Fic: Bel Canto - 6a/16 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 11.7k out of 123.5ishk
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, eventual character death
Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
Op. 20, No. 6
Op. 20, No. 7
Op. 20, No. 8
Op. 20, No. 9
Op. 20, No. 10
Op. 20, No. 11
Op. 20, No. 12
Op. 20, No. 13
Op. 20, No. 14
Op. 20, No. 15
Op. 20, No. 16
John runs downstairs, through a side hall, and comes out on the stage. He navigates far more quickly through the chaos backstage than he ever could through the fleeing swarm from the boxes and stalls. Upon emerging into the glare and heat of the stage lights, he hesitates, momentarily thwarted by the instrument-filled moat that is the orchestra pit.
“That way down!” Miss Adler shouts over the din, a sudden presence at his side. She points to the way around the pit, hidden behind the gaslights.
John’s off again in an instant. He shouts “Hot water and bandages!” over his shoulder with no idea if anyone is about to comply.
Racing into the house, John encounters few human obstructions, most having already fled. The few that remain are wounded and walking, and that means John has no pressing business with them. They call out to him anyway, one man going so far as to trail him closely, both begging and threatening John to take care of his bleeding arm.
John shouts at the man-he’ll never remember exactly what-and he darts to those still trapped beneath the chandelier. The fires are mostly out, the hot wax spilt, the metal frame bent and broken around shattered glass and strewn crystal. It fell directly into the centre section of seats, hitting the maximum number of people but leaving the aisles clear.
There are still people under there, huddled between the seats, beneath the chandelier. John calls out all who can still move: it’s impossible to tell who is cowering for safety and who has been knocked unconscious. For those who can move, he orders all those too shaken to help to sit by the pit. A woman who ought to be a nurse takes charge of the pair of men with broken legs, both men conscious but trapped in position. Her quiet will shames them into silence, a true blessing.
In total, there are three unconscious, one dead. Of those unconscious, two are bleeding profusely from limbs. One has cracked her head on an armrest, the dent not immediately visible through her elaborate hairstyle but blood apparent in her ear.
Bandages appear when he exhausts those in his medical bag. “Do you need splints?” Molly Hooper asks, depositing a bag of cloth scraps. “Sorry, no, of course you need splints: how long?”
Were his hands not covered in blood, he would have cupped her face and kissed her. He specifies and she runs off, skirts hitched high.
By now, volunteers have filled the void left by the escaping audience. John directs where he can, distributes what supplies are at hand. Miss Hooper returns in a rush, arms full of bits of wood the carpenters will have to do without.
“Help me with his leg,” John instructs. Entirely without apology, he rips the man’s trouser leg open with his penknife.
Miss Hooper complies better than the patient does, but she becomes distracted while wrapping cloth about the splint as padding.
“Miss Hooper,” John prompts, but she continues to stare over John’s head, eyes wide.
“Ghost,” she says weakly.
John jerks around immediately, eyes on the ceiling to catch sight of the chandelier-dropper.
“In the Earl’s box!” Miss Hooper adds.
Oh God. John’s eyes snap to Box Five, to the curtain pulled aside there. He sees only a glimpse of the pale, porcelain face before Vernet tugs the curtain closed.
Miss Hooper gasps. “Did you see--”
“Patient first,” John interrupts. He keeps the patients as their primary focus, instructing their volunteers to monitor the breathing of the unconscious trio. Even so, once the murmuring begins, it can’t be stopped: a ghost, everyone begins to whisper. There was a ghost.
An usher runs out and returns at a slower pace to report that there was no one in the box.
“But was the seat warm?” a patron asks.
“Why would a ghost be warm?”
“A man would be! Of course it wasn’t a ghost.”
This continues on, John unable to stop it. All he can do is keep working, keep checking, keep hoping Vernet has slipped away from the box as successfully as he’d entered it.
“I checked the seats,” the usher reports, breathing hard at his second return. “I think two of them had been sat in! The antimacassars weren’t as clean as they should have been. Pomade on one, a loose hair on the other.” He holds up a dark, curling strand as evidence.
“What, a ghost and his lady friend?” a patron asks.
John nearly swallows his tongue.
“Then there was really someone up there!”
“Then the box wasn’t cleaned properly,” John corrects. “It’s reserved for the owner’s family. The cleaning staff skips over it when they’re not expected. I’ll have to have a word with the maid. Right now, we do have more pressing concerns.” He nods pointedly to the chandelier still collapsed across the crushed seats.
“Doctor, I think this man has stopped breathing!” one of the volunteers interrupts, and John’s pressing concerns become much more pressing.
Afterward, after those capable of leaving depart, after the ambulance arrives an hour after they could have used it, after the hearse takes the two bodies away, after all the trauma one evening can contain, Mr Havill summons John for a talk. John makes him wait, but only so John can wash the blood off his hands and forearms.
“How did you know?” Mr Havill asks. He has a police inspector with him, a fellow of equal height to Mr Havill but with far more grey in his hair.
“I didn’t,” John says. “I had a bad feeling after this morning.”
“This morning?” the inspector prompts.
John nods and delivers the story he’d pieced together while washing. “A stagehand slipped in a puddle upstairs. Except the puddle was too far from the window and the wall wasn’t wet. It was the kind of puddle you track in, not let in. That didn’t occur to me until later, not until I heard the end of act two and remembered Harrison hanging.”
“You think our ‘ghost’ entered from the roof?” Mr Havill asks.
John nods. “I think he was out there, hiding. Maybe he smuggled himself in the early morning and stayed until the rain drove him inside.” John’s eyes widen. “Maybe that’s where he is now. We need to--”
“The police have already seen to it,” Mr Havill interrupts. “Inspector Lestrade’s men have thoroughly inspected the mechanism and the surrounding area.”
“Including the roof?” John asks the inspector.
“Including the roof,” Inspector Lestrade confirms. “Raining out now, though. No signs of footprints, no sign of damp beyond the usual.”
“But it was tampered with?” John asks. “It wasn’t just an accident?”
“Whoever did that wanted to do a fair amount of damage,” Inspector Lestrade says. “Definitely not an accident.”
Inexplicably, John relaxes. It’s official, then. Good. Finally. “So the police will be taking over.”
Inspector Lestrade nods. “There will be a full investigation.”
“Which won’t interfere with the repairs, I hope,” Mr Havill chimes in.
Inspector Lestrade and Mr Havill discuss their respective priorities. John stands politely by, faced with the realisation that he’ll be out of work through the remainder of the year. He reminds himself that Vernet was already returning to his true home for that time and John wouldn’t have seen him anyway. When put like that, he’s only being deprived of time with Mrs Hudson.
“I’ve heard some talk about ghosts tonight,” Inspector Lestrade says. That’s John’s cue to pay closer attention. “Not just the threats, but an alleged sighting before my men and I arrived.”
“The seamstress, Mrs Hooper, I believe,” Mr Havill says.
“Miss Hooper,” John corrects.
“By the sound of it,” Inspector Lestrade says, “she thought you’d seen it too, Dr Watson.”
“I know she thought she saw something,” John says. “Hard to tell, though, with the chandelier on the floor. Not much light left. The box definitely looked dark.” He nearly says something about nasty shocks and sudden exposure to corpses, but Miss Hooper had kept her head much too well for that to be a plausible excuse.
“I see,” Inspector Lestrade says. “Thank you for your time tonight, Doctor.”
“Of course,” John says. He bids the inspector and Mr Havill a good night. Then, highly aware of the number of policemen in the building, he proceeds directly to the cloakroom for his things. He can’t check on Vernet without bringing the police down on him. He can’t risk seeking out Mrs Hudson in case she’s gone to Vernet, can’t risk making her disappearance so obvious.
He puts on his coat, gloves, and hat in the lobby. His eyes stick on the replacement painting, then on the battle scene opposite it across the room. See you next year, John mouths to the Vernet before exiting. He closes the door behind him, wondering how long it takes for a chandelier to be built or repaired.
It takes less than two days for John to start missing the opera house. Not the music or the effects, certainly not the smell or the heat, but the opera house itself. The endless minor disasters, the soaring personalities, the raucous laughter, the sense of struggling toward something greater than themselves yet infinitely more ephemeral.
God, he’s starting to sound like he’s writing a libretto. Maybe he should take down some notes and send them to Vernet. Keep them for Vernet, rather. No address to send letters to.
He does find an address for Mr Holmes, at least. Now that the police investigation is publically known, he sees no reason to send his letters through Mrs Hudson. Furthermore, as the public also knows John was the one to introduce Mr Holmes to Miss Adler, John has a simple enough excuse for corresponding with an earl’s brother. Not that John needs an excuse, not after Holmes introduced him as “my friend, Doctor Watson” when they’d roamed the lobby together. He tells himself this several times.
At any rate, once John begins writing to Holmes, it’s difficult to stop. In case someone threatens to sue, John writes a full report of the injuries which had befallen the patrons. With twenty-three injured and two dead thus far, John fills more sheets of paper than he intends to. He copies down most of his letter to send to both Mr Havill and Inspector Lestrade.
After, he’s left with the uncomfortable feeling that his attempt at friendly correspondence is doomed to remain a military-esque report. He tries to pad the end of the letter with more sociable content. He flatters himself that he vaguely succeeds, but a paragraph or two about Miss Adler can hardly counter pages of an injury log. He adds a few concerns over the New Year’s Masquerade only to find that a very counterproductive tactic. Ultimately, he inquires into Holmes’ holiday plans, polite questions couched in well wishes.
Before the letter can grow even more absurd in size, John posts it. Afterward, he has a small lunch and attempts to pass the afternoon by catching up on his medical journals.
