The Case of the Greenwich Phantom: Part Three
Made for a prompt over at bbcsherlock_fic.
Rating: PG (Violence)
Pairing: John/Sherlock.
Summary: In a concert hall in Greenwich, a mysterious Phantom is murdering the staff...
They were home. Sherlock had spent the day, still clutching his violin, hectoring the police and generically being a nuisance. He had kept some details vague on purpose, John was sure, but that wasn’t what was primarily on his mind. They had Chinese. Or at least, Sherlock had tea whilst John ate. He was very aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him.
“Can you stop watching me eat, I’m not one of your experiments,” he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill him or not. Sherlock smiled, and got up.
“I’m going to take a shower. You’d be amazed at how grubby the damp can make you feel,” John felt a little irritated at his flatmate’s lack of reaction. True, being locked in a room and being given violin lessons couldn’t be the worst sort of incarceration, but John felt there should be some effect. Some reaction that wasn’t his.
He came down in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. (Thinking of Sherlock’s lips on his, his thoughtful expression, the little smile as he turned to Lestrade...) Sherlock was lying on the couch, wrapped in his blue dressing-gown. The scene was so ordinary that John choked back a little noise. Sherlock looked up.
“Still awake, John?”
“Y-yes,”
“Are you okay?” John clutched the back of the chair.
“Actually, no, I’m not. I’m as not okay as a not very okay thing. I didn’t know where you were and then no one knew and then you were just there and then- and then.” he stared at the back of the seat. Sherlock stood upright, and carefully, as though worried he might break, held John. John was breathing hard, and he shut his eyes as the taller man rested his chin on his head.
“I’m sorry John,” John stopped breathing for a moment. He never apologised, not really, not for leaving body-parts in the fridge, not for accidentally sneezing all over a crime scene, not for leaving the milk out. John turned and looked up into Sherlock’s eyes.
“You’re... You’re sorry?” he choked.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, simply.
“You’re a berk,” John laughed despite himself. “The most amazing, impossible berk I have ever met,”
“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock sighed, and bent down to kiss him.
---
When John woke up, it was the middle of the night. The lamp by his bed was still on, but he wasn’t lying on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock was sitting next to him though. Doing something with paper and pen. One hand was combing through John’s short hair, twirling it round long fingers. John sighed and went back to sleep.
When John woke again, it was morning, and Sherlock was gone. He got up and showered, and dressed. It had been the best night... Well, since he had come back from Afganistan. Sherlock was pacing round the lounge, throwing small things into the skull’s eye-sockets. A penny zipped by and landed inside with a rattle.
“Don’t do that Sherlock, you’ll give him a headache,” Sherlock grinned and strode to John.
“Mine,” he murmured into John’s hair before kissing him and springing away, all energy and lanky enthusiasm.
“John, it’s all starting today! I’m going to solve this case once and for all,”
“Why can’t we just go to this secret room, and bust him out?” John put the kettle on, and searched for the bread, as the bread-bin had... Something... In it.
“Because the secret room will be empty by now. It makes sense that he would have a whole suite down there- look at the plans,” Sherlock pointed to the wall, where the plans now had a number of red rings round them. “I don’t know how we’ll get there, not enough data, but he’ll be in one of those rooms,”
John had just settled down with his breakfast when Lestrade turned up.
“There’s a note. It’s to you, Sherlock,” Sherlock perused it eagerly.
“This is fantastic. Excellent. More than we could have hoped,” John looked round Sherlock. The note read: ‘We will be together Sherlock Holmes, Angel of Beauty. You are my coda. The Phantom.’ And a ring. Sherlock smiled at it, and then slipped it onto his middle finger. “How lovely,”
“Lovely? The man’s a lunatic!”
“Yes... But quite a romantic soul, in his way,” Sherlock was already pinning the letter to the wall, next to the others.
“The plan is continuing as specified then?”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock smiled, and rubbed his hands together, the ring, which had a rose engraved into it’s flat surface, caught the morning light. “There’s a recital tomorrow, in aid of some local school thing. It’ll be the best opportunity. I’d imagine we’ll have this all out the way quite neatly by the time your pianist arrives,”
---
John sat in the audience in a neat suit. Lestrade was next to him. He could feel his gun in his inside pocket, though Lestrade didn’t know about it. Sherlock was somewhere backstage. The local school orchestra, out in best uniform, were gathered on the stage. They looked nervous. The orchestra, led by Sherlock, trooped out, and with a short introduction, the concert began.
