Fic: Bel Canto - 14/16 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7.9k out of 127k
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, 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
The performance rushes closer. Practiced chaos abounds. All the workers of the opera house whirl about each other to keep from colliding in narrow halls or between tables laden with props and tools and bits of costume. John’s steps in this dance are something of a waltz: two tiny steps forward and then a large step out of the way, holding his medical bag in the place of a partner.
A small emergency nearly erupts when one of the dancers vomits, but his symptoms don’t match those of major poisoning, merely food poisoning. Waves of terror escape before John can contain them, but a fair amount of shouting does the dancers good. Perhaps berating the man as an idiot for eating suspect egg salad is a touch harsh, but the resulting laughter puts a damper on the fear.
As the afternoon gives way into evening, the police take up their posts about the opera house. Clearly exhausted beyond all patience, Inspector Lestrade seizes upon John in passing.
“He’s not actually planning to perform, is he?”
“He’s more or less our only option at this point, sir,” John replies.
Inspector Lestrade’s arms remain crossed as his eyebrows rise. “You’re not serious.”
“I wish I weren’t. Still, it’d be a shame not to have bait in the trap you’ve been so kind as to set up.”
Inspector Lestrade doesn’t quite glare at him, but it’s close. “The Earl will try to call it off the moment he hears.”
“Does an earl have any actual power over a police officer?” John asks in his most innocent of voices.
“Legal or actual, Doctor?” Inspector Lestrade counters. “For that matter, have you met him?”
“Touché.”
They stand for a bit, then Inspector Lestrade sighs. “Where is he?”
“The Earl?”
“No, the boffin-turned-actor. Where’s he off to in this mess?”
“I think he’s having his costume sewn onto him,” John says, not entirely sure how jokingly he means it. He gives directions up toward the main sewing room. “If not, well, normally I’d tell you to try his dressing room, but I don’t think he has one of those yet.” Signor Valeri is still holed up in the one that would have been Holmes’.
“See if he does, would you? He’s gone and scrapped the entire protection plan without telling anyone. Putting himself out on the stage, he could get himself killed.”
“You’ll think of something,” John says with more hope than certainty.
“I’d damn well better, pardon my French.”
John lifts his medical bag pointedly. “I’ve still my gun.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised to hear it, but I am glad. I’ll send someone to tell you if we need you.”
“Yes, sir,” John says.
Inspector Lestrade glances down at John’s feet, snapped together as they are in old habit. He nods to John with more respect than before, and he was respectful, if exasperated, to begin with.
They part ways. John weaves his way through the back halls to the dressing rooms. He knocks and he calls and he asks more than a few people whether Holmes has a dressing room or not. No one seems quite certain.
“I think he’s in the third one,” Beaumont says. His face scrunches from the effort of thinking through the chaos.
“I thought Zucco was in that one,” Jamison disagrees.
“Thanks, you’re a wonderful help,” John says. The two curse at him in passably good cheer as John sets off. He knocks on the third one.
“Hello?” Zucco answers the door. Though they’ve an hour before the house opens, their Antony is already partially dressed for his role. His trousers clash oddly with the Roman uniform, but it wouldn’t do for the man’s legs to freeze off before he takes to the stage. His face has yet to be painted.
“Sorry to bother you,” John says.
“Oh, not at all,” says Zucco. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t suppose you’d know if Mr Holmes has a dressing room?” John asks.
“I do! We’re sharing this one.” At John’s surprised blink, Zucco explains, “It doesn’t seem right, putting any of the lead roles into one of the common dressing rooms, and I was already in here before Signor Valeri barricaded himself into the other private one. There is the remaining lady’s dressing room, now that we’re without a star soprano, but that seems indecorous somehow.”
Easily recognising the chatter of another soul at loose ends, John nods along.
“Was there a message you wanted to give him?” Zucco asks.
“Merely trying to find him,” John lies. “If you see him, please tell him Inspector Lestrade is looking for him.”
Zucco smiles, but not in the way John would expect Antony to smile. Prettily done, this is a smile aimed to endear, to please, to flatter. “He’s very much in demand, isn’t he?” Zucco’s voice lifts slightly, just slightly, and suddenly, the nagging feeling in the back of John’s head resolves into clarity: Zucco is an invert.
John doesn’t twitch or recoil, but it is possible he betrays his realisation all the same. Zucco simply laughs with the fine humour of a man who knows his position is, for now, secure.
“I think the inspector simply wants to know where to store Holmes in case of emergency,” John replies.
“A fair concern.” Much more seriously, Zucco asks, “Might I be stored away in case of emergency as well?”
“I think you might,” John says, “but separate locations might be better.”
Zucco lifts his eyebrows as if granting John opportunity to explain this separation. Silently asking what he has done wrong, Zucco turns his expression piteous. “You’re very protective of your friend, aren’t you, Dr Watson?” He lilts over the word friend in a way John dislikes immensely.
“If the army taught me anything, Mr Zucco, it was to look out for my superiors,” John answers.
In what might be apology, Zucco nods. “I hope it serves us well tonight.” He smiles again, this time far more honestly. “He truly is a remarkable composer. I didn’t see that coming in the slightest. Not that I auditioned entirely without hope, but oh. This is something special.”
“It is. Though I’m not sure how well the audience will appreciate its uniqueness.”
Zucco waves a dismissive hand. “Stupid, ordinary people. I wouldn’t bother with them. They lack vision.”
“They do buy tickets,” John points out.
Zucco wrinkles his nose in the craftsman’s distaste of the layman. As if at a sudden thought, he brightens. “The word in the wings is that you were privy to the creative process.”
“I don’t know about that,” John says. He tries to excuse himself, but Zucco jumps in too quickly and so thwarts John’s fundamentally British core.
“I heard one of the stagehands say you were closeted with him in Mr Havill’s office when he was finishing the score.”
“He prefers to have someone else in the room,” John explains.
“Is that someone very often you?” Zucco asks. “That would explain much.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Mr Holmes assumes your posture for the role.” Zucco looks at him curiously. “Or didn’t you realise?”
John stares, then blinks a few times, then desperately holds in what could have become a very strange noise indeed. He clears his throat, smoothes his expression down before it can take on a giddy appearance, and calmly states, “He doesn’t do that.” He knows what Holmes looked like in the role of the captain, and he looked nothing at all like John. He was much too magnificent for that.
“He did earlier.” Zucco’s smile was that of a man who knows he knows better and, furthermore, intends for everyone else to know this as well. “I saw you when you tried to draw out Signor Valeri. Exceptional military posture. Mr Holmes was clearly emulating you.”
“Well,” John says. A stupidly fond expression keeps trying to climb onto his face. “You know. Inspiration from anywhere, that’s what makes an artist.”
“It’s certainly made him,” Zucco agrees. Though it might make another man appear sarcastic, Zucco’s emphasis only underscores the sincerity of his praise.
“It certainly has.”
“Do you know how long he’s been composing? He seems remarkably practiced for this to be his first public work.”
“I’m not sure. I imagine it’s a long-term passion.”
Zucco grins a bit. “Long-term traditionally describes the writing of an opera.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” John says. “After all, Holmes slapped this one together in half a year.”
Zucco’s eyebrows rise, his grin wiped away.
John grins in return. “He’s very quick.”
“Then is this his first opera? Are there others? I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s very exciting.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” John says, well-warmed to the topic. Besides, he has little else to do before the première, beyond staying out of the way. If Inspector Lestrade hasn’t come around to find Holmes here, he must have already found Holmes elsewhere.
John gladly answers what Zucco asks, and he finds himself very nearly relaxed for the first time that day. He’s hardly about to go inside the dressing room with Zucco, but little harm can come from conversing in the doorway. Invert or not, Zucco’s interest in Holmes does appear to be primarily professional, even at times bordering on hero worship.
Rather than disgust John, this reminds him of Hopkins’ awe toward Holmes. It must be so easy for a younger man to be caught up in Holmes’ personality and dignity. The fellow has fallen into a trap of gentility and doesn’t even know it, poor sod.
Upon hearing that Holmes has completed only the one opera, Zucco looks absolutely pained. When John explains how Holmes has often thwarted himself through his own perfectionism, Zucco nods understandingly. At no point does Zucco listen to John’s tales of Holmes’ process with anything less than fascination.
In an abruptly anxious turn, Zucco asks, “You don’t think he would stop composing, do you?”
John tilts his head slightly, frowning. “I think he could be caught under a rockslide and carry on humming. What do you mean?”
“This opera house and Miss Adler,” Zucco says. “They’re clearly significant to his work. If the opera house was to close or Miss Adler to leave for better prospects...” He trails off, his dread plain on his face. Here is a man who wants to sing something magnificent, and go on singing something magnificent.
“Holmes would go on writing.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely,” John says without hesitation. “I’ve never known anyone more passionate about his art.”
“Not even Miss Adler?”
“Not even her.”
Zucco whistles, low and appreciative.
“He’ll keep writing, whatever happens tonight,” John promises. “Disaster or triumph.”
“That’s a relief,” Zucco says, nodding repeatedly. “I can’t tell you how much, Dr Watson.”
“I’m glad. Still, let’s aim for triumph, shall we?”
Zucco grins. “Of course. I never aim for anything else.”
“Just be certain you don’t run off after Cleopatra or something.”
Zucco finds this joke far more amusing than John would credit it being. “I’ll be very careful about that.”
“That’s all we ask. I’ll leave you to rest your voice.”
Rather than reply aloud, Zucco salutes smartly, if incorrectly. They part ways there, Zucco retreating into his shared dressing room. John picks up his medical bag only to realise he doesn’t actually have anywhere he needs to be. He adjusts his grip and adjusts it again. He starts walking, if only to prevent himself from going back and becoming a conversational leech.
Holmes is, apparently, the new rugby. Given half a chance and a willing bystander, John would prattle on about him endlessly. His face aches a bit from what he’s done already. Has he been smiling so much? Christ. In front of an invert is one thing, but there are police in the building.