He receives a reply the following morning. Accepting his telegram, John knows the response contained within will be a brief one. Rather than open it at once, John sets it down upon his desk and putters about until anticipation begins to turn into irritation. It isn’t possible for Holmes to have done more than thank John for the information or perhaps to tell John that the report wasn’t particularly relevant to the investigation.
Holmes’ reply is indeed short and to the point, though not in the way John had expected. Instead of finding a curt dismissal, John reads: Tonight, the Gloriana, eight o’clock. Come regardless of convenience. SH
John promptly informs his cook he won’t be needing dinner that evening.
That night, he leaves his home early and arrives with time to spare. He stands somewhat uncomfortably in the front hall, his hat and gloves already stowed away in the cloakroom with his dripping coat. The urge to inspect his suit in one of the many mirrors rises as the minutes crawl by. The short walk from cab to restaurant was enough to put dampness into his socks.
Mr Holmes arrives at eight o’clock exactly, stepping through the doors with the lightest sheen of rainwater upon his shoulders and the crown of his top hat. His long coat is nearly dry, his shoes still glossy. He must have disembarked from his carriage immediately in front of the restaurant. Upon seeing John, Holmes’ eyes crinkle though his lips remain static.
“Not very early, I hope,” Holmes remarks, peeling his gloves off with a slow tug upon each fingertip. The leather relinquishes his hands only to be tucked into his pocket. Holmes rolls his shoulders as he removes his long, black coat, the cream lining sliding smoothly down his arms and pulling at the cut of his jacket. The sumptuous purple of his waistcoat ripples with the motion. This movement of colour rather than cloth draws the eye down his silver cravat to the matching buttons upon the waistcoat.
“Ah, no,” John belatedly thinks to say. He closes his mouth immediately after, not trusting himself to be articulate, not while Holmes is presenting his public veneer. The polish on the man makes communication far too slippery a feat.
Holmes entrusts his belongings to the cloakroom before gesturing John forward. “Shall we?”
A blur of time follows. The height of Holmes’ nape before him as they are led to their table. The sudden blaze of pain in John’s shoulder as he spreads his napkin across his lap. The absolute confidence of Holmes’ voice as he orders for both of them without as much as a glance at a menu.
When their waiter departs, the sounds of the other restaurant patrons fill the space between them, quiet murmurs, soft laughter, the scrape of silverware. Their waiter returns. There is wine. John can only try not to drink it too quickly.
“Your correspondence was particularly thorough yesterday,” Holmes notes. “Except in one regard, though I’m hardly surprised you didn’t bother with it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” John replies.
“The costume mistress claims to have seen some sort of shape after the chandelier fell. A phantom-like figure.” Holmes eyes John. “She seems to believe you saw it as well.”
“She said she saw something,” John replies.
“And you saw?”
“I had a man with a crushed patella in front of me,” John says without hesitation. “I saw blunt force trauma.”
Holmes’ lips quirk. “I recall. As I said, your correspondence was particularly thorough.”
“Do you think what Molly saw could be significant?” John asks.
“‘Molly’?” Holmes echoes with a furrowed brow.
“Miss Hooper. Beg your pardon: Miss Hooper.” He has no idea where the slip came from.
“Is that the way of it?” Holmes asks. “I admit, I had wondered why a skilled surgeon would remain on to wave smelling salts beneath powdered noses.”
“What? No. Not at all. We’ve only begun speaking regularly over the past few months.”
“Then what?”
Very consciously, John doesn’t fiddle with the stem of his wine glass. “The opera house is a difficult place to leave.” The people, the rush. The occasional panic before the nightly triumph. Small battles are all John has left. He rarely thinks of how very little the opera house reminds him of Mary these days.
Holmes nods, understanding better than John had hoped he would. “Very difficult. Tell me, what brought you to us in the first place? Your skills are obviously wasted.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Then you’re blind. You could easily have a more profitable, more respectable practice, yet you choose to remain the caretaker of sore throats and sprained ankles.” Holmes wrinkles his nose at the idea.
“You think it’s beneath me.”
“It obviously is. Three nights ago, you responded as an army doctor, not a nursemaid. I’ve a detailed report on my desk to prove it.”
While the compliment is clear, so too is the insult. “Is Miss Adler beneath me?” John asks.
That captures Holmes’ attention, sharp and bright.
“Or Mrs Hudson,” John adds. “Her hip pains her terribly most nights. Is that beneath me?”
“That’s not the point,” Holmes dismisses.
“It is, actually.”
In the resulting silence, the waiter returns with their starters.
John eats quietly. Holmes watches him with a loud gaze.
“Is there a problem, sir?” John asks, his tone sliding towards deference.
Holmes waves his right hand, dismissing John’s concerns. Something about his fingers tugs at John’s mind, a pull John ignores rather than resists. Holmes replies, “You haven’t said why you took the position.”
“Just a whim.”
“A whim lasting four years.”
“I suppose you’re right,” John says with a slight smile. “If I’d known I’d stay for so long, I likely wouldn’t have come.”
Holmes doesn’t reply, still waiting.
“I was looking for something small at the time.”
“You’re at the opera house most days from midmorning to well into the evening,” Holmes replies, a question in his eyes.
“I started looking for something bigger.”
“Now that you’re caring for every soul in the building and investigating our ghostly vandal, are you still looking?”
“No,” John answers without thinking. Immediately, he wants to take it back. He blinks, amazed at how a word so truthful in his mind can be so dishonest upon his lips.
Holmes’ eyebrows flick upwards. “I see.”
John fights the urge to look down, to look away. Hiding behind his meal would be as foolish as an animal stooping to drink while its natural predator watches from across a narrow stream.
Instead, John asks, “Problem?”
“Are you terribly bored?”
“No, not at all.” That, at least, comes out honest. “The opera house--”
“Not at the opera house. Currently, are you bored?”
John smiles at him, pointed yet polite. “Not currently.”
Holmes neither smiles nor frowns. His eyes gleam with a low, satisfied burn that alters his stationary expression entirely. He wears his arrogance across his shoulders as if a mantle upon his cloak, a heavy weight of deliberate embroidery effortlessly carried. Perhaps Holmes is a creature of fascination by his nature, perhaps by his own design. Regardless of the cause, Holmes exudes his own personal gravity. John cannot wonder at being pulled into orbit. He can see the logic in Holmes’ choice of a soldier, just as he can see the sense in gauging John’s willingness to abandon an imposed holiday.
The jarring intimacy drops away the moment he realises that Holmes is, as always, playing a double game. Abruptly amused, John bites his lip to muffle a giggle. “You could simply tell me what you want me to do.”
Holmes looks nearly offended. “I’m hardly your commanding officer.”
“Of course not. I would wait for orders then, not ask for them.” He makes another cut into his lamb. Not the main he would have chosen but remarkably agreeable and a perfect complement to the wine.
“If you’ve enough to fill your time, I’ll hardly insist,” Holmes demurs.
John waits for the inevitable addendum. It never comes. He watches Holmes push the contents of his plate about, attempts not to stare on the rare occasion Holmes samples a morsel. John wonders, dreads, whether Holmes will return to their first topic of conversation: Miss Hooper’s glimpse of Vernet.
What had that idiot been thinking? Knowing enough to warn John against the crash to come, yet stupid enough to stand with the curtain drawn? John could understand looking out at the sound of the crash, but to have been staring so long after displays exceptionally poor judgment. John had already treated those most likely to die by that point. How long could that have been, twenty minutes after the fall? Half an hour? The eternity of treatment skews time.
Had Vernet thought it would have been safe to look by then? Checking the progress of those below to ascertain the safety of leaving the box, perhaps. He had certainly made a quick escape. Miss Hooper’s sighting could have occurred at a sudden motion on Vernet’s part, at the very moment he opened the curtain. It could have been only a moment, a single stupid moment.
Or, whispers a hated corner of John’s mind, perhaps Vernet had never seen so much blood before. Perhaps he’d opened the curtain a safe amount before being struck with horror, his mind numbing and pushing him on to stare. John’s stomach churns with the thought.
Vernet will simply exorcise the carnage into his opera. That’s what he’ll do, the same as he’s done with John’s memories of war and disaster. He’ll filter that night through string and hair into stunned surprise and a fierce response.
John tries to picture this process outside the opera house basement and fails. Not because of the lack of a setting, but because of the impossibility of visualising him from the front without his mask. Even from behind, John wants to imagine his hair in disorder, restrained only by the strap of the mask, barely contained.
The chime of glass upon china shakes John from his ruminations. He blinks at Holmes, utterly uncertain whether Holmes had knocked his glass against his plate intentionally. When Holmes meets his gaze over the lip of his wine glass, the answer is a resounding yes.
John’s smile is small, more cursory than apologetic. “I was under the impression you invited me here for a reason, Mr Holmes.”
“Oh?” Holmes sets down his glass as John lifts his own.
“Actually, what with it being you, several reasons. Presumably stacked upon each other with another one hiding under the table.”
Holmes permits his pleasure to make a home in his lips and eyes.
“Go on, then,” John urges. “Supposing I were terribly bored and wished to be of assistance, what would I be doing?”
“Nothing too strenuous. While the opera house is closed, it’s a good time to see who’s profiting the most from it.”
“As in, professional rivalries?”
“It may also be a matter of patronage.”
John thinks this over. “You mean, someone could seek to ruin your lord brother in any of a number of ways, so they must have picked the opera house for a reason?” It seems utterly obvious the moment John utters it.
Holmes nods. “Precisely. If he’s attacking the opera house, he may have other targets than Mycroft. If he’s already acted against them, we can begin ruling out suspects.”
“If your lord brother is the only target,” John begins.
“Then I’ll have wasted a number of your afternoons and evenings,” Holmes replies. He raises an eyebrow. “Is that an acceptable risk?”
