The Smashed Stradivarius, 1 of 2
Title: The Smashed Stradivarius, 1 of 2
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, that is the property of the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am simply taking them out to play.
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, OCs
Word Count: 10,896
Rating: PG
Summary: When a woman arrives at 221B Baker Street about the destruction of her Stradivarius violin, Sherlock and John are on the case to find the culprit but will the path lead to murder? (An adventure case with a bit of smush, just how the episodes should be!)
Warnings: None
Author notes: Most of the details about the London Symphony Orchestra are totally false and worked for the purposes of this fic. The conductor, players, and concert choices are all original and for the intent of the story line. The London Symphony in fact is quite fabulous!
I also want to say thank you to my dear prydenme for being the John Watson spring board for the starting ideas of this fic, without you I may have drowned at the beginning. And to my darling Thalialunacy, I hope you enjoy your birthday present!
(X-posted on AO3)
The case begins with a knock on their door. At first John doesn’t even notice it, typing on his blog about the recent case of ‘the missing tea because Sherlock is a wanker who can’t go shopping.’ Then another knock and John hears Mrs. Hudson open the door, delivery perhaps, and please let it not be any human remains for Sherlock.
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson calls.
Behind his book, Sherlock makes no move to get up. John stares at Sherlock, waits two beats then, with a sigh, stands up. He walks down the stairs and slides up beside Mrs. Hudson with a smile. She shakes her head at him, giving a ‘husbands’ look, and he resists rolling his eyes. John turns to the short, brown haired woman in the doorway.
“Yes?”
She cocks her head. “You’re Sherlock Holmes?”
John shakes his head. “No, I’m his…” John fishes for a word in his head. “Flat mate.”
She stares at him for a moment clearly picking a different word for herself. John breathes slowly and waits. She clears her throat.
“I’m Leila Waters.” She holds out her hand to shake which John takes. “I have a case for him.”
“Ah, right, yeah.” John bites his lip. He really does not want to subject this woman to Sherlock if he’s just going to belittle her and pass the case off. “Give me one second.”
John jogs half way back up the stairs. “Sherlock, there’s a woman here who -”
“Not interested,” Sherlock calls.
“We don’t even know what her ca -”
“Can’t be too urgent if she hasn’t chased you up the stairs, pass.”
John sighs and walks back down. Leila looks at him as he returns to the doorway and waits. John clears his throat. “Well, um, Ms. Waters, what exactly is the case?”
“It’s about my Stradivarius. It was destroyed.”
John frowns. “Your Stradivarius?”
“Yes. The police think I’m mad, say it was just an accident but -”
Suddenly Sherlock appears beside John in the doorway making the two of them jump in surprise.
Sherlock smiles slowly at Leila. “Did you say Stradivarius?”
-----------------
As it turns out, Leila Waters is set to become the new principal conductor of the London Symphony, prior to which she was a well traveled and acclaimed violin soloist. Conducting, her secondary career, took front seat after a family illness required her to remain close to home, thus the need for a permanent London job.
“So, after Scotland for a short period, some conducting in Paris, I finally secured the London position.” Leila smiles. “Set to take over in a month after they finish their last concert with the present maestro.”
Inside Leila’s frankly huge flat, Sherlock scampers around with his small magnifying glass out peeking under and over everything. The remains of Leila’s Stradivarius violin sit on a towel on the high counter separating her kitchen from the main living area of her flat.
“I phoned the police and they decided it probably just broke falling from the chair which is impossible but they didn’t belie -”
“Where did you find it originally?” Sherlock interrupts as he circles the counter looking over the violin parts from every angle.
“Um.” Leila turns in a circle then steps over to the left toward her fire place and points. “Just here on the floor.”
Sherlock jerks his head up, strides over and stoops over the spot.
“This was three days ago. I’ve had people interested in buying the violin before, many offers, a few a bit threatening about it even. Could it be one of them, maybe?”
When Sherlock does not respond, Leila opens her mouth then closes it. She glances at John and he shakes his head then waves a hand.
“He always does this.”
“So, uh…” She looks at Sherlock but he keeps examining the floor so she turns to John again. “I don’t usually have my Stradivarius at the flat. I have three other violins.” She points to the cases lined up on the opposite side of the room away from the fireplace, a chair, music stand and small cabinet beside them. “I use those for practice or general concerts. But I had it here for a few days because of a last solo project before I start at the symphony and -”
Sherlock suddenly jumps up from the floor and rushes past them to the violins. He tips each back one by one, perusing the surfaces.
“Hey, wait!” Leila snaps, but Sherlock is already moving away from the violins again.
He kneels low, back in front of the fireplace, turns the stand holding the black fire tongs around once. Leila and John glance at each other then back to Sherlock. Sherlock stands and walks backwards away from the fireplace, hands up, pointing behind himself to the violins then to his right in the direction of the door.
“What are you -“
“You were saying about having your violin here?” Sherlock cuts Leila off as he continues to walk backward, John side stepping out of the way.
She clears her throat. “Um, yes, I… ”
Sherlock walks backwards over the carpet, curving away from the windows which wall the one side of the room and around one couch then up onto a low coffee table. He tilts his head, steps down and around the other couch catty cornered to the table until his back hits the blue wall just beside the violin corner.
“You were saying,” John urges Leila.
Leila stares at Sherlock. “I went out for five minutes to pick up a package and when I came back it was in pieces.”
“And nothing else was missing or stolen or broken?” John asks.
Sherlock cocks his head at the fireplace, slides down the wall so he’s crouching, glances at the violins beside him and shifts up again.
Leila blinks and turns her eyes to John. “No.”
“The best way to hurt you,” Sherlock mutters.
Leila clears her throat and her eyes appear slightly teary. “Yes.”
John holds up a hand and waves it at the broken instrument on the counter. “But why, I mean, it’s just a violin?”
Sherlock and Leila both whip their heads around in an instant and snap, “Just a violin!?”