It ought to be a sobering thought, but it does nothing to dampen John’s remarkably high spirits. Because that was happiness. Actual, solid happiness, simply from talking about the idiot.
God, there’s a thought. A strange, foreign thought, but there it is: John could be happy. Odd, the sort of things that tumble into one’s brain in the middle of a bunch of agitated stagehands. Hell of a risk to stake on a man that infuriating.
Still, there’s nothing he can do about it until after the show. With that in mind, he goes off to track down Inspector Lestrade and see if he can make himself useful. Failing that, he finds a newspaper.
The house opens with a surge of heat and noise. Bodies rumble up the stairs and stroll down into the stalls. Seats fill. Curtains sway in the boxes until the gloved hands of ushers secure them neatly in place. The john lights the footlights as the opening moment draws ever nearer. In the sudden increase of warmth from flame and human form, the orchestra tunes and tunes again, waves of discord growing sweet. The murmur of voices rises and falls, accompanied by the rustling of cloth and the fluttering of fans.
Rather than continuing to watch from the house door and block everyone’s way, John retreats to the lobby to breathe. Immediately, the air temperature drops. The doors are open, patrons still filing in with various levels of excitement and dread. While far from the gala première Holmes’ opera deserves, it remains a far better turnout than they could have expected under these conditions.
Said conditions include the policemen framing the doors as if, at any moment, all the doormen will be under arrest. The patrons’ reactions range from frightened to reassured, but very few turn back.
“Dr Watson, there you are!”
John turns and smiles reflexively at Hopkins and the shining buttons of his uniform. “Here I am. We’re not sold out, are we?”
Hopkins grins. “Closer to it than expected. I’m sure we will be tomorrow night.” He simply stands there for a moment, still grinning, but now very deliberately.
“Christ, what’s wrong now?”
“Nothing,” Hopkins says, his voice rising sharply in pitch. “I mean, the Earl is... Well, he’s here. In the box. Box Five.”
“I know where the Earl sits.”
“Yes... Well.” Hopkins doesn’t quite wring his hands, but he does fiddle with his gloves. “He’s been asking Inspector Lestrade, you see. So the inspector told me to find you.”
John’s stomach drops through the floor. “The Earl’s asking after me?”
“Well... no.” Hopkins visibly forces himself to stop adjusting his gloves. “Inspector Lestrade wants you nearby in case the ghost goes after you again.”
“Then what was that about the Earl?”
“He’s asking after his brother.”
Oh, God. “He thinks it’s my fault his brother’s turned into an actor?”
Hopkins hesitates.
The penny drops. “No one’s told him anything, have they?”
“Inspector Lestrade told him Mr Holmes has been working on the opera and... And that the Earl will see his brother when the opera starts.”
John swears quietly, Hopkins shushes him, and a passing patron glares at them all the same.
“Sorry, madam,” John and Hopkins apologise in unison. They quickly relocate, Hopkins trying to bring John to Box Five, John trying to go anywhere else.
“Would he stop the opera?” Hopkins asks.
“I hope not.”
They exchange a nervous glance at John’s vast understatement.
“Once the police lock the doors, it ought to be too late to call it off,” John reasons.
“About the door-locking,” Hopkins says.
“Yes?”
“If the ghost likes to set buildings on fire and we’re locking all the doors and windows, aren’t we playing into his hands? I know the policemen are at all the exits, but they won’t want to let anyone out in case the ghost escapes.”
“Hopkins,” John says.
“Yes?” says Hopkins.
“Find a fire axe.”
“You don’t actually have the authority to tell me to do that, sir.”
“I know,” John says. “You can blame it on me anyway.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hopkins nervous smile makes him appear younger than ever, although John’s certain the fellow is in his thirties.
“Anything else I need to watch out for?” John asks.
Hopkins hesitates.
“All right, out with it,” John orders.
“Not meaning to be impertinent, sir, and I know you said you and Miss Hooper weren’t an item, but I’m worried with Mr Zucco about, and I would never want to see you hurt, sir, I would never, and Mr Zucco and she seem a bit closer than expected-”
“He’s not interested in her,” John says bluntly, “and you can worry about asking her to lunch tomorrow, not tonight, understand? We need you focused.”
“I--” Hopkins gapes before nodding quickly. “Yes, sir.”
With that, they arrive outside of Box Five. Hopkins knocks. They enter. Inside, the Earl sits next to Inspector Lestrade. The Countess is absent, presumably due to her delicate condition.
“Doctor,” Lord Holmes greets.
“My lord,” John replies. “Good evening.”
The Earl looks at Hopkins.
Hopkins leaves.
When the door clicks shut, the Earl asks, “I don’t suppose you’ll deny my brother has taken to the stage?”
“I will not, my lord.”
“It was my understanding you not only had a baritone for the role, but an understudy after him.”
John folds his hands behind his back. He spreads his weight evenly, though his leg gives a bit of a twinge at it. “One quit. The other was an embarrassment.”
Lord Holmes does not stand and does not need to stand in order to look down at John. “I would rather some fool be an embarrassment than my brother a disgrace.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” John says, doing no such thing, “but we need a show worth ruining.”
“And is my brother ‘worth ruining’?” Lord Holmes demands in a measured voice.
“His performance will be,” John promises.
“I don’t care about his performance.”
“Your brother does,” John says. “I apologise for the embarrassment your brother’s involvement with theatre may cause your family, but Mr Havill is in charge of casting decisions. I have no say in this matter whatsoever.”
“Speak to him,” Lord Holmes orders.
“I can bring Mr Havill--”
“Speak to my brother,” Lord Holmes corrects.
“If I could see any point in doing so, my lord, I would. Unfortunately, I have never set my will against your brother’s with any sort of success. He is a very determined man.”
Lord Holmes narrows his eyes. Beside him, Inspector Lestrade does his absolute best to sink into the woodwork. Beyond them, through the open curtains, the stalls are nearly full. The orchestra sits at attention in the pit, ready to rise to their maestro’s command.
John squares his shoulders and continues, “If your lordship wishes to put a stop to the opera, that option remains. Again, I’ve never successfully set my will against your brother’s, but I’m certain your lordship is more capable in that regard.”
“You are prepared for my brother to become a laughingstock.”
“I am prepared for anything but that.”
“Then see to your preparations,” Lord Holmes bids him.
Before John can devise a suitable response, the overture begins. Lord Holmes turns in his seat to look out into the house, down to the orchestra, and John understands a crucial detail so crucial, so obvious, and so very sad.
“Is this your lordship’s first time hearing it?” John asks needlessly, his voice lowered in deference to the music.
The first hush of the audience reaches even Box Five. A moment passes before Lord Holmes answers in a whisper. “I’ve heard snatches.”
“I think your lordship will be pleasantly surprised.”
Lord Holmes says nothing. He simply sits and listens and gestures for John to sit. John obeys, taking his position on Lord Holmes’ right. Lord Holmes is, as always, centred within his box. His focus shifts utterly from John to the orchestra. When the overture reaches the battle theme, the Earl nearly stops breathing.
The overture finishes to applause. The grand drape parts. The opera takes its first breath and comes alive. Rehearsal was but a shadow fallen in advance: the true form is here.
Roman soldiers loiter in their barracks. The prologue rings out from their throats, setting a foreign story that would escape John entirely if he didn’t know it by heart. He ignores the Italian and listens instead to the orchestra. Their general is gone to Rome, their general has married the emperor’s sister, and now, their general has returned. They sing of Antony and Rome and the bonds between. They sing of Alexandria and Egypt and the unending charms of Cleopatra. They sing of their general’s resolve, of his good name, of their great pride in him.
There in the barracks, a young soldier steps forward, tall and slight in build. The orchestra soars under him to lift him up in praise of his general. His voice glows with the innocent pride that only naivety can bring. He is convincing in the extreme and it takes John a moment to realise, yes, that is Miss Adler.
A bit of dancing follows, not as silly as it could have been, and the soldiers fall into line in anticipation of their general’s entrance. The orchestra heralds his approach and yet the man who enters is not Antony at all, a fact immediately recognisable in the soldiers’ disappointment. Their captain has come in their general’s place.
John has a strange moment of panic before he can detect any trace of Holmes beneath this new persona. He knows the voice but cannot see the man. This is someone else, someone dedicated to cause and country. He stands in absolute control of his body, his motions commanding in their quiet nature. He emanates unquestionable strength and would do so even without the sword upon his hip. The weapon is secondary to the man, or perhaps an inevitable extension of him. His report, though sung, maintains the tight rhythm of pertinent briefing. His simple presence turns the crowd of dancers into an assembly of soldiers standing at attention, if only because they would dare be nothing else for him.
The weight of the Earl’s gaze presses against the side of John’s face.
“He’s not terribly recognisable,” John whispers.
“Not as himself,” the Earl replies in a murmur.
John looks at him with a question in his eyes, but Lord Holmes gives no further explanation.
The opera continues inexorably on. Minor mishap leads to disorder, punctuated by the first of Miss Adler’s solos. The other soldiers sing of their loves left at home, but she focuses instead on some grand ideal that John feels rather than understands. Where John’s comprehension of Italian dwindles down to nothing, the music supports the meaning.
Changes in the choreography are obvious, but only because John knows where to look for them. At no point is the captain called upon to dance. Though Miss Adler’s young soldier may join in the ranks for tense drills, Holmes’ captain remains detached. He stands often in parade rest. There and only there does John recognise Holmes’ performance as mimicry.
After the nearly a full act of questioning whether their perfect general will stay true to his new wife, the inevitable announcement comes. Though surely the entire audience sees it coming, though they must have known the story’s end before they ever set foot in the house, gasps escape open mouths at the news. Antony has betrayed his new wife, and her brother Octavius Caesar by extension.
The curtain draws shut to tremendous applause. His face impassive, his hands far from still, the Earl keeps his gaze on the stage.
“How many acts to this?” Inspector Lestrade asks.
“Four,” John says. “But all of act three is a naval battle and act four is everyone dying.”
“What’s act two?”
