Fic: Bel Canto - 2/16 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 6.9k out of 123.5ishk
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, eventual character death
Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
Op. 20, No. 6
Op. 20, No. 7
Op. 20, No. 8
Op. 20, No. 9
Op. 20, No. 10
Op. 20, No. 11
Op. 20, No. 12
Op. 20, No. 13
Op. 20, No. 14
Op. 20, No. 15
Op. 20, No. 16
“I don’t think that’s possible,” John says, frowning.
“Of course it’s possible,” Vernet insists. “I’m doing it, therefore it’s possible.”
Uncertain whether to marvel or berate, John replies, “You can’t rewrite Antony and Cleopatra without a love story. The entire point of the plot is the love story. He’s torn between love and duty.”
“Whereas Antony’s men are torn between loyalty to their wayward general and to their emperor,” Vernet counters. “They’re trapped between personal loyalty and their greater duty. Why focus on Antony?”
“It’s still a love story.”
“Which has been relocated mercifully to the background.”
John mulls it over and shakes his head. “When an audience shows up for Antony and Cleopatra, it’s not for the political intrigue.”
“How terribly unfortunate. I’m sick to death of idiots wondering if this strange feeling is love. It’s annoying at best. No, insipid. At its pinnacle, it’s insipid. I refuse to write the music, let alone the libretto.”
John shakes his head.
“What now?”
“Are all of the soldiers bachelors?” John asks.
“Unlikely.”
“Then put that in there when they’re singing about whether to mutiny and leave or commit treason and stay.”
Vernet frowns at him, arms crossed, one hand raised in mid-gesture, a questioning palm. “What for?”
“How’s this for an argument,” John offers. “They can stay and let their general know true love after years with a cold, arranged match, or they can go home to their own families, who they miss and might never see again. There’s your split loyalty for you.”
“Ah,” Vernet murmurs. “The men staying with Antony will be the romantic idiots.”
John sighs. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but fine.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know,” John says. “There’s something tragic about a naive little bastard willing to die so his general can be in love. You’ve already written the naive little bastard.”
Vernet looks askance at him. Not for the first time, John has to remind himself that for all the talk of the army, Vernet is very much an upper class civilian and, as such, pretends not to swear.
“Anyway,” John says, “that character is the clear pick for the courtship subplot. He can be in love with love instead.”
“That would be incredibly annoying.”
“He’s already slated to die, isn’t he?”
“Horrifically, yes. Act four, final scene.”
“Then wouldn’t it be more satisfying if you wanted to kill him?”
Judging by Vernet’s surprised laugh, John’s aim struck true. Vernet’s subsequent grin is somewhat terrifying to witness and John can’t even see all of it. “It would be, yes.”
“You’ll leave the house in tears, won’t you?”
Vernet stares at him oddly. John can see it in the tilt of his head and the set of his mouth. “How else will I know I’ve succeeded?” Vernet asks.
“Ticket sales?” John suggests. “Repeated attendances? How long people keep humming the songs?”
“Possibly the humming.”
“Be a bit difficult to check up on.”
“Obviously. Hence the desire for immediate tears.”
John laughs a little and shakes his head, marvelling.
“What?” Vernet demands, voice growing sharp.
“Nothing,” John says.
“Don’t.”
Although he wasn’t moving, John freezes at the sharp tone. “What?”
“If there is one thing I cannot stand, it’s having my questions dismissed.”
“Even if the answer isn’t particularly important?” He tries for a bit of a smile, but Vernet won’t have it.
“Even then.”
“All right,” John says.
Vernet pointedly waits.
John says nothing.
“And?” Vernet prompts.
“And I dislike being snapped at for protecting the privacy of my own mind,” John answers.
With a twist of his lips, Vernet settles into an unmistakable sulk.
John waits for a few moments before checking his watch. “I need to leave soon. Is there anything opera-related you want to ask?”
True to form, the return to his work pulls Vernet back to a more sociable mien. “You should know that the second act will require greater input from you.”
“I thought combat wasn’t until act three.”
“It isn’t,” Vernet replies. “As I’ve said, though I easily imitate emotion, I prefer not to imagine it.”
John nods slowly.
“That being the case, my attempts at the second act thus far have been shallow compared to the first act. Noticeably so. Much of emotional content is foreign.”
“Torn loyalties?” John asks, thinking of the unrelenting dedication of this man to his music.
Vernet grins. “Hardly.” He shakes his head, sobering. “No, the rest of it.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Homesickness,” Vernet answers without hesitation.
“You’ve never been homesick?”
“Never. I’m not sentimental towards locations.”
“Are you certain?” John asks. “Why come specifically here? I’d assumed there was some tie between you and this place.”
Vernet shrugs with a toss of his head. “I focus here. Music is close and isolation is easy. It’s an ideal location. I don’t care about places, Doctor. I care about what I can do there.”
“You can’t... I don’t know... pretend that soldiers feel about their homes and families the way you feel about being denied a place to compose?”
Vernet scoffs.
“I happen to dislike having my questions dismissed as well,” John mentions, his tone lighter than his mood.
“I don’t see how separation from a place or person could result in comparable mental anguish.”
“Ah,” John says. “That explains why you won’t keep the love story.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ve never been in love and don’t know how to fake it,” John supplies. “Not to the degree of veracity your opera requires.”
Where another man would take offence, Vernet glows with pride. “For which I consider myself fortunate.”
John slips his hand back into his pocket. He keeps letting time slip away, needs to check. “How so?”
Vernet’s head tilts slightly. “So asks the widower?”
John puts his watch away with no recollection of having read the time. “You... Sorry, did Mrs Hudson tell you?”
“No,” Vernet replies.
“Then...?”
“You speak with the authority of a married man, save for the obvious fact that you do not have a wife who looks after your clothes. Unlikely you’d have a careless or inattentive wife: you have careful, attentive habits which would inspire a similar response or drive you into resentment of her. You aren’t resentful, so you’re obviously not estranged or divorced. You’re wistful. Dead then, and some years, too. The colour of your cravat alone tells me it’s been longer than two.”
The air is thin rather than simply stale. John can’t breathe it.
Vernet’s lips twitch. “Good: I’m right.”
“I, yes.” His pulse throbs in his fingertips, fills up his throat. “Sorry, you got all of that from my clothing?” He hasn’t dressed in mourning in well over two years, nearly three, so how could that be?
“And your manner,” Vernet confirms.
“I see,” John says. “How, erm. How obvious? Is it.”
“To me, everything is obvious.”
“No, but.” John shakes his head. “Sorry, I need to go.” He checks his watch again, goes through the show of it. He stands, then snatches up his bag. “Yes, I definitely need to go.”
“Doctor?”
The uncharacteristic hesitancy registers, but the need to move is much too strong. “We’ll have to skip to the music more quickly next time,” John apologises. He turns to go, and Vernet catches his sleeve. The man’s silence rings incredibly loud.
“I observe details,” Vernet says abruptly. “I see them and I know what they imply. Most people are hardly so intelligent.” Not obvious, Vernet means beneath the arrogance. It isn’t obvious.
“Are you...” John turns to look at him. “Are you trying to reassure me?”
Vernet’s grip on his coat sleeve doesn’t waver. Neither does his gaze.
John twitches his mouth into the best expression he can muster. He opens his medical bag and takes out the newspaper. “Nearly forgot,” he says.
Vernet accepts it, releasing him. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” John says.
Vernet’s lips pull to the side. “As I said: careful and attentive.”
John laughs, an awkward puff of breath. “Terrible for a doctor to be otherwise,” he says, or something along those lines. The words spill out in a jumble he can only hope is more articulate to the ear than it felt in the mouth. He makes his apologies and leaves with the uncomfortable certainty of having acted an idiot before a genius.
Care and attention are in great demand in the opera house above. The first of the autumn ills begins to make its way through the dancers’ dormitory, which means it rapidly passes to every stagehand fortunate enough to enjoy the affection of a ballerina.
Every year, John nearly mutters to himself. Every year, this happens, and John’s allies in this fight are limited. An exacting teacher, Mrs Hudson is a force of sanity among the opera house staff: when John tells her which dancers absolutely must be kept away from the rest, Mrs Hudson never insists they dance through their fevers.
“We can’t have you falling during the performance! Now if we’re down in numbers, we need to change the routine. Everyone, back in line. Not you, dear, I can see you shaking already. Off you go, take care of the others.”
As a stage manager, however, Green’s standards of efficiency are somewhat different. Unfortunately for Green and conveniently for John, the stagehands are less likely to ignore severe pain than the dancers are. Only slightly less, but they sway more. Whether it’s alcohol or flu flushing their faces is another question entirely, but Green has the lot of them ostensibly scared into sobriety, at least when on duty.
With the older designers in bed, Miss Hooper has somehow taken over costuming. No one is quite sure how, least of all Miss Hooper.
“I offered to do a few things,” she tries to explain to John. “Then I handed a few things off, and now everything thinks I know what I’m doing.”
“But you do know what you’re doing,” John reminds her.