John nearly answers that any time spent in Holmes’ company could never be considered a waste. Lest Holmes think him a hanger-on, John restrains his eagerness. Instead, he replies, “Very acceptable.”
“Excellent.” Holmes leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “If you can, speak to the staff about conditions under the guise of seeking a second option should the opera house ultimately close. You’ve permission to discuss whatever details of our conundrum you feel may loosen tongues. The gossip mongers have already been set loose days ago: I’m certain nothing you would say could cause us harm.”
“Of course.” John comes close to asking “And what will you be doing?” before he fully realises that Holmes will not be accompanying him. Which ought to have been readily apparent from the outset. John must be tired.
Holmes reaches into an inner jacket pocket and withdraws an envelope. He sets it upon the table. “Your funds and schedule.”
John nods and tucks it away inside his jacket without looking at the contents. “How should I notify you if I find anything important?”
“Arrange a meeting by telegram,” Holmes instructs. “I would prefer to carry this out in person. As far as anyone is concerned, you’re merely passing the time until the opera house reopens.”
“Simple enough.” It’s certainly a better means of passing the time than John had mustered on his own.
“Any further questions?”
“Not quite related, but is the New Year’s Masquerade still on?”
Holmes nearly rolls his eyes. “Of course. It’s held in the lobby, not in the stalls.”
“I imagine the police aren’t thrilled to hear that.”
“A certain inspector is eager to lay a trap,” Holmes replies. “I see no reason to prevent him.”
“Inspector Lestrade?”
“Mm, yes. He’s actually somewhat competent.”
John fights down a laugh. “Does that count as high praise?”
An impish light shines in Holmes’ eyes. “It might.”
“Such a standard to aspire to,” John muses and drinks from his glass.
“I have faith in your abilities.”
The resulting flush of pleasure is entirely out of proportion, a sure sign that John ought to put his glass right back where he found it. John does so. “Is, ah. Is there anyone else you’ve set on this track?”
“No one,” Holmes replies.
Again, the flush of pleasure. Again, the ridiculous pride. Abruptly, John wishes for more, for something more difficult. A true challenge. Absolute nonsense, of course: though being a patron of the arts is no insurmountable burden, the odds of uncovering crucial information might be exceptionally low. Best not ask after the complex when the simple may prove too difficult to accomplish. “I’ll do what I can,” John promises.
Holmes smiles, his eyes sharp over cheekbones sharper still. Though attractive, the expression is not quite benign. John has the sense of a net wrapping about him and slowly drawing tight. He makes no attempt to resist. If anything, he sits taller in his chair for the sensation. When Holmes’ smile widens, a thrill pierces him.
“I expected nothing less,” Holmes murmurs. John is struck by the familiarity of his lips, the angle of his jaw. He busies himself with knife and fork for an excuse to look away from the effect of candlelight upon Holmes’ skin.
Holmes continues speaking into John’s silence, his light voice filling the empty space as naturally as a creek enters its pond. His topics vary between this and that, his focus on physical curiosities rather than people. He sounds nearly like a scientist and not at all like the gossips of the opera house. He is sharp and witty and dreadfully intelligent. As Holmes reveals his enthusiasms, conversing with him takes on the same sort of terrified giddiness that petting a lion might provide.
John takes dessert and coffee despite wanting neither. Holmes does the same despite having barely touched his meal. When the conversation dwindles, they simply sit, taking turns sipping increasingly cold coffee. The evening draws to an obvious close.
Unlike their previous meal here, Holmes makes no protest when John moves to pay their bill. “For last time,” John explains, ignoring the hole this will leave in his pocket, and Holmes murmurs, “Of course.” They collect their belongings from the cloakroom. With his hat on, Holmes looms ever taller.
They exit to the street and Holmes hails them a cab. “You’re on my way,” Holmes explains, following John into the hansom. At each corner of the small ceiling above them, a lamp shines against the night’s chill and the evening’s smoke. They spread the blanket across their laps and sit somewhat closer than daytime travel necessitates. Their shoulders knock together before pressing comfortably. Something inside John begins to sing regardless of how he tamps it down.
The ride lasts a remarkably short time at this hour. John steps down onto the pavement reluctant to face the chill alone. For all of a moment, he wonders if he could invite Holmes inside, perhaps offer him a nightcap. He dismisses the thought immediately. Though his home is nothing to be ashamed of, it’s hardly something to be shown off either. Certainly not to an earl’s heir.
“Good night,” John says instead.
“Good night,” Holmes replies.
The cab rides on, pulling away before vanishing into the fog. The lamps disappear last of all. John shakes himself out of his reverie. He unlocks his door and heads inside.
He doesn’t check the contents of the envelope until the morning. Within, he finds a guide of performance times and locations, a price listed next to each explaining the sum of money accompanying it. The rather surprising sum John finds the moment he counts it. He checks the guide all the way to the end to find two additional listings.
First, a generous rate of pay accompanies the words “for your time and assistance.”
Second, the final entry reads “for dinner” and is accompanied by a number so precise it can only be the exact cost of Holmes’ portion.
John stares at it, utterly befuddled, before he begins to giggle. How in the world...? Remarkable. Absurd, but remarkable.
Though Holmes has made no requests upon John’s time until the following day, John’s good spirits refuse to flag even into the evening.
So begins his December project. Much to his surprise, the rumour-gathering proves easier than attendance itself. Before the first play finishes its first act, John discovers that any form of entertainment without Vernet whispering biting judgement into John’s ear is, frankly, entertainment not worth watching. The next time, John comes with paper and pencil and leaves with pencil shavings on his trouser legs. Notes as well, all of the thoughts and stage spectacles which he absolutely mustn’t forget to tell Vernet.
Though he attends plays, concerts, operas-even a pair of indoor circuses-he finds no rumours of tampering or deadly disruption. For a man as practiced at speaking with stagehands as John is, he knows that all signs point to their opera house as being the sole target of their phantom. Try as John might, he can find no one with a recent story that can compare to the disaster of the chandelier.
At the end of the first week, John receives a telegram. It says only Anything? SH
John replies in kind: Nothing. JW
The response: Tedious. SH
John laughs at that. Though Holmes is delightful in his way, the rest of John’s correspondence is considerably longer. Several of the wounded from the opera house have made inquiries of Mr Havill for John’s address. Not for the first time-though the first time in at least a year-John has serious thoughts of a small, private practice outside of the opera house. He tentatively schedules a few appointments around his reconnaissance work, largely in the mornings.
With the Masquerade still on, John keeps in touch with both Mrs Hudson and his tailor. Their costumes are progressing nicely and ought to be finished in time. Mrs Hudson writes to him on a variety of subjects, and it takes a great deal of restraint to refrain from asking her about Vernet. How is he, where is he, is he safe and well? After Inspector Lestrade’s interest in Miss Hooper’s glimpse, John has some cause to feel concern.
Unfortunately, that concern only underscores the importance of never mentioning Vernet’s existence, much less his presence beneath the opera house. Too much about Vernet is much too suspicious. Though John trusts him with-has trusted him with-the most intimate of confessions, John knows the police would be far less willing to accept Vernet as an innocent bystander. Particularly as the tunnels appear to open in more locations than the opera house basement.
It’s a jarring realisation in the extreme, the thought that he’s withholding crucial information from the police. For one long afternoon, his stomach twists in guilt before he remembers Vernet’s contract. The Earl knows about the tunnels. The police must have already been informed.
What does that mean for Vernet’s belongings? For the second-hand furniture with its wood coated by ever more wax? For the countless papers and the tins of food and the humble cot of a bed? That dank, sunless chamber is very much Vernet’s home. John finds he wouldn’t see it disturbed for the world, a sentiment he must quickly qualify. People have died. Of course John would see it disturbed: he simply knows there would be no point in it.
He hopes Vernet took all of his manuscript with him. Those papers are precious beyond belief. If John would be distraught to lose them, he can’t imagine what Vernet’s response would be. Forced into watching other performances, other operas, John increasingly finds the cleverness in Vernet’s work.
The use of a contralto, for example. John knows the visual gags, the titillation of a brief grope when a male character encounters another, should that other be played by a woman. He’s seen disrobing scenes and the flash of a breast. Vernet’s opera offers none of this. Nor does it need to. The recollection of the thwarted mutiny plays on in John’s mind, the mixing themes, the unrelenting force of Vernet’s presence behind him upon acting out the scene. Though their positions had been combative, John abruptly comprehends another layer to the scenario.
It’s a seduction. A naive man seduced by glory, by dreams of loyalty rather than loyalty itself. In a scene between men, such as between himself and Vernet, the idea of a seduction is absurd. But should either man be, in actuality, a woman, this additional meaning has context within which to take root. It isn’t even inappropriate, rendered both non-sexual and appropriately sexual by the melding of the genders.
In January, John will be able to tell Vernet that he’s realised this. In January, John will helplessly ramble at Vernet about the man’s own brilliance, too long kept without a means of diffusing his admiration. Vernet is a veritable genius, a fact only underscored when John at last discovers through playbill after playbill that it is effectively unheard of for a composer to write his own libretto, or a librettist his score. Three months and nearly a complete opera. A true genius.
Unable to tell anyone and at a loss without Vernet to speak to or prod at, John sends a telegram inviting Holmes to dinner instead. He makes sure the request isn’t an urgent one, but Holmes arranges a time and place for them that very night. John has no idea how. Though the Swan is far closer to John’s home than the Gloriana will ever claim to be, it also demands reservations weeks in advance. Let it forever be known that Mr Sherlock Holmes is a man of influence and resources.
“I’m afraid I’ve found remarkably little,” John admits soon after they’ve exchanged greetings but before they’ve been seated, still being led to their table. It’s a quick, nervous moment, a pre-emptive apology for wasting Holmes’ time.