“All the soldiers realise they can either be traitors to Rome or deserters from Antony’s army.”
“That doesn’t sound half bad,” says Inspector Lestrade.
“No, it’s quite good,” says John.
“It is quite good,” Lord Holmes says quietly, as if he still hasn’t made up his mind. “Unconventional, perhaps.”
“Unconventional in good ways, I’ve found,” John says.
“Do people still die singing?” Inspector Lestrade asks.
“Some, but Mr Holmes made certain to kill those soldiers in ways that permit singing. Respiratory systems remain intact and unblocked. Some parts cut off at the singer’s death. It’s really quite clever.”
“He consulted you...?” Lord Holmes nearly asks.
“We have very odd conversations,” John replies.
Lestrade laughs. “I’d say!”
A knock comes at the door. Lestrade rises, his hand bidding Lord Holmes and John to remain still. Lestrade opens the door, nods, and says, “Begging your pardon, your lordship.” He steps out to speak to one of his officers and closes the door behind him.
John fixes his gaze straight ahead and does not look at the Earl. The Earl does not give John such courtesy. By the power of Lord Holmes’ eyes alone, John’s cheek is slowly flayed open, picked apart down to the bone.
Eventually, John risks saying, “I don’t think it will be a problem for your family, my lord. I can barely recognise your lordship’s brother, and no one knows he has a voice like that on him.”
“Very few do,” the Lord Holmes allows.
“...He emulates you,” John says in an attempt to placate. “Vocally. When he’s on his best behaviour.”
“Better behaviour, I’m sure you mean.”
“If your lordship says so.” John ducks his head, but the deferential movement turns defensive.
“I once told him his voice resembled that of his Italian instructor,” Lord Holmes states. “My dear brother has publically imitated me ever since.”
John frowns. “I’m not sure I understand, my lord.”
Lord Holmes looks at him sceptically but says no more, leaving John with the sense that he’s been handed a key but cannot see the lock. Italian instructor... Ah.
“...His Italian instructor was a baritone and an invert, was he not?” When the Earl responds in neither the positive nor the negative, John boldly continues, “Your brother tries not to sound like him, lest he be found an invert himself.”
The Earl’s reply takes a moment to come and is directed toward the stage, soft in volume and hard in tone. “He was never one for singing in public. Even in private, we’ve heard nothing out of him since our mother passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” John says.
Lord Holmes very nearly rolls his eyes. He’s never looked more like his brother. “Hardly the part for which you owe and apology.”
John moves his lips in the attempt to make gritted teeth look like a smile. He never for a moment imagines he succeeds.
“You disagree over the matter?” Lord Holmes asks in a voice civil as a civil war.
Seeing the break almost at its end, John glances back to the door, but Lestrade does not return. John has a small, irrational hope that Hopkins might come and break down the door with his fire axe.
“Two matters, I think your lordship means,” John says pointedly.
Lord Holmes looks at him fully, a frown pinching his mouth. There’s a question in Lord Holmes’ eyes, but John can’t for the life of him make out what it is.
John holds Lord Holmes’ gaze for as long as he dares before venturing the question, “Does your lordship recollect what I’m referring to?”
Lord Holmes’ face remains blank.
Temper held tight in his hand, John says, “The blackmail attempt.”
Very slowly, Lord Holmes blinks.
“That... wasn’t your lordship’s idea?”
“Dr Watson, are you accusing my brother of attempted blackmail?” Lord Holmes glances back at the door in a very real reminder that Inspector Lestrade may return to them at any moment.
“He admitted to it,” John whispers.
“After prompting?”
“Well, yes.”
“If I or my brother were inclined toward blackmail, Dr Watson, you would be in very dire trouble. As you are merely in great trouble, you may rest assured that neither I nor my brother will sink to such depths.”
“...I don’t understand.”
“Two matters, you said?”
“Your lordship’s brother said two,” John says. “His... goals between us, and his chamber downstairs.” When the Earl simply looks at him, John continues with extreme discomfort, “He refused to tell me the second unless I approved of his goals for the first.”
Lord Holmes closes his eyes with the air of a man who would greatly like to strangle an absent party. “Meaning,” Lord Holmes says, “he refused to reveal his eccentricities until you promised his eccentricities wouldn’t matter.”
“...Ah,” John says. “Possibly.”
Lord Holmes shakes his head, eyes raised to the ceiling. John has never seen a man so clearly despair of another’s ineptitude.
Before John can ask anything further, another knock raps against the door, and Lestrade enters.
“Welcome back, Inspector,” Lord Holmes drawls, nonchalant once more. “You’re just in time.”
Lestrade nods respectfully, and the second act begins soon after he takes his seat. The audience’s chatter fades away at the first note.
The act focuses more on the young soldier being swayed from Antony’s side to that of the mutineers. John’s interest wanes accordingly and he grows increasingly aware that the time for the ghost to strike draws ever closer. The audience is clearly invested, and outrage is sure to follow should anything go awry.
Miss Adler thrives as the focal point. Knowing it was one thing, but seeing it is another: the entirety of the opera hinges on her performance. The very number of seats sold tonight was dependent upon her presence. She is their one attraction left, and for good reason. Her young soldier is perfect in his confliction, honest in his doubt, heartbreaking in his loyalty. So very delayed in this realisation, he at last thinks of himself. Whichever choice, he fears his fate to come.
Her solo is exquisite. The audience leans forward, the rustling of cloth filling in for the absence of breath. Thunderous applause follows, absolutely thunderous as the young soldier decides to side with the mutineers.
Too late, John realises what follows. Holmes’ voice seared the scene into his heart months ago. John watches in growing dread as the young soldier creeps away to join the mutineers only to be caught by the waiting captain.
Amid the many layers of the orchestra, the line of the violins reveals itself to John’s ears. He knows it. He could never forget it. John braces himself for the seduction, for the sight of Holmes making love to another man in Italian.
It never comes.
Adler’s resistance transforms seduction into begging, weakens command into negotiation. Holmes’ arguments, though handsomely sung, fall by the wayside. He releases Adler because Adler cannot be held, because the force to contain could never successfully be used to control. The power of Adler’s silent will elevates the soldier to the level of his superior officer, the pair equal in determination despite their separate stations.
Holmes sings of glory and honour, of home and loyalty, of life and breath. Where his arguments fail, his passion sways. When Adler acquiesces, it is no submission, but an alignment of purposes. The young soldier sings his sombre words of loyalty. His pledge resounds from Alexandria into London. The orchestra crescendos beneath his honesty and brings it, and the act, to its conclusion.
If the applause had been wild before, that is nothing compared to what happens as the curtain draws shut for intermission. The crash of so many clapping hands, the roar of so many praising voices; it shakes the house itself. The vibration takes hold of John down to the bones, to the marrow. Beside him sits the Earl in stunned silence, his expression strange and too tender to look upon.
John excuses himself quietly. Lestrade looks at him askance and John states aloud his need for the toilet. “Don’t worry,” he adds, glancing down pointedly to the medical bag forever in his hand. “I’m armed.”
Mind whirling, blood thrumming, he sets out in a daze. While intermission lasts, he slips through the back halls until he finds an open bit of table space. He opens his medical bag, draws out the much battered envelope, and carefully unfolds it, breaking the dried glue without tearing the paper. He retrieves a pencil from his bag as well, angles his body to better be out of the stagehands’ way, and tries to think.
Although it may surprise you to read this, I do not intend to shout at you, John writes slowly. He winces at the formal tone but cannot risk setting anything informal to paper. In fact, I have intended several times to make amends but seem incapable of it. I apologise for my temper, which rivals your own. If possible, I would like to speak with you without any shouting whatsoever. Failing that, I would like to speak with you. Should you wish it, I am prepared to converse solely through letters. If you no longer wish to work collaboratively or discuss logistics to that effect, I will be neither surprised nor offended.
All too aware that intermission is running out, he hurriedly signs I remain, faithfully, your doctor, JHW.
He reads it over twice to be sure of what he’s done before folding it up carefully. It refuses to stick shut. With no other way of sealing it, he dives back into his medical bag and pulls out the silver scarf pin. The process involves very carefully piercing, but he manages it. The end result is a letter folded back into a crumpled, pinned shut envelope. Holmes will either find it immensely endearing or laugh John out of the building.
Before he can stop himself, he sets off to Holmes’ joint dressing room. Along the way, he withdraws this afternoon’s newspaper from his medical bag as well. He folds the newspaper in half and sticks the envelope inside. The rationale has less to do with sentiment than it does to do with the sheer number of policemen John passes.
At the dressing room, John learns Holmes is already waiting in the wings, but Zucco doesn’t ask why John has rushed in for the sole purpose of dropping off a newspaper. Zucco clearly wants one last moment of peace, so John exits without any chatting. A very quick walk puts John back in Box Five just before intermission ends, but only just.
“I was starting to worry,” Inspector Lestrade chides him.
“Sorry.”
“He wouldn’t have appreciated the interruption,” Lord Holmes says without warning.
Either unshakeable or exhausted past use, John’s nerves don’t jump in the slightest. “Precisely the reason I didn’t bother him,” John lies, taking his seat.
The music resumes, the curtain parts, and they fall silent in the box.
The battle begins. Not the beginning as stories and songs would say battles begin, but as battles truly begin: with the wait. The oppressive silence reigns over forced merriment. Commanding officers bludgeon their troops with sobriety, with discipline, with words made into lashes. Here rises the straining tension that makes men eager to kill, if only to escape the unending pressure of waiting. Here is a condensed form of madness, controlled and crafted, a tool to shape the wills of many into the weapon of one man. Here are John’s nightmares made music, and he watches them with a strange detachment, with the mixed revulsion and pride a mother might feel toward her murderer son.
The conflict flares at last into tangible, visible form. The audience gasps with relief before horror takes them anew. The ships amaze, immense shapes of slim wood painted with false depth. They break and sink, dancers floating away with the wreckage.