“I know,” she says, “but I’m not actually in charge of any of it. I’m following the designs and hoping, mostly.”
“We can ask Mr Havill to give you leeway until everyone’s back on their feet,” John says. “Doctor’s orders: calling in the reinforcements.”
“Oh, no,” Miss Hooper replies immediately. “I don’t want to usurp. That’s the last thing I want to do. This is fine. Or, well. No, it’s fine.”
“Or what?” John asks.
She bites her lip. “It’s a reasonable concern, but I don’t want it to sound silly.”
John nods, keeping his silence.
She proceeds to chewing on her lip. “A lot of it is tempers and, well. We all know Lucy Harrison. I mean, we all work with her. A lot of us... Don’t, please don’t pass this on, but a lot of us chipped in to help her start paying off her brother’s debts. It’s pulled tempers every which way, and this all might be someone acting out because of it. Resentful, I think? At least, I hope so, because I can’t think of any other reason.”
“Acting out how?” John asks.
“I don’t...” She visibly steels herself before looking him straight in the eye. “I’m not pointing fingers, I don’t know who, but someone has been stealing.”
“Have you told Mr Havill?”
She shakes her head. “He’ll think it’s Lucy. Everyone knows she needs money now. I know it’s not her.”
“How?” John asks. “Not that I don’t believe you, but I’d trust a reason.”
“She’s distraught,” Miss Hooper says frankly. “We have to coax her to work. Some of the older women tried yelling, but that makes her shut down completely. I can’t imagine her having the energy to sneak anything away. It doesn’t seem possible.”
John nods. “Does anyone else come to mind? Anyone who might want Miss Harrison blamed?”
“No,” she replies instantly. “Anyone who loaned her money needs to see her clear her debts to get their money back, don’t they? Getting her fired wouldn’t help.”
The more he speaks with her, the more understandable her de facto leadership becomes. “So that’s no suspects at all?”
“Not unless the opera ghost wants furs,” she replies. “We don’t use them very often-none of the shows this season call for them-but some of them are missing.”
“Sorry, but I thought the leads had their own personal wardrobes, not communal.”
“No, that’s possible. It’s made me frantic trying to track down an inventory, but it’s not just the furs. I only noticed them when I started worrying. They’re most valuable of what’s gone so far.”
“What else is missing?”
“None of the jewellery. That’s kept separate, thank goodness. But satin and lace as well. Not clothing either: cloth.”
“Would it fetch a good price?” John asks.
Clearly wishing she could do otherwise, Miss Hooper nods.
“You need to report this,” John tells her.
“I know,” Miss Hooper says. “But everything is so chaotic and we’ve finally a team where everyone is lovely. Everyone. That never happens. I don’t want to see anyone fired.”
“Everything is chaotic, and that’s why we need management to come in and make absolutely certain what’s been stolen,” John says. “If management can’t find anything stolen, no one is fired.”
“Unless it’s for sloppy recordkeeping.”
“Unless that,” John allows.
Miss Hooper shudders, pulling her arms tight around herself. Heat is strange in the opera house, warm with bodies and yet cold with the season. “Any chance we could get away with blaming the ghost?” Miss Hooper asks helplessly.
“The banister on the west rear stairs pulled loose today,” John says. “Five people took a tumble. He’s already been thoroughly blamed for that, I’m afraid.”
“Maybe he’s been very busy.”
“Maybe.”
A moment of resigned silence longer and Miss Hooper rubs her arms before somehow filling her mouth with a smile. “I’m sorry to keep you for so long. I’ll be sure to speak with Mr Havill. Please don’t bother yourself.”
John nods to her, manners rather than agreement. “Try to keep warm.”
“You, too.”
“What else could you learn from watching people?” John asks.
In between slowly turning a tuning peg, Vernet plucks at the strings of his violin. He frowns every time, each instance a smaller frown than the last.
“The way you saw about Mary and me,” John reminds him. “Can you identify people besides widowers?”
“Of course I could,” Vernet replies. “Anything that leaves a physical trace through repetition can be consistently observed.”
“Could you spot a thief?”
“Of what?”
“Sorry?”
“A thief of what? Different specialities would cause different traces,” Vernet explains, adjusting a lower peg.
“Someone’s stealing from the costumers,” John tells him. “Furs, satin, and lace. How would you find that thief?”
“No.”
John blinks at the flat refusal. He was only after a bit of advice. “You can’t do it?”
“You’re distracting me from my work, Doctor,” Vernet tells him. “If you are here to assist, you are welcome. If not, you know the way out.” With that, he plucks the strings once more. “There. Now, where did we leave off-Where are you going?”
John sets down the newspaper and snaps his bag shut. “As you said,” John replies. “I know the way out.”
Vernet stares at him, the dark holes of his mask incredulous by design.
“Good afternoon,” John bids him. Intending to light his lantern, he strikes a match, and Vernet promptly blows it out.
“Fine, I’ll think about it,” Vernet allows. “Not right now. Our time is too limited for that.”
“People could lose their jobs over this,” John tells him.
“So?”
“I know you can’t see it down here, but winter is coming on,” John reminds him. “This isn’t a good time to be homeless.”
“Are you really so concerned over a pack of seamstresses?”
“Yes,” John says. His tone brooks no argument.
Vernet sprawls back in his chair, draping himself as if the unforgiving wood were plush leather. His eyes roam across John’s face and observe his posture. “You enjoy thinking of yourself as a protector,” Vernet muses.
“You enjoy thinking of yourself as a genius.”
“A pastime shared by geniuses and idiots alike, sadly, but I am of the former.”
“You’re still wrong,” John tells him.
“Am I?”
“Yes. I happen to think of myself as decent man. That means I have to act like one.”
Vernet laughs. “Not true in the slightest. How many self-proclaimed ‘decent men’ have you met?”
“You’d be surprised,” John says.
“I really wouldn’t.”
“How many were actually decent,” John says. “You’d be surprised.”
Vernet sets his violin upon the table. He leans forward, elbows upon his knees, and his untamed curls tumble over his concealed brow. “Do you think me a decent man?”
John begins to reply, then hesitates.
“Ah.” Vernet smirks. “We diagnose the problem.”
“You’re not offended.”
Vernet laughs. “You encounter a masked man living in an opera house basement who refuses to tell you his name, and you actually consider the possibility that he’s a decent man. You assume it until proven otherwise.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s very strange,” Vernet replies.
“So says the masked man in the basement,” John counters.
Vernet grins. “What better expert?”
John tries and fails to keep from smiling in return. “Amazing you could find a mask for such an inflated head.”
“It’s still somewhat loose,” Vernet replies. He presses on the mask and it noticeably shifts. “Room to grow.”
“You won’t be able to fit through doorways.”
“A risk I am more than willing to take,” Vernet assures him and takes back up his instrument. He puts hair to string. “Now, we were at the mutiny...”
“The start of it.” John leans forward eagerly, and they begin.
Before anything can come of asking Vernet about the missing materials, two of the seamstresses are sacked after a bolt of silk vanishes. Miss Hooper is beside herself with guilt. The thefts stop, but that’s no guarantee that the culprit was fired. Everyone knows it’s possible that the thief is still present and simply waiting for the attention to fade.
Matters only grow worse when a horse is stolen from the stables. All of the stable hands are fired and investigated by the police, but the horse is never recovered. Suspicion once turned against the opera ghost begins to turn inward, and John counts himself fortunate to be outside the fierce tangle of gossip. Now when he slips away to the basement, he does so as carefully as possible.
“It wasn’t them,” Vernet tells him when next they meet.
“It wasn’t... You mean the seamstresses?”
Vernet rolls his eyes, the motion clear in the toss of his head, an unspoken obviously clinging to his lips.
“How do you know?” John asks. “Mrs Hudson could have told you who was fired, but how do you know they were innocent?”
“Because neither of the women had a way of conveying the larger stolen items out of the opera house,” Vernet answers simply. “If they were clever about it, perhaps.”
“But how do you know? I mean, have you gone up and looked?” John hadn’t asked him to venture out, only to devise a way of searching. Guilt and pleasure mingle.
“Of course I have. It was hardly difficult. I walk quietly in the dark. I was able to get a good look around at night.” He says this as if having seen the workplace in shadows has revealed to him what daylight upon the women themselves could not.
Rather than say this, John chooses the argument he stands a chance at winning. “That’s not safe, you know. Everyone’s eager to start blaming the opera ghost again, after this mess. They’re getting scared. They still are, actually, after Joseph Harrison. If someone sees you, they might attack you. No one trying to hurt a ghost is going to use restraint.”
Vernet looks thoughtful. “Would anyone actually try to do that?”
“If there’s one thing the army taught me,” John says, “it’s that people are stupid enough to attack anything.”
That brings out Vernet’s grin. Good. The expression is a bit silly for all its brilliance, and it reveals more of him to John than the mask ought to allow. “And yet they’re still decent until proven otherwise?”
“The philosophical debate can keep,” John replies. “Just promise me I won’t have to patch you up any more than I have already.”