John leans away at the force of their combined yell and puts up his hands in concession. “Yes, okay, very important violin, sorry.”
Sherlock all but leaps over to John, pressing him back toward the counter so he can point directly to the broken violin.
“It is possibly the very best instrument one could own, very old, rare, the most amazing sound an instrument can make in the right hands, and worth millions of pounds.” He pauses, picks up the bridge of the violin and holds it in front of John’s nose. “I think perhaps you do not grasp the symbol of the Stradivarius violin, John.”
John clears his throat slowly. “I think perhaps you could step back a bit?”
Sherlock looks down at the space, or lack there of, between them. John feels suddenly very hot. Both stand frozen for two beats then Sherlock looks away and steps back, putting the broken bridge down. John breathes again.
Behind them Leila clears her throat. “So?”
Sherlock turns in place. “Well, obviously someone does not want you to become the conductor of the symphony. Who knows about the change already?”
“Wait, what?” John says.
“I…. um… you think that’s why my….”
“Yes, of course, it hasn’t been announced to the public yet has it? So, insider then.”
“Wait, wait, Sherlock, how do you know this is connected to the symphony?”
Leila shrugs. “As far as I am aware there isn’t any opposition to me. I am more worried that this could even be my ex-husband, spiteful guy.” She turns to John. “He never liked my notoriety, felt threatened, men are always -“
“No.” Sherlock cuts her off. “Obviously someone at the symphony does not want you in your new appointment so they destroyed your priceless violin to scare you off.”
“But she’s had people want her violin before, could have been one of them even.”
Leila nods. “They are very sought after, of course.”
Sherlock stares at them both. “Dear god, it’s a wonder criminals are caught at all these days. Of course, it’s about the symphony!”
“Go on then, Sherlock,” John waves a hand, “impress us.”
Sherlock smirks once and begins tracing a path around the apartment as he talks. “Person enters the flat, signs where the door has been forced open, marks against the wall where someone leaned - black line in the paint probably made by a watch - stood here, saw the violins.”
Sherlock leans on the wall then steps over to the violins. “Now, any random intruder would not know which violin had the most value; He would have to guess, try them all. The other violins are untouched, no marks on them of abuse. So, the individual went straight for the Stradivarius - already knew it was here.”
Sherlock steps over to Leila, circling slowly around her. “One of your many wanting buyers? Well, certainly would not destroy it just out of anger that you wouldn’t sell it since they would want it for themselves and appreciate the value.” He leans closer, invades her personal space. “Now, vengeful husband? He wouldn’t break it, he’d steal it, try to ransom it back to you. People who know us want us to know they are the ones causing the pain.”
Leila’s mouth drops open and she makes a strangled gasping noise but Sherlock keeps on, stepping back. “So, this a stranger but someone who knows violins, knows which one to choose, knows its value but does not steal it.”
Sherlock jumps over the table back to the fireplace. “What do we have but the perfect violin murder weapon?” Sherlock points to the fire poker. “Slivers of wood still stuck to the end from where it jabbed the violin, signs where it’s been recently removed from the stand.” Sherlock points to the counter where the pieces lie. “Jagged breaks, look like stab marks and here prime location for you to notice it as soon as you get in.”
Sherlock waves his hands at the floor. “So, presenting the act in such a way to inspire fear. This was someone who knows just who you are and that you owned such a valuable instrument and that you had it home at your flat because of your last solo. What reason would someone want to scare you and do it in such a way directly connected to your musical career? Trying to keep you from becoming the new maestro.”
John laughs. “Fantastic.”
Leila blinks at him. “Oh my god.”
“Simple,” Sherlock replies with a shrug.
John shakes his head and grins. Suddenly Leila’s mail on the counter beside the broken violin catches John’s eye, a white plain card on top with no envelope.
“I think I’ve found something else,” John says picking up the card.
Sherlock and Leila turn to him. He opens the card and all three can read the large black letters inside: If you do not wish to end up like your Stradivarius quit your new position now.
----------------
Forty-five minutes after Sherlock grabs John by the back of his coat and drags him from Leila’s flat, the two of them peek in the entrance to the first mezzanine of the Barbican Centre concert hall. On the stage the London Symphony Orchestra rehearses, stopping every so often for notes and the occasional what must be jokes? John can barely hear at their distance though Sherlock keeps chuckling.
Sherlock steps through the door and slips behind the back row of seats, poking his head over the edge of one to watch. John stands in the doorway and rolls his eyes.
“John, do get down here.”
“Do I have to?”
Sherlock tugs John ankle hard and he stumbles, falling down beside Sherlock. John barely avoids hitting his head on a seat and Sherlock clamps a hand over his mouth before he can groan in pain. Sherlock smiles once down at John then removes his hand.
John stares up at him. “Ow.”
“Hardly your worst injury, John,” Sherlock says quietly then turns back to the orchestra.
John sighs and sits up, crossing his legs. “So, I assume you already have picked out the violin murderer. Will you have solved it by tea?”
“Hmm… the orchestra has been quite disappointing for a number of years it’s no wonder they want new blood, always playing Mozart over and over, the same sorts of pieces beneath their par.” Sherlock tuts, obviously off in Sherlock analyzing land now. “And their flautist, Ms. Melody Hardgrave, is planning on quitting regardless.”
“How can you te -”
“Also, the bassist Thomas Bauer is having an affair with the new viola player, Brett Maxwell. Should have better taste.”
“I don’t want to know how you can tell tha -”
“The concert master Jason Theed is still ignoring the dynamics when he plays, one would think he didn’t read Italian. How did he get his job? Shameful.”
“Sherlock, enough gossip, I know you’ve picked someone out.”
“Hmm… they could certainly use some new timpani. No budget for percussion instruments this season?”
“Sherlock.”
“Matthew Mclarry.” Sherlock turns his head and smiles. “The conductor.”
