circle7 | a lovely date for a murder, don't you agree

"Five minutes," John echoed in disbelief.

He dragged himself out of bed, quickly fishing a jumper and some jeans from his dresser. He took a brush from the bathroom too, because he doubted he'd have time to flatten out his bedhead before Sherlock jumped in cab.

Five minutes. It wasn't a minute longer before they were on route. John could tell from the mellow light of the sky that it was still morning. It was only once they were in the backseat of a cab that he bothered to check his cell phone for the time. 8:32 AM. So he'd gotten maybe 5 hours of sleep in total. That wasn't so bad, John thought. Although competitively Sherlock had gotten about 3. John wondered how he was so bright-eyed.

For how early it was, he was very attentive to their surroundings. Sherlock watched outside the window, and as they drew closer to their destination, he seemed to be looking for something in particular.

"Here! Stop here!" he shouted to the cabbie, who was briefly alarmed before pulling over. Sherlock jumped out, tossing a bill at the driver blindly. "He's here, John! There's his truck!"

Pulled to the side of the restaurant, there was indeed a white, blocky truck. No one would think twice about it being there, and about a man carrying produce and meat inside. Brilliant. But going off the schedule was his flaw. While it might've fooled the police to go a day early, it wouldn't fool Sherlock Holmes. The man had to know they were onto him, so he jumped ahead a step. After this, Sherlock was sure his movements would become more sporadic. This was their last chance to have the upper hand.

As soon as the man turned a corner, he shot off sprinting like a wound-up rubber band, dropping the full-sized pork shoulder he’d had in tow onto the pavement. John tailed him, turning the corner fast enough to see the shoulder burst like a tossed grapefruit. John was flecked with a unpleasantly slimy coating of meat juice. He stalled to make a face and glare down at his now speckled Jumper. He’d at least shielded Sherlock from the spray, who was now darting ahead of him. John entered into a run again in effort to catch up.

Being in the British army worked to John’s advantage from time to time. He didn’t look it, stout-figured as he was, but John could run. He kept perfect pace behind Sherlock, tailing the deliveryman through twisting alleys and sidewalks, rounding stairs and dodging the odd pedestrian. A good mile from the truck, their chase came to a sudden halt. The man tripped. There was not tackling or take-down necessary. Their deliveryman simply tripped. He straight face-planted into the ground, arms spread out and heels in the air. He didn’t even make an effort to escape as Sherlock and John surrounded each side of him. He just crowded his arms around his head and withdrew.

“Leave me alone!” The deliveryman shouted. “It wasn’t me! I swear it!”

Sherlock came to a halt quickly, and planted his foot firmly upon the man to make sure he didn't move. Even while he hid his face, the blood spouting from his nose was on his hands and the ground. The man probably gave himself a small concussion from the fall.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock said. He jerked the wallet out of the man's back pocket and pulled his phone from his coat. He looked inside, then back up to the man on the ground. "So why'd you do it, Mark Gables?"

"I-I said I didn't!"

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock yanked something else out of his pocket - a vial of clear liquid. He shoved the man onto his back with his foot, placing a knee on his chest.

"I have here a sample of your poison," he said coolly, unscrewing the cap. "I wonder if you'd like to try?"

The man looked up at him with terrified eyes.

"You... you wouldn't..."

Writhing underneath Sherlock's knee, the deliveryman tried desperately to turn his face away from the vial.

"Please! Don't make me drink it! I wasn't in cahoots with them, I swear!" the deliveryman gasped out. "I'm just trying to run a respectable business! None of my goods are poisoned. Not today. Please, you have to believe me. I went 50-some miles out to a different supplier just to make sure."

Sherlock frowned. It was the truth. He knew as soon as he saw his name, but he had to be sure.

Heaving himself up, Sherlock stepped away, and the man laid there for another frightened moment before slowing getting to his feet. Sherlock was texting Lestrade, his frown still set.

"I... can I go?" he asked John, wiping his nose, a little shaky.

"Uh, yeah," John said, helping the man to a stand. "Sorry for, um, chasing you down here and all that. Just... who exactly was it that you picked up that meat from."

"I don't know," the man practically whimpered. "I picked up the pork from one of the local butchers just outside of London. I collect from a lot more than one store... nothing seemed particularly out of place. Old Sam at the cutting board was out sick though, I remember that much. Had his son running the counter."

The consulting detective seemed to perk up at the new details. He veered around to face the delivery man, leaning in uncomfortably close.

"Describe his son exactly as you remember him."

"Um," The deliveryman stepped back to allow some space between them. "He was a pretty small guy. Lanky. Short hair. Didn't look much like the butcher type. Could barely carry a rack of meat to the truck."

Sherlock's intense stare quickly turned to a grin.

"And an address, please."

"28 Howling Lane," the deliveryman quickly said. "Can I please go now?"

"Let's go, John!" Sherlock didn't even bother to answer the man, immediately dashing off to their new destination.

"I, um, really sorry about this," John muttered to the man shortly before tailing behind Sherlock.

