman sound. Sherlock whips his head to look at Billy, who is making a high pitched wheeze from his bent over position, face-in-hands. He feels Liam watch him for several more seconds before finally deigning to look away, releasing Sherlock from his devilish grasp at last. He’s almost about to put himself together enough to ask Billy if he’s alright when a knock sounds against their door, making both he and Billy startle. 

Billy jumps up and announces he’ll see who it is before fleeing. Sherlock is almost certain he hears him mutter ‘Oh thank you sweet baby Jesus’ when he passes, but he can’t be sure. An unfamiliar voice answers Billy’s greeting shortly after, but the gunslinger seems no less frazzled than he did before, talking briefly but animatedly with whoever is in the hall for but a minute before returning.

“That was a Pinkerton agent. We just got word the circus is headed towards Philadelphia. We can make transportation arrangements to get us there on time if we leave within the hour.” 

They stand up, headed to their rooms to grab their go bags. Liam had insisted they each have one ready to go for situations like this. They’re packed within 5 minutes, descending the steps quickly to meet Billy outside, carriage on standby. They slam the door and knock on the divider, off to start their new mission in under 10 minutes flat. Liam looks at his watch, pleased. 

“So, what’s the plan then? I know one of you has got to have at least the framework going by now.” Billy pipes up, apparently recovered from his earlier respiratory malfunction. 

“Actually Billy, about that,” Liam chimes in. Sherlock quirks a brow at him curiously.

“Do you think it would be possible to have the train delayed?”

“Maybe. What’re you thinking Mr. William?” Liam turns to Sherlock, the promise of trouble clear in every line of his face.

“Sherly, how would you like to join the circus?” 

‘Oh boy’ Sherlock thinks, the flutter of excitement twisted up in anticipation tight in his chest, ‘here we go again.’