John cranes his head over the seat to watch the conductor - a somewhat portly man with thinning blond hair - sweep his hands up then down and out. He looks back at Sherlock. “So?”
“Well, I think even you can deduce the one who would be most displeased by the introduction of a new conductor to the symphony.” Sherlock scoots back on his knees then slips up and out the door.
John flips around and scrambles after Sherlock. “Wait, what, that’s it?”
Sherlock snorts and trots down the stairs. “Oh, of course not,” he glances over his shoulder at John, “what did you see?”
“I saw a conductor rehearsing.” Sherlock stops two steps below and stares at John incredulously. John shakes his head. “I’m not going to bother extrapolating, you go right ahead.”
Sherlock purses his lips and turns back down the stairs. “His posture is stiff but not from weariness, more tense in the shoulders as if waiting for something; his conducting is sloppy, beats off in a way the orchestra clearly finds different from the number of times they’ve stopped and restarted. He also would have been the first to know, the one with best motive.” Sherlock turns around at the bottom step so John almost runs into him and has to latch onto Sherlock’s shoulders to stop his momentum. Sherlock smirks. “Certainly the most likely candidate to check out.”
“I think this is the part where you want to break into some locked room, isn’t it?”
Sherlock puts his hands over John’s and picks them up off his shoulders. “Definitely.”
Sherlock strides over the wood floor, slipping through side doors clearly only for performers, until they come to a hall with two doors on each side which are obviously offices. Sherlock drums his fingers along the wall until he gets to the second door on the right, twists the knob and frowns when it opens out easily.
“No breaking in?”
Sherlock hums and shakes his head. “Locked offices always mean better things to hide. Shame.”
They step into the office, Sherlock pulling the shade over the window in the door down after he closes it, then immediately walks over to the computer on the desk. John stands by the door taking the room in. A desk, now with Sherlock in the chair, sits to the left of the door covered with stacks of papers and music scores. The walls are decorated with old posters for orchestra performances as well numerous framed and signed photos of guest performers. To his right stand three tall cabinets of the kind which usually hold instruments, one large door each and light wood. Straight back is a book shelf and a battered filing cabinet beside a small closet with a black door. When John walks toward the cabinet, closer inspection reveals drawers for performer information as well as past season’s scores. John opens a few of the drawers but nothing jumps out as ‘threatening.’
“Lovely e-mail chain,” Sherlock mutters in that way which sounds like it’s to himself but really means he wants John to ask.
John turns around and bites. “About?”
Sherlock’s eyes peek over the edge of the monitor. “Mr. Mclarry did quite a lot of e-mailing to the LSO president as well as donors to plead his case.” Sherlock tsks. “And they call him boring, unimaginative, and I believe ‘lame duck.’”
Sherlock looks rather pleased so John pushes further. “Threats?”
The other man smiles then chuckles. “Oh, in fact he did, all the way to the head of the Barbican Centre with some empty talk about blackmail and the City of London Corporation. Not so successful it seems.”
John’s eyes coast over the desk, books, five copies of ‘The Magic Flute’ and then he stops.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock glances up from the computer, his fingers still typing. “Hmm?”
John points at the cork board on the wall at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock cocks his head and reaches out to pull at the barely exposed corner of a white card. He slips it out from behind the board and flips it open, eyebrows rising.
“My, my. ‘Remember what I said.’” Sherlock flips to the back then again to the front before putting the card down for John to pick up. “Less than creative threats he’s coming up with now.”
“To send to Leila, you think?”
Sherlock pulls his eyes up to John slowly and gives him a withering look. “Or perhaps his mother needs a reminder that her son loves him.”
John huffs. “Cute.” And he drops the card back onto the desk. “What else do we need to find? I’d call that pretty incriminating.”
“Hmm.”
“We need more?”
Sherlock clicks the mouse. “It’s thin and we don’t yet know his location on the night in question. Ah!” Sherlock gasps suddenly and grabs up a piece of paper from under the mouse pad.
“What?” John looks around as if someone is watching then hisses quieter. “What?”
Sherlock flips the flyer around. “They are having a gala to benefit the symphony specifically! We could -”
Abruptly he stops talking and jerks his head toward the door. They both freeze, listening - foot steps out in the hall. Suddenly Sherlock jumps up and grabs John by the arm. He pulls John around the desk, opens the door to the small closet, shoves over a stack of old programs and yanks them both inside.
“Bad decision,” John groans when Sherlock’s chin knocks into his head as the door closes.
“Shh!” Sherlock insists, putting three fingers against John’s lips.
They hear the door to the office open then shut. Outside their closet the chair moves, papers shuffle. Someone is looking for something.
John glances up at Sherlock; he has his head inclined slightly to the side listening. John squeezes his arm up past a pile of black folders beside him and takes Sherlock’s fingers off his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes switch down to John. John makes a face; obviously he’s aware to be quiet now. Sherlock returns his attention to the closed door as they hear something fall out in the office. Shoes click and they hear furious typing.
John shifts against the wall, trying to get whatever is stabbing him in the back to move. The closet is barely large enough to hold the two of them, Sherlock flush against his chest and precarious piles of old advertizing and concert materials surrounding them. It already feels stuffy, claustrophobic, and hot. John stares at Sherlock’s chest and once again he remembers how damn short he is.
Slowly John notices Sherlock’s fingers curling around his hand. John looks up but Sherlock does not seem to notice, unconscious action on his part. John’s lips quirk. Funnily he has no desire to let go, quite the opposite. Something about it feels strangely right.
Sherlock shifts slightly, moving his shoulder off the door, and the papers beside them start to slide. John flings out his free hand to catch them, pulling the other out of Sherlock’s fingers to slam against Sherlock’s chest so he doesn’t fall. Sherlock groans very quietly.
John mouths, ‘sorry’ in the faint darkness.
Sherlock shakes his head and bites his lip once. John realizes he’s also stomped on Sherlock’s foot.
