Fic: Bel Canto - 3/16 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 8.6k 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
“No,” John urges. “No, we can do this. Come on, it’s all right.”
Face against his desk, arms draped over the back of his own head, Vernet groans. The deep rumble echoes off the walls and the high ceiling. Limp, his hands droop, dipping pale fingertips into dark curls.
John sighs, comes around to the other side, and seizes Vernet’s chair low on its back. He hauls man and chair backward with a terrible scraping sound. Vernet startles to his feet, shouting at him, and John immediately grips him by the elbow. He drags the taller man into the centre of the room, the pair of them now wholly encompassed within the circle of candlelight.
“You don’t need to rewrite everything,” John tells him. “It’s all right. I asked around the orchestra, and they all say this is normal. Don’t scrap it.”
“But it would burn so nicely.”
John crosses his arms. “None of that.”
“But it’s all so stupid. And I wrote it! How did I write something so stupid?”
“Words in songs always sound stupid,” John says. “That must mean you’re doing it right.”
Vernet sulks at him, wrapping his long arms about himself. His fingers curl about his elbows, starkly pale against the dark fabric. There’s something of a chill to the tunnels today, though not enough for Vernet to fuss over his violin instead of his opera.
“Tell me the story,” John says.
“You already know the story.”
“Tell it to me again.”
Vernet fiddles with a cufflink.
“Act one,” John prompts.
“Antony returns to Alexandria, newly married to Octavia,” Vernet recites dully. “The soldiers are relieved. More glory, more fighting, so on, so on, until Antony goes back to Cleopatra. The commanders can’t upstage their general by outperforming him and pull themselves back on their missions from Rome. Tension among the troops, talk of turning against Rome. End act one.”
“Good. Act two.”
“More talk of turning against Rome. Torn loyalties. Young soldier joins mutiny in crucial role. Captain talks him out of it. Come morning, they’re all to be deployed at sea despite better strength on land. Promise of Cleopatra’s eighty ships to come. Doubts abound as to whether this promise will be kept. End act two.”
“Act three.”
“We’re still on act two,” Vernet says, hands now indignant upon his hips.
“Tell me act three anyway.”
“Naval battle.”
“What about the naval battle?” John asks.
“Antony and Cleopatra are at the heads of their respective fleets,” Vernet answers, ruffling his hair as he turns away. He begins to pace a short circuit. “Grand moment of splendour for Cleopatra. Antony joins in or was already singing, I haven’t decided which yet. The Roman theme keeps cutting them off.” His quick motions imitate flute and drum in quick succession, fluttering beside his face before dropping into a rapid tap before his stomach. “Cleopatra flees the naval battle, all is lost. The commander dies in the arms of the young soldier he kept from mutinying. End act three.”
“Excellent. Act four?”
Vernet whirls to face him and says with absolute satisfaction: “Everyone dies.”
“And don’t you want to kill everyone off?”
“Doctor, we’ve established how rhetorical your question is.”
“Exactly,” John says. “Which means we need to work through act two first.”
“I hate act two.”
“Then change it,” John says. “Or write it or edit it. Do something. You’ve sulked for weeks.”
“Only two,” Vernet mutters.
“Weeks, yes,” John says.
Vernet pouts. The mask turns the expression absolutely ridiculous.
John’s mouth twitches. “Fine. How about a break?”
“I don’t want a break.”
“You don’t want to do this either,” John reminds him. He takes up his lantern and lights it with one of the many candles littering the tables. “Blow those out. We’re going for a walk.”
“And where exactly would we be going?”
“I haven’t had a chance to explore the tunnels,” John says. “I’d like the tour, please.”
Vernet doesn’t move. “They’re tunnels.”
“I’ve noticed.” John sets about blowing out the candles on his own. Eventually, with no small sigh, Vernet joins him, pursing his lips and making no attempt to disguise his poor mood. Candle by candle, the small chamber fades into darkness until the sole source of light is the single lantern.