Vernet’s grin does something at once strange and very pleasant. It fades rapidly into sobriety. “I’ve no intention of coming to harm. I went because you asked me to look. I hardly plan on doing so again. The sequence I’m working on this week is rather long: I’d much rather focus on that.”
“Oh,” John says. He struggles for words. “Do, ah. Do you ever go up? At any other time? Mrs Hudson would be horrified.”
“I go outside on occasion. A brisk walk and a warm meal are a tedious change of pace, but they’re sometimes called for. The mask is required only as long as I remain inside and risk being seen, you see. Beyond that, I’ve watched the performances from time to time.”
“You have?” John asks. “From where?”
“Perhaps I’ll show you someday,” Vernet muses. “Provided there are no other interruptions this week.”
It dangles before him, such an obvious treat and an obvious bribe, and still John says, “I’d like that.”
The cold leads to a marked drop in fainting. If it weren’t for the fever still circulating about the opera house, John would have little to do. Remarkable how keeping an eye on a legion of dancers, singers, stagehands and craftspeople can become little to do. He’s not explicitly paid to look after anyone beyond the performers and the patrons, but Mr Havill has seen the benefit of letting John keep busy.
Busy is precisely what John needs. The urge to slip away to the basement grows much too great as act after act of opera drags on. Knowing that Vernet is composing a particularly long sequence this week and needs to maintain strict focus does little to dampen the urge. If John hadn’t promised to remain away, he would be downstairs in an instant. He’d like to claim professionalism also plays a part, but he’s increasingly less certain.
In any case, promise or caution, his choice to remain aboveground serves him well. Once again, the head usher comes to summon him to Box Five. “No emergency, Dr Watson,” Hopkins is quick to assure him. “The Earl requested your presence just in case.”
“Then I’ll hardly keep him waiting,” John replies, taking up his medical bag and tucking his newspaper inside it.
Inside Box Five, the gaslights are extinguished, treating John to a view of four silhouettes. Three of the four turn, and John recognizes his patient and her husband from the Earl’s last visit. Polite greetings abound.
“She was feeling faint,” the Baron informs him quietly.
“Quite right, my lord,” John replies.
There is a small, fussing argument between the Baron and the Baroness outside of which John carefully remains. The Earl smoothes it over, the velvet of his tone hinting at the metal it disguises. He directs Hopkins to place the newly fetched chair beside his brother rather than the Baroness. Assured that John will not be hovering in the expectation of her collapse, the Baroness accepts this arrangement. John sits at that far left of the box, the Baroness at the far right, and the Earl maintains the dominant, centre position he would have otherwise had to surrender to the Baron. John is simply relieved to sit down.
Beside him, the Earl’s brother continues to not pay the rest of them any heed whatsoever. Sitting tall with folded hands, his slick hair as sleek as the lines of his jacket and just as black, Mr Sherlock Holmes has set aside his expression of perpetual boredom. His eyes remain fixed upon the stage as the contralto gives way to the soprano. His mouth turns down slightly, the faintest touch of displeasure, and his blue eyes flick to John’s face.
John immediately looks elsewhere. The brunt of Mr Holmes’ gaze remains heavy against his cheek, as easily felt as an accusatory fingertip. John keeps his own eyes on the stage. In time, the sense of being pushed through strength of will fades away.
The soprano’s aria ends and the audience applauds. Immediately after, murmuring rises from the seats, the simple background chatter of so many bodies in so finite a space. Far to John’s right, the Earl and the Baron begin to discuss something in lowered tones.
Risking another glance to Mr Holmes, John finds the man’s expression has reset to its default of boredom. Irritation as well, although John couldn’t say why he finds this obvious until Mr Holmes speaks.
“Don’t talk,” Mr Holmes bids him.
“I was hardly about to,” John replies, somewhat surprised.
Mr Holmes looks at him, a quick check of the eyes before the actual inspection of John’s features. The hard line of Mr Holmes’ mouth doesn’t soften any more than diamond could, but it lessens in the severity of its cut.
John nods at him in return, and they both return their gazes to the stage. The temptation to peek at Mr Holmes remains, although John isn’t sure why. The man has an interesting bone structure and varies from odd to attractive with every glance.
The night passes slowly but without incident. Both the Baron and the Earl thank him for his time. The Baroness is clearly embarrassed beneath her good manners, and John thanks her for treating him to such a fine seat. Her husband takes better to the joke than she does, but John has learned to expect such a reaction by now. John finds himself escorting the party through the queue of the coat check and is somewhat at a loss when the Baron and Baroness depart but the Earl and his brother remain.
“Doctor, where might I find Mr Havill at this hour?” the Earl inquires.
“In his office, my lord,” John replies. “Failing that, he may be speaking with the talent in their dressing rooms.”
“I see,” the Earl replies. “Should you encounter Mr Havill, inform him that I expect him in his office.”
“My lord.” John is hardly an errand boy. Even so, it’s impossible for him to have attended to wealthy patrons over four years without becoming inured to the occasional foray as a messenger.
Much to John’s surprise, when the Earl sets off to Mr Havill’s office, Mr Holmes remains at John’s side. Torn between the manners of staying and the obligatory post-performance check, John hesitates before Mr Holmes interrupts his thoughts.
“The talent, you said.”
“Beg pardon?”
“To whom were you referring?” Mr Holmes asks. Perhaps it’s his posture that turns the act of standing into a form of confrontation. Perhaps it’s his height. “When you said ‘the talent,’ who did you have in mind?”
Backing away from the edges of an obvious conversational trap, John answers, “I don’t know very much about opera, I’m afraid.”
“But you were referring to specific individuals,” Mr Holmes insists. He gestures with his hat as he speaks, the coat draped over his left arm swaying with the motion. “You would hardly give my lord brother vague directions, would you?”
“No, sir, I would not.”
The deference does little to please him. In fact, it accomplishes the opposite. “Then,” Mr Holmes asks, “to whom were you referring?”
John opens his mouth and speaks the words: “Whoever Mr Havill feels he must pay in compliments as well as currency.”
“Whomever,” Mr Holmes corrects, his warmest word yet and true warmth at that.
“Whomever,” John agrees. With that, they fall into an easy rapport. Holmes has very precise views of the opera house’s current singers and, in response to John’s claims of ignorance, sets about educating John on the flaws of each. Vast amounts of it can only be speculation, describing blemishes of character rather than technique, but the majority reflects what John has heard from many of the dancers and stagehands. Much of what Holmes says flirts with rudeness, and John struggles to keep from laughing when that flirtation goes too far.
Belatedly, John realises their talk has delayed his compliance with the Earl’s request. He apologises promptly in the attempt to excuse himself, but Mr Holmes simply follows him. As John checks each dressing room in the guise of his typical rounds, Mr Holmes hastens the process by dint of his own presence, quite the reverse from what John would have expected. The only true delay occurs with the appearance of Mrs Hudson.
“Sherlock!” she cries, a cooing exclamation.
“Mrs Hudson!” Mr Holmes replies. The pair embraces gently, a tableau of absolute fondness. He kisses her cheek, and she smoothes his lapels over the vivid purple of his silk waistcoat. “It’s been much too long,” Mr Holmes tells her.
She laughs, absolutely delighted, and John feels himself smile reflexively.
“It’s always lovely to see you out and about,” Mrs Hudson says, prompting a quiet chuckle from Mr Holmes. Mrs Hudson belatedly notices John and looks between the two of them with sudden confusion.
“Mycroft sent Dr Watson to fetch Mr Havill,” Mr Holmes explains. “I thought I’d tag along and steal a visit.”
“Mr Havill already returned to his office,” Mrs Hudson says. “At least, I think so.”
“Ah,” Mr Holmes says. “There you are, Doctor. Released from duty.”
“From that duty, sir,” John agrees. “Thank you for the company.”
“Of course,” Mr Holmes replies. He offers John his hand, and the warmth of his eyes extends to his grip.
“If you’ll excuse me. Sir. Madam.”
They part ways, and John makes his rounds. The process is time-consuming tonight, the weakness of illness having taken its toll on dancers and singers alike. Though reluctant to do so, John waits until Mr Holmes is gone before he returns to Mrs Hudson and hands over her nightly soother. Still referring to the man by his Christian name, she tells him Mr Holmes left some time ago.
Even so, when John returns to the lobby, he finds Mr Havill walking Lord and Mr Holmes to the door. They quiet at John’s approach, then set the barrier of manners between them. John holds the door for them. As they exit, Mr Holmes does not allow his gaze to be caught, his expression once again that of a man bored beyond restraint. John pretends not to notice, and if he doesn’t notice, he certainly doesn’t mind.
“There you are,” Vernet snaps.
John sets his bag down, marvelling at the other man’s appearance. “What happened to your head?”
Arms akimbo, hands indignant upon his waist, Vernet glares at him. “What?”
John gestures around his own head, attempting to convey the absolute mess of curls. Though Vernet’s hair is forever unrestrained, today it has escaped whatever small amount of order it once possessed. The dishevelled pile falls over his mask, creating the illusion of smooth porcelain merging into flesh.
