A/N: A big thank-you to Lemon Zinger, who prompted this story with 'Holmes is chasing someone through tents.' I meant to finish it by Halloween, but did the majority of it today, so I am uploading it now. And a belated Happy Halloween to all of you. Enjoy, all! –SWS

-Holmes PoV-

Even I had to admit that an abandoned circus was very unnerving. Watson had made some comment about unseen forces when we arrived and now I forced myself to mentally admit that I agreed with him.

We had split up to search the place, and I had to remind myself that I was alone when I heard a faint noise somewhere behind me and turned around, grasping my revolver tightly.

Or was I alone? The front flap of the fortune-teller's tent was swaying back and forth- ominously so, for there was no breeze at all.

As I slowly advanced on the tent, a childhood memory suddenly took over my vision. There was a small, dark-haired boy quaking in a shadowy corner, and a teenaged Mycroft- then possessing the family's hereditary lankiness- bending worriedly over him….

No, I told myself firmly. You will not think about that day. You must forget it all.

But I couldn't, hard as I might try. I still heard my sister's scream when she uncovered what… what I had done.

I shuddered involuntarily, chills running up and down my spine at the thought of it. I slid through an open gap in the tent, looking around for any signs of human presence.

Suddenly I noticed the other end of the tent flapping in the nonexistent breeze as well. I bolted over and silently followed the unseen person through the other end of the tent. Just as I reached the next in the row of booths, a glimpse of dark fabric rushed by, and the sound of heavy breathing reached my ears. The figure in black pushed through the end of the tent and into the next one.

I followed suit, bursting into the next booth once again as the far end was flapping in the breeze that wasn't there.

Who on earth was running from me, and why were they running? We were just searching the grounds, not even accusing anybody. Besides, who would have reason to be here? The circus had been evacuated so we could search for clues pertaining to the identity of the killer.

A chill ran through me, not even due to the freezing air of the October night. There had been a killer in their midst, and now possibly in our midst. After all, what reason would someone have to be here except to dispose of incriminating evidence before we found it?

I remembered what had been said about unseen forces and submerged into complete mental panic. Could there be more than one of them? I hoped not, for I didn't think myself capable of fighting off more than one of them. Not only that, but we were split up. Which left Watson alone, with no backup, I realized.

And then followed the realization that if he was alone, then so was I.

As more rustling came to my attention I corrected my thoughts. No, not alone.

With not a thought as to what lay ahead, I rushed forward again.

This time, when I came upon the next tent, the figure in black was bent breathlessly over a table on the left side of the room, searching hurriedly through an ornate box.

He looked over and saw me. His eyes widened, his breath quickened. He pushed over the table to block my path and took off through the tent entrance.

Fortunately the table only blocked one side of the space, so I sprinted around to the other side of the support pole in the center of the tent and exited without harm.

We were out of the row of tents. Out in the open. But the figure running across the field knew better. He was making a direct beeline for the woods.

I cursed mentally, as I had not enough breath to do so verbally, and took off after him.

Sooner than I would have liked we entered the woods, three miles long by five miles wide, and incredibly dense.

There was no chance of taking a straight path. Anywhere, you would soon have to weave and dodge a tree or two. All these curves made it deucedly easy to lose one's way, especially at top speed.

I nearly fell over as my foot caught on a tree root and I sharply veered to avoid smashing my nose on an enormously thick oak tree. But I kept on going, keeping my ears tuned for the sound of crunching leaves ahead of me.

A moment later I spotted a figure up ahead, turning in a circle and peering around him anxiously.

I lifted my revolver. "Stop!" I commanded, advancing steadily but breathlessly on the figure.

He spread out his arms in frustration. "Holmes, I lost him!"

Watson, I thought in relief, lowering my weapon. "Lost who, old fellow?"

"You mean you don't know? Well then, who in heaven's name were you chasing?"

"I don't know," I told him. "A figure dressed in black was running through the tents, and I chased him. You?"

"A figure dressed in black, running through the house of mirrors. I chased him."

I nodded. So there had been two of them, as I suspected. What were they looking for, on opposite sides of the circus?

Before I could stop it, another memory came flooding back, and with the horror of it I gasped and put a hand against a tree trunk for support.