“Oh!” John says out loud and Sherlock glares. John digs his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt to remain upright and forces himself still.
They both listen intently but the typing outside has stopped, full silence and John’s heart rate sky rockets, until the chair shifts again and whom ever is outside the door drops books to the floor. John breathes out slowly. He feels Sherlock’s heart beat under his hand, steady. Sherlock touches John’s hand on his chest and it’s like a jolt because Sherlock’s fingers are so cool. He turns slightly and now they’re just staring at each other. For a moment John forgets they’re stuck in a closet, forgets they’re on a case, forgets everything and all he thinks is how beautiful Sherlock appears in the semi-darkness.
Then the outside door to the office slams and they both jump. The stack of papers John tried to save tumbles out of his hold into a mess at their feet. The stack of music folders gives way falling on top of John and Sherlock swings open the door. They both jump out and quickly shut the closet door behind them before the mess can escape into the office. They stand still side by side with their hands flat on the door. John’s heart pounds but not just from the rush of escaping the closet.
Sherlock moves first and turns back to the office. “Curious.”
John turns as well to see the desk shifted around, papers moved, computer powered off. Someone had been looking for something in particular.
Then they speak at the same time, “the note is gone.”
“Sending to Leila?” John guesses.
Sherlock clears his throat and does not look at John.
“Um… Sherlock, are you all ri -”
Before John can complete his sentence Sherlock gasps and snatches up the benefit flyer from the desk.
“Perfect!” Sherlock cries and runs out the door.
John stares at the spot where Sherlock once stood - moment lost. John decides to forget about the closet because he just will not wrap his mind around thinking Sherlock beautiful right now. Blinking, John realizes he should probably chase after Sherlock. However, by the time he moves and leaves the office Sherlock is nowhere in sight.
John sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Not again.”
----------------
When it becomes quite clear Sherlock has no intention of returning to fetch John, he finds his way back to the flat on his own. John hopes Sherlock’s not doing something too reckless but it is only ten past two at this point so with luck no stalking or shooting or rooting through garbage. But then again what difference does cover of darkness really make to Sherlock?
“Back already?” Mrs. Hudson asks as John lumbers up the stairs past her. “Sherlock off on one of his cases again?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” John groans quietly.
“Always choosing work over home life, isn’t he?”
John stops at the top of the stairs and stares back at her. Mrs. Hudson just gives him a little smile and rounds the corner back toward her flat. John blinks and shakes his head, climbing the stairs all the way to his room, until he falls face first onto his bed. He peeks at his phone where he’d forgotten it on the night stand. Reaching out, chin still crunched on the covers, he checks his messages - four from Sarah.
“Shit,” John groans. He’d forgotten about work. “Amazing she doesn’t fire me….”
John lets his face fall back into the covers. He really has a skewed sense of reality these days. Damn you, Sherlock Holmes.
“John!”
John jolts up in surprise at the sound of his name. He blinks, groggy, eyes blurred and he realizes he’s still lying on his bed. He sits up half way, checks the clock and sees its now close to five.
“Oh god….” John wipes a hand over his face, no doubt lines on it from the covers.
“John!” Sherlock calls again.
“What?”
“Hurry, places to be!”
John rolls over. “Since when?”
He jumps to his feet and trots down the stairs then into the living room. Sherlock stands in the middle of the room dressed in a formal suit - no, not a suit, a tuxedo; tails, waistcoat, white bowtie - a full on tuxedo.
John notices very acutely his breathing stops for ten seconds.
“What are you wearing?” John croaks out.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “A tuxedo.”
“Yes, but… Why?”
“The Symphony Benefit, of course.” Sherlock points to the flyer he’d stolen from the Matthew’s office sitting on the table. “You do recall?”
“Uh huh…”
“I am now the guest performer and I have another ticket.” Sherlock holds up a formal looking invitation with a silver border. He shifts his fingers so the second slides out to the side. “Put on a tuxedo.”
“You are now the guest performer….”
“Put on a tux,” Sherlock repeats.
“As if I would have more than one,” John deadpans.
Sherlock cocks his head. “You must have something.”
“I have my brown sui-”
“Oh, horrid.”
“Well, it’s what I have!” John snaps. “Go alone if you’re so -”
“No.” Sherlock cuts John off and brushes past him up the stairs toward John’s room.
John spins and chases after Sherlock. “Hey, Sherlock, wait!”
When John catches up, Sherlock is already rifling through John’s closet. He pulls out a suit jacket then throws it to the floor behind him with a disgusted face.
“Hey, don’t -”
He throws another followed by a blue shirt.
“Stop that.”
Sherlock pulls his head out of the closet and shakes it at John. “You have a shameful lack of professional and formal wear, John.”
John puts a hand over his eyes. “There is nothing wrong with sweaters.”
“Ah ha! Perfect.”
John peeks through his fingers. Sherlock holds his dress uniform, clear plastic dry cleaners bag still covering it.
John shakes his head and drops his hand. “No.”
“It is the only formal thing you own.”
“It’s for military affairs!”
“And?”
“And I - I can’t wear it to this.” Sherlock gives John a look and John huffs. “No. It’s not… I…”
Sherlock tilts his head. “Really John, we both know military dress uniform is not reserved only for military functions, you have no tux, not even a passable suit, and I need you to come.” He pauses. “I am certain you look splendid in it.”
Sherlock extends his arm holding the uniform toward John. John just stares. Sherlock jiggles the uniform at him.
John sighs and snatches it from Sherlock. “Fine.”
When John comes down the stairs in his uniform, first time in a while but it still fits, Sherlock stares at him. John stands waiting for Sherlock to do something but he stands with his lips pressed carefully together like he’s trying to stop himself from speaking.
John looks down at himself then back up. “What? Should I put on something else?”
Sherlock clears his throat quietly. “No. It’s… fine.”
“What then?”
“Nothing.” Sherlock passes John and heads down the stairs, picking up his violin from the top step as he goes. “Shall we?”