Vernet scoffs and flings himself into his chair. He languishes there, lips in a pout above his freshly shaved chin.
John raises an eyebrow. “Something the matter?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“You poor thing,” John says. “How absolutely terrible.”
“You’re mocking me.”
John picks up his chair with a grunt and carries it to Vernet’s desk. He sits across from him. “At this point, it’s easier than not mocking you.”
“You’re of no help whatsoever.” Quite possibly, Vernet rolls his eyes as he says this. The unreliability of candlelight upon the mask impedes John’s ability to observe. He thinks Vernet’s eyes are blue but can never be certain.
“Problems composing?”
“Is there anything else that could bother me?” Vernet demands.
“Your violin could have broken,” John answers reasonably.
Vernet freezes. “Don’t ever say that,” he commands, voice harsh and flat. “I would sooner lose my leg.”
“That is a terrible thing to say to your doctor.”
“That which is true is often terrible.”
John considers him for a moment. “It’s the libretto, isn’t it?”
“The basis behind your assumption?”
“You’re more melodramatic when you focus on dialogue,” John replies. “And the last time you told me not to come, you were working on the libretto.”
“Too true,” Vernet says.
“What’s the problem?”
Vernet scowls. “I can’t write the romantic idiot without it becoming a blatant parody.”
John laughs. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”
“Were you a romantic idiot when you were younger?”
“Not usually,” John says. “I could talk a girl into bed easily enough, but that’s hardly the same thing.”
“Ah,” Vernet says, shifting his careless sprawl into attentive lounging. “You’re a scoundrel.”
“I used to be,” John says, not without some trace of shame.
“And then you were reformed by love, is that it?”
John laughs. “No.” He laughs again. “God, no.”
“Then what?”
“I was shot.” John touches his left shoulder with his right hand. “There.”
“Your priorities changed.”
John nods.
“What was the difference?” Vernet prompts. “Pleasure to necessity?”
“Maybe. I was a wreck. An infection set in. That was worse than the bullet, I think. It’s no joke that doctors make terrible patients.”
“And yet you’re not the sort of man to settle for a nursemaid. It wasn’t simple practicality. It was sentiment.”
“Sentiment, yes,” John allows.
Vernet leans forward, head tilted, hands folded.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything more for you,” John says.
“You do,” Vernet says. “War changed your views on love. How?”
John sits back and thinks. Vernet’s agitation distracts him, but Vernet calms himself when he realises this is the case. He attempts to calm himself, at least, becoming amusing rather than irksome.
“It changed me,” John says, given time. “Before, I was... Well, I was better to look at, frankly. Never tall, but certainly strong. I left England as a doctor to become a soldier and returned a cripple. The fever was bad. It comes back, sometimes. It was frequent then.”
“You wanted a woman who wouldn’t be put off by fever or diminished appearance.”
John’s lips quirk. “I didn’t want anyone at all. It wasn’t a case of reframing my wants or being practical. None of that.”
Vernet looks at him oddly. “What else is there?”
“There was Mary,” John says. “I suppose I could tell you why we worked, but it wasn’t anything I thought out in advance. Neither of us thought it out in advance, I don’t think.”
“We’ll start with how it worked.”
“Right. Well, I alternated between being functional and being pathetic. If she’d been of a mind to coddle me the entire time, it would have ended immediately. Even if she’d taken care of me during the relapses and still fussed when I was well, that would have...” John trails off with a grimace.
“She respected your pride.”
“More easily than breathing,” John agrees. “And I was, well. At the beginning. I think I was afraid of breaking her somehow.”
“You? I’ve seen your temper, Doctor, and it directs inward. Unless she pried it out of you.”
John shakes his head. “I don’t mean hitting her. I would never mean hitting her.”
“Hence my surprise. What did you mean?”
“The strain? Probably that.”
“You married a wilting flower?”
John laughs. “No. Hardly that. She was a gem, not a flower. She--”
“Wait,” Vernet bids him, hurriedly reaching for his pen and drawing paper toward him. “I need to write that down.”
“Sorry?”
“Gem, not flower. That was good, worth using.” The ink takes a moment, as does finding a clean surface to write upon.
“Are you writing an opera or a biography?” John asks.
“You’ll recognize no blatant version of yourself,” Vernet assures him.
“What about a version that isn’t blatant?”
Vernet simply grins at him. “You were saying?”
“I’ve decided to switch metaphors, actually.”
“Just to vex me?”
“Only mostly,” John replies. “But, no, Mary, she changed. When nothing in particular was going on, she was worth worrying over. She was warm and bright, but she always gave the impression that a stiff wind would blow out her candle.
“Except,” John continues, “when there actually was a stiff wind. If anyone else was in need, she would become a lighthouse. Once--”
“Hold on.” Vernet writes that down as well. “You’re on sparkling form today. You should be poetic more often. Particularly anything pertaining to naval battles. That would be better.” He urges John to tell him more, and the balance of confidences between them would be absurd even upon weighted scales.
“I’m curious,” John says, changing subjects. “You’re writing an opera, you’re living in an opera house where I work, and it’s fully possible that I will someday hear this opera performed and immediately learn your real name. You’re taking direct quotes from me now. If the plot weren’t enough, I’d recognise that.”
“Not in Italian,” Vernet replies.
“Fine. Possibly not in Italian. But I know the themes and the plot. You’ve arranged it so the female lead never enters until the third act. There’s nothing else like it.”
“Untrue. The soprano playing Cleopatra doesn’t enter until the third act. The female lead is present from the first act.”
“You mean the contralto playing the young soldier?” John asks.
“Obviously.”
“But she’s a contralto.”
“But still the female lead,” Vernet argues.
“Playing a man.”
“At what point does that stop her from being the female lead? She’s hardly the male lead.”
“That’s what I mean,” John says. “There’s nothing else like this. Even if I never see it performed, I know I’ll hear about it.”
“Provided something so daring is given a chance.”
“I know next to nothing about opera, and even I know this is extraordinary.” John leans forward. “It will be performed. I will hear about it. I will learn your identity.”
“And at that time, I will no longer be under contract to keep my identity secret,” Vernet replies. “Provided all goes well.”
“How do you mean?”
“Mrs Hudson tells me the thefts have continued. If a mysterious man is found in these passages in a time of theft, blame falls upon the mysterious man. Simple enough. If that man is then linked to anyone in charge of the opera house above, it casts a stain upon that management.”
“But that assumes you’re guilty,” John argues.
“Doctor, tell me, when the horse vanished, were any of the stable hands found guilty?”
“No.”
“No,” Vernet agrees. “Suspicion is enough to try one in a court of one’s peers.”
“And if the thefts were cleared up?” John asks.
“I highly doubt the stable hands would be rehired. Even if they didn’t steal the horse, they didn’t prevent its theft.”
John shakes his head. “If all the thefts were cleared up and there was no blame to fall on you, what then?”
Vernet mutters something in a single syllable.
“Sorry?” John prompts.
“I would still be under contract not to reveal myself. I’m already treading the line, Doctor.”
“And you can’t work anywhere else?”
“There’s nowhere else I would prefer, and I’d hardly switch simply to satisfy your curiosity.”
John lifts his hands. “I’m not pressing. I’m simply saying it’s inevitable.”
“In time, given permission and my relocation elsewhere, I might consider telling you myself.”
“Really?” John asks.
“Possibly in the far future. But it bothers you now.”
“You can’t stand letting a question go unanswered,” John reminds him. “If you’d lasted this long without learning my name, you’d be writhing by now.”
“How fortunate our roles are not reversed,” Vernet remarks dryly.
John crosses his arms.
Vernet waits.
John waits longer.
“Is this too intimate?” Vernet asks.
“Not with a friend,” John allows.
“And a man who won’t share his name is merely a stranger, is that it?”
John hesitates.
“Well?” Vernet demands.
“I wouldn’t call you a stranger.”
“But not a friend.”
“You’re a strange sort of friend,” John says. “The like of which I hope no one has ever known before.”
The severity of Vernet’s frown lessens, the expression softening at the corners. “Then why not get back to the work?”
“You can play me what you have so far and explain the scenes to me,” John agrees. “I’ll tell you where it sounds off.”
“I know where it sounds off.”
“Then you’ll enjoy having me agree with you.”
Vernet smiles at that. He smoothes the expression down as soon as it crosses his face, instead feigning petulance. “Fine.” He brings out his violin, and John settles back in his chair. “It’s not at all good enough for a formal presentation,” he warns. “I simply wasn’t able to work on it to any satisfactory degree.”
“That’s fine,” John says.
“It really isn’t.”
“Vernet,” John says, standing, insistent. “It’s going to be. It’s going to be amazing.”
Vernet shakes his head. “But it isn’t yet.”
“But that’s what I’m for,” John says. “Aren’t I?”
“In a way,” Vernet allows. “However--”
“No,” John says. “Let me hear it. I was the one who pushed to put the love themes in. Whatever goes wrong with them is obviously my fault.”