“I’d expected as much,” Holmes replies, brushing John’s concerns neatly aside. As he had both times previously, Holmes takes the seat with its back angled toward the room. Still uncertain whether Holmes positions himself for John’s benefit, John gratefully sinks into the other chair. Holmes orders their drinks before John so much as spreads his napkin across his lap.
“If you didn’t expect me to find anything,” John begins.
“If I’d sent a man of slipshod habits, I’d never have trusted his conclusion,” Holmes replies. “Now I can be certain that my brother is the sole target.”
John’s irritation dissipates instantly. “And if the matter is personal rather than professional...”
“Yes, our field of suspects narrows considerably.” Holmes grins, ridiculous and hopeful.
John grins back helplessly. He wants to shake Holmes’ hand and clap him on the shoulder. Instead, he clasps his hands upon his lap, banishing them beneath the table. “Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to infiltrate your lord brother’s social circles as easily.”
Holmes shudders, the motion understated and restrained. “Consider yourself fortunate.” Already, his face is a mask of boredom. He looks much as John first met him, now lacking the veneer of courtesy.
John laughs a quiet and unexpected giggle. He bites his lip, about to apologise, but Holmes’ expression entirely changes once again. The boredom and distaste falls away to reveal a flicker of amusement.
“Is that what you’ve been doing, then?” John asks. “Socialising?”
“Whenever it proves unavoidable.”
“You poor man.”
“It’s horrid,” Holmes agrees.
“A true wonder you’re still alive.”
“I may not survive Christmas.”
“Oh dear.” Impossible to bury his smile in his wine glass, but John makes the attempt, if only for a moment.
“I do have one traditional method of self-preservation. Some measure of escape is possible.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Rubbish weather for funerals this time of year. Rains the day through, but the ground is still much too hard.”
Holmes makes a face as if having choked upon laughter. With great restraint, John keeps from giggling. It’s not usually such a problem. They grin at each other for a moment before John looks down. He can still feel the warm weight of Holmes’ gaze upon his face.
“And your plans?” Holmes asks.
John blinks up at him, uncertain as to what he means. “I suppose I can try to die in the summer, but it’s not something I particularly think about.”
That startles Holmes into a laugh, a real, audible one. It’s deeper than John would have expected from his speaking voice, nearly a rumble. “Christmas, Dr Watson. Our holiday next week.”
“I’ve never been one for large gatherings,” John says.
“A quiet affair.”
“Quite.” The sounds of the fire and his own breathing for the most part, occasionally punctuated by the crinkle of a turning page.
Holmes considers him much too long, his gaze residing on the surface of John’s face and periodically penetrating deeper.
“Something the matter?” John asks, daring pity, absolutely challenging it.
“I ask too many requests of you,” Holmes begins, feigning the signs of convincing hesitance. While Holmes carries off the motions well enough, John can’t think for a moment Holmes could experience the feeling.
“Playing coy doesn’t suit you.” John sets down knife and fork. He folds his hands. “What needs doing?”
“Typically, I visit Mrs Hudson each year. She and my mother were very close-it’s something of a tradition.”
“Is that your traditional escape?”
Holmes nods. “Mine alone. I’d often a few days of it and stay in her son’s old rooms. Mycroft has his commitments to his daughters and an absurd number of extended relations. In light of events this year, he may attempt to hold me to those same commitments. Tedious in the extreme, but my concern remains with Mrs Hudson. She’s very understanding, but it has been a day for only the two of us for quite some time.”
“You mean, she might be on her own,” John summarises.
“In a house of considerable size,” Holmes confirms. “Her husband passed away while I was still at school, and her son moved to America. Florida, I believe.”
“I’ll write to her and ask for a visit,” John promises.
“Only if your plans permit.”
“I’m certain they do.”
A smile touches Holmes’ lips, lovely and not at all foolish. Its unexpected sincerity could break the heart. Just as quickly, Holmes wraps his public persona around himself anew. His thanks are polite words only, all traces of sentiment tightly bottled away. What sort of a man might Holmes be if unburdened from that restraint? If Holmes could be untucked, unbuttoned, unlaced, who would be left? John has to wonder.
They converse sparingly as they dine, theirs a companionable silence. His motions those of diligence rather than hunger, Holmes eats little. A pity, as the food is excellent, the wine perfectly suited. The lack of conversation isn’t a problem until the meal begins drawing to a close. As Holmes deserves some sort of report on John’s theatre-going experiences, John makes mention of the more interesting pieces. He gravitates towards the aspects that left him itching to speak with Vernet. Holmes appears at least moderately interested, which John knows to take as a compliment.
The more John speaks, the more he imagines Vernet’s dramatic reactions, the absolute dismissals of visual spectacle and the rapt fascination for the mechanisms behind it. John responds to unasked questions, elaborating upon the music without Holmes prompting. Though restraining his own enthusiasm, John carries on in this vein through dessert and coffee.
Only when Holmes surreptitiously checks the time beneath the table does John relent. The sudden horror that Holmes has merely been enduring his company arises. Even when Holmes invites John to resume his tale, the trepidation remains. John checks the time as well and feels his eyes widen. A quick look around the restaurant proves that they have once again remained longer than the crowd.
“Time to turn in, I think,” John says.
Holmes nearly disagrees, a supremely satisfying sight.
“I, ah.” John hesitates without knowing why. “I have a patient in the morning, actually.”
“I see,” Holmes says. For a man encouraging John to take on more than the small lot he’s settled for, he doesn’t seem pleased by this news.
Even so, Holmes pays for their meal tonight, a neat sum that John takes careful note of. Neither mentions the envelope from their previous dinner. John certainly doesn’t mention that he has the same envelope waiting in his coat pocket.
As they reclaim their winter garments from the cloakroom, John checks the contents of the envelope by feel. He’d overestimated the amount intentionally, and now he quietly removes the excess until the envelope contains approximately half the cost of their meal. The only challenge lies in smuggling it into Holmes’ coat. To his own surprise, he pulls off that manoeuvre as smoothly as any pickpocket by offering to assist Holmes with the garment. Much easier to fill a pocket before the coat is worn. Certainly much easier to do with Holmes’ back turned. John slides the coat up Holmes’ arms, his hands resting a moment upon Holmes’ deceptively thin shoulders.
Tonight, Holmes had arrived in his own carriage which, he explains, is the reason he’d checked the time at the table. He bids John to wait with him for the horses to be readied. John gladly complies. He offers John a ride home. John readily accepts. Holmes gestures John inside. John takes the rear-facing seat. A small lantern hangs from the ceiling, their sole source of light with the curtains closed in the carriage windows. Even so, the enclosed space seems brighter than the street outside with its lamps.
Holmes takes his turn to dominate the conversation and places John within a willing enthrallment. Holmes details the performances of the opera house’s past, the clever pieces of machinery invented when he was but a boy. He describes Mrs Hudson in her prime, an artist whose movements would put even Miss Adler’s voice to shame were the two ever forced to directly compare.
When the carriage hits a bump, they nearly knock heads, so closely have they leaned forward. Holmes catches John by the shoulders; John catches himself on Holmes’ knees. Holmes’ eyes are a deep blue, the dilation of his pupils growing noticeable as John blocks out the light. He has a freckle just above his left eyebrow. John pulls back with a nervous laugh, prompting, “You were saying?”
Their conversation is far from finished when they arrive at John’s address. As if making up for his relative silence over dinner, Holmes now sets his best self forward. Mindful of the driver out in the cold and that there is nowhere for the carriage to wait but here on the street, John refrains from inviting Holmes inside. The temptation remains.
Ultimately, it’s the cold that decides them. Absently working his arm, John cracks his shoulder.
“Inside,” Holmes bids him. “We’ll continue this another time.” Not we must or we should. Simply we will.
“Another time,” John agrees.
Neither of them moves.
“Is there anything else?” John asks. “That needs to be done.”
Holmes smiles faintly. “Is there anything I could ask of you that you’d refuse?”
“Nothing you would ask.” John is certain of it. “...Is there something?”
“Nothing within your power to perform, sadly,” Holmes answers.
“Oh. I thought you were about to say something. My mistake.”
“I was, actually,” Holmes corrects.
“Oh?” John sits up straighter.
Holmes pauses before he asks, “Your patient tomorrow: continuing contact with a victim of our chandelier?”
“The father of a witness,” John replies, certain this is far from the question Holmes intended to ask. “Apparently the chap refuses to see anyone except ‘an army sawbones.’ Word of me seems to have spread.”
“I see.” Holmes’ face is a mask of neutrality. “Good night, Dr Watson.”
“Good night, Mr Holmes.”
Stomach twisting at the dismissal, John opens the door and steps out into the cold. He climbs his front steps before the carriage door opens a second time. Holmes unfolds himself from the carriage, impossibly long legs sliding free from the constraints of his greatcoat. “Dr Watson!”
“Yes?”
“Your hat.” Holmes holds it out.
Embarrassed, John descends the few stairs while Holmes steps forward. They don’t quite collide as they nearly did in the carriage, but there is an instant where they are of a height. With the carriage lanterns setting a halo about his head, Holmes hands him his hat.
“Thank you.” For an instant, they both hold it, a pair of gloved hands on the brim.
Holmes may smile in the dark, his exact expression too difficult to see. “Of course.”
Without another word, Holmes effectively bounds away and closets himself up in the carriage. John stares, bewildered, as the carriage pulls away. He puts his hat on and something stiff immediately makes contact with the top of his head.
Removing his hat immediately, he fails to catch the something, instead dropping it onto his front steps. As Holmes’ carriage disappears into the fog, John stoops to pick up the envelope. By now somewhat battered, its contents haven’t altered a whit since its last moment in John’s hand.