PART 2
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, that is the property of the BBC and Steven Moffat. I am simply taking them out to play.
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, OCs
Word Count: 10,896
Rating: PG
Summary: When a woman arrives at 221B Baker Street about the destruction of her Stradivarius violin, Sherlock and John are on the case to find the culprit but will the path lead to murder? (An adventure case with a bit of smush, just how the episodes should be!)
Warnings: None
Author notes: Most of the details about the London Symphony Orchestra are totally false and worked for the purposes of this fic. The conductor, players, and concert choices are all original and for the intent of the story line. The London Symphony in fact is quite fabulous!
I also want to say thank you to my dear prydenme for being the John Watson spring board for the starting ideas of this fic, without you I may have drowned at the beginning. And to my darling Thalialunacy, I hope you enjoy your birthday present!
(X-posted on AO3)
The case begins with a knock on their door. At first John doesn’t even notice it, typing on his blog about the recent case of ‘the missing tea because Sherlock is a wanker who can’t go shopping.’ Then another knock and John hears Mrs. Hudson open the door, delivery perhaps, and please let it not be any human remains for Sherlock.
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson calls.
Behind his book, Sherlock makes no move to get up. John stares at Sherlock, waits two beats then, with a sigh, stands up. He walks down the stairs and slides up beside Mrs. Hudson with a smile. She shakes her head at him, giving a ‘husbands’ look, and he resists rolling his eyes. John turns to the short, brown haired woman in the doorway.
“Yes?”
She cocks her head. “You’re Sherlock Holmes?”
John shakes his head. “No, I’m his…” John fishes for a word in his head. “Flat mate.”
She stares at him for a moment clearly picking a different word for herself. John breathes slowly and waits. She clears her throat.
“I’m Leila Waters.” She holds out her hand to shake which John takes. “I have a case for him.”
“Ah, right, yeah.” John bites his lip. He really does not want to subject this woman to Sherlock if he’s just going to belittle her and pass the case off. “Give me one second.”
John jogs half way back up the stairs. “Sherlock, there’s a woman here who -”
“Not interested,” Sherlock calls.
“We don’t even know what her ca -”
“Can’t be too urgent if she hasn’t chased you up the stairs, pass.”
John sighs and walks back down. Leila looks at him as he returns to the doorway and waits. John clears his throat. “Well, um, Ms. Waters, what exactly is the case?”
“It’s about my Stradivarius. It was destroyed.”
John frowns. “Your Stradivarius?”
“Yes. The police think I’m mad, say it was just an accident but -”
Suddenly Sherlock appears beside John in the doorway making the two of them jump in surprise.
Sherlock smiles slowly at Leila. “Did you say Stradivarius?”
-----------------
As it turns out, Leila Waters is set to become the new principal conductor of the London Symphony, prior to which she was a well traveled and acclaimed violin soloist. Conducting, her secondary career, took front seat after a family illness required her to remain close to home, thus the need for a permanent London job.
“So, after Scotland for a short period, some conducting in Paris, I finally secured the London position.” Leila smiles. “Set to take over in a month after they finish their last concert with the present maestro.”
Inside Leila’s frankly huge flat, Sherlock scampers around with his small magnifying glass out peeking under and over everything. The remains of Leila’s Stradivarius violin sit on a towel on the high counter separating her kitchen from the main living area of her flat.
“I phoned the police and they decided it probably just broke falling from the chair which is impossible but they didn’t belie -”
“Where did you find it originally?” Sherlock interrupts as he circles the counter looking over the violin parts from every angle.
“Um.” Leila turns in a circle then steps over to the left toward her fire place and points. “Just here on the floor.”
Sherlock jerks his head up, strides over and stoops over the spot.
“This was three days ago. I’ve had people interested in buying the violin before, many offers, a few a bit threatening about it even. Could it be one of them, maybe?”
When Sherlock does not respond, Leila opens her mouth then closes it. She glances at John and he shakes his head then waves a hand.
“He always does this.”
“So, uh…” She looks at Sherlock but he keeps examining the floor so she turns to John again. “I don’t usually have my Stradivarius at the flat. I have three other violins.” She points to the cases lined up on the opposite side of the room away from the fireplace, a chair, music stand and small cabinet beside them. “I use those for practice or general concerts. But I had it here for a few days because of a last solo project before I start at the symphony and -”
Sherlock suddenly jumps up from the floor and rushes past them to the violins. He tips each back one by one, perusing the surfaces.
“Hey, wait!” Leila snaps, but Sherlock is already moving away from the violins again.
He kneels low, back in front of the fireplace, turns the stand holding the black fire tongs around once. Leila and John glance at each other then back to Sherlock. Sherlock stands and walks backwards away from the fireplace, hands up, pointing behind himself to the violins then to his right in the direction of the door.
“What are you -“
“You were saying about having your violin here?” Sherlock cuts Leila off as he continues to walk backward, John side stepping out of the way.
She clears her throat. “Um, yes, I… ”
Sherlock walks backwards over the carpet, curving away from the windows which wall the one side of the room and around one couch then up onto a low coffee table. He tilts his head, steps down and around the other couch catty cornered to the table until his back hits the blue wall just beside the violin corner.
“You were saying,” John urges Leila.
Leila stares at Sherlock. “I went out for five minutes to pick up a package and when I came back it was in pieces.”
“And nothing else was missing or stolen or broken?” John asks.
Sherlock cocks his head at the fireplace, slides down the wall so he’s crouching, glances at the violins beside him and shifts up again.
Leila blinks and turns her eyes to John. “No.”
“The best way to hurt you,” Sherlock mutters.
Leila clears her throat and her eyes appear slightly teary. “Yes.”
John holds up a hand and waves it at the broken instrument on the counter. “But why, I mean, it’s just a violin?”
Sherlock and Leila both whip their heads around in an instant and snap, “Just a violin!?”