Amid the confusion, the captain stands tall. He is a lighthouse upon the sea, the one piece of stability, and his presence forces the eye to anxiously roam for the young soldier, so surely the young soldier must already be dead. Even knowing Irene’s male role will survive until the end of the opera, John discovers himself anxious. The young soldier is away in the wings, transformed into the much anticipated Cleopatra. Before her must come Antony, but before Antony appears, the captain must begin their song alone.
John waits for it and waits for it, a rising shiver in his soul. If any moment were to be interrupted, it would be this one. Beside John, Lord Holmes grows noticeably nervous, his hands clenched tight atop the box’s front wall. A glance past him to Inspector Lestrade reveals an active search across the audience, the music ignored for the sake of safety.
With Inspector Lestrade on the lookout, John commits his focus to the stage with little guilt. He knows the turn the music is taking. He knows what is about to begin.
Holmes sings. He does not sing upon the stage, for the stage is a deck from which he sings upon the sea. Hearts beat hot blood until drums beat behind them, and Holmes’ words drive the battle even deeper into flesh. Holmes flings a hand high, heralding the coming of the long absent general, here at last. Trumpets blare as Antony’s ship enters past one flowing curtain.
Antony stands tall at the bow, tall but not yet triumphant. He stands and he sings, and the captain echoes the commands of his general against their joint foe. The tide turns upon the Romans as the orchestra sets itself to its very limits for the sake of summoning Cleopatra.
Her ship enters behind Antony’s. Taller than Antony’s, Egyptian rather than Roman, the ship carries upon it a curious figurehead where there ought to be none. John squints at it, confused as to the last minute set change. A moment of wondering and his ears register the absence in the music.
“Oh, God,” whispers Lord Holmes.
Devoid of Cleopatra’s part, the song remains a duet. Holmes and Zucco look up. Though the orchestra plays on, their voices halt, Zucco’s with a scream, Holmes’ with utter silence. Dancers collide with Holmes. His back turns fully to the audience and, beyond to catch the next dancer who stumbles against him, he does not move.
The alarm spreads through the audience before it reaches the pit. The battle falls from orchestrated fury and into cacophonous disorder. A woman screams, just one woman in the pit because there is only one.
“Irene!” screams Kate Norton from her harp. “Someone cut her down! Someone do something!”
The audience riots. Screaming, shouting, the patrons scramble to flee. The dancers scatter into the wings, tripping over groundrows as they go. Zucco leaps from his ship to seize the motionless Holmes by the wrist and drag him behind the closing curtain.
Medical bag forever in hand, John darts out of the box before he has a moment to think or before the others have a chance to stop him. He runs. The press of bodies grows too great. He shoves instead. He shoves and he slips around and beside and through, and when he reaches the stage, they’ve cut down the figurehead from Cleopatra’s prow. The police part at the sight of John’s raised medical bag.
“It can’t be her,” Miss Norton cries. Green struggles without success to hold her back. “Is it really her?”
For one ghastly moment, John cannot tell. Beneath the bloating and discoloration, her sharp features remain, like swords hanging upon a wall, but John has never known her to be so removed from battle, to have been set aside. Cloaked in a shroud of skirts and devoid of her posture, this body is only a corpse. Some bodies retain traces of the soul, but not so for Miss Adler. Without her breath, she is gone.
Someone has already removed the noose, but, irreversible, the results of strangulation persist. There is absolutely nothing John can do.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“We’re finished,” Green says, gutted. “Bastard’s stabbed us in the heart.”
Miss Norton twists free from him to collapse at the corpse’s side. She clutches at a limp, pale hand. “She’s still warm! Dr Watson, do something!”
“Her throat is crushed,” John tells her softly, firmly.
“But she’s still warm!”
John looks for a pulse to appease her. He finds nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Miss Norton hits him then, two uncoordinated fists against his shoulder. She strikes his good shoulder and does him little harm, but it isn’t for a lack of trying. John catches her hands. He pulls her up to stand. Miss Norton begins to weep. Mrs Hudson rushes forward and bundles the shaking woman up in a tearful embrace.
“Hysterics at a time like this,” Beaumont disparages, and John hauls him one across the face without thinking. Beamounts head snaps to the side and he staggers. “Jesus fuck!”
An officer drags John back in an instant. He looks familiar. “Keep your sodding head, Doctor! Where are Holmes and Zucco?”
Breathing heavily, shaking, John takes a strange, echoing moment to respond. “Dimmock? Dimmock, I don’t know. Oh God, he’ll be going after them next, won’t he?”
“Exactly why we need to find them,” Inspector Dimmock snaps.
“They went back to their dressing room,” Beaumont says, clutching at his bleeding nose. He glares at John through his fingers.
“Holmes looked in bad shape,” pipes in one of the dancers. “Zucco had to drag him.”
“Show me the way,” Dimmock orders the dancer. The pair is off in an instant.
Beaumont comes back at John just as quickly. “The fuck was that for!”
“Insult a mourner and I turn your mum into one. Are we clear?”
“Fucking Christ.” Beaumount wipes blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “You’re a sodding doctor!”
“You’re not really helping, dears,” Mrs Hudson says over them, still rubbing Miss Norton’s shaking back.
Perhaps a longer moment passes or perhaps it’s only a second. Time turns strange during a crisis. It feels instantaneous. Mrs Hudson chastises them and then the cry goes up:
“They’re missing!”
“The ghost has them!”
“Someone find them!”
“What in the blazes...?” Green asks as John’s stomach drops away entirely.
“Holmes and Zucco aren’t in their dressing room,” John says. Who else are worth raising this panic over?
Everyone upon the stage looks down at the remains of Irene Adler.
“Fuck,” curses Green. “They weren’t half bad, either.”
“They’re not dead yet!” John’s volume rises as his hands turn to trembling fists. “We have a ghost and two men to find! Everyone move!”
A manhunt ensues within an instant, but John can’t seem to join it. He simply stands between Miss Adler’s lover and Miss Adler’s corpse. He thinks of Valeri’s terror, of the man still barricaded into his dressing room. He makes the mistake of looking at Miss Norton. His mind turns blank. The night Mary died comes alive. The night Harry died. He wonders, distantly, if Clara can help Miss Norton through this. He wonders who will help him through this.
“Dr Watson!”
John blinks dumbly at Miss Hooper. Despite the very obvious answer, he very nearly asks her what’s wrong.
She stops a moment to catch her breath. Looking at Mrs Hudson and the distraught Miss Norton, Miss Hooper gestures him toward the wing. Once there, she searches about frantically.
“What are you looking for?” John asks.
“I can prove it,” Miss Hooper swears. She too is on the verge of tears. “If you just let me, I can show you.”
“Hold on, stop.” He catches her by the shoulders. “Prove what?”
“It was Jim. I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault he was here, I’m so, so sorry. And I’m not hysterical, I promise, I’m not, I’m just really, really sorry and no one will listen! I tried to find Stanley-he has a fire axe-”
John squeezes her shoulders. “Breathe.”
She breathes.
“What’s going on?” John asks. “Who’s Jim?”
“Jim Zucco! It was him.”
John stares at her blankly. Then he turns his head, looks at the corpse, and looks back to Miss Hooper.
“He volunteered to help Irene with her costume change,” Molly says. “I didn’t see the harm in it on account of him being so, you know, and we had to have her change in the wings and the police were meant to keep everyone else out, so she should have been safe!”
“Breathe,” John says again.
Miss Hooper breathes. “It had to have been Jim. He was the one who was supposed to help her up onto her ship. There wouldn’t be time, would there? Between their entrances. Because either he killed her or she was killed in front of him or she was killed really quickly after he came out on stage.”
“We think he has Holmes,” John says.
“I know!” she shouts. “That’s why the police need to listen to me! They’re going to find him and treat him like a victim! He could be holding Mr Holmes hostage.”
“If he’s holding Mr Holmes hostage, I think the police will know to shoot him,” John says. “Failing that, I will know to shoot him.”
Though considerably paler than she was but a moment ago, Miss Hooper nods. “The police are at all the doors and they’ve locked all the windows, too. They’re going to find him eventually. I’m just scared they’ll try to take him somewhere else for safety and he’ll get away.”
“We’ll tell the Earl,” John says. “Or we’ll tell Mrs Hudson and she’ll tell the Earl. He’ll listen to her.”
Miss Hooper exhales heavily. “All right. All right. Good. I really am sorry.”
“Not your fault. None of us saw it coming. I spoke with him earlier and-oh. God. He was very interested in Holmes.”
John and Miss Hooper stare at each other for a moment before darting back to Mrs Hudson. They hurriedly draw her away from Miss Norton, as not to upset her further, and Miss Hooper explains in a semi-coherent rush.
Mrs Hudson’s eyes grow very wide indeed, but she keeps her head as only Mrs Hudson can. “I’ll find Mycroft,” she promises. “John, you check the tunnels.”
“The what?” Miss Hooper asks.
John frowns. “Why would he go down there?”
“Because that’s where he hides,” Mrs Hudson says, “and if he’s being forced to show Zucco a way out, he’ll take the tunnels.”
“Right,” John says. He pulls his revolver from his medical bag and leaves the bag upon the stage.
“I’ll go with you,” Miss Hooper says. “I brought the pointy scissors.”
“Could you use them on him?” John asks. “If you had to.”
Miss Hooper visibly hesitates before she pulls the scissors from a skirt pocket and hands them to John. “They’ll be better against a noose than a gun would be.”
“Thank you,” John says. “Now against my better judgement, I’m going to run with these. Find the Earl and Inspector Lestrade, and if I don’t come back, you’ll know where Zucco is.”
“Be careful!” Miss Hooper calls after him.
John spares no time for a reply. With all possible speed, he races to the basements beneath the opera house. There, the entrance below the stairs, formerly boarded up, has been forced open anew. Heart in his throat and gun in his hand, John ducks through the door and ventures into the darkness.