Shaking his head and terribly amused, John unlocks his door and turns in for the night.
coda
previous |
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 11.7k out of 123.5ishk
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, eventual character death
Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
Op. 20, No. 6
Op. 20, No. 7
Op. 20, No. 8
Op. 20, No. 9
Op. 20, No. 10
Op. 20, No. 11
Op. 20, No. 12
Op. 20, No. 13
Op. 20, No. 14
Op. 20, No. 15
Op. 20, No. 16
John runs downstairs, through a side hall, and comes out on the stage. He navigates far more quickly through the chaos backstage than he ever could through the fleeing swarm from the boxes and stalls. Upon emerging into the glare and heat of the stage lights, he hesitates, momentarily thwarted by the instrument-filled moat that is the orchestra pit.
“That way down!” Miss Adler shouts over the din, a sudden presence at his side. She points to the way around the pit, hidden behind the gaslights.
John’s off again in an instant. He shouts “Hot water and bandages!” over his shoulder with no idea if anyone is about to comply.
Racing into the house, John encounters few human obstructions, most having already fled. The few that remain are wounded and walking, and that means John has no pressing business with them. They call out to him anyway, one man going so far as to trail him closely, both begging and threatening John to take care of his bleeding arm.
John shouts at the man-he’ll never remember exactly what-and he darts to those still trapped beneath the chandelier. The fires are mostly out, the hot wax spilt, the metal frame bent and broken around shattered glass and strewn crystal. It fell directly into the centre section of seats, hitting the maximum number of people but leaving the aisles clear.
There are still people under there, huddled between the seats, beneath the chandelier. John calls out all who can still move: it’s impossible to tell who is cowering for safety and who has been knocked unconscious. For those who can move, he orders all those too shaken to help to sit by the pit. A woman who ought to be a nurse takes charge of the pair of men with broken legs, both men conscious but trapped in position. Her quiet will shames them into silence, a true blessing.
In total, there are three unconscious, one dead. Of those unconscious, two are bleeding profusely from limbs. One has cracked her head on an armrest, the dent not immediately visible through her elaborate hairstyle but blood apparent in her ear.
Bandages appear when he exhausts those in his medical bag. “Do you need splints?” Molly Hooper asks, depositing a bag of cloth scraps. “Sorry, no, of course you need splints: how long?”
Were his hands not covered in blood, he would have cupped her face and kissed her. He specifies and she runs off, skirts hitched high.
By now, volunteers have filled the void left by the escaping audience. John directs where he can, distributes what supplies are at hand. Miss Hooper returns in a rush, arms full of bits of wood the carpenters will have to do without.
“Help me with his leg,” John instructs. Entirely without apology, he rips the man’s trouser leg open with his penknife.
Miss Hooper complies better than the patient does, but she becomes distracted while wrapping cloth about the splint as padding.
“Miss Hooper,” John prompts, but she continues to stare over John’s head, eyes wide.
“Ghost,” she says weakly.
John jerks around immediately, eyes on the ceiling to catch sight of the chandelier-dropper.
“In the Earl’s box!” Miss Hooper adds.
Oh God. John’s eyes snap to Box Five, to the curtain pulled aside there. He sees only a glimpse of the pale, porcelain face before Vernet tugs the curtain closed.
Miss Hooper gasps. “Did you see--”
“Patient first,” John interrupts. He keeps the patients as their primary focus, instructing their volunteers to monitor the breathing of the unconscious trio. Even so, once the murmuring begins, it can’t be stopped: a ghost, everyone begins to whisper. There was a ghost.
An usher runs out and returns at a slower pace to report that there was no one in the box.
“But was the seat warm?” a patron asks.
“Why would a ghost be warm?”
“A man would be! Of course it wasn’t a ghost.”
This continues on, John unable to stop it. All he can do is keep working, keep checking, keep hoping Vernet has slipped away from the box as successfully as he’d entered it.
“I checked the seats,” the usher reports, breathing hard at his second return. “I think two of them had been sat in! The antimacassars weren’t as clean as they should have been. Pomade on one, a loose hair on the other.” He holds up a dark, curling strand as evidence.
“What, a ghost and his lady friend?” a patron asks.
John nearly swallows his tongue.
“Then there was really someone up there!”
“Then the box wasn’t cleaned properly,” John corrects. “It’s reserved for the owner’s family. The cleaning staff skips over it when they’re not expected. I’ll have to have a word with the maid. Right now, we do have more pressing concerns.” He nods pointedly to the chandelier still collapsed across the crushed seats.
“Doctor, I think this man has stopped breathing!” one of the volunteers interrupts, and John’s pressing concerns become much more pressing.
Afterward, after those capable of leaving depart, after the ambulance arrives an hour after they could have used it, after the hearse takes the two bodies away, after all the trauma one evening can contain, Mr Havill summons John for a talk. John makes him wait, but only so John can wash the blood off his hands and forearms.
“How did you know?” Mr Havill asks. He has a police inspector with him, a fellow of equal height to Mr Havill but with far more grey in his hair.
“I didn’t,” John says. “I had a bad feeling after this morning.”
“This morning?” the inspector prompts.
John nods and delivers the story he’d pieced together while washing. “A stagehand slipped in a puddle upstairs. Except the puddle was too far from the window and the wall wasn’t wet. It was the kind of puddle you track in, not let in. That didn’t occur to me until later, not until I heard the end of act two and remembered Harrison hanging.”
“You think our ‘ghost’ entered from the roof?” Mr Havill asks.
John nods. “I think he was out there, hiding. Maybe he smuggled himself in the early morning and stayed until the rain drove him inside.” John’s eyes widen. “Maybe that’s where he is now. We need to--”
“The police have already seen to it,” Mr Havill interrupts. “Inspector Lestrade’s men have thoroughly inspected the mechanism and the surrounding area.”
“Including the roof?” John asks the inspector.
“Including the roof,” Inspector Lestrade confirms. “Raining out now, though. No signs of footprints, no sign of damp beyond the usual.”
“But it was tampered with?” John asks. “It wasn’t just an accident?”
“Whoever did that wanted to do a fair amount of damage,” Inspector Lestrade says. “Definitely not an accident.”
Inexplicably, John relaxes. It’s official, then. Good. Finally. “So the police will be taking over.”
Inspector Lestrade nods. “There will be a full investigation.”
“Which won’t interfere with the repairs, I hope,” Mr Havill chimes in.
Inspector Lestrade and Mr Havill discuss their respective priorities. John stands politely by, faced with the realisation that he’ll be out of work through the remainder of the year. He reminds himself that Vernet was already returning to his true home for that time and John wouldn’t have seen him anyway. When put like that, he’s only being deprived of time with Mrs Hudson.
“I’ve heard some talk about ghosts tonight,” Inspector Lestrade says. That’s John’s cue to pay closer attention. “Not just the threats, but an alleged sighting before my men and I arrived.”
“The seamstress, Mrs Hooper, I believe,” Mr Havill says.
“Miss Hooper,” John corrects.
“By the sound of it,” Inspector Lestrade says, “she thought you’d seen it too, Dr Watson.”
“I know she thought she saw something,” John says. “Hard to tell, though, with the chandelier on the floor. Not much light left. The box definitely looked dark.” He nearly says something about nasty shocks and sudden exposure to corpses, but Miss Hooper had kept her head much too well for that to be a plausible excuse.
“I see,” Inspector Lestrade says. “Thank you for your time tonight, Doctor.”
“Of course,” John says. He bids the inspector and Mr Havill a good night. Then, highly aware of the number of policemen in the building, he proceeds directly to the cloakroom for his things. He can’t check on Vernet without bringing the police down on him. He can’t risk seeking out Mrs Hudson in case she’s gone to Vernet, can’t risk making her disappearance so obvious.
He puts on his coat, gloves, and hat in the lobby. His eyes stick on the replacement painting, then on the battle scene opposite it across the room. See you next year, John mouths to the Vernet before exiting. He closes the door behind him, wondering how long it takes for a chandelier to be built or repaired.
It takes less than two days for John to start missing the opera house. Not the music or the effects, certainly not the smell or the heat, but the opera house itself. The endless minor disasters, the soaring personalities, the raucous laughter, the sense of struggling toward something greater than themselves yet infinitely more ephemeral.
God, he’s starting to sound like he’s writing a libretto. Maybe he should take down some notes and send them to Vernet. Keep them for Vernet, rather. No address to send letters to.
He does find an address for Mr Holmes, at least. Now that the police investigation is publically known, he sees no reason to send his letters through Mrs Hudson. Furthermore, as the public also knows John was the one to introduce Mr Holmes to Miss Adler, John has a simple enough excuse for corresponding with an earl’s brother. Not that John needs an excuse, not after Holmes introduced him as “my friend, Doctor Watson” when they’d roamed the lobby together. He tells himself this several times.
At any rate, once John begins writing to Holmes, it’s difficult to stop. In case someone threatens to sue, John writes a full report of the injuries which had befallen the patrons. With twenty-three injured and two dead thus far, John fills more sheets of paper than he intends to. He copies down most of his letter to send to both Mr Havill and Inspector Lestrade.
After, he’s left with the uncomfortable feeling that his attempt at friendly correspondence is doomed to remain a military-esque report. He tries to pad the end of the letter with more sociable content. He flatters himself that he vaguely succeeds, but a paragraph or two about Miss Adler can hardly counter pages of an injury log. He adds a few concerns over the New Year’s Masquerade only to find that a very counterproductive tactic. Ultimately, he inquires into Holmes’ holiday plans, polite questions couched in well wishes.
Before the letter can grow even more absurd in size, John posts it. Afterward, he has a small lunch and attempts to pass the afternoon by catching up on his medical journals.