Luckily, the shop wasn't too far. They made it there within five minutes. When they arrived, Sherlock was the first to enter, but...

No one was in the shop.

He glanced around carefully, leaning over the counter to look further, his brow beginning to crease with the wait. He looked down by his hand, where there was a little bell with a small sign that read, Ring bell for service. So he rang it.

Thirty seconds passed with no answer.

"Could be a trap," Sherlock whispered to John, before he spoke up, using the meager voice he often did for his ploys. "Anyone here? I-I need some meat for my shop!"

"Sorry! Sorry! I'll be right out to help you in just a minute!" came a call from the back room.

John watched warily as a young adult emerged from the curtain behind the counter. He fit the deliveryman's description to a T. The boy was tall and skinny, with a head of short cut, spiny brown hair. He had a heavily bloodied apron, no doubt from butchering, and a pair of similarly dirtied latex gloves, which he pulled off and tossed aside before greeting his guests at the edge of the counter.

"What can I get for you?"

Sherlock smiled benignly.

"All your pork, please."

"All of the pork?" The young butcher asked. "You've got to be joking, it'd take all day to prepare that much."

"It's vital for the health of London," Sherlock said seriously.

"The health of London? What are you-," the boy paused. "Oh. Oh. This is about the poisonings in London, isn't it? Are you with the police or something? That meat couldn't have come from our stock, and I'm not about to hand it all over to you without being compensated."

Sherlock flashed a badge at the young man. (Gregory Lestrade's, of course.)

"It's in your best interest to cooperate, Sam Wright Jr.," he continued. "This is a very serious offense."

"There's no offense here, officer," Sam insisted. "Honest. You can inspect all or meat. My dad's in the back. Go talk to him."

"Oh, is he? I heard he's out sick. Wouldn't want a sick man near your product now, would you?"

"He's not really out sick," Sam admitted, sounding almost apologetic. "He's been keeping to the back a lot lately. Never wants to come up to the counter. Most of our customers have been looking for him, so that's just what I've been telling them."

"Should we have a look, then?" John asked, his glance edging over in Sherlock's direction.

"By all means," chirped Sam from behind the counter. "I'd much rather let you inspect the place than hand over all the pork. I mean, we haven't been selling much with the recent news, I don't think anyone is... but even a little profit is something."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the boy, but he made no comment. It was most definitely a trap. He gave John a look, one that said 'be on your toes.'

They followed him in silence, but it was a short trip to the back of the small store. There were only two doors; one to a cramped office (empty; the lights were off and the keys were hanging from the handle), and a large, iron door which emanated its freezing insides off its surface. Sherlock gave it a look up and down before turning to young Sam Jr.

"I'd hate to interrupt your father if he's busy in there," Sherlock stated, the sarcasm probably not lost on John, motioning to the meat locker.

The whole of the backroom was dimly lit, with poured concrete floors and cutting tables greased with blood and fat. Several of the tables hosted dirty processing equipment like cleavers, meat saws, and grinders. John found himself a bit unnerved by the whole atmosphere, and the sour stench that permeated through the room was enough to make anyone lose their appetite for meat. He was cautious, and even beyond Sherlock's warning, it was obvious that he felt something was out of place.

"Not at all," Sam said with a smile. "He hasn't taken too kindly to visitors lately, but since it's important, I think he'll spare the time for you."

A rush of cold air swirled towards them as Sam unlocked the iron door, prying it open. The fridge room was no more dark that the main-room, but the walls were overwhelmingly white. Well, yellowish-white, with a lot of frothy bits of red and orange that had hardened onto the tile. Inside there were stacked up boxes littering the floor, and hanging from the ceiling were rows and rows of raw, stripped sides of beef, lamb, pig, as well as an assortment of other cuts. John was hesitant to venture in, but ultimately decided to trail along once Sam took the lead.

Not until he started toward back-end of the cooler did John realize exactly what was amiss here. He noticed that the bits of pork, sparingly hung along the lines of veal strips and drying beef, were increasingly looking less and less like pork as he made his descent into the freezer. When he reached the end of the meat locker, after shouldering through veils of naked carcasses and weaving through towers of packed entrails and bargain cuts, John saw it. Three human corpses lined up. He was shocked silent.

All three corpses were hung from the neck, dangling down in a perfect line with the other products, as if they were no different than a flank of cattle. They were even skinned, and all but one hollowed out and detached below the rib cage. There was just an open cavity where a chest should be, surrounded by a neatly shaved strips of ribs. Part of the spinal cord dangled below, but there was nothing connected to it. The legs had been salvaged, most of the arms as well. No doubt they were the smaller cuts of pork that were windowed at the front of the store and hung throughout the locker.

"Oh god," John withdrew, a frosty cloud puffing up from his lips as he exhaled. He backed into a shoulder a beef, turning in distraction, his glance just missing Sam pluck out a machete that had been stuck by its point into one of the human carcasses.

And then, with impeccably late (and perhaps somewhat amusing if they were in a different situation) timing, both Sherlock and John received a text:

These people haven't been eating Pork -GL

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spoiler: the vial is actually filled with water

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