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Note: A number of enterprising musicians have begun to compose an opera based on Sherlock's at belcantoopera.tumblr.com. As I understand it, anyone who wants to help is welcome. What they've already done is amazing. I'm in awe.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7.9k out of 127k
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, 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
The performance rushes closer. Practiced chaos abounds. All the workers of the opera house whirl about each other to keep from colliding in narrow halls or between tables laden with props and tools and bits of costume. John’s steps in this dance are something of a waltz: two tiny steps forward and then a large step out of the way, holding his medical bag in the place of a partner.
A small emergency nearly erupts when one of the dancers vomits, but his symptoms don’t match those of major poisoning, merely food poisoning. Waves of terror escape before John can contain them, but a fair amount of shouting does the dancers good. Perhaps berating the man as an idiot for eating suspect egg salad is a touch harsh, but the resulting laughter puts a damper on the fear.
As the afternoon gives way into evening, the police take up their posts about the opera house. Clearly exhausted beyond all patience, Inspector Lestrade seizes upon John in passing.
“He’s not actually planning to perform, is he?”
“He’s more or less our only option at this point, sir,” John replies.
Inspector Lestrade’s arms remain crossed as his eyebrows rise. “You’re not serious.”
“I wish I weren’t. Still, it’d be a shame not to have bait in the trap you’ve been so kind as to set up.”
Inspector Lestrade doesn’t quite glare at him, but it’s close. “The Earl will try to call it off the moment he hears.”
“Does an earl have any actual power over a police officer?” John asks in his most innocent of voices.
“Legal or actual, Doctor?” Inspector Lestrade counters. “For that matter, have you met him?”
“Touché.”
They stand for a bit, then Inspector Lestrade sighs. “Where is he?”
“The Earl?”
“No, the boffin-turned-actor. Where’s he off to in this mess?”
“I think he’s having his costume sewn onto him,” John says, not entirely sure how jokingly he means it. He gives directions up toward the main sewing room. “If not, well, normally I’d tell you to try his dressing room, but I don’t think he has one of those yet.” Signor Valeri is still holed up in the one that would have been Holmes’.
“See if he does, would you? He’s gone and scrapped the entire protection plan without telling anyone. Putting himself out on the stage, he could get himself killed.”
“You’ll think of something,” John says with more hope than certainty.
“I’d damn well better, pardon my French.”
John lifts his medical bag pointedly. “I’ve still my gun.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised to hear it, but I am glad. I’ll send someone to tell you if we need you.”
“Yes, sir,” John says.
Inspector Lestrade glances down at John’s feet, snapped together as they are in old habit. He nods to John with more respect than before, and he was respectful, if exasperated, to begin with.
They part ways. John weaves his way through the back halls to the dressing rooms. He knocks and he calls and he asks more than a few people whether Holmes has a dressing room or not. No one seems quite certain.
“I think he’s in the third one,” Beaumont says. His face scrunches from the effort of thinking through the chaos.
“I thought Zucco was in that one,” Jamison disagrees.
“Thanks, you’re a wonderful help,” John says. The two curse at him in passably good cheer as John sets off. He knocks on the third one.
“Hello?” Zucco answers the door. Though they’ve an hour before the house opens, their Antony is already partially dressed for his role. His trousers clash oddly with the Roman uniform, but it wouldn’t do for the man’s legs to freeze off before he takes to the stage. His face has yet to be painted.
“Sorry to bother you,” John says.
“Oh, not at all,” says Zucco. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t suppose you’d know if Mr Holmes has a dressing room?” John asks.
“I do! We’re sharing this one.” At John’s surprised blink, Zucco explains, “It doesn’t seem right, putting any of the lead roles into one of the common dressing rooms, and I was already in here before Signor Valeri barricaded himself into the other private one. There is the remaining lady’s dressing room, now that we’re without a star soprano, but that seems indecorous somehow.”
Easily recognising the chatter of another soul at loose ends, John nods along.
“Was there a message you wanted to give him?” Zucco asks.
“Merely trying to find him,” John lies. “If you see him, please tell him Inspector Lestrade is looking for him.”
Zucco smiles, but not in the way John would expect Antony to smile. Prettily done, this is a smile aimed to endear, to please, to flatter. “He’s very much in demand, isn’t he?” Zucco’s voice lifts slightly, just slightly, and suddenly, the nagging feeling in the back of John’s head resolves into clarity: Zucco is an invert.
John doesn’t twitch or recoil, but it is possible he betrays his realisation all the same. Zucco simply laughs with the fine humour of a man who knows his position is, for now, secure.
“I think the inspector simply wants to know where to store Holmes in case of emergency,” John replies.
“A fair concern.” Much more seriously, Zucco asks, “Might I be stored away in case of emergency as well?”
“I think you might,” John says, “but separate locations might be better.”
Zucco lifts his eyebrows as if granting John opportunity to explain this separation. Silently asking what he has done wrong, Zucco turns his expression piteous. “You’re very protective of your friend, aren’t you, Dr Watson?” He lilts over the word friend in a way John dislikes immensely.
“If the army taught me anything, Mr Zucco, it was to look out for my superiors,” John answers.
In what might be apology, Zucco nods. “I hope it serves us well tonight.” He smiles again, this time far more honestly. “He truly is a remarkable composer. I didn’t see that coming in the slightest. Not that I auditioned entirely without hope, but oh. This is something special.”
“It is. Though I’m not sure how well the audience will appreciate its uniqueness.”
Zucco waves a dismissive hand. “Stupid, ordinary people. I wouldn’t bother with them. They lack vision.”
“They do buy tickets,” John points out.
Zucco wrinkles his nose in the craftsman’s distaste of the layman. As if at a sudden thought, he brightens. “The word in the wings is that you were privy to the creative process.”
“I don’t know about that,” John says. He tries to excuse himself, but Zucco jumps in too quickly and so thwarts John’s fundamentally British core.
“I heard one of the stagehands say you were closeted with him in Mr Havill’s office when he was finishing the score.”
“He prefers to have someone else in the room,” John explains.
“Is that someone very often you?” Zucco asks. “That would explain much.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Mr Holmes assumes your posture for the role.” Zucco looks at him curiously. “Or didn’t you realise?”
John stares, then blinks a few times, then desperately holds in what could have become a very strange noise indeed. He clears his throat, smoothes his expression down before it can take on a giddy appearance, and calmly states, “He doesn’t do that.” He knows what Holmes looked like in the role of the captain, and he looked nothing at all like John. He was much too magnificent for that.
“He did earlier.” Zucco’s smile was that of a man who knows he knows better and, furthermore, intends for everyone else to know this as well. “I saw you when you tried to draw out Signor Valeri. Exceptional military posture. Mr Holmes was clearly emulating you.”
“Well,” John says. A stupidly fond expression keeps trying to climb onto his face. “You know. Inspiration from anywhere, that’s what makes an artist.”
“It’s certainly made him,” Zucco agrees. Though it might make another man appear sarcastic, Zucco’s emphasis only underscores the sincerity of his praise.
“It certainly has.”
“Do you know how long he’s been composing? He seems remarkably practiced for this to be his first public work.”
“I’m not sure. I imagine it’s a long-term passion.”
Zucco grins a bit. “Long-term traditionally describes the writing of an opera.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” John says. “After all, Holmes slapped this one together in half a year.”
Zucco’s eyebrows rise, his grin wiped away.
John grins in return. “He’s very quick.”
“Then is this his first opera? Are there others? I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s very exciting.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” John says, well-warmed to the topic. Besides, he has little else to do before the première, beyond staying out of the way. If Inspector Lestrade hasn’t come around to find Holmes here, he must have already found Holmes elsewhere.
John gladly answers what Zucco asks, and he finds himself very nearly relaxed for the first time that day. He’s hardly about to go inside the dressing room with Zucco, but little harm can come from conversing in the doorway. Invert or not, Zucco’s interest in Holmes does appear to be primarily professional, even at times bordering on hero worship.
Rather than disgust John, this reminds him of Hopkins’ awe toward Holmes. It must be so easy for a younger man to be caught up in Holmes’ personality and dignity. The fellow has fallen into a trap of gentility and doesn’t even know it, poor sod.
Upon hearing that Holmes has completed only the one opera, Zucco looks absolutely pained. When John explains how Holmes has often thwarted himself through his own perfectionism, Zucco nods understandingly. At no point does Zucco listen to John’s tales of Holmes’ process with anything less than fascination.
In an abruptly anxious turn, Zucco asks, “You don’t think he would stop composing, do you?”
John tilts his head slightly, frowning. “I think he could be caught under a rockslide and carry on humming. What do you mean?”
“This opera house and Miss Adler,” Zucco says. “They’re clearly significant to his work. If the opera house was to close or Miss Adler to leave for better prospects...” He trails off, his dread plain on his face. Here is a man who wants to sing something magnificent, and go on singing something magnificent.
“Holmes would go on writing.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely,” John says without hesitation. “I’ve never known anyone more passionate about his art.”
“Not even Miss Adler?”
“Not even her.”
Zucco whistles, low and appreciative.
“He’ll keep writing, whatever happens tonight,” John promises. “Disaster or triumph.”
“That’s a relief,” Zucco says, nodding repeatedly. “I can’t tell you how much, Dr Watson.”
“I’m glad. Still, let’s aim for triumph, shall we?”
Zucco grins. “Of course. I never aim for anything else.”
“Just be certain you don’t run off after Cleopatra or something.”
Zucco finds this joke far more amusing than John would credit it being. “I’ll be very careful about that.”
“That’s all we ask. I’ll leave you to rest your voice.”
Rather than reply aloud, Zucco salutes smartly, if incorrectly. They part ways there, Zucco retreating into his shared dressing room. John picks up his medical bag only to realise he doesn’t actually have anywhere he needs to be. He adjusts his grip and adjusts it again. He starts walking, if only to prevent himself from going back and becoming a conversational leech.
Holmes is, apparently, the new rugby. Given half a chance and a willing bystander, John would prattle on about him endlessly. His face aches a bit from what he’s done already. Has he been smiling so much? Christ. In front of an invert is one thing, but there are police in the building.