He receives a reply the following morning. Accepting his telegram, John knows the response contained within will be a brief one. Rather than open it at once, John sets it down upon his desk and putters about until anticipation begins to turn into irritation. It isn’t possible for Holmes to have done more than thank John for the information or perhaps to tell John that the report wasn’t particularly relevant to the investigation.
Holmes’ reply is indeed short and to the point, though not in the way John had expected. Instead of finding a curt dismissal, John reads: Tonight, the Gloriana, eight o’clock. Come regardless of convenience. SH
John promptly informs his cook he won’t be needing dinner that evening.
That night, he leaves his home early and arrives with time to spare. He stands somewhat uncomfortably in the front hall, his hat and gloves already stowed away in the cloakroom with his dripping coat. The urge to inspect his suit in one of the many mirrors rises as the minutes crawl by. The short walk from cab to restaurant was enough to put dampness into his socks.
Mr Holmes arrives at eight o’clock exactly, stepping through the doors with the lightest sheen of rainwater upon his shoulders and the crown of his top hat. His long coat is nearly dry, his shoes still glossy. He must have disembarked from his carriage immediately in front of the restaurant. Upon seeing John, Holmes’ eyes crinkle though his lips remain static.
“Not very early, I hope,” Holmes remarks, peeling his gloves off with a slow tug upon each fingertip. The leather relinquishes his hands only to be tucked into his pocket. Holmes rolls his shoulders as he removes his long, black coat, the cream lining sliding smoothly down his arms and pulling at the cut of his jacket. The sumptuous purple of his waistcoat ripples with the motion. This movement of colour rather than cloth draws the eye down his silver cravat to the matching buttons upon the waistcoat.
“Ah, no,” John belatedly thinks to say. He closes his mouth immediately after, not trusting himself to be articulate, not while Holmes is presenting his public veneer. The polish on the man makes communication far too slippery a feat.
Holmes entrusts his belongings to the cloakroom before gesturing John forward. “Shall we?”
A blur of time follows. The height of Holmes’ nape before him as they are led to their table. The sudden blaze of pain in John’s shoulder as he spreads his napkin across his lap. The absolute confidence of Holmes’ voice as he orders for both of them without as much as a glance at a menu.
When their waiter departs, the sounds of the other restaurant patrons fill the space between them, quiet murmurs, soft laughter, the scrape of silverware. Their waiter returns. There is wine. John can only try not to drink it too quickly.
“Your correspondence was particularly thorough yesterday,” Holmes notes. “Except in one regard, though I’m hardly surprised you didn’t bother with it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” John replies.
“The costume mistress claims to have seen some sort of shape after the chandelier fell. A phantom-like figure.” Holmes eyes John. “She seems to believe you saw it as well.”
“She said she saw something,” John replies.
“And you saw?”
“I had a man with a crushed patella in front of me,” John says without hesitation. “I saw blunt force trauma.”
Holmes’ lips quirk. “I recall. As I said, your correspondence was particularly thorough.”
“Do you think what Molly saw could be significant?” John asks.
“‘Molly’?” Holmes echoes with a furrowed brow.
“Miss Hooper. Beg your pardon: Miss Hooper.” He has no idea where the slip came from.
“Is that the way of it?” Holmes asks. “I admit, I had wondered why a skilled surgeon would remain on to wave smelling salts beneath powdered noses.”
“What? No. Not at all. We’ve only begun speaking regularly over the past few months.”
“Then what?”
Very consciously, John doesn’t fiddle with the stem of his wine glass. “The opera house is a difficult place to leave.” The people, the rush. The occasional panic before the nightly triumph. Small battles are all John has left. He rarely thinks of how very little the opera house reminds him of Mary these days.
Holmes nods, understanding better than John had hoped he would. “Very difficult. Tell me, what brought you to us in the first place? Your skills are obviously wasted.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Then you’re blind. You could easily have a more profitable, more respectable practice, yet you choose to remain the caretaker of sore throats and sprained ankles.” Holmes wrinkles his nose at the idea.
“You think it’s beneath me.”
“It obviously is. Three nights ago, you responded as an army doctor, not a nursemaid. I’ve a detailed report on my desk to prove it.”
While the compliment is clear, so too is the insult. “Is Miss Adler beneath me?” John asks.
That captures Holmes’ attention, sharp and bright.
“Or Mrs Hudson,” John adds. “Her hip pains her terribly most nights. Is that beneath me?”
“That’s not the point,” Holmes dismisses.
“It is, actually.”
In the resulting silence, the waiter returns with their starters.
John eats quietly. Holmes watches him with a loud gaze.
“Is there a problem, sir?” John asks, his tone sliding towards deference.
Holmes waves his right hand, dismissing John’s concerns. Something about his fingers tugs at John’s mind, a pull John ignores rather than resists. Holmes replies, “You haven’t said why you took the position.”
“Just a whim.”
“A whim lasting four years.”
“I suppose you’re right,” John says with a slight smile. “If I’d known I’d stay for so long, I likely wouldn’t have come.”
Holmes doesn’t reply, still waiting.
“I was looking for something small at the time.”
“You’re at the opera house most days from midmorning to well into the evening,” Holmes replies, a question in his eyes.
“I started looking for something bigger.”
“Now that you’re caring for every soul in the building and investigating our ghostly vandal, are you still looking?”
“No,” John answers without thinking. Immediately, he wants to take it back. He blinks, amazed at how a word so truthful in his mind can be so dishonest upon his lips.
Holmes’ eyebrows flick upwards. “I see.”
John fights the urge to look down, to look away. Hiding behind his meal would be as foolish as an animal stooping to drink while its natural predator watches from across a narrow stream.
Instead, John asks, “Problem?”
“Are you terribly bored?”
“No, not at all.” That, at least, comes out honest. “The opera house--”
“Not at the opera house. Currently, are you bored?”
John smiles at him, pointed yet polite. “Not currently.”
Holmes neither smiles nor frowns. His eyes gleam with a low, satisfied burn that alters his stationary expression entirely. He wears his arrogance across his shoulders as if a mantle upon his cloak, a heavy weight of deliberate embroidery effortlessly carried. Perhaps Holmes is a creature of fascination by his nature, perhaps by his own design. Regardless of the cause, Holmes exudes his own personal gravity. John cannot wonder at being pulled into orbit. He can see the logic in Holmes’ choice of a soldier, just as he can see the sense in gauging John’s willingness to abandon an imposed holiday.
The jarring intimacy drops away the moment he realises that Holmes is, as always, playing a double game. Abruptly amused, John bites his lip to muffle a giggle. “You could simply tell me what you want me to do.”
Holmes looks nearly offended. “I’m hardly your commanding officer.”
“Of course not. I would wait for orders then, not ask for them.” He makes another cut into his lamb. Not the main he would have chosen but remarkably agreeable and a perfect complement to the wine.
“If you’ve enough to fill your time, I’ll hardly insist,” Holmes demurs.
John waits for the inevitable addendum. It never comes. He watches Holmes push the contents of his plate about, attempts not to stare on the rare occasion Holmes samples a morsel. John wonders, dreads, whether Holmes will return to their first topic of conversation: Miss Hooper’s glimpse of Vernet.
What had that idiot been thinking? Knowing enough to warn John against the crash to come, yet stupid enough to stand with the curtain drawn? John could understand looking out at the sound of the crash, but to have been staring so long after displays exceptionally poor judgment. John had already treated those most likely to die by that point. How long could that have been, twenty minutes after the fall? Half an hour? The eternity of treatment skews time.
Had Vernet thought it would have been safe to look by then? Checking the progress of those below to ascertain the safety of leaving the box, perhaps. He had certainly made a quick escape. Miss Hooper’s sighting could have occurred at a sudden motion on Vernet’s part, at the very moment he opened the curtain. It could have been only a moment, a single stupid moment.
Or, whispers a hated corner of John’s mind, perhaps Vernet had never seen so much blood before. Perhaps he’d opened the curtain a safe amount before being struck with horror, his mind numbing and pushing him on to stare. John’s stomach churns with the thought.
Vernet will simply exorcise the carnage into his opera. That’s what he’ll do, the same as he’s done with John’s memories of war and disaster. He’ll filter that night through string and hair into stunned surprise and a fierce response.
John tries to picture this process outside the opera house basement and fails. Not because of the lack of a setting, but because of the impossibility of visualising him from the front without his mask. Even from behind, John wants to imagine his hair in disorder, restrained only by the strap of the mask, barely contained.
The chime of glass upon china shakes John from his ruminations. He blinks at Holmes, utterly uncertain whether Holmes had knocked his glass against his plate intentionally. When Holmes meets his gaze over the lip of his wine glass, the answer is a resounding yes.
John’s smile is small, more cursory than apologetic. “I was under the impression you invited me here for a reason, Mr Holmes.”
“Oh?” Holmes sets down his glass as John lifts his own.
“Actually, what with it being you, several reasons. Presumably stacked upon each other with another one hiding under the table.”
Holmes permits his pleasure to make a home in his lips and eyes.
“Go on, then,” John urges. “Supposing I were terribly bored and wished to be of assistance, what would I be doing?”
“Nothing too strenuous. While the opera house is closed, it’s a good time to see who’s profiting the most from it.”
“As in, professional rivalries?”
“It may also be a matter of patronage.”
John thinks this over. “You mean, someone could seek to ruin your lord brother in any of a number of ways, so they must have picked the opera house for a reason?” It seems utterly obvious the moment John utters it.
Holmes nods. “Precisely. If he’s attacking the opera house, he may have other targets than Mycroft. If he’s already acted against them, we can begin ruling out suspects.”
“If your lord brother is the only target,” John begins.
“Then I’ll have wasted a number of your afternoons and evenings,” Holmes replies. He raises an eyebrow. “Is that an acceptable risk?”