Their oldest sister- older than Mycroft by two years- had taken them to the circus for fun, or so the boys thought.

Rachelle had left the boys to talk to the ringmaster while she went off to meet "a friend."

A few moments later the lion tamer arrived to ask where the feed had been placed, and the ringmaster left, giving the boys permission to explore.

Sherlock was fascinated with seeing the knife-thrower, and Mycroft the Siamese Twins. They fought, and finally split up.

Sherlock peeked in the slightly parted entrance flap of the knife-thrower's tent, and gasped at what he saw.

It was Rachelle, and the large, muscled knife-thrower.

"No, I can't," came Rachelle's voice, soft but urgent. "I must leave."

"No." The man's voice was harsh and firm, commanding. "Stay."

"I can't." She said it slower, clearer, firmer, hoping to make him understand. She turned and began to walk toward the flap. Sherlock darted to the back of the tent and peeked under the canvas so as to keep watching safely.

"No!" said the man again, and he grabbed a hold of her arm.

Rachelle tried to yank it away, but he was too strong for her.

"You must stay with me. I promise we'll leave after tonight's show," he pleaded with her. "Please, just one more night!" He let go of her arm. "You must understand."

"I don't. I am sorry." Her voice was cold now as she again turned away and made to leave.

This time he pushed her hard. She fell onto his crude mattress with a small cry.

"You will stay," he commanded her harshly.

With a swift motion Rachelle reached for one of the knives sitting on the table beside the bed. She raised the gleaming blade as if to threaten him, and she got up and slowly backed towards the entrance. Although the hand holding the knife never wavered, her voice shook greatly when she next spoke. "I will never come with you," she said, "now that I know the sort of man you are."

And she left.

Sherlock was beside himself with fury, but he had a plan. He would not let this go by without defending his sister and her moral rights.

He got up, carefully brushed all the dust off his clothes, squared his shoulders, and entered the tent.

The knife-thrower turned towards him. "May I help you?" He asked calmly, as if nothing had just happened.

"Yes, sir," said the young Sherlock politely, "may I have a demonstration of your skills before tonight's show?"

The man grinned, which ridiculously elongated his black facial hair and goatee. "I would be delighted," he said, picking up a knife and squaring himself in front of the throwing board. "You hold it steady," he said, "you aim, bring it back past your ear, swing forward and… release." The knife hurtled through the air and embedded itself in the very center of the board with a surprisingly loud THWOCK.

"May I try, sir?" asked Sherlock, mock eagerly.

"Of course." The practiced knife-thrower handed the young boy a knife and helped him correct his stance. At this point Sherlock was barely managing to control his anger.

"Past your ear," said the man quietly, gently holding the boy's arm in place.

At that moment, Sherlock jerked his hand out of the man's grasp, whirled around, and plunged the knife into the meaty, muscled flesh. The man cried out in agony as he fell.

Tears blurred Sherlock's vision, and he knew not what to do but run. Before he knew it he was in the house of mirrors, his terrified face distorted in all sorts of bizarre and disturbing fashions.

He ran to the darkest corner, collapsed on the ground, and let the tears come.

Next thing he recalled hearing was the most chilling scream he had heard from anyone in his life. Bloodcurdling, spine-tingling, and completely filled with emotional agony. It was his sister.

And the next thing he remembered seeing was the blurry face of Mycroft, bending over him and trying to coax him into standing up. But the boy was shaking too badly to respond.

"Holmes?" asked my stalwart companion. "Holmes, are you all right?"

I nodded shakily, standing completely upright and forcefully swallowing the memory.

Just then our attention was turned to the other side of the clearing.

Two men were entering it. "I think it's safe," said one in a very familiar voice.

Before Watson could stop me, I had bolted across the clearing and pinned the man who had spoken against a large tree in order to get a look at his face. He had certainly lost a lot of that muscle, unable to keep up his job for so many years. But it was him.

No, impossible. I had killed him decades ago. But he was there in front of me.

Without hesitation I pulled out my revolver and fired two shots straight into his temple.

He immediately crumpled to the ground in a bloody heap.

Dead. For good, this time.