It ought to be a sobering thought, but it does nothing to dampen John’s remarkably high spirits. Because that was happiness. Actual, solid happiness, simply from talking about the idiot.
God, there’s a thought. A strange, foreign thought, but there it is: John could be happy. Odd, the sort of things that tumble into one’s brain in the middle of a bunch of agitated stagehands. Hell of a risk to stake on a man that infuriating.
Still, there’s nothing he can do about it until after the show. With that in mind, he goes off to track down Inspector Lestrade and see if he can make himself useful. Failing that, he finds a newspaper.
The house opens with a surge of heat and noise. Bodies rumble up the stairs and stroll down into the stalls. Seats fill. Curtains sway in the boxes until the gloved hands of ushers secure them neatly in place. The john lights the footlights as the opening moment draws ever nearer. In the sudden increase of warmth from flame and human form, the orchestra tunes and tunes again, waves of discord growing sweet. The murmur of voices rises and falls, accompanied by the rustling of cloth and the fluttering of fans.
Rather than continuing to watch from the house door and block everyone’s way, John retreats to the lobby to breathe. Immediately, the air temperature drops. The doors are open, patrons still filing in with various levels of excitement and dread. While far from the gala première Holmes’ opera deserves, it remains a far better turnout than they could have expected under these conditions.
Said conditions include the policemen framing the doors as if, at any moment, all the doormen will be under arrest. The patrons’ reactions range from frightened to reassured, but very few turn back.
“Dr Watson, there you are!”
John turns and smiles reflexively at Hopkins and the shining buttons of his uniform. “Here I am. We’re not sold out, are we?”
Hopkins grins. “Closer to it than expected. I’m sure we will be tomorrow night.” He simply stands there for a moment, still grinning, but now very deliberately.
“Christ, what’s wrong now?”
“Nothing,” Hopkins says, his voice rising sharply in pitch. “I mean, the Earl is... Well, he’s here. In the box. Box Five.”
“I know where the Earl sits.”
“Yes... Well.” Hopkins doesn’t quite wring his hands, but he does fiddle with his gloves. “He’s been asking Inspector Lestrade, you see. So the inspector told me to find you.”
John’s stomach drops through the floor. “The Earl’s asking after me?”
“Well... no.” Hopkins visibly forces himself to stop adjusting his gloves. “Inspector Lestrade wants you nearby in case the ghost goes after you again.”
“Then what was that about the Earl?”
“He’s asking after his brother.”
Oh, God. “He thinks it’s my fault his brother’s turned into an actor?”
Hopkins hesitates.
The penny drops. “No one’s told him anything, have they?”
“Inspector Lestrade told him Mr Holmes has been working on the opera and... And that the Earl will see his brother when the opera starts.”
John swears quietly, Hopkins shushes him, and a passing patron glares at them all the same.
“Sorry, madam,” John and Hopkins apologise in unison. They quickly relocate, Hopkins trying to bring John to Box Five, John trying to go anywhere else.
“Would he stop the opera?” Hopkins asks.
“I hope not.”
They exchange a nervous glance at John’s vast understatement.
“Once the police lock the doors, it ought to be too late to call it off,” John reasons.
“About the door-locking,” Hopkins says.
“Yes?”
“If the ghost likes to set buildings on fire and we’re locking all the doors and windows, aren’t we playing into his hands? I know the policemen are at all the exits, but they won’t want to let anyone out in case the ghost escapes.”
“Hopkins,” John says.
“Yes?” says Hopkins.
“Find a fire axe.”
“You don’t actually have the authority to tell me to do that, sir.”
“I know,” John says. “You can blame it on me anyway.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hopkins nervous smile makes him appear younger than ever, although John’s certain the fellow is in his thirties.
“Anything else I need to watch out for?” John asks.
Hopkins hesitates.
“All right, out with it,” John orders.
“Not meaning to be impertinent, sir, and I know you said you and Miss Hooper weren’t an item, but I’m worried with Mr Zucco about, and I would never want to see you hurt, sir, I would never, and Mr Zucco and she seem a bit closer than expected-”
“He’s not interested in her,” John says bluntly, “and you can worry about asking her to lunch tomorrow, not tonight, understand? We need you focused.”
“I--” Hopkins gapes before nodding quickly. “Yes, sir.”
With that, they arrive outside of Box Five. Hopkins knocks. They enter. Inside, the Earl sits next to Inspector Lestrade. The Countess is absent, presumably due to her delicate condition.
“Doctor,” Lord Holmes greets.
“My lord,” John replies. “Good evening.”
The Earl looks at Hopkins.
Hopkins leaves.
When the door clicks shut, the Earl asks, “I don’t suppose you’ll deny my brother has taken to the stage?”
“I will not, my lord.”
“It was my understanding you not only had a baritone for the role, but an understudy after him.”
John folds his hands behind his back. He spreads his weight evenly, though his leg gives a bit of a twinge at it. “One quit. The other was an embarrassment.”
Lord Holmes does not stand and does not need to stand in order to look down at John. “I would rather some fool be an embarrassment than my brother a disgrace.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” John says, doing no such thing, “but we need a show worth ruining.”
“And is my brother ‘worth ruining’?” Lord Holmes demands in a measured voice.
“His performance will be,” John promises.
“I don’t care about his performance.”
“Your brother does,” John says. “I apologise for the embarrassment your brother’s involvement with theatre may cause your family, but Mr Havill is in charge of casting decisions. I have no say in this matter whatsoever.”
“Speak to him,” Lord Holmes orders.
“I can bring Mr Havill--”
“Speak to my brother,” Lord Holmes corrects.
“If I could see any point in doing so, my lord, I would. Unfortunately, I have never set my will against your brother’s with any sort of success. He is a very determined man.”
Lord Holmes narrows his eyes. Beside him, Inspector Lestrade does his absolute best to sink into the woodwork. Beyond them, through the open curtains, the stalls are nearly full. The orchestra sits at attention in the pit, ready to rise to their maestro’s command.
John squares his shoulders and continues, “If your lordship wishes to put a stop to the opera, that option remains. Again, I’ve never successfully set my will against your brother’s, but I’m certain your lordship is more capable in that regard.”
“You are prepared for my brother to become a laughingstock.”
“I am prepared for anything but that.”
“Then see to your preparations,” Lord Holmes bids him.
Before John can devise a suitable response, the overture begins. Lord Holmes turns in his seat to look out into the house, down to the orchestra, and John understands a crucial detail so crucial, so obvious, and so very sad.
“Is this your lordship’s first time hearing it?” John asks needlessly, his voice lowered in deference to the music.
The first hush of the audience reaches even Box Five. A moment passes before Lord Holmes answers in a whisper. “I’ve heard snatches.”
“I think your lordship will be pleasantly surprised.”
Lord Holmes says nothing. He simply sits and listens and gestures for John to sit. John obeys, taking his position on Lord Holmes’ right. Lord Holmes is, as always, centred within his box. His focus shifts utterly from John to the orchestra. When the overture reaches the battle theme, the Earl nearly stops breathing.
The overture finishes to applause. The grand drape parts. The opera takes its first breath and comes alive. Rehearsal was but a shadow fallen in advance: the true form is here.
Roman soldiers loiter in their barracks. The prologue rings out from their throats, setting a foreign story that would escape John entirely if he didn’t know it by heart. He ignores the Italian and listens instead to the orchestra. Their general is gone to Rome, their general has married the emperor’s sister, and now, their general has returned. They sing of Antony and Rome and the bonds between. They sing of Alexandria and Egypt and the unending charms of Cleopatra. They sing of their general’s resolve, of his good name, of their great pride in him.
There in the barracks, a young soldier steps forward, tall and slight in build. The orchestra soars under him to lift him up in praise of his general. His voice glows with the innocent pride that only naivety can bring. He is convincing in the extreme and it takes John a moment to realise, yes, that is Miss Adler.
A bit of dancing follows, not as silly as it could have been, and the soldiers fall into line in anticipation of their general’s entrance. The orchestra heralds his approach and yet the man who enters is not Antony at all, a fact immediately recognisable in the soldiers’ disappointment. Their captain has come in their general’s place.
John has a strange moment of panic before he can detect any trace of Holmes beneath this new persona. He knows the voice but cannot see the man. This is someone else, someone dedicated to cause and country. He stands in absolute control of his body, his motions commanding in their quiet nature. He emanates unquestionable strength and would do so even without the sword upon his hip. The weapon is secondary to the man, or perhaps an inevitable extension of him. His report, though sung, maintains the tight rhythm of pertinent briefing. His simple presence turns the crowd of dancers into an assembly of soldiers standing at attention, if only because they would dare be nothing else for him.
The weight of the Earl’s gaze presses against the side of John’s face.
“He’s not terribly recognisable,” John whispers.
“Not as himself,” the Earl replies in a murmur.
John looks at him with a question in his eyes, but Lord Holmes gives no further explanation.
The opera continues inexorably on. Minor mishap leads to disorder, punctuated by the first of Miss Adler’s solos. The other soldiers sing of their loves left at home, but she focuses instead on some grand ideal that John feels rather than understands. Where John’s comprehension of Italian dwindles down to nothing, the music supports the meaning.
Changes in the choreography are obvious, but only because John knows where to look for them. At no point is the captain called upon to dance. Though Miss Adler’s young soldier may join in the ranks for tense drills, Holmes’ captain remains detached. He stands often in parade rest. There and only there does John recognise Holmes’ performance as mimicry.
After the nearly a full act of questioning whether their perfect general will stay true to his new wife, the inevitable announcement comes. Though surely the entire audience sees it coming, though they must have known the story’s end before they ever set foot in the house, gasps escape open mouths at the news. Antony has betrayed his new wife, and her brother Octavius Caesar by extension.
The curtain draws shut to tremendous applause. His face impassive, his hands far from still, the Earl keeps his gaze on the stage.
“How many acts to this?” Inspector Lestrade asks.
“Four,” John says. “But all of act three is a naval battle and act four is everyone dying.”
“What’s act two?”
