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

"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

Even Sherlock was silent upon the revelation. It was hard to tell, though, whether he was disgusted or fascinated. (Probably the latter.) But he still knew evil when he saw it, and this, no doubt, was not the 'side of the angels.'

He saw the look in Sam's eyes, too - like that of a wild animal about to attack, purely for the joy and thrill of it. Sherlock's heart immediately started racing, his fingers twitching. He felt the buzz in his pocket, already knowing it had to be Lestrade. He would have to wait.

Given John's distraction, he became Sam's target; the most vulnerable. He flung his machete with precision, having wielded the thing, Sherlock was sure, with experience from his upbringing on the farm. (The tan, the calloused hands - the chemical burns from mixing poison stood out against them.) The young man raised the blade.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, jumping out at Sam, ramming his shoulder into him. It knocked him back a few steps, thumping into a whole pig. He gave a shout of frustration, throwing his arm out, his fist slamming into Sherlock's face.

"Stop meddling!" he yelled.

John whipped his head around in time to see Sam's fist plunge into Sherlock's face. Before Sam could break away and raise his machete over Sherlock, John grappled him around the shoulders. They went tumbling down on the concrete, the flailing of Sam's machete knocking over a nearby bucket of entrails. They spilled onto the floor like a thick soup, sprawling out across the ground as the both John and the murderer struggled to regain control.

"You dumb sod," Sam growled out, slithering out of John's grasp and striking with the machete. It made a hard sound against the concrete.

"I knew you'd show up eventually. After the little slip-up. You and Sherlock Holmes. I've read about you, you know. You should really learn to mind your own business."

The machete came down again.

John caught the shaft with the flat of his arm and parried it. In the few moments that Sam was thrown off balance under the force of deflection, John scrambled to his feet. He almost lost his balance on a slippery footing of animal intestines, but was ultimately able to pace back a few steps from Sam. He reached around to his side pocket.

No gun. Why hadn't he brought the gun?!

Sherlock was certainly reprimanding himself now, for foolishly underestimating their killer. A lanky young man, making chemicals in his basement? He shouldn't have been so strong; so willing to take on two people at once with the confidence that he'd make it out alive. He was proving to be more difficult than he thought.

Which was why Sherlock was glad he brought the gun. But it only had one shot in it. (He made a quick mental note to add 'bullets' to the grocery list later.)

He pulled it out of his coat, shaking the dizziness from the punch out of his head. His shot was blocked by chunks of hanging meat, now swinging from the commotion. Sherlock's sense were flooded - the scent of decay, the frigidity stilling his fingers, the ache in his jaw, keeping focus on Sam, dodging meat as he tried to line a shot to Sam's shoulder.

"Don't you move, Sam!" he warned.

Sam looked at Sherlock blankly for a few seconds, and though their eyes met for barely a few seconds between the swinging chains and meat, it was enough time to read an expression of pure disinterest from him. Disinterest in the gun. Disinterest in the idea that he could be shot. He had seen that Sherlock had it, but he didn't react. He wasn't any stronger than he looked. Not at all. But a lot of adrenaline and determination could be a very powerful think. "We haven't sold pork here for awhile," Sam mumbled out. "Virus wiped out most of the farm's pig stock. Except for Penny, of course, she was an inside pig."

Clap.

The machete sunk it's teeth into a side of lamb. John took a step back.

"It's funny, you know... humans and pigs are alot alike," Sam said. "They can be intelligent, funny, and they'll eat just about anything you put in front of them. I've been eating pork all my life. How was I supposed to know I was eating my best friend?"

Clap.

The machete sunk it's teeth into a side of beef. John took a step back.

"Just, calm down," John said firmly, putting his palms in the air. "Just put the knife away, we don't have to--" Sam lunged at him. "OK, point made."

John clamped his fingers around Sam's machete wielding arm, and he exerted enough strength to twist Sam's arm back. He anchored Sam's other arm in place and shoved him against the wall. Sam just grimaced. The way his body shook it was obvious he was struggling against the stronghold. John's made a mistake by trying to work his grip up Sam's wrist and free the machete. John easily overpowered him, but Sam was persistent, and in the second that John fumbled with Sam's wrist, Sam broke away for long enough to swing the Machete down.