---
Music. Onetwothreonetwothree. Children irritatingly sharp, especially oboist. Fermata. Held on too long. End. Bow!Applause! John!mine next to Lestrade (cigarettesexcitement). Bodiesjostling(nonthreat) Body-spray=adolescents!threat(notsinceschool). Voices=adrenaline. Sherlock wandered, apparently at random, away from the crowd. He turned a corner. It all went dark.
---
“Where is he?” Lestrade and John were backstage. Sherlock had said he would meet them. He had disappeared. “This is typical, he runs off with no regard-,” Lestrade was cut off.
“What?” John turned round. It all went dark.
---
John came to tied to a chair. It was a little surprising how surprised he wasn’t. It was something that one came to... Accept, when you ran around with Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade was groaning beside him, so he was alive.
“Hello,” he said, for something to say.
“John, is that you?”
“Hope so. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, someone gave me a good wallop though,”
John’s head throbbed.
“Yeah...” There was an uncomfortable silence. What did you talk about when you were tied up in the dark?
“Cold weather we’ve been having,” John volunteered. Leave witty repartee to the Americans, we are true British gentlemen!
Lestrade let out a peal of slightly hysterical laughter. “Yeah. Ahem. Yeah. We’re going to have snow, I think,”
“Oh, that’ll be nice. Perhaps a white Christmas?” John grinned despite himself.
“Plays- hahaha- plays havoc with the traffic though,” Lestrade was chuckling.
“Now, take this seriously, Lestrade. You can’t giggle, we’ve been kidnapped,” John tried to sound severe.
“We- we should have a sing-song, John, come on- the old- the old Dunkirk spirit. What do we know?” Lestrade cleared his throat, little giggles exploding from him.
---
Lying on wool= blanket (bed?) couch- buttons/leather under wool. Light = fluorescent bulb. Phantom in corner, watching(different?). Violin by couch. One way mirror onto dark room. Singing?Crackle= old speakers. Two (2) men. Husky= not trained*under stress. John!mine and Lestrade(dangercigaretteprotect). Song: Jerusalem. Sherlock laughed. Singing in the dark. How very British. He sat up.
“You’re awake. Can you hear your friends? Jerusalem. Gutsy, and of course, it is a classic British tune,”
“You’re not the Phantom,” Sherlock said, calmly.
“I am! I am the Phantom. I keep watch over this old place. Keep it safe,”
“By murdering people?”
“By cutting off the dead branches!” the Phantom walked swiftly to a window. “Shall we switch on the lights?” He pulled a switch. Lots of switches ?purpose? One way mirror. John!mine & Lestrade (protectcigarettes). Tied to chairs (foldingmetal) Lots of switches... Singing stopped. Tense shoulders/straight backs= tension.
“No, don’t,” he said, without meaning to. Stupid: Knows weakness, now weapon.
“You should have left well enough alone,” the Phantom said. “Now you’re going to be given a choice. Either, you leave now, tell your pet detective to leave off, leave this place alone, or...” he flipped a switch. Lestrade and John jerked in their chairs, straining, fingers clawing. The switch was released. They sagged. “If that still doesn’t persuade you, all I have to do is hit this switch here and... Boom.”
Need to solve the case. Need to save John!mine, Lestrade(protect). Answer is everything. Ultimate hit. No more needles, no more cigarettes. John!mine. Mine. A certain detached part of him observed how interesting the conundrum is. “You’re a junkie, aren’t you? Always looking after the next fix? How important is the fix, Mr. Holmes?” the Phantom smiled. “How important is knowing you’re right?”
“Not as important as the dramatic is to you, obviously. Really, if you wanted to stop me, all you had to do was kill me. But that would be too easy. You have to make it into a puzzle, right? Cryptic messages, and the rest. Playing a part. Making a warning,” Sherlock picked up his violin and was about to speak again when the door opened. Another Phantom walked in.
“Sherlock Holmes! I found you Sherlock Holmes!” Sherlock’s face betrayed nothing.
“That is the real Phantom. Might I suggest, Mister Giry, that you take off the mask now?”
“No!” the other Phantom shouted. “Decide! Now!” The Phantom looked at his counterpart.