“All the soldiers realise they can either be traitors to Rome or deserters from Antony’s army.”
“That doesn’t sound half bad,” says Inspector Lestrade.
“No, it’s quite good,” says John.
“It is quite good,” Lord Holmes says quietly, as if he still hasn’t made up his mind. “Unconventional, perhaps.”
“Unconventional in good ways, I’ve found,” John says.
“Do people still die singing?” Inspector Lestrade asks.
“Some, but Mr Holmes made certain to kill those soldiers in ways that permit singing. Respiratory systems remain intact and unblocked. Some parts cut off at the singer’s death. It’s really quite clever.”
“He consulted you...?” Lord Holmes nearly asks.
“We have very odd conversations,” John replies.
Lestrade laughs. “I’d say!”
A knock comes at the door. Lestrade rises, his hand bidding Lord Holmes and John to remain still. Lestrade opens the door, nods, and says, “Begging your pardon, your lordship.” He steps out to speak to one of his officers and closes the door behind him.
John fixes his gaze straight ahead and does not look at the Earl. The Earl does not give John such courtesy. By the power of Lord Holmes’ eyes alone, John’s cheek is slowly flayed open, picked apart down to the bone.
Eventually, John risks saying, “I don’t think it will be a problem for your family, my lord. I can barely recognise your lordship’s brother, and no one knows he has a voice like that on him.”
“Very few do,” the Lord Holmes allows.
“...He emulates you,” John says in an attempt to placate. “Vocally. When he’s on his best behaviour.”
“Better behaviour, I’m sure you mean.”
“If your lordship says so.” John ducks his head, but the deferential movement turns defensive.
“I once told him his voice resembled that of his Italian instructor,” Lord Holmes states. “My dear brother has publically imitated me ever since.”
John frowns. “I’m not sure I understand, my lord.”
Lord Holmes looks at him sceptically but says no more, leaving John with the sense that he’s been handed a key but cannot see the lock. Italian instructor... Ah.
“...His Italian instructor was a baritone and an invert, was he not?” When the Earl responds in neither the positive nor the negative, John boldly continues, “Your brother tries not to sound like him, lest he be found an invert himself.”
The Earl’s reply takes a moment to come and is directed toward the stage, soft in volume and hard in tone. “He was never one for singing in public. Even in private, we’ve heard nothing out of him since our mother passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” John says.
Lord Holmes very nearly rolls his eyes. He’s never looked more like his brother. “Hardly the part for which you owe and apology.”
John moves his lips in the attempt to make gritted teeth look like a smile. He never for a moment imagines he succeeds.
“You disagree over the matter?” Lord Holmes asks in a voice civil as a civil war.
Seeing the break almost at its end, John glances back to the door, but Lestrade does not return. John has a small, irrational hope that Hopkins might come and break down the door with his fire axe.
“Two matters, I think your lordship means,” John says pointedly.
Lord Holmes looks at him fully, a frown pinching his mouth. There’s a question in Lord Holmes’ eyes, but John can’t for the life of him make out what it is.
John holds Lord Holmes’ gaze for as long as he dares before venturing the question, “Does your lordship recollect what I’m referring to?”
Lord Holmes’ face remains blank.
Temper held tight in his hand, John says, “The blackmail attempt.”
Very slowly, Lord Holmes blinks.
“That... wasn’t your lordship’s idea?”
“Dr Watson, are you accusing my brother of attempted blackmail?” Lord Holmes glances back at the door in a very real reminder that Inspector Lestrade may return to them at any moment.
“He admitted to it,” John whispers.
“After prompting?”
“Well, yes.”
“If I or my brother were inclined toward blackmail, Dr Watson, you would be in very dire trouble. As you are merely in great trouble, you may rest assured that neither I nor my brother will sink to such depths.”
“...I don’t understand.”
“Two matters, you said?”
“Your lordship’s brother said two,” John says. “His... goals between us, and his chamber downstairs.” When the Earl simply looks at him, John continues with extreme discomfort, “He refused to tell me the second unless I approved of his goals for the first.”
Lord Holmes closes his eyes with the air of a man who would greatly like to strangle an absent party. “Meaning,” Lord Holmes says, “he refused to reveal his eccentricities until you promised his eccentricities wouldn’t matter.”
“...Ah,” John says. “Possibly.”
Lord Holmes shakes his head, eyes raised to the ceiling. John has never seen a man so clearly despair of another’s ineptitude.
Before John can ask anything further, another knock raps against the door, and Lestrade enters.
“Welcome back, Inspector,” Lord Holmes drawls, nonchalant once more. “You’re just in time.”
Lestrade nods respectfully, and the second act begins soon after he takes his seat. The audience’s chatter fades away at the first note.
The act focuses more on the young soldier being swayed from Antony’s side to that of the mutineers. John’s interest wanes accordingly and he grows increasingly aware that the time for the ghost to strike draws ever closer. The audience is clearly invested, and outrage is sure to follow should anything go awry.
Miss Adler thrives as the focal point. Knowing it was one thing, but seeing it is another: the entirety of the opera hinges on her performance. The very number of seats sold tonight was dependent upon her presence. She is their one attraction left, and for good reason. Her young soldier is perfect in his confliction, honest in his doubt, heartbreaking in his loyalty. So very delayed in this realisation, he at last thinks of himself. Whichever choice, he fears his fate to come.
Her solo is exquisite. The audience leans forward, the rustling of cloth filling in for the absence of breath. Thunderous applause follows, absolutely thunderous as the young soldier decides to side with the mutineers.
Too late, John realises what follows. Holmes’ voice seared the scene into his heart months ago. John watches in growing dread as the young soldier creeps away to join the mutineers only to be caught by the waiting captain.
Amid the many layers of the orchestra, the line of the violins reveals itself to John’s ears. He knows it. He could never forget it. John braces himself for the seduction, for the sight of Holmes making love to another man in Italian.
It never comes.
Adler’s resistance transforms seduction into begging, weakens command into negotiation. Holmes’ arguments, though handsomely sung, fall by the wayside. He releases Adler because Adler cannot be held, because the force to contain could never successfully be used to control. The power of Adler’s silent will elevates the soldier to the level of his superior officer, the pair equal in determination despite their separate stations.
Holmes sings of glory and honour, of home and loyalty, of life and breath. Where his arguments fail, his passion sways. When Adler acquiesces, it is no submission, but an alignment of purposes. The young soldier sings his sombre words of loyalty. His pledge resounds from Alexandria into London. The orchestra crescendos beneath his honesty and brings it, and the act, to its conclusion.
If the applause had been wild before, that is nothing compared to what happens as the curtain draws shut for intermission. The crash of so many clapping hands, the roar of so many praising voices; it shakes the house itself. The vibration takes hold of John down to the bones, to the marrow. Beside him sits the Earl in stunned silence, his expression strange and too tender to look upon.
John excuses himself quietly. Lestrade looks at him askance and John states aloud his need for the toilet. “Don’t worry,” he adds, glancing down pointedly to the medical bag forever in his hand. “I’m armed.”
Mind whirling, blood thrumming, he sets out in a daze. While intermission lasts, he slips through the back halls until he finds an open bit of table space. He opens his medical bag, draws out the much battered envelope, and carefully unfolds it, breaking the dried glue without tearing the paper. He retrieves a pencil from his bag as well, angles his body to better be out of the stagehands’ way, and tries to think.
Although it may surprise you to read this, I do not intend to shout at you, John writes slowly. He winces at the formal tone but cannot risk setting anything informal to paper. In fact, I have intended several times to make amends but seem incapable of it. I apologise for my temper, which rivals your own. If possible, I would like to speak with you without any shouting whatsoever. Failing that, I would like to speak with you. Should you wish it, I am prepared to converse solely through letters. If you no longer wish to work collaboratively or discuss logistics to that effect, I will be neither surprised nor offended.
All too aware that intermission is running out, he hurriedly signs I remain, faithfully, your doctor, JHW.
He reads it over twice to be sure of what he’s done before folding it up carefully. It refuses to stick shut. With no other way of sealing it, he dives back into his medical bag and pulls out the silver scarf pin. The process involves very carefully piercing, but he manages it. The end result is a letter folded back into a crumpled, pinned shut envelope. Holmes will either find it immensely endearing or laugh John out of the building.
Before he can stop himself, he sets off to Holmes’ joint dressing room. Along the way, he withdraws this afternoon’s newspaper from his medical bag as well. He folds the newspaper in half and sticks the envelope inside. The rationale has less to do with sentiment than it does to do with the sheer number of policemen John passes.
At the dressing room, John learns Holmes is already waiting in the wings, but Zucco doesn’t ask why John has rushed in for the sole purpose of dropping off a newspaper. Zucco clearly wants one last moment of peace, so John exits without any chatting. A very quick walk puts John back in Box Five just before intermission ends, but only just.
“I was starting to worry,” Inspector Lestrade chides him.
“Sorry.”
“He wouldn’t have appreciated the interruption,” Lord Holmes says without warning.
Either unshakeable or exhausted past use, John’s nerves don’t jump in the slightest. “Precisely the reason I didn’t bother him,” John lies, taking his seat.
The music resumes, the curtain parts, and they fall silent in the box.
The battle begins. Not the beginning as stories and songs would say battles begin, but as battles truly begin: with the wait. The oppressive silence reigns over forced merriment. Commanding officers bludgeon their troops with sobriety, with discipline, with words made into lashes. Here rises the straining tension that makes men eager to kill, if only to escape the unending pressure of waiting. Here is a condensed form of madness, controlled and crafted, a tool to shape the wills of many into the weapon of one man. Here are John’s nightmares made music, and he watches them with a strange detachment, with the mixed revulsion and pride a mother might feel toward her murderer son.
The conflict flares at last into tangible, visible form. The audience gasps with relief before horror takes them anew. The ships amaze, immense shapes of slim wood painted with false depth. They break and sink, dancers floating away with the wreckage.