John nearly answers that any time spent in Holmes’ company could never be considered a waste. Lest Holmes think him a hanger-on, John restrains his eagerness. Instead, he replies, “Very acceptable.”
“Excellent.” Holmes leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “If you can, speak to the staff about conditions under the guise of seeking a second option should the opera house ultimately close. You’ve permission to discuss whatever details of our conundrum you feel may loosen tongues. The gossip mongers have already been set loose days ago: I’m certain nothing you would say could cause us harm.”
“Of course.” John comes close to asking “And what will you be doing?” before he fully realises that Holmes will not be accompanying him. Which ought to have been readily apparent from the outset. John must be tired.
Holmes reaches into an inner jacket pocket and withdraws an envelope. He sets it upon the table. “Your funds and schedule.”
John nods and tucks it away inside his jacket without looking at the contents. “How should I notify you if I find anything important?”
“Arrange a meeting by telegram,” Holmes instructs. “I would prefer to carry this out in person. As far as anyone is concerned, you’re merely passing the time until the opera house reopens.”
“Simple enough.” It’s certainly a better means of passing the time than John had mustered on his own.
“Any further questions?”
“Not quite related, but is the New Year’s Masquerade still on?”
Holmes nearly rolls his eyes. “Of course. It’s held in the lobby, not in the stalls.”
“I imagine the police aren’t thrilled to hear that.”
“A certain inspector is eager to lay a trap,” Holmes replies. “I see no reason to prevent him.”
“Inspector Lestrade?”
“Mm, yes. He’s actually somewhat competent.”
John fights down a laugh. “Does that count as high praise?”
An impish light shines in Holmes’ eyes. “It might.”
“Such a standard to aspire to,” John muses and drinks from his glass.
“I have faith in your abilities.”
The resulting flush of pleasure is entirely out of proportion, a sure sign that John ought to put his glass right back where he found it. John does so. “Is, ah. Is there anyone else you’ve set on this track?”
“No one,” Holmes replies.
Again, the flush of pleasure. Again, the ridiculous pride. Abruptly, John wishes for more, for something more difficult. A true challenge. Absolute nonsense, of course: though being a patron of the arts is no insurmountable burden, the odds of uncovering crucial information might be exceptionally low. Best not ask after the complex when the simple may prove too difficult to accomplish. “I’ll do what I can,” John promises.
Holmes smiles, his eyes sharp over cheekbones sharper still. Though attractive, the expression is not quite benign. John has the sense of a net wrapping about him and slowly drawing tight. He makes no attempt to resist. If anything, he sits taller in his chair for the sensation. When Holmes’ smile widens, a thrill pierces him.
“I expected nothing less,” Holmes murmurs. John is struck by the familiarity of his lips, the angle of his jaw. He busies himself with knife and fork for an excuse to look away from the effect of candlelight upon Holmes’ skin.
Holmes continues speaking into John’s silence, his light voice filling the empty space as naturally as a creek enters its pond. His topics vary between this and that, his focus on physical curiosities rather than people. He sounds nearly like a scientist and not at all like the gossips of the opera house. He is sharp and witty and dreadfully intelligent. As Holmes reveals his enthusiasms, conversing with him takes on the same sort of terrified giddiness that petting a lion might provide.
John takes dessert and coffee despite wanting neither. Holmes does the same despite having barely touched his meal. When the conversation dwindles, they simply sit, taking turns sipping increasingly cold coffee. The evening draws to an obvious close.
Unlike their previous meal here, Holmes makes no protest when John moves to pay their bill. “For last time,” John explains, ignoring the hole this will leave in his pocket, and Holmes murmurs, “Of course.” They collect their belongings from the cloakroom. With his hat on, Holmes looms ever taller.
They exit to the street and Holmes hails them a cab. “You’re on my way,” Holmes explains, following John into the hansom. At each corner of the small ceiling above them, a lamp shines against the night’s chill and the evening’s smoke. They spread the blanket across their laps and sit somewhat closer than daytime travel necessitates. Their shoulders knock together before pressing comfortably. Something inside John begins to sing regardless of how he tamps it down.
The ride lasts a remarkably short time at this hour. John steps down onto the pavement reluctant to face the chill alone. For all of a moment, he wonders if he could invite Holmes inside, perhaps offer him a nightcap. He dismisses the thought immediately. Though his home is nothing to be ashamed of, it’s hardly something to be shown off either. Certainly not to an earl’s heir.
“Good night,” John says instead.
“Good night,” Holmes replies.
The cab rides on, pulling away before vanishing into the fog. The lamps disappear last of all. John shakes himself out of his reverie. He unlocks his door and heads inside.
He doesn’t check the contents of the envelope until the morning. Within, he finds a guide of performance times and locations, a price listed next to each explaining the sum of money accompanying it. The rather surprising sum John finds the moment he counts it. He checks the guide all the way to the end to find two additional listings.
First, a generous rate of pay accompanies the words “for your time and assistance.”
Second, the final entry reads “for dinner” and is accompanied by a number so precise it can only be the exact cost of Holmes’ portion.
John stares at it, utterly befuddled, before he begins to giggle. How in the world...? Remarkable. Absurd, but remarkable.
Though Holmes has made no requests upon John’s time until the following day, John’s good spirits refuse to flag even into the evening.
So begins his December project. Much to his surprise, the rumour-gathering proves easier than attendance itself. Before the first play finishes its first act, John discovers that any form of entertainment without Vernet whispering biting judgement into John’s ear is, frankly, entertainment not worth watching. The next time, John comes with paper and pencil and leaves with pencil shavings on his trouser legs. Notes as well, all of the thoughts and stage spectacles which he absolutely mustn’t forget to tell Vernet.
Though he attends plays, concerts, operas-even a pair of indoor circuses-he finds no rumours of tampering or deadly disruption. For a man as practiced at speaking with stagehands as John is, he knows that all signs point to their opera house as being the sole target of their phantom. Try as John might, he can find no one with a recent story that can compare to the disaster of the chandelier.
At the end of the first week, John receives a telegram. It says only Anything? SH
John replies in kind: Nothing. JW
The response: Tedious. SH
John laughs at that. Though Holmes is delightful in his way, the rest of John’s correspondence is considerably longer. Several of the wounded from the opera house have made inquiries of Mr Havill for John’s address. Not for the first time-though the first time in at least a year-John has serious thoughts of a small, private practice outside of the opera house. He tentatively schedules a few appointments around his reconnaissance work, largely in the mornings.
With the Masquerade still on, John keeps in touch with both Mrs Hudson and his tailor. Their costumes are progressing nicely and ought to be finished in time. Mrs Hudson writes to him on a variety of subjects, and it takes a great deal of restraint to refrain from asking her about Vernet. How is he, where is he, is he safe and well? After Inspector Lestrade’s interest in Miss Hooper’s glimpse, John has some cause to feel concern.
Unfortunately, that concern only underscores the importance of never mentioning Vernet’s existence, much less his presence beneath the opera house. Too much about Vernet is much too suspicious. Though John trusts him with-has trusted him with-the most intimate of confessions, John knows the police would be far less willing to accept Vernet as an innocent bystander. Particularly as the tunnels appear to open in more locations than the opera house basement.
It’s a jarring realisation in the extreme, the thought that he’s withholding crucial information from the police. For one long afternoon, his stomach twists in guilt before he remembers Vernet’s contract. The Earl knows about the tunnels. The police must have already been informed.
What does that mean for Vernet’s belongings? For the second-hand furniture with its wood coated by ever more wax? For the countless papers and the tins of food and the humble cot of a bed? That dank, sunless chamber is very much Vernet’s home. John finds he wouldn’t see it disturbed for the world, a sentiment he must quickly qualify. People have died. Of course John would see it disturbed: he simply knows there would be no point in it.
He hopes Vernet took all of his manuscript with him. Those papers are precious beyond belief. If John would be distraught to lose them, he can’t imagine what Vernet’s response would be. Forced into watching other performances, other operas, John increasingly finds the cleverness in Vernet’s work.
The use of a contralto, for example. John knows the visual gags, the titillation of a brief grope when a male character encounters another, should that other be played by a woman. He’s seen disrobing scenes and the flash of a breast. Vernet’s opera offers none of this. Nor does it need to. The recollection of the thwarted mutiny plays on in John’s mind, the mixing themes, the unrelenting force of Vernet’s presence behind him upon acting out the scene. Though their positions had been combative, John abruptly comprehends another layer to the scenario.
It’s a seduction. A naive man seduced by glory, by dreams of loyalty rather than loyalty itself. In a scene between men, such as between himself and Vernet, the idea of a seduction is absurd. But should either man be, in actuality, a woman, this additional meaning has context within which to take root. It isn’t even inappropriate, rendered both non-sexual and appropriately sexual by the melding of the genders.
In January, John will be able to tell Vernet that he’s realised this. In January, John will helplessly ramble at Vernet about the man’s own brilliance, too long kept without a means of diffusing his admiration. Vernet is a veritable genius, a fact only underscored when John at last discovers through playbill after playbill that it is effectively unheard of for a composer to write his own libretto, or a librettist his score. Three months and nearly a complete opera. A true genius.
Unable to tell anyone and at a loss without Vernet to speak to or prod at, John sends a telegram inviting Holmes to dinner instead. He makes sure the request isn’t an urgent one, but Holmes arranges a time and place for them that very night. John has no idea how. Though the Swan is far closer to John’s home than the Gloriana will ever claim to be, it also demands reservations weeks in advance. Let it forever be known that Mr Sherlock Holmes is a man of influence and resources.
“I’m afraid I’ve found remarkably little,” John admits soon after they’ve exchanged greetings but before they’ve been seated, still being led to their table. It’s a quick, nervous moment, a pre-emptive apology for wasting Holmes’ time.