“Sherlock Holmes, this man has my face! What- why does he have my face Sherlock Holmes?”
“He’s been pretending to be you. He’s been killing people, and extorting money, pretending he’s you,” Sherlock looked at the fake Phantom steadily. The other man looked between them both.
“Really?”
“Really,”
“But I don’t want to kill people Sherlock Holmes. I want to hear music. I want to hear music with you Sherlock Holmes...” The Phantom turned back to the fake. “Give me back my FACE!” He leapt, clawing at the other man.
---
John gasped for breath, wishing he could shake the tingling out of his hands, and looked at Lestrade.
“One way mirror,” he said. “Over there.” There was a muffled whump and the glass shook. John thumped his chair closer to Lestrade. “Sounds like Sherlock is through there,” he moved to sit back to back with Lestrade, and fumbled for the other man’s ropes. “Let’s see now...”
“You know, John, you’re far too experienced with this,” Lestrade said, behind him.
“Tell me about it,” John grunted.
---
Mark Giry looked up from the floor. His face was bloody.
“You ruined everything!” the Phantom shouted, standing astride him. “All I wanted was the music!” he hit the boy across the face. Sherlock moved to the control panel. No tools, have to do it the caveman way... He hooked his fingers under the panel, ignoring the pain, and ripped the whole thing out with crackles and sparks, and threw it across the room like it was a snake.
“You idiot!” Mark Giry was fighting off the Phantom. “Now we’re all going to die!” Of course, a timer. Only he could switch it off and you broke the switch: stupid. !Mine emotion getting in the way of things. But wait. OBSERVE. Wires. Lots of wires. Timer: countdown. But...
“Sherlock Holmes, die? No!” the Phantom got off Mark Giry and clutched Sherlock. “Sherlock Holmes. Angel of Beauty. You were going to be my coda.” He grabbed him by the hands. “There’s a way out. A secret way.” Sherlock looked down at him. So often he didn’t know what to say in any situation, there were so many nuances that usually, he just couldn’t be bothered. But now he knew what to say.
“You will always be my Angel of Music,” he squeezed the Phantom’s hands, and planted a chaste kiss on his forehead.
“No! You’ll cause trouble, you know who I am, you can’t leave!” Mark Giry scrambled up. He reached for Sherlock, and there was a knife in his hand. The Phantom barged him, there was a confused moment, and then Mark Giry hit the concrete. The Phantom had his knife in his side. Blood started to soak the white shirt.
“Don’t hurt Sherlock Holmes!” he said to the prone form. “Sherlock Holmes, you have to leave now!” he sank to his knees. “Left, right, left Sherlock Holmes!” He crumpled to the floor.
---
Sherlock kicked open the next door. John had undone Lestrade’s ropes and Lestrade was finishing untying his.
“Come on, we should really be going,” he was carrying Mark Giry.
“Sherlock, what-,”
“Not now! We really should leave, I think,”
Sherlock led them down the corridor, then left, then right, then left again. There was a door. It was unlocked, and opened out onto an alley behind the concert hall.
“I thought that was blocked,” gasped Lestrade.
There was a muffled boom. The building shook. Sherlock put down Mark Giry and sprinted to the front of the building where people were evacuating quickly.
“Not the electrical mind his father was, unfortunately,” Sherlock looked at the unconscious boy with some distaste. “Lestrade. I have your murderer here. Perhaps you could do us all a favour, and arrest him?”
Part Twenty-Two
Exerpt from John Watson’s Blog: “[NAME REDACTED] was taken away. Sherlock thinks his father knows more but no one can make him tell. They never found the other Phantom. Poor bugger. The rooms we were kept in were blown apart. The building suffered some structural damage, but according to [NAME REDACTED] they’re experiencing record ticket sales, so I suppose some good has come of it. A whole bunch of new rooms have been found during the construction, they’re doing Phantom tours. I haven’t felt the need to go. They think that the original Phantom was involved in the building work, to hide the rooms as well as he did. Sherlock seems”
John sat back, wondering how to continue. Behind him, Sherlock picked up his violin and started to play. John recognised Jerusalem and laughed.
“I’m never going to live that one down, am I?”
“Definitely not,” Sherlock smiled at him. John abandoned his blog, and went to him. They kissed, sweet and tender as blackberries, as a note from a violin. The sun filtered through the dust and reflected off the lab equipment off the table. It was a perfect moment.