Clap.

The machete sunk it's teeth into John's shoulder.

John howled in pain, the wound immediately burning. The blade had stuck so deep into John's shoulder that Sam faltered when trying to pull it out. John kicked him, it was almost reflexive. The blow to Sam's stomach caused him to crumple against the wall, his grip slipping on the handle of the machete. John backed away immediately, the pain on his shoulder almost pulling him to his knees. The machete flagged up from John's shoulder, steely and splattered with blood (how much of it was John's own was questionable). It was lodged in place.

"Shit," John breathed. "Oh shit. OK, just don't look at it."

Of course he'd be the type to not care about the gun trained right on him.

Sherlock's fingers tightened on the handle of the gun. He called for him to drop the machete, to step back, to stop what he was doing – but his story continued as he was quickly cornering John. He glanced between the two, sidestepping so that Sam was in his view constantly.

He thought they were in the clear once John had him held – but no, it seemed they both underestimated this man. Before he could back up John, Sam broke the hold, and that awful sound of metal slicing flesh sounded, and-

It barely took a millisecond after for the gunshot to echo in the frozen chamber. The bullet ripped straight through the butcher's shoulder – the same exact one that he had injured on John. It was almost so precisely similar, that one might think Sherlock was collected enough to calculate the exact way to achieve it.

While the shot had felled Sam to his knees, it wasn't enough. Sherlock brought the butt of the gun down on his face (with enough force to fracture his jaw), kicking him down. The gun's point dug into Sam's neck, pressing hard enough to leave an imprint. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and his fingers became iron in the bloodied apron he wore. He needlessly thudded Sam's head into the concrete floor with what almost sounded like a crack.

“I will tell you now, that you will be lucky if you leave this room alive,” Sherlock said, his voice madly steady at first, before gradually becoming a growl.

He looked over his shoulder at John while Sam was dizzied. Sherlock felt a violent fury flow through his limbs, and he found himself analyzing every little way he could make Sam suffer, repay the damage he dealt John tenfold - but instead he shoved him over, pulling handcuffs from his pocket (undoubtedly Lestrade's as well), capturing his hands in the metal links before rushing to John.

"I'm calling for help right now," Sherlock said, his sentence rushed as he fumbled for his phone and began to dial Lestrade. "Don't move!"

John settled onto his knees, looking at Sherlock with a wide-eyed expression. He had never seen Sherlock thrown into such a fury, never so shaken with panic. The last time John could remember seeing Sherlock's resolve so damaged was when he was drugged. The reaction, seeming almost out-of-character to John, was so naturally compassionate that he couldn't help but smile in spite of his condition.

"I'm OK," John reassured, his hand clutching just below the wound.

"No, you're not," Sherlock said, sounding as panicked as he could while being completely flat in tone. "Lestrade. 28 Howling Lane. Bring an ambulance. John's been hurt."

He hung up without waiting for a response. Sherlock's eyes ran up and down the blade, his brow creasing. His hands had come to rest on John's knee, surprisingly light for the expression on his face. The rage hadn't subsided completely. It was taking a lot not to turn around and butcher the man responsible.

"Don't pull it out," John breathed, sitting back as Sherlock knelt in front of him. "The hospital will take care of all that."

John began to flex his fingers. The pain from his shoulder down to his forearm was searing. This was nothing like getting shot. He'd taken a bullet to the same shoulder during his military career. He recalled the bullet passing straight though. The immediate sensation was like getting hit very hard, and the pain didn't set in until about an hours. That had been far more bearable than what he was feeling now. His split nerves were screaming at him.

"I'm going to look at it," but John turned away from the imagery of his mutilated shoulder almost as soon as he set his glance on it. "Oh jesus, shit, yeah. No, I'm not going to look at it."

Sherlock frowned at him.

"And you call yourself a doctor?"

"And I've dealt with a lot worse to be honest," John shot back. "But this is my arm."

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this reminds me how no one ever falls for sherlock's disguises

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