A pause and Vernet agrees, “Obviously.” At last, his eyes hesitant upon John’s face, they return to work.
previous | next
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 6.9k out of 123.5ishk
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, eventual character death
Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
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Op. 20, No. 16
“I don’t think that’s possible,” John says, frowning.
“Of course it’s possible,” Vernet insists. “I’m doing it, therefore it’s possible.”
Uncertain whether to marvel or berate, John replies, “You can’t rewrite Antony and Cleopatra without a love story. The entire point of the plot is the love story. He’s torn between love and duty.”
“Whereas Antony’s men are torn between loyalty to their wayward general and to their emperor,” Vernet counters. “They’re trapped between personal loyalty and their greater duty. Why focus on Antony?”
“It’s still a love story.”
“Which has been relocated mercifully to the background.”
John mulls it over and shakes his head. “When an audience shows up for Antony and Cleopatra, it’s not for the political intrigue.”
“How terribly unfortunate. I’m sick to death of idiots wondering if this strange feeling is love. It’s annoying at best. No, insipid. At its pinnacle, it’s insipid. I refuse to write the music, let alone the libretto.”
John shakes his head.
“What now?”
“Are all of the soldiers bachelors?” John asks.
“Unlikely.”
“Then put that in there when they’re singing about whether to mutiny and leave or commit treason and stay.”
Vernet frowns at him, arms crossed, one hand raised in mid-gesture, a questioning palm. “What for?”
“How’s this for an argument,” John offers. “They can stay and let their general know true love after years with a cold, arranged match, or they can go home to their own families, who they miss and might never see again. There’s your split loyalty for you.”
“Ah,” Vernet murmurs. “The men staying with Antony will be the romantic idiots.”
John sighs. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but fine.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know,” John says. “There’s something tragic about a naive little bastard willing to die so his general can be in love. You’ve already written the naive little bastard.”
Vernet looks askance at him. Not for the first time, John has to remind himself that for all the talk of the army, Vernet is very much an upper class civilian and, as such, pretends not to swear.
“Anyway,” John says, “that character is the clear pick for the courtship subplot. He can be in love with love instead.”
“That would be incredibly annoying.”
“He’s already slated to die, isn’t he?”
“Horrifically, yes. Act four, final scene.”
“Then wouldn’t it be more satisfying if you wanted to kill him?”
Judging by Vernet’s surprised laugh, John’s aim struck true. Vernet’s subsequent grin is somewhat terrifying to witness and John can’t even see all of it. “It would be, yes.”
“You’ll leave the house in tears, won’t you?”
Vernet stares at him oddly. John can see it in the tilt of his head and the set of his mouth. “How else will I know I’ve succeeded?” Vernet asks.
“Ticket sales?” John suggests. “Repeated attendances? How long people keep humming the songs?”
“Possibly the humming.”
“Be a bit difficult to check up on.”
“Obviously. Hence the desire for immediate tears.”
John laughs a little and shakes his head, marvelling.
“What?” Vernet demands, voice growing sharp.
“Nothing,” John says.
“Don’t.”
Although he wasn’t moving, John freezes at the sharp tone. “What?”
“If there is one thing I cannot stand, it’s having my questions dismissed.”
“Even if the answer isn’t particularly important?” He tries for a bit of a smile, but Vernet won’t have it.
“Even then.”
“All right,” John says.
Vernet pointedly waits.
John says nothing.
“And?” Vernet prompts.
“And I dislike being snapped at for protecting the privacy of my own mind,” John answers.
With a twist of his lips, Vernet settles into an unmistakable sulk.
John waits for a few moments before checking his watch. “I need to leave soon. Is there anything opera-related you want to ask?”
True to form, the return to his work pulls Vernet back to a more sociable mien. “You should know that the second act will require greater input from you.”
“I thought combat wasn’t until act three.”
“It isn’t,” Vernet replies. “As I’ve said, though I easily imitate emotion, I prefer not to imagine it.”
John nods slowly.
“That being the case, my attempts at the second act thus far have been shallow compared to the first act. Noticeably so. Much of emotional content is foreign.”
“Torn loyalties?” John asks, thinking of the unrelenting dedication of this man to his music.
Vernet grins. “Hardly.” He shakes his head, sobering. “No, the rest of it.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Homesickness,” Vernet answers without hesitation.
“You’ve never been homesick?”
“Never. I’m not sentimental towards locations.”
“Are you certain?” John asks. “Why come specifically here? I’d assumed there was some tie between you and this place.”
Vernet shrugs with a toss of his head. “I focus here. Music is close and isolation is easy. It’s an ideal location. I don’t care about places, Doctor. I care about what I can do there.”
“You can’t... I don’t know... pretend that soldiers feel about their homes and families the way you feel about being denied a place to compose?”
Vernet scoffs.
“I happen to dislike having my questions dismissed as well,” John mentions, his tone lighter than his mood.
“I don’t see how separation from a place or person could result in comparable mental anguish.”
“Ah,” John says. “That explains why you won’t keep the love story.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ve never been in love and don’t know how to fake it,” John supplies. “Not to the degree of veracity your opera requires.”
Where another man would take offence, Vernet glows with pride. “For which I consider myself fortunate.”
John slips his hand back into his pocket. He keeps letting time slip away, needs to check. “How so?”
Vernet’s head tilts slightly. “So asks the widower?”
John puts his watch away with no recollection of having read the time. “You... Sorry, did Mrs Hudson tell you?”
“No,” Vernet replies.
“Then...?”
“You speak with the authority of a married man, save for the obvious fact that you do not have a wife who looks after your clothes. Unlikely you’d have a careless or inattentive wife: you have careful, attentive habits which would inspire a similar response or drive you into resentment of her. You aren’t resentful, so you’re obviously not estranged or divorced. You’re wistful. Dead then, and some years, too. The colour of your cravat alone tells me it’s been longer than two.”
The air is thin rather than simply stale. John can’t breathe it.
Vernet’s lips twitch. “Good: I’m right.”
“I, yes.” His pulse throbs in his fingertips, fills up his throat. “Sorry, you got all of that from my clothing?” He hasn’t dressed in mourning in well over two years, nearly three, so how could that be?
“And your manner,” Vernet confirms.
“I see,” John says. “How, erm. How obvious? Is it.”
“To me, everything is obvious.”
“No, but.” John shakes his head. “Sorry, I need to go.” He checks his watch again, goes through the show of it. He stands, then snatches up his bag. “Yes, I definitely need to go.”
“Doctor?”
The uncharacteristic hesitancy registers, but the need to move is much too strong. “We’ll have to skip to the music more quickly next time,” John apologises. He turns to go, and Vernet catches his sleeve. The man’s silence rings incredibly loud.
“I observe details,” Vernet says abruptly. “I see them and I know what they imply. Most people are hardly so intelligent.” Not obvious, Vernet means beneath the arrogance. It isn’t obvious.
“Are you...” John turns to look at him. “Are you trying to reassure me?”
Vernet’s grip on his coat sleeve doesn’t waver. Neither does his gaze.
John twitches his mouth into the best expression he can muster. He opens his medical bag and takes out the newspaper. “Nearly forgot,” he says.
Vernet accepts it, releasing him. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” John says.
Vernet’s lips pull to the side. “As I said: careful and attentive.”
John laughs, an awkward puff of breath. “Terrible for a doctor to be otherwise,” he says, or something along those lines. The words spill out in a jumble he can only hope is more articulate to the ear than it felt in the mouth. He makes his apologies and leaves with the uncomfortable certainty of having acted an idiot before a genius.
Care and attention are in great demand in the opera house above. The first of the autumn ills begins to make its way through the dancers’ dormitory, which means it rapidly passes to every stagehand fortunate enough to enjoy the affection of a ballerina.
Every year, John nearly mutters to himself. Every year, this happens, and John’s allies in this fight are limited. An exacting teacher, Mrs Hudson is a force of sanity among the opera house staff: when John tells her which dancers absolutely must be kept away from the rest, Mrs Hudson never insists they dance through their fevers.
“We can’t have you falling during the performance! Now if we’re down in numbers, we need to change the routine. Everyone, back in line. Not you, dear, I can see you shaking already. Off you go, take care of the others.”
As a stage manager, however, Green’s standards of efficiency are somewhat different. Unfortunately for Green and conveniently for John, the stagehands are less likely to ignore severe pain than the dancers are. Only slightly less, but they sway more. Whether it’s alcohol or flu flushing their faces is another question entirely, but Green has the lot of them ostensibly scared into sobriety, at least when on duty.
With the older designers in bed, Miss Hooper has somehow taken over costuming. No one is quite sure how, least of all Miss Hooper.
“I offered to do a few things,” she tries to explain to John. “Then I handed a few things off, and now everything thinks I know what I’m doing.”
“But you do know what you’re doing,” John reminds her.
“I know,” she says, “but I’m not actually in charge of any of it. I’m following the designs and hoping, mostly.”