Amid the confusion, the captain stands tall. He is a lighthouse upon the sea, the one piece of stability, and his presence forces the eye to anxiously roam for the young soldier, so surely the young soldier must already be dead. Even knowing Irene’s male role will survive until the end of the opera, John discovers himself anxious. The young soldier is away in the wings, transformed into the much anticipated Cleopatra. Before her must come Antony, but before Antony appears, the captain must begin their song alone.
John waits for it and waits for it, a rising shiver in his soul. If any moment were to be interrupted, it would be this one. Beside John, Lord Holmes grows noticeably nervous, his hands clenched tight atop the box’s front wall. A glance past him to Inspector Lestrade reveals an active search across the audience, the music ignored for the sake of safety.
With Inspector Lestrade on the lookout, John commits his focus to the stage with little guilt. He knows the turn the music is taking. He knows what is about to begin.
Holmes sings. He does not sing upon the stage, for the stage is a deck from which he sings upon the sea. Hearts beat hot blood until drums beat behind them, and Holmes’ words drive the battle even deeper into flesh. Holmes flings a hand high, heralding the coming of the long absent general, here at last. Trumpets blare as Antony’s ship enters past one flowing curtain.
Antony stands tall at the bow, tall but not yet triumphant. He stands and he sings, and the captain echoes the commands of his general against their joint foe. The tide turns upon the Romans as the orchestra sets itself to its very limits for the sake of summoning Cleopatra.
Her ship enters behind Antony’s. Taller than Antony’s, Egyptian rather than Roman, the ship carries upon it a curious figurehead where there ought to be none. John squints at it, confused as to the last minute set change. A moment of wondering and his ears register the absence in the music.
“Oh, God,” whispers Lord Holmes.
Devoid of Cleopatra’s part, the song remains a duet. Holmes and Zucco look up. Though the orchestra plays on, their voices halt, Zucco’s with a scream, Holmes’ with utter silence. Dancers collide with Holmes. His back turns fully to the audience and, beyond to catch the next dancer who stumbles against him, he does not move.
The alarm spreads through the audience before it reaches the pit. The battle falls from orchestrated fury and into cacophonous disorder. A woman screams, just one woman in the pit because there is only one.
“Irene!” screams Kate Norton from her harp. “Someone cut her down! Someone do something!”
The audience riots. Screaming, shouting, the patrons scramble to flee. The dancers scatter into the wings, tripping over groundrows as they go. Zucco leaps from his ship to seize the motionless Holmes by the wrist and drag him behind the closing curtain.
Medical bag forever in hand, John darts out of the box before he has a moment to think or before the others have a chance to stop him. He runs. The press of bodies grows too great. He shoves instead. He shoves and he slips around and beside and through, and when he reaches the stage, they’ve cut down the figurehead from Cleopatra’s prow. The police part at the sight of John’s raised medical bag.
“It can’t be her,” Miss Norton cries. Green struggles without success to hold her back. “Is it really her?”
For one ghastly moment, John cannot tell. Beneath the bloating and discoloration, her sharp features remain, like swords hanging upon a wall, but John has never known her to be so removed from battle, to have been set aside. Cloaked in a shroud of skirts and devoid of her posture, this body is only a corpse. Some bodies retain traces of the soul, but not so for Miss Adler. Without her breath, she is gone.
Someone has already removed the noose, but, irreversible, the results of strangulation persist. There is absolutely nothing John can do.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“We’re finished,” Green says, gutted. “Bastard’s stabbed us in the heart.”
Miss Norton twists free from him to collapse at the corpse’s side. She clutches at a limp, pale hand. “She’s still warm! Dr Watson, do something!”
“Her throat is crushed,” John tells her softly, firmly.
“But she’s still warm!”
John looks for a pulse to appease her. He finds nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Miss Norton hits him then, two uncoordinated fists against his shoulder. She strikes his good shoulder and does him little harm, but it isn’t for a lack of trying. John catches her hands. He pulls her up to stand. Miss Norton begins to weep. Mrs Hudson rushes forward and bundles the shaking woman up in a tearful embrace.
“Hysterics at a time like this,” Beaumont disparages, and John hauls him one across the face without thinking. Beamounts head snaps to the side and he staggers. “Jesus fuck!”
An officer drags John back in an instant. He looks familiar. “Keep your sodding head, Doctor! Where are Holmes and Zucco?”
Breathing heavily, shaking, John takes a strange, echoing moment to respond. “Dimmock? Dimmock, I don’t know. Oh God, he’ll be going after them next, won’t he?”
“Exactly why we need to find them,” Inspector Dimmock snaps.
“They went back to their dressing room,” Beaumont says, clutching at his bleeding nose. He glares at John through his fingers.
“Holmes looked in bad shape,” pipes in one of the dancers. “Zucco had to drag him.”
“Show me the way,” Dimmock orders the dancer. The pair is off in an instant.
Beaumont comes back at John just as quickly. “The fuck was that for!”
“Insult a mourner and I turn your mum into one. Are we clear?”
“Fucking Christ.” Beaumount wipes blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “You’re a sodding doctor!”
“You’re not really helping, dears,” Mrs Hudson says over them, still rubbing Miss Norton’s shaking back.
Perhaps a longer moment passes or perhaps it’s only a second. Time turns strange during a crisis. It feels instantaneous. Mrs Hudson chastises them and then the cry goes up:
“They’re missing!”
“The ghost has them!”
“Someone find them!”
“What in the blazes...?” Green asks as John’s stomach drops away entirely.
“Holmes and Zucco aren’t in their dressing room,” John says. Who else are worth raising this panic over?
Everyone upon the stage looks down at the remains of Irene Adler.
“Fuck,” curses Green. “They weren’t half bad, either.”
“They’re not dead yet!” John’s volume rises as his hands turn to trembling fists. “We have a ghost and two men to find! Everyone move!”
A manhunt ensues within an instant, but John can’t seem to join it. He simply stands between Miss Adler’s lover and Miss Adler’s corpse. He thinks of Valeri’s terror, of the man still barricaded into his dressing room. He makes the mistake of looking at Miss Norton. His mind turns blank. The night Mary died comes alive. The night Harry died. He wonders, distantly, if Clara can help Miss Norton through this. He wonders who will help him through this.
“Dr Watson!”
John blinks dumbly at Miss Hooper. Despite the very obvious answer, he very nearly asks her what’s wrong.
She stops a moment to catch her breath. Looking at Mrs Hudson and the distraught Miss Norton, Miss Hooper gestures him toward the wing. Once there, she searches about frantically.
“What are you looking for?” John asks.
“I can prove it,” Miss Hooper swears. She too is on the verge of tears. “If you just let me, I can show you.”
“Hold on, stop.” He catches her by the shoulders. “Prove what?”
“It was Jim. I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault he was here, I’m so, so sorry. And I’m not hysterical, I promise, I’m not, I’m just really, really sorry and no one will listen! I tried to find Stanley-he has a fire axe-”
John squeezes her shoulders. “Breathe.”
She breathes.
“What’s going on?” John asks. “Who’s Jim?”
“Jim Zucco! It was him.”
John stares at her blankly. Then he turns his head, looks at the corpse, and looks back to Miss Hooper.
“He volunteered to help Irene with her costume change,” Molly says. “I didn’t see the harm in it on account of him being so, you know, and we had to have her change in the wings and the police were meant to keep everyone else out, so she should have been safe!”
“Breathe,” John says again.
Miss Hooper breathes. “It had to have been Jim. He was the one who was supposed to help her up onto her ship. There wouldn’t be time, would there? Between their entrances. Because either he killed her or she was killed in front of him or she was killed really quickly after he came out on stage.”
“We think he has Holmes,” John says.
“I know!” she shouts. “That’s why the police need to listen to me! They’re going to find him and treat him like a victim! He could be holding Mr Holmes hostage.”
“If he’s holding Mr Holmes hostage, I think the police will know to shoot him,” John says. “Failing that, I will know to shoot him.”
Though considerably paler than she was but a moment ago, Miss Hooper nods. “The police are at all the doors and they’ve locked all the windows, too. They’re going to find him eventually. I’m just scared they’ll try to take him somewhere else for safety and he’ll get away.”
“We’ll tell the Earl,” John says. “Or we’ll tell Mrs Hudson and she’ll tell the Earl. He’ll listen to her.”
Miss Hooper exhales heavily. “All right. All right. Good. I really am sorry.”
“Not your fault. None of us saw it coming. I spoke with him earlier and-oh. God. He was very interested in Holmes.”
John and Miss Hooper stare at each other for a moment before darting back to Mrs Hudson. They hurriedly draw her away from Miss Norton, as not to upset her further, and Miss Hooper explains in a semi-coherent rush.
Mrs Hudson’s eyes grow very wide indeed, but she keeps her head as only Mrs Hudson can. “I’ll find Mycroft,” she promises. “John, you check the tunnels.”
“The what?” Miss Hooper asks.
John frowns. “Why would he go down there?”
“Because that’s where he hides,” Mrs Hudson says, “and if he’s being forced to show Zucco a way out, he’ll take the tunnels.”
“Right,” John says. He pulls his revolver from his medical bag and leaves the bag upon the stage.
“I’ll go with you,” Miss Hooper says. “I brought the pointy scissors.”
“Could you use them on him?” John asks. “If you had to.”
Miss Hooper visibly hesitates before she pulls the scissors from a skirt pocket and hands them to John. “They’ll be better against a noose than a gun would be.”
“Thank you,” John says. “Now against my better judgement, I’m going to run with these. Find the Earl and Inspector Lestrade, and if I don’t come back, you’ll know where Zucco is.”
“Be careful!” Miss Hooper calls after him.
John spares no time for a reply. With all possible speed, he races to the basements beneath the opera house. There, the entrance below the stairs, formerly boarded up, has been forced open anew. Heart in his throat and gun in his hand, John ducks through the door and ventures into the darkness.
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Note: A number of enterprising musicians have begun to compose an opera based on Sherlock's at belcantoopera.tumblr.com. As I understand it, anyone who wants to help is welcome. What they've already done is amazing. I'm in awe.