John leans away at the force of their combined yell and puts up his hands in concession. “Yes, okay, very important violin, sorry.”
Sherlock all but leaps over to John, pressing him back toward the counter so he can point directly to the broken violin.
“It is possibly the very best instrument one could own, very old, rare, the most amazing sound an instrument can make in the right hands, and worth millions of pounds.” He pauses, picks up the bridge of the violin and holds it in front of John’s nose. “I think perhaps you do not grasp the symbol of the Stradivarius violin, John.”
John clears his throat slowly. “I think perhaps you could step back a bit?”
Sherlock looks down at the space, or lack there of, between them. John feels suddenly very hot. Both stand frozen for two beats then Sherlock looks away and steps back, putting the broken bridge down. John breathes again.
Behind them Leila clears her throat. “So?”
Sherlock turns in place. “Well, obviously someone does not want you to become the conductor of the symphony. Who knows about the change already?”
“Wait, what?” John says.
“I…. um… you think that’s why my….”
“Yes, of course, it hasn’t been announced to the public yet has it? So, insider then.”
“Wait, wait, Sherlock, how do you know this is connected to the symphony?”
Leila shrugs. “As far as I am aware there isn’t any opposition to me. I am more worried that this could even be my ex-husband, spiteful guy.” She turns to John. “He never liked my notoriety, felt threatened, men are always -“
“No.” Sherlock cuts her off. “Obviously someone at the symphony does not want you in your new appointment so they destroyed your priceless violin to scare you off.”
“But she’s had people want her violin before, could have been one of them even.”
Leila nods. “They are very sought after, of course.”
Sherlock stares at them both. “Dear god, it’s a wonder criminals are caught at all these days. Of course, it’s about the symphony!”
“Go on then, Sherlock,” John waves a hand, “impress us.”
Sherlock smirks once and begins tracing a path around the apartment as he talks. “Person enters the flat, signs where the door has been forced open, marks against the wall where someone leaned - black line in the paint probably made by a watch - stood here, saw the violins.”
Sherlock leans on the wall then steps over to the violins. “Now, any random intruder would not know which violin had the most value; He would have to guess, try them all. The other violins are untouched, no marks on them of abuse. So, the individual went straight for the Stradivarius - already knew it was here.”
Sherlock steps over to Leila, circling slowly around her. “One of your many wanting buyers? Well, certainly would not destroy it just out of anger that you wouldn’t sell it since they would want it for themselves and appreciate the value.” He leans closer, invades her personal space. “Now, vengeful husband? He wouldn’t break it, he’d steal it, try to ransom it back to you. People who know us want us to know they are the ones causing the pain.”
Leila’s mouth drops open and she makes a strangled gasping noise but Sherlock keeps on, stepping back. “So, this a stranger but someone who knows violins, knows which one to choose, knows its value but does not steal it.”
Sherlock jumps over the table back to the fireplace. “What do we have but the perfect violin murder weapon?” Sherlock points to the fire poker. “Slivers of wood still stuck to the end from where it jabbed the violin, signs where it’s been recently removed from the stand.” Sherlock points to the counter where the pieces lie. “Jagged breaks, look like stab marks and here prime location for you to notice it as soon as you get in.”
Sherlock waves his hands at the floor. “So, presenting the act in such a way to inspire fear. This was someone who knows just who you are and that you owned such a valuable instrument and that you had it home at your flat because of your last solo. What reason would someone want to scare you and do it in such a way directly connected to your musical career? Trying to keep you from becoming the new maestro.”
John laughs. “Fantastic.”
Leila blinks at him. “Oh my god.”
“Simple,” Sherlock replies with a shrug.
John shakes his head and grins. Suddenly Leila’s mail on the counter beside the broken violin catches John’s eye, a white plain card on top with no envelope.
“I think I’ve found something else,” John says picking up the card.
Sherlock and Leila turn to him. He opens the card and all three can read the large black letters inside: If you do not wish to end up like your Stradivarius quit your new position now.
----------------
Forty-five minutes after Sherlock grabs John by the back of his coat and drags him from Leila’s flat, the two of them peek in the entrance to the first mezzanine of the Barbican Centre concert hall. On the stage the London Symphony Orchestra rehearses, stopping every so often for notes and the occasional what must be jokes? John can barely hear at their distance though Sherlock keeps chuckling.
Sherlock steps through the door and slips behind the back row of seats, poking his head over the edge of one to watch. John stands in the doorway and rolls his eyes.
“John, do get down here.”
“Do I have to?”
Sherlock tugs John ankle hard and he stumbles, falling down beside Sherlock. John barely avoids hitting his head on a seat and Sherlock clamps a hand over his mouth before he can groan in pain. Sherlock smiles once down at John then removes his hand.
John stares up at him. “Ow.”
“Hardly your worst injury, John,” Sherlock says quietly then turns back to the orchestra.
John sighs and sits up, crossing his legs. “So, I assume you already have picked out the violin murderer. Will you have solved it by tea?”
“Hmm… the orchestra has been quite disappointing for a number of years it’s no wonder they want new blood, always playing Mozart over and over, the same sorts of pieces beneath their par.” Sherlock tuts, obviously off in Sherlock analyzing land now. “And their flautist, Ms. Melody Hardgrave, is planning on quitting regardless.”
“How can you te -”
“Also, the bassist Thomas Bauer is having an affair with the new viola player, Brett Maxwell. Should have better taste.”
“I don’t want to know how you can tell tha -”
“The concert master Jason Theed is still ignoring the dynamics when he plays, one would think he didn’t read Italian. How did he get his job? Shameful.”
“Sherlock, enough gossip, I know you’ve picked someone out.”
“Hmm… they could certainly use some new timpani. No budget for percussion instruments this season?”
“Sherlock.”
“Matthew Mclarry.” Sherlock turns his head and smiles. “The conductor.”
John cranes his head over the seat to watch the conductor - a somewhat portly man with thinning blond hair - sweep his hands up then down and out. He looks back at Sherlock. “So?”