“We can ask Mr Havill to give you leeway until everyone’s back on their feet,” John says. “Doctor’s orders: calling in the reinforcements.”
“Oh, no,” Miss Hooper replies immediately. “I don’t want to usurp. That’s the last thing I want to do. This is fine. Or, well. No, it’s fine.”
“Or what?” John asks.
She bites her lip. “It’s a reasonable concern, but I don’t want it to sound silly.”
John nods, keeping his silence.
She proceeds to chewing on her lip. “A lot of it is tempers and, well. We all know Lucy Harrison. I mean, we all work with her. A lot of us... Don’t, please don’t pass this on, but a lot of us chipped in to help her start paying off her brother’s debts. It’s pulled tempers every which way, and this all might be someone acting out because of it. Resentful, I think? At least, I hope so, because I can’t think of any other reason.”
“Acting out how?” John asks.
“I don’t...” She visibly steels herself before looking him straight in the eye. “I’m not pointing fingers, I don’t know who, but someone has been stealing.”
“Have you told Mr Havill?”
She shakes her head. “He’ll think it’s Lucy. Everyone knows she needs money now. I know it’s not her.”
“How?” John asks. “Not that I don’t believe you, but I’d trust a reason.”
“She’s distraught,” Miss Hooper says frankly. “We have to coax her to work. Some of the older women tried yelling, but that makes her shut down completely. I can’t imagine her having the energy to sneak anything away. It doesn’t seem possible.”
John nods. “Does anyone else come to mind? Anyone who might want Miss Harrison blamed?”
“No,” she replies instantly. “Anyone who loaned her money needs to see her clear her debts to get their money back, don’t they? Getting her fired wouldn’t help.”
The more he speaks with her, the more understandable her de facto leadership becomes. “So that’s no suspects at all?”
“Not unless the opera ghost wants furs,” she replies. “We don’t use them very often-none of the shows this season call for them-but some of them are missing.”
“Sorry, but I thought the leads had their own personal wardrobes, not communal.”
“No, that’s possible. It’s made me frantic trying to track down an inventory, but it’s not just the furs. I only noticed them when I started worrying. They’re most valuable of what’s gone so far.”
“What else is missing?”
“None of the jewellery. That’s kept separate, thank goodness. But satin and lace as well. Not clothing either: cloth.”
“Would it fetch a good price?” John asks.
Clearly wishing she could do otherwise, Miss Hooper nods.
“You need to report this,” John tells her.
“I know,” Miss Hooper says. “But everything is so chaotic and we’ve finally a team where everyone is lovely. Everyone. That never happens. I don’t want to see anyone fired.”
“Everything is chaotic, and that’s why we need management to come in and make absolutely certain what’s been stolen,” John says. “If management can’t find anything stolen, no one is fired.”
“Unless it’s for sloppy recordkeeping.”
“Unless that,” John allows.
Miss Hooper shudders, pulling her arms tight around herself. Heat is strange in the opera house, warm with bodies and yet cold with the season. “Any chance we could get away with blaming the ghost?” Miss Hooper asks helplessly.
“The banister on the west rear stairs pulled loose today,” John says. “Five people took a tumble. He’s already been thoroughly blamed for that, I’m afraid.”
“Maybe he’s been very busy.”
“Maybe.”
A moment of resigned silence longer and Miss Hooper rubs her arms before somehow filling her mouth with a smile. “I’m sorry to keep you for so long. I’ll be sure to speak with Mr Havill. Please don’t bother yourself.”
John nods to her, manners rather than agreement. “Try to keep warm.”
“You, too.”
“What else could you learn from watching people?” John asks.
In between slowly turning a tuning peg, Vernet plucks at the strings of his violin. He frowns every time, each instance a smaller frown than the last.
“The way you saw about Mary and me,” John reminds him. “Can you identify people besides widowers?”
“Of course I could,” Vernet replies. “Anything that leaves a physical trace through repetition can be consistently observed.”
“Could you spot a thief?”
“Of what?”
“Sorry?”
“A thief of what? Different specialities would cause different traces,” Vernet explains, adjusting a lower peg.
“Someone’s stealing from the costumers,” John tells him. “Furs, satin, and lace. How would you find that thief?”
“No.”
John blinks at the flat refusal. He was only after a bit of advice. “You can’t do it?”
“You’re distracting me from my work, Doctor,” Vernet tells him. “If you are here to assist, you are welcome. If not, you know the way out.” With that, he plucks the strings once more. “There. Now, where did we leave off-Where are you going?”
John sets down the newspaper and snaps his bag shut. “As you said,” John replies. “I know the way out.”
Vernet stares at him, the dark holes of his mask incredulous by design.
“Good afternoon,” John bids him. Intending to light his lantern, he strikes a match, and Vernet promptly blows it out.
“Fine, I’ll think about it,” Vernet allows. “Not right now. Our time is too limited for that.”
“People could lose their jobs over this,” John tells him.
“So?”
“I know you can’t see it down here, but winter is coming on,” John reminds him. “This isn’t a good time to be homeless.”
“Are you really so concerned over a pack of seamstresses?”
“Yes,” John says. His tone brooks no argument.
Vernet sprawls back in his chair, draping himself as if the unforgiving wood were plush leather. His eyes roam across John’s face and observe his posture. “You enjoy thinking of yourself as a protector,” Vernet muses.
“You enjoy thinking of yourself as a genius.”
“A pastime shared by geniuses and idiots alike, sadly, but I am of the former.”
“You’re still wrong,” John tells him.
“Am I?”
“Yes. I happen to think of myself as decent man. That means I have to act like one.”
Vernet laughs. “Not true in the slightest. How many self-proclaimed ‘decent men’ have you met?”
“You’d be surprised,” John says.
“I really wouldn’t.”
“How many were actually decent,” John says. “You’d be surprised.”
Vernet sets his violin upon the table. He leans forward, elbows upon his knees, and his untamed curls tumble over his concealed brow. “Do you think me a decent man?”
John begins to reply, then hesitates.
“Ah.” Vernet smirks. “We diagnose the problem.”
“You’re not offended.”
Vernet laughs. “You encounter a masked man living in an opera house basement who refuses to tell you his name, and you actually consider the possibility that he’s a decent man. You assume it until proven otherwise.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s very strange,” Vernet replies.
“So says the masked man in the basement,” John counters.
Vernet grins. “What better expert?”
John tries and fails to keep from smiling in return. “Amazing you could find a mask for such an inflated head.”
“It’s still somewhat loose,” Vernet replies. He presses on the mask and it noticeably shifts. “Room to grow.”
“You won’t be able to fit through doorways.”
“A risk I am more than willing to take,” Vernet assures him and takes back up his instrument. He puts hair to string. “Now, we were at the mutiny...”
“The start of it.” John leans forward eagerly, and they begin.
Before anything can come of asking Vernet about the missing materials, two of the seamstresses are sacked after a bolt of silk vanishes. Miss Hooper is beside herself with guilt. The thefts stop, but that’s no guarantee that the culprit was fired. Everyone knows it’s possible that the thief is still present and simply waiting for the attention to fade.
Matters only grow worse when a horse is stolen from the stables. All of the stable hands are fired and investigated by the police, but the horse is never recovered. Suspicion once turned against the opera ghost begins to turn inward, and John counts himself fortunate to be outside the fierce tangle of gossip. Now when he slips away to the basement, he does so as carefully as possible.
“It wasn’t them,” Vernet tells him when next they meet.
“It wasn’t... You mean the seamstresses?”
Vernet rolls his eyes, the motion clear in the toss of his head, an unspoken obviously clinging to his lips.
“How do you know?” John asks. “Mrs Hudson could have told you who was fired, but how do you know they were innocent?”
“Because neither of the women had a way of conveying the larger stolen items out of the opera house,” Vernet answers simply. “If they were clever about it, perhaps.”
“But how do you know? I mean, have you gone up and looked?” John hadn’t asked him to venture out, only to devise a way of searching. Guilt and pleasure mingle.
“Of course I have. It was hardly difficult. I walk quietly in the dark. I was able to get a good look around at night.” He says this as if having seen the workplace in shadows has revealed to him what daylight upon the women themselves could not.
Rather than say this, John chooses the argument he stands a chance at winning. “That’s not safe, you know. Everyone’s eager to start blaming the opera ghost again, after this mess. They’re getting scared. They still are, actually, after Joseph Harrison. If someone sees you, they might attack you. No one trying to hurt a ghost is going to use restraint.”
Vernet looks thoughtful. “Would anyone actually try to do that?”
“If there’s one thing the army taught me,” John says, “it’s that people are stupid enough to attack anything.”
That brings out Vernet’s grin. Good. The expression is a bit silly for all its brilliance, and it reveals more of him to John than the mask ought to allow. “And yet they’re still decent until proven otherwise?”
“The philosophical debate can keep,” John replies. “Just promise me I won’t have to patch you up any more than I have already.”
Vernet’s grin does something at once strange and very pleasant. It fades rapidly into sobriety. “I’ve no intention of coming to harm. I went because you asked me to look. I hardly plan on doing so again. The sequence I’m working on this week is rather long: I’d much rather focus on that.”