“I’d expected as much,” Holmes replies, brushing John’s concerns neatly aside. As he had both times previously, Holmes takes the seat with its back angled toward the room. Still uncertain whether Holmes positions himself for John’s benefit, John gratefully sinks into the other chair. Holmes orders their drinks before John so much as spreads his napkin across his lap.
“If you didn’t expect me to find anything,” John begins.
“If I’d sent a man of slipshod habits, I’d never have trusted his conclusion,” Holmes replies. “Now I can be certain that my brother is the sole target.”
John’s irritation dissipates instantly. “And if the matter is personal rather than professional...”
“Yes, our field of suspects narrows considerably.” Holmes grins, ridiculous and hopeful.
John grins back helplessly. He wants to shake Holmes’ hand and clap him on the shoulder. Instead, he clasps his hands upon his lap, banishing them beneath the table. “Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to infiltrate your lord brother’s social circles as easily.”
Holmes shudders, the motion understated and restrained. “Consider yourself fortunate.” Already, his face is a mask of boredom. He looks much as John first met him, now lacking the veneer of courtesy.
John laughs a quiet and unexpected giggle. He bites his lip, about to apologise, but Holmes’ expression entirely changes once again. The boredom and distaste falls away to reveal a flicker of amusement.
“Is that what you’ve been doing, then?” John asks. “Socialising?”
“Whenever it proves unavoidable.”
“You poor man.”
“It’s horrid,” Holmes agrees.
“A true wonder you’re still alive.”
“I may not survive Christmas.”
“Oh dear.” Impossible to bury his smile in his wine glass, but John makes the attempt, if only for a moment.
“I do have one traditional method of self-preservation. Some measure of escape is possible.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Rubbish weather for funerals this time of year. Rains the day through, but the ground is still much too hard.”
Holmes makes a face as if having choked upon laughter. With great restraint, John keeps from giggling. It’s not usually such a problem. They grin at each other for a moment before John looks down. He can still feel the warm weight of Holmes’ gaze upon his face.
“And your plans?” Holmes asks.
John blinks up at him, uncertain as to what he means. “I suppose I can try to die in the summer, but it’s not something I particularly think about.”
That startles Holmes into a laugh, a real, audible one. It’s deeper than John would have expected from his speaking voice, nearly a rumble. “Christmas, Dr Watson. Our holiday next week.”
“I’ve never been one for large gatherings,” John says.
“A quiet affair.”
“Quite.” The sounds of the fire and his own breathing for the most part, occasionally punctuated by the crinkle of a turning page.
Holmes considers him much too long, his gaze residing on the surface of John’s face and periodically penetrating deeper.
“Something the matter?” John asks, daring pity, absolutely challenging it.
“I ask too many requests of you,” Holmes begins, feigning the signs of convincing hesitance. While Holmes carries off the motions well enough, John can’t think for a moment Holmes could experience the feeling.
“Playing coy doesn’t suit you.” John sets down knife and fork. He folds his hands. “What needs doing?”
“Typically, I visit Mrs Hudson each year. She and my mother were very close-it’s something of a tradition.”
“Is that your traditional escape?”
Holmes nods. “Mine alone. I’d often a few days of it and stay in her son’s old rooms. Mycroft has his commitments to his daughters and an absurd number of extended relations. In light of events this year, he may attempt to hold me to those same commitments. Tedious in the extreme, but my concern remains with Mrs Hudson. She’s very understanding, but it has been a day for only the two of us for quite some time.”
“You mean, she might be on her own,” John summarises.
“In a house of considerable size,” Holmes confirms. “Her husband passed away while I was still at school, and her son moved to America. Florida, I believe.”
“I’ll write to her and ask for a visit,” John promises.
“Only if your plans permit.”
“I’m certain they do.”
A smile touches Holmes’ lips, lovely and not at all foolish. Its unexpected sincerity could break the heart. Just as quickly, Holmes wraps his public persona around himself anew. His thanks are polite words only, all traces of sentiment tightly bottled away. What sort of a man might Holmes be if unburdened from that restraint? If Holmes could be untucked, unbuttoned, unlaced, who would be left? John has to wonder.
They converse sparingly as they dine, theirs a companionable silence. His motions those of diligence rather than hunger, Holmes eats little. A pity, as the food is excellent, the wine perfectly suited. The lack of conversation isn’t a problem until the meal begins drawing to a close. As Holmes deserves some sort of report on John’s theatre-going experiences, John makes mention of the more interesting pieces. He gravitates towards the aspects that left him itching to speak with Vernet. Holmes appears at least moderately interested, which John knows to take as a compliment.
The more John speaks, the more he imagines Vernet’s dramatic reactions, the absolute dismissals of visual spectacle and the rapt fascination for the mechanisms behind it. John responds to unasked questions, elaborating upon the music without Holmes prompting. Though restraining his own enthusiasm, John carries on in this vein through dessert and coffee.
Only when Holmes surreptitiously checks the time beneath the table does John relent. The sudden horror that Holmes has merely been enduring his company arises. Even when Holmes invites John to resume his tale, the trepidation remains. John checks the time as well and feels his eyes widen. A quick look around the restaurant proves that they have once again remained longer than the crowd.
“Time to turn in, I think,” John says.
Holmes nearly disagrees, a supremely satisfying sight.
“I, ah.” John hesitates without knowing why. “I have a patient in the morning, actually.”
“I see,” Holmes says. For a man encouraging John to take on more than the small lot he’s settled for, he doesn’t seem pleased by this news.
Even so, Holmes pays for their meal tonight, a neat sum that John takes careful note of. Neither mentions the envelope from their previous dinner. John certainly doesn’t mention that he has the same envelope waiting in his coat pocket.
As they reclaim their winter garments from the cloakroom, John checks the contents of the envelope by feel. He’d overestimated the amount intentionally, and now he quietly removes the excess until the envelope contains approximately half the cost of their meal. The only challenge lies in smuggling it into Holmes’ coat. To his own surprise, he pulls off that manoeuvre as smoothly as any pickpocket by offering to assist Holmes with the garment. Much easier to fill a pocket before the coat is worn. Certainly much easier to do with Holmes’ back turned. John slides the coat up Holmes’ arms, his hands resting a moment upon Holmes’ deceptively thin shoulders.
Tonight, Holmes had arrived in his own carriage which, he explains, is the reason he’d checked the time at the table. He bids John to wait with him for the horses to be readied. John gladly complies. He offers John a ride home. John readily accepts. Holmes gestures John inside. John takes the rear-facing seat. A small lantern hangs from the ceiling, their sole source of light with the curtains closed in the carriage windows. Even so, the enclosed space seems brighter than the street outside with its lamps.
Holmes takes his turn to dominate the conversation and places John within a willing enthrallment. Holmes details the performances of the opera house’s past, the clever pieces of machinery invented when he was but a boy. He describes Mrs Hudson in her prime, an artist whose movements would put even Miss Adler’s voice to shame were the two ever forced to directly compare.
When the carriage hits a bump, they nearly knock heads, so closely have they leaned forward. Holmes catches John by the shoulders; John catches himself on Holmes’ knees. Holmes’ eyes are a deep blue, the dilation of his pupils growing noticeable as John blocks out the light. He has a freckle just above his left eyebrow. John pulls back with a nervous laugh, prompting, “You were saying?”
Their conversation is far from finished when they arrive at John’s address. As if making up for his relative silence over dinner, Holmes now sets his best self forward. Mindful of the driver out in the cold and that there is nowhere for the carriage to wait but here on the street, John refrains from inviting Holmes inside. The temptation remains.
Ultimately, it’s the cold that decides them. Absently working his arm, John cracks his shoulder.
“Inside,” Holmes bids him. “We’ll continue this another time.” Not we must or we should. Simply we will.
“Another time,” John agrees.
Neither of them moves.
“Is there anything else?” John asks. “That needs to be done.”
Holmes smiles faintly. “Is there anything I could ask of you that you’d refuse?”
“Nothing you would ask.” John is certain of it. “...Is there something?”
“Nothing within your power to perform, sadly,” Holmes answers.
“Oh. I thought you were about to say something. My mistake.”
“I was, actually,” Holmes corrects.
“Oh?” John sits up straighter.
Holmes pauses before he asks, “Your patient tomorrow: continuing contact with a victim of our chandelier?”
“The father of a witness,” John replies, certain this is far from the question Holmes intended to ask. “Apparently the chap refuses to see anyone except ‘an army sawbones.’ Word of me seems to have spread.”
“I see.” Holmes’ face is a mask of neutrality. “Good night, Dr Watson.”
“Good night, Mr Holmes.”
Stomach twisting at the dismissal, John opens the door and steps out into the cold. He climbs his front steps before the carriage door opens a second time. Holmes unfolds himself from the carriage, impossibly long legs sliding free from the constraints of his greatcoat. “Dr Watson!”
“Yes?”
“Your hat.” Holmes holds it out.
Embarrassed, John descends the few stairs while Holmes steps forward. They don’t quite collide as they nearly did in the carriage, but there is an instant where they are of a height. With the carriage lanterns setting a halo about his head, Holmes hands him his hat.
“Thank you.” For an instant, they both hold it, a pair of gloved hands on the brim.
Holmes may smile in the dark, his exact expression too difficult to see. “Of course.”
Without another word, Holmes effectively bounds away and closets himself up in the carriage. John stares, bewildered, as the carriage pulls away. He puts his hat on and something stiff immediately makes contact with the top of his head.
Removing his hat immediately, he fails to catch the something, instead dropping it onto his front steps. As Holmes’ carriage disappears into the fog, John stoops to pick up the envelope. By now somewhat battered, its contents haven’t altered a whit since its last moment in John’s hand.
Shaking his head and terribly amused, John unlocks his door and turns in for the night.
coda
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