“Well, I think even you can deduce the one who would be most displeased by the introduction of a new conductor to the symphony.” Sherlock scoots back on his knees then slips up and out the door.
John flips around and scrambles after Sherlock. “Wait, what, that’s it?”
Sherlock snorts and trots down the stairs. “Oh, of course not,” he glances over his shoulder at John, “what did you see?”
“I saw a conductor rehearsing.” Sherlock stops two steps below and stares at John incredulously. John shakes his head. “I’m not going to bother extrapolating, you go right ahead.”
Sherlock purses his lips and turns back down the stairs. “His posture is stiff but not from weariness, more tense in the shoulders as if waiting for something; his conducting is sloppy, beats off in a way the orchestra clearly finds different from the number of times they’ve stopped and restarted. He also would have been the first to know, the one with best motive.” Sherlock turns around at the bottom step so John almost runs into him and has to latch onto Sherlock’s shoulders to stop his momentum. Sherlock smirks. “Certainly the most likely candidate to check out.”
“I think this is the part where you want to break into some locked room, isn’t it?”
Sherlock puts his hands over John’s and picks them up off his shoulders. “Definitely.”
Sherlock strides over the wood floor, slipping through side doors clearly only for performers, until they come to a hall with two doors on each side which are obviously offices. Sherlock drums his fingers along the wall until he gets to the second door on the right, twists the knob and frowns when it opens out easily.
“No breaking in?”
Sherlock hums and shakes his head. “Locked offices always mean better things to hide. Shame.”
They step into the office, Sherlock pulling the shade over the window in the door down after he closes it, then immediately walks over to the computer on the desk. John stands by the door taking the room in. A desk, now with Sherlock in the chair, sits to the left of the door covered with stacks of papers and music scores. The walls are decorated with old posters for orchestra performances as well numerous framed and signed photos of guest performers. To his right stand three tall cabinets of the kind which usually hold instruments, one large door each and light wood. Straight back is a book shelf and a battered filing cabinet beside a small closet with a black door. When John walks toward the cabinet, closer inspection reveals drawers for performer information as well as past season’s scores. John opens a few of the drawers but nothing jumps out as ‘threatening.’
“Lovely e-mail chain,” Sherlock mutters in that way which sounds like it’s to himself but really means he wants John to ask.
John turns around and bites. “About?”
Sherlock’s eyes peek over the edge of the monitor. “Mr. Mclarry did quite a lot of e-mailing to the LSO president as well as donors to plead his case.” Sherlock tsks. “And they call him boring, unimaginative, and I believe ‘lame duck.’”
Sherlock looks rather pleased so John pushes further. “Threats?”
The other man smiles then chuckles. “Oh, in fact he did, all the way to the head of the Barbican Centre with some empty talk about blackmail and the City of London Corporation. Not so successful it seems.”
John’s eyes coast over the desk, books, five copies of ‘The Magic Flute’ and then he stops.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock glances up from the computer, his fingers still typing. “Hmm?”
John points at the cork board on the wall at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock cocks his head and reaches out to pull at the barely exposed corner of a white card. He slips it out from behind the board and flips it open, eyebrows rising.
“My, my. ‘Remember what I said.’” Sherlock flips to the back then again to the front before putting the card down for John to pick up. “Less than creative threats he’s coming up with now.”
“To send to Leila, you think?”
Sherlock pulls his eyes up to John slowly and gives him a withering look. “Or perhaps his mother needs a reminder that her son loves him.”
John huffs. “Cute.” And he drops the card back onto the desk. “What else do we need to find? I’d call that pretty incriminating.”
“Hmm.”
“We need more?”
Sherlock clicks the mouse. “It’s thin and we don’t yet know his location on the night in question. Ah!” Sherlock gasps suddenly and grabs up a piece of paper from under the mouse pad.
“What?” John looks around as if someone is watching then hisses quieter. “What?”
Sherlock flips the flyer around. “They are having a gala to benefit the symphony specifically! We could -”
Abruptly he stops talking and jerks his head toward the door. They both freeze, listening - foot steps out in the hall. Suddenly Sherlock jumps up and grabs John by the arm. He pulls John around the desk, opens the door to the small closet, shoves over a stack of old programs and yanks them both inside.
“Bad decision,” John groans when Sherlock’s chin knocks into his head as the door closes.
“Shh!” Sherlock insists, putting three fingers against John’s lips.
They hear the door to the office open then shut. Outside their closet the chair moves, papers shuffle. Someone is looking for something.
John glances up at Sherlock; he has his head inclined slightly to the side listening. John squeezes his arm up past a pile of black folders beside him and takes Sherlock’s fingers off his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes switch down to John. John makes a face; obviously he’s aware to be quiet now. Sherlock returns his attention to the closed door as they hear something fall out in the office. Shoes click and they hear furious typing.
John shifts against the wall, trying to get whatever is stabbing him in the back to move. The closet is barely large enough to hold the two of them, Sherlock flush against his chest and precarious piles of old advertizing and concert materials surrounding them. It already feels stuffy, claustrophobic, and hot. John stares at Sherlock’s chest and once again he remembers how damn short he is.
Slowly John notices Sherlock’s fingers curling around his hand. John looks up but Sherlock does not seem to notice, unconscious action on his part. John’s lips quirk. Funnily he has no desire to let go, quite the opposite. Something about it feels strangely right.
Sherlock shifts slightly, moving his shoulder off the door, and the papers beside them start to slide. John flings out his free hand to catch them, pulling the other out of Sherlock’s fingers to slam against Sherlock’s chest so he doesn’t fall. Sherlock groans very quietly.
John mouths, ‘sorry’ in the faint darkness.
Sherlock shakes his head and bites his lip once. John realizes he’s also stomped on Sherlock’s foot.
“Oh!” John says out loud and Sherlock glares. John digs his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt to remain upright and forces himself still.