“Oh,” John says. He struggles for words. “Do, ah. Do you ever go up? At any other time? Mrs Hudson would be horrified.”
“I go outside on occasion. A brisk walk and a warm meal are a tedious change of pace, but they’re sometimes called for. The mask is required only as long as I remain inside and risk being seen, you see. Beyond that, I’ve watched the performances from time to time.”
“You have?” John asks. “From where?”
“Perhaps I’ll show you someday,” Vernet muses. “Provided there are no other interruptions this week.”
It dangles before him, such an obvious treat and an obvious bribe, and still John says, “I’d like that.”
The cold leads to a marked drop in fainting. If it weren’t for the fever still circulating about the opera house, John would have little to do. Remarkable how keeping an eye on a legion of dancers, singers, stagehands and craftspeople can become little to do. He’s not explicitly paid to look after anyone beyond the performers and the patrons, but Mr Havill has seen the benefit of letting John keep busy.
Busy is precisely what John needs. The urge to slip away to the basement grows much too great as act after act of opera drags on. Knowing that Vernet is composing a particularly long sequence this week and needs to maintain strict focus does little to dampen the urge. If John hadn’t promised to remain away, he would be downstairs in an instant. He’d like to claim professionalism also plays a part, but he’s increasingly less certain.
In any case, promise or caution, his choice to remain aboveground serves him well. Once again, the head usher comes to summon him to Box Five. “No emergency, Dr Watson,” Hopkins is quick to assure him. “The Earl requested your presence just in case.”
“Then I’ll hardly keep him waiting,” John replies, taking up his medical bag and tucking his newspaper inside it.
Inside Box Five, the gaslights are extinguished, treating John to a view of four silhouettes. Three of the four turn, and John recognizes his patient and her husband from the Earl’s last visit. Polite greetings abound.
“She was feeling faint,” the Baron informs him quietly.
“Quite right, my lord,” John replies.
There is a small, fussing argument between the Baron and the Baroness outside of which John carefully remains. The Earl smoothes it over, the velvet of his tone hinting at the metal it disguises. He directs Hopkins to place the newly fetched chair beside his brother rather than the Baroness. Assured that John will not be hovering in the expectation of her collapse, the Baroness accepts this arrangement. John sits at that far left of the box, the Baroness at the far right, and the Earl maintains the dominant, centre position he would have otherwise had to surrender to the Baron. John is simply relieved to sit down.
Beside him, the Earl’s brother continues to not pay the rest of them any heed whatsoever. Sitting tall with folded hands, his slick hair as sleek as the lines of his jacket and just as black, Mr Sherlock Holmes has set aside his expression of perpetual boredom. His eyes remain fixed upon the stage as the contralto gives way to the soprano. His mouth turns down slightly, the faintest touch of displeasure, and his blue eyes flick to John’s face.
John immediately looks elsewhere. The brunt of Mr Holmes’ gaze remains heavy against his cheek, as easily felt as an accusatory fingertip. John keeps his own eyes on the stage. In time, the sense of being pushed through strength of will fades away.
The soprano’s aria ends and the audience applauds. Immediately after, murmuring rises from the seats, the simple background chatter of so many bodies in so finite a space. Far to John’s right, the Earl and the Baron begin to discuss something in lowered tones.
Risking another glance to Mr Holmes, John finds the man’s expression has reset to its default of boredom. Irritation as well, although John couldn’t say why he finds this obvious until Mr Holmes speaks.
“Don’t talk,” Mr Holmes bids him.
“I was hardly about to,” John replies, somewhat surprised.
Mr Holmes looks at him, a quick check of the eyes before the actual inspection of John’s features. The hard line of Mr Holmes’ mouth doesn’t soften any more than diamond could, but it lessens in the severity of its cut.
John nods at him in return, and they both return their gazes to the stage. The temptation to peek at Mr Holmes remains, although John isn’t sure why. The man has an interesting bone structure and varies from odd to attractive with every glance.
The night passes slowly but without incident. Both the Baron and the Earl thank him for his time. The Baroness is clearly embarrassed beneath her good manners, and John thanks her for treating him to such a fine seat. Her husband takes better to the joke than she does, but John has learned to expect such a reaction by now. John finds himself escorting the party through the queue of the coat check and is somewhat at a loss when the Baron and Baroness depart but the Earl and his brother remain.
“Doctor, where might I find Mr Havill at this hour?” the Earl inquires.
“In his office, my lord,” John replies. “Failing that, he may be speaking with the talent in their dressing rooms.”
“I see,” the Earl replies. “Should you encounter Mr Havill, inform him that I expect him in his office.”
“My lord.” John is hardly an errand boy. Even so, it’s impossible for him to have attended to wealthy patrons over four years without becoming inured to the occasional foray as a messenger.
Much to John’s surprise, when the Earl sets off to Mr Havill’s office, Mr Holmes remains at John’s side. Torn between the manners of staying and the obligatory post-performance check, John hesitates before Mr Holmes interrupts his thoughts.
“The talent, you said.”
“Beg pardon?”
“To whom were you referring?” Mr Holmes asks. Perhaps it’s his posture that turns the act of standing into a form of confrontation. Perhaps it’s his height. “When you said ‘the talent,’ who did you have in mind?”
Backing away from the edges of an obvious conversational trap, John answers, “I don’t know very much about opera, I’m afraid.”
“But you were referring to specific individuals,” Mr Holmes insists. He gestures with his hat as he speaks, the coat draped over his left arm swaying with the motion. “You would hardly give my lord brother vague directions, would you?”
“No, sir, I would not.”
The deference does little to please him. In fact, it accomplishes the opposite. “Then,” Mr Holmes asks, “to whom were you referring?”
John opens his mouth and speaks the words: “Whoever Mr Havill feels he must pay in compliments as well as currency.”
“Whomever,” Mr Holmes corrects, his warmest word yet and true warmth at that.
“Whomever,” John agrees. With that, they fall into an easy rapport. Holmes has very precise views of the opera house’s current singers and, in response to John’s claims of ignorance, sets about educating John on the flaws of each. Vast amounts of it can only be speculation, describing blemishes of character rather than technique, but the majority reflects what John has heard from many of the dancers and stagehands. Much of what Holmes says flirts with rudeness, and John struggles to keep from laughing when that flirtation goes too far.
Belatedly, John realises their talk has delayed his compliance with the Earl’s request. He apologises promptly in the attempt to excuse himself, but Mr Holmes simply follows him. As John checks each dressing room in the guise of his typical rounds, Mr Holmes hastens the process by dint of his own presence, quite the reverse from what John would have expected. The only true delay occurs with the appearance of Mrs Hudson.
“Sherlock!” she cries, a cooing exclamation.
“Mrs Hudson!” Mr Holmes replies. The pair embraces gently, a tableau of absolute fondness. He kisses her cheek, and she smoothes his lapels over the vivid purple of his silk waistcoat. “It’s been much too long,” Mr Holmes tells her.
She laughs, absolutely delighted, and John feels himself smile reflexively.
“It’s always lovely to see you out and about,” Mrs Hudson says, prompting a quiet chuckle from Mr Holmes. Mrs Hudson belatedly notices John and looks between the two of them with sudden confusion.
“Mycroft sent Dr Watson to fetch Mr Havill,” Mr Holmes explains. “I thought I’d tag along and steal a visit.”
“Mr Havill already returned to his office,” Mrs Hudson says. “At least, I think so.”
“Ah,” Mr Holmes says. “There you are, Doctor. Released from duty.”
“From that duty, sir,” John agrees. “Thank you for the company.”
“Of course,” Mr Holmes replies. He offers John his hand, and the warmth of his eyes extends to his grip.
“If you’ll excuse me. Sir. Madam.”
They part ways, and John makes his rounds. The process is time-consuming tonight, the weakness of illness having taken its toll on dancers and singers alike. Though reluctant to do so, John waits until Mr Holmes is gone before he returns to Mrs Hudson and hands over her nightly soother. Still referring to the man by his Christian name, she tells him Mr Holmes left some time ago.
Even so, when John returns to the lobby, he finds Mr Havill walking Lord and Mr Holmes to the door. They quiet at John’s approach, then set the barrier of manners between them. John holds the door for them. As they exit, Mr Holmes does not allow his gaze to be caught, his expression once again that of a man bored beyond restraint. John pretends not to notice, and if he doesn’t notice, he certainly doesn’t mind.
“There you are,” Vernet snaps.
John sets his bag down, marvelling at the other man’s appearance. “What happened to your head?”
Arms akimbo, hands indignant upon his waist, Vernet glares at him. “What?”
John gestures around his own head, attempting to convey the absolute mess of curls. Though Vernet’s hair is forever unrestrained, today it has escaped whatever small amount of order it once possessed. The dishevelled pile falls over his mask, creating the illusion of smooth porcelain merging into flesh.
Vernet scoffs and flings himself into his chair. He languishes there, lips in a pout above his freshly shaved chin.