They both listen intently but the typing outside has stopped, full silence and John’s heart rate sky rockets, until the chair shifts again and whom ever is outside the door drops books to the floor. John breathes out slowly. He feels Sherlock’s heart beat under his hand, steady. Sherlock touches John’s hand on his chest and it’s like a jolt because Sherlock’s fingers are so cool. He turns slightly and now they’re just staring at each other. For a moment John forgets they’re stuck in a closet, forgets they’re on a case, forgets everything and all he thinks is how beautiful Sherlock appears in the semi-darkness.
Then the outside door to the office slams and they both jump. The stack of papers John tried to save tumbles out of his hold into a mess at their feet. The stack of music folders gives way falling on top of John and Sherlock swings open the door. They both jump out and quickly shut the closet door behind them before the mess can escape into the office. They stand still side by side with their hands flat on the door. John’s heart pounds but not just from the rush of escaping the closet.
Sherlock moves first and turns back to the office. “Curious.”
John turns as well to see the desk shifted around, papers moved, computer powered off. Someone had been looking for something in particular.
Then they speak at the same time, “the note is gone.”
“Sending to Leila?” John guesses.
Sherlock clears his throat and does not look at John.
“Um… Sherlock, are you all ri -”
Before John can complete his sentence Sherlock gasps and snatches up the benefit flyer from the desk.
“Perfect!” Sherlock cries and runs out the door.
John stares at the spot where Sherlock once stood - moment lost. John decides to forget about the closet because he just will not wrap his mind around thinking Sherlock beautiful right now. Blinking, John realizes he should probably chase after Sherlock. However, by the time he moves and leaves the office Sherlock is nowhere in sight.
John sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Not again.”
----------------
When it becomes quite clear Sherlock has no intention of returning to fetch John, he finds his way back to the flat on his own. John hopes Sherlock’s not doing something too reckless but it is only ten past two at this point so with luck no stalking or shooting or rooting through garbage. But then again what difference does cover of darkness really make to Sherlock?
“Back already?” Mrs. Hudson asks as John lumbers up the stairs past her. “Sherlock off on one of his cases again?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” John groans quietly.
“Always choosing work over home life, isn’t he?”
John stops at the top of the stairs and stares back at her. Mrs. Hudson just gives him a little smile and rounds the corner back toward her flat. John blinks and shakes his head, climbing the stairs all the way to his room, until he falls face first onto his bed. He peeks at his phone where he’d forgotten it on the night stand. Reaching out, chin still crunched on the covers, he checks his messages - four from Sarah.
“Shit,” John groans. He’d forgotten about work. “Amazing she doesn’t fire me….”
John lets his face fall back into the covers. He really has a skewed sense of reality these days. Damn you, Sherlock Holmes.
“John!”
John jolts up in surprise at the sound of his name. He blinks, groggy, eyes blurred and he realizes he’s still lying on his bed. He sits up half way, checks the clock and sees its now close to five.
“Oh god….” John wipes a hand over his face, no doubt lines on it from the covers.
“John!” Sherlock calls again.
“What?”
“Hurry, places to be!”
John rolls over. “Since when?”
He jumps to his feet and trots down the stairs then into the living room. Sherlock stands in the middle of the room dressed in a formal suit - no, not a suit, a tuxedo; tails, waistcoat, white bowtie - a full on tuxedo.
John notices very acutely his breathing stops for ten seconds.
“What are you wearing?” John croaks out.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “A tuxedo.”
“Yes, but… Why?”
“The Symphony Benefit, of course.” Sherlock points to the flyer he’d stolen from the Matthew’s office sitting on the table. “You do recall?”
“Uh huh…”
“I am now the guest performer and I have another ticket.” Sherlock holds up a formal looking invitation with a silver border. He shifts his fingers so the second slides out to the side. “Put on a tuxedo.”
“You are now the guest performer….”
“Put on a tux,” Sherlock repeats.
“As if I would have more than one,” John deadpans.
Sherlock cocks his head. “You must have something.”
“I have my brown sui-”
“Oh, horrid.”
“Well, it’s what I have!” John snaps. “Go alone if you’re so -”
“No.” Sherlock cuts John off and brushes past him up the stairs toward John’s room.
John spins and chases after Sherlock. “Hey, Sherlock, wait!”
When John catches up, Sherlock is already rifling through John’s closet. He pulls out a suit jacket then throws it to the floor behind him with a disgusted face.
“Hey, don’t -”
He throws another followed by a blue shirt.
“Stop that.”
Sherlock pulls his head out of the closet and shakes it at John. “You have a shameful lack of professional and formal wear, John.”
John puts a hand over his eyes. “There is nothing wrong with sweaters.”
“Ah ha! Perfect.”
John peeks through his fingers. Sherlock holds his dress uniform, clear plastic dry cleaners bag still covering it.
John shakes his head and drops his hand. “No.”
“It is the only formal thing you own.”
“It’s for military affairs!”
“And?”
“And I - I can’t wear it to this.” Sherlock gives John a look and John huffs. “No. It’s not… I…”
Sherlock tilts his head. “Really John, we both know military dress uniform is not reserved only for military functions, you have no tux, not even a passable suit, and I need you to come.” He pauses. “I am certain you look splendid in it.”
Sherlock extends his arm holding the uniform toward John. John just stares. Sherlock jiggles the uniform at him.
John sighs and snatches it from Sherlock. “Fine.”
When John comes down the stairs in his uniform, first time in a while but it still fits, Sherlock stares at him. John stands waiting for Sherlock to do something but he stands with his lips pressed carefully together like he’s trying to stop himself from speaking.
John looks down at himself then back up. “What? Should I put on something else?”
Sherlock clears his throat quietly. “No. It’s… fine.”
“What then?”
“Nothing.” Sherlock passes John and heads down the stairs, picking up his violin from the top step as he goes. “Shall we?”
PART 2