John raises an eyebrow. “Something the matter?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“You poor thing,” John says. “How absolutely terrible.”
“You’re mocking me.”
John picks up his chair with a grunt and carries it to Vernet’s desk. He sits across from him. “At this point, it’s easier than not mocking you.”
“You’re of no help whatsoever.” Quite possibly, Vernet rolls his eyes as he says this. The unreliability of candlelight upon the mask impedes John’s ability to observe. He thinks Vernet’s eyes are blue but can never be certain.
“Problems composing?”
“Is there anything else that could bother me?” Vernet demands.
“Your violin could have broken,” John answers reasonably.
Vernet freezes. “Don’t ever say that,” he commands, voice harsh and flat. “I would sooner lose my leg.”
“That is a terrible thing to say to your doctor.”
“That which is true is often terrible.”
John considers him for a moment. “It’s the libretto, isn’t it?”
“The basis behind your assumption?”
“You’re more melodramatic when you focus on dialogue,” John replies. “And the last time you told me not to come, you were working on the libretto.”
“Too true,” Vernet says.
“What’s the problem?”
Vernet scowls. “I can’t write the romantic idiot without it becoming a blatant parody.”
John laughs. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”
“Were you a romantic idiot when you were younger?”
“Not usually,” John says. “I could talk a girl into bed easily enough, but that’s hardly the same thing.”
“Ah,” Vernet says, shifting his careless sprawl into attentive lounging. “You’re a scoundrel.”
“I used to be,” John says, not without some trace of shame.
“And then you were reformed by love, is that it?”
John laughs. “No.” He laughs again. “God, no.”
“Then what?”
“I was shot.” John touches his left shoulder with his right hand. “There.”
“Your priorities changed.”
John nods.
“What was the difference?” Vernet prompts. “Pleasure to necessity?”
“Maybe. I was a wreck. An infection set in. That was worse than the bullet, I think. It’s no joke that doctors make terrible patients.”
“And yet you’re not the sort of man to settle for a nursemaid. It wasn’t simple practicality. It was sentiment.”
“Sentiment, yes,” John allows.
Vernet leans forward, head tilted, hands folded.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything more for you,” John says.
“You do,” Vernet says. “War changed your views on love. How?”
John sits back and thinks. Vernet’s agitation distracts him, but Vernet calms himself when he realises this is the case. He attempts to calm himself, at least, becoming amusing rather than irksome.
“It changed me,” John says, given time. “Before, I was... Well, I was better to look at, frankly. Never tall, but certainly strong. I left England as a doctor to become a soldier and returned a cripple. The fever was bad. It comes back, sometimes. It was frequent then.”
“You wanted a woman who wouldn’t be put off by fever or diminished appearance.”
John’s lips quirk. “I didn’t want anyone at all. It wasn’t a case of reframing my wants or being practical. None of that.”
Vernet looks at him oddly. “What else is there?”
“There was Mary,” John says. “I suppose I could tell you why we worked, but it wasn’t anything I thought out in advance. Neither of us thought it out in advance, I don’t think.”
“We’ll start with how it worked.”
“Right. Well, I alternated between being functional and being pathetic. If she’d been of a mind to coddle me the entire time, it would have ended immediately. Even if she’d taken care of me during the relapses and still fussed when I was well, that would have...” John trails off with a grimace.
“She respected your pride.”
“More easily than breathing,” John agrees. “And I was, well. At the beginning. I think I was afraid of breaking her somehow.”
“You? I’ve seen your temper, Doctor, and it directs inward. Unless she pried it out of you.”
John shakes his head. “I don’t mean hitting her. I would never mean hitting her.”
“Hence my surprise. What did you mean?”
“The strain? Probably that.”
“You married a wilting flower?”
John laughs. “No. Hardly that. She was a gem, not a flower. She--”
“Wait,” Vernet bids him, hurriedly reaching for his pen and drawing paper toward him. “I need to write that down.”
“Sorry?”
“Gem, not flower. That was good, worth using.” The ink takes a moment, as does finding a clean surface to write upon.
“Are you writing an opera or a biography?” John asks.
“You’ll recognize no blatant version of yourself,” Vernet assures him.
“What about a version that isn’t blatant?”
Vernet simply grins at him. “You were saying?”
“I’ve decided to switch metaphors, actually.”
“Just to vex me?”
“Only mostly,” John replies. “But, no, Mary, she changed. When nothing in particular was going on, she was worth worrying over. She was warm and bright, but she always gave the impression that a stiff wind would blow out her candle.
“Except,” John continues, “when there actually was a stiff wind. If anyone else was in need, she would become a lighthouse. Once--”
“Hold on.” Vernet writes that down as well. “You’re on sparkling form today. You should be poetic more often. Particularly anything pertaining to naval battles. That would be better.” He urges John to tell him more, and the balance of confidences between them would be absurd even upon weighted scales.
“I’m curious,” John says, changing subjects. “You’re writing an opera, you’re living in an opera house where I work, and it’s fully possible that I will someday hear this opera performed and immediately learn your real name. You’re taking direct quotes from me now. If the plot weren’t enough, I’d recognise that.”
“Not in Italian,” Vernet replies.
“Fine. Possibly not in Italian. But I know the themes and the plot. You’ve arranged it so the female lead never enters until the third act. There’s nothing else like it.”
“Untrue. The soprano playing Cleopatra doesn’t enter until the third act. The female lead is present from the first act.”
“You mean the contralto playing the young soldier?” John asks.
“Obviously.”
“But she’s a contralto.”
“But still the female lead,” Vernet argues.
“Playing a man.”
“At what point does that stop her from being the female lead? She’s hardly the male lead.”
“That’s what I mean,” John says. “There’s nothing else like this. Even if I never see it performed, I know I’ll hear about it.”
“Provided something so daring is given a chance.”
“I know next to nothing about opera, and even I know this is extraordinary.” John leans forward. “It will be performed. I will hear about it. I will learn your identity.”
“And at that time, I will no longer be under contract to keep my identity secret,” Vernet replies. “Provided all goes well.”
“How do you mean?”
“Mrs Hudson tells me the thefts have continued. If a mysterious man is found in these passages in a time of theft, blame falls upon the mysterious man. Simple enough. If that man is then linked to anyone in charge of the opera house above, it casts a stain upon that management.”
“But that assumes you’re guilty,” John argues.
“Doctor, tell me, when the horse vanished, were any of the stable hands found guilty?”
“No.”
“No,” Vernet agrees. “Suspicion is enough to try one in a court of one’s peers.”
“And if the thefts were cleared up?” John asks.
“I highly doubt the stable hands would be rehired. Even if they didn’t steal the horse, they didn’t prevent its theft.”
John shakes his head. “If all the thefts were cleared up and there was no blame to fall on you, what then?”
Vernet mutters something in a single syllable.
“Sorry?” John prompts.
“I would still be under contract not to reveal myself. I’m already treading the line, Doctor.”
“And you can’t work anywhere else?”
“There’s nowhere else I would prefer, and I’d hardly switch simply to satisfy your curiosity.”
John lifts his hands. “I’m not pressing. I’m simply saying it’s inevitable.”
“In time, given permission and my relocation elsewhere, I might consider telling you myself.”
“Really?” John asks.
“Possibly in the far future. But it bothers you now.”
“You can’t stand letting a question go unanswered,” John reminds him. “If you’d lasted this long without learning my name, you’d be writhing by now.”
“How fortunate our roles are not reversed,” Vernet remarks dryly.
John crosses his arms.
Vernet waits.
John waits longer.
“Is this too intimate?” Vernet asks.
“Not with a friend,” John allows.
“And a man who won’t share his name is merely a stranger, is that it?”
John hesitates.
“Well?” Vernet demands.
“I wouldn’t call you a stranger.”
“But not a friend.”
“You’re a strange sort of friend,” John says. “The like of which I hope no one has ever known before.”
The severity of Vernet’s frown lessens, the expression softening at the corners. “Then why not get back to the work?”
“You can play me what you have so far and explain the scenes to me,” John agrees. “I’ll tell you where it sounds off.”
“I know where it sounds off.”
“Then you’ll enjoy having me agree with you.”
Vernet smiles at that. He smoothes the expression down as soon as it crosses his face, instead feigning petulance. “Fine.” He brings out his violin, and John settles back in his chair. “It’s not at all good enough for a formal presentation,” he warns. “I simply wasn’t able to work on it to any satisfactory degree.”
“That’s fine,” John says.
“It really isn’t.”
“Vernet,” John says, standing, insistent. “It’s going to be. It’s going to be amazing.”
Vernet shakes his head. “But it isn’t yet.”
“But that’s what I’m for,” John says. “Aren’t I?”
“In a way,” Vernet allows. “However--”
“No,” John says. “Let me hear it. I was the one who pushed to put the love themes in. Whatever goes wrong with them is obviously my fault.”
A pause and Vernet agrees, “Obviously.” At last, his eyes hesitant upon John’s face, they return to work.
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