That done, John opens the door and pointedly waits until Vernet joins him. Nearly lost in shadow, the mask and the white shock of Vernet’s shirt are the only visible pieces of the man. Lantern in his left hand, John offers Vernet his opposite elbow.
Sighing yet again, Vernet links his arm with John’s. “It’s very little of a walk and the air is poor.”
“What a lovely tour it is already.”
“Part of it smells of urine and faeces.”
“How reminiscent of the army. Stop, you’ll make me homesick.”
A small huff of breath beside his ear: not quite a laugh, but close.
They walk. The tunnels are just wide enough for them to move abreast with linked arms. It strikes John strangely, this proof of the slimness of Vernet’s frame, the shock of tangible, sustained contact. Vernet isn’t a man who ought to have a defined shape. He’s a creature of motion and gesticulation, constant only in his changes. The human body is something John knows well, but Vernet’s form, like his moods, is too mercurial to confidently touch.
“Where did they come from?” John asks. His voice echoes dully, interrupting the rhythm of their synced footsteps. “They must have been built for a reason.”
“Construction for an Underground line,” Vernet replies. “There were plans to have an entrance leading immediately outside of the opera house. In exchange for the increased foot traffic, the owner allowed construction.”
“But the plans fell through?”
“Almost literally,” Vernet answers. “Flooding from the Thames, structural instability... the list goes on.”
Before them, a corner. They attempt to turn and the narrowing width of the passage forces them to abandon their illusion of a casual stroll. Rats scamper away from them, then creep back to the edge of the lantern light.
“How far does it go?” John asks.
“Not very. That way merely leads down to the flooded portion. Unless you’d rather smell the Thames...”
“I do enough of that already,” John replies.
They turn around, and this time, Vernet offers his arm.
John switches the lantern from one hand to the other before linking arms. “I told you a walk would do you good. A change of pace.”
“If that was an intentional pun, we’re never doing this again,” Vernet replies.
“Beg pardon?”
“Ah, it wasn’t. Good.”
They return to Vernet’s chamber, and Vernet withdraws the newspaper from John’s medical bag without permission or prompting. For his part, John lights one of the smaller candles with the lantern’s flame and sets about returning the room to its proper state.
“You’re going to ruin your eyesight,” John warns, not for the first time.
When Vernet doesn’t respond with his typical “Yes, Doctor,” John looks up from the task at hand. Frozen, Vernet seems to be staring at the far wall.
“Problem?” John asks.
“I need more reference material,” Vernet answers without moving.
“And...?”
Vernet’s gaze snaps to John’s face. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m on duty,” John answers.
Vernet slinks forward, feigning disinterest with the angle of his head. The rest of his body betrays his intent. His feet and hips point where his face does not. For all his hands adjust the candles upon his desk, his focus is unquestionably John. “Yes, but you’re not actually busy.”
“Whatever you’re planning: no.”
“I haven’t said what it is!” Vernet protests.
“No, but if it involves me shirking my job more than I already am--”
“It will be fine.”
“Oh, God help me, it does.”
“Come to Box Five tonight,” Vernet urges.
“Right, and be sacked by morning.”
Vernet shakes his head. “You won’t be sacked.”
“No good plan ever started with ‘you won’t be sacked’.”
Vernet leans in, the angles of his body utterly beseeching.
“There’s no use making that face when I can’t see most of it,” John points out.
“Come to Box Five. You’ll know I’ll be there even if you aren’t.” Low and warm, his voice glistens with temptation. This close, the man is magnetic.
John leans back, arms folded across his chest. “Why is it so important you see tonight’s opera?”
“I told you: reference material. I need to hear other voices. And instruments, real ones, not simply the sounds inside my head.”
That shouldn’t sound so reasonable. “But if you’re caught-or even if you’re only seen--”
“I haven’t been so far.”
John fights down the urge to shake him. “The entire building is paranoid over thefts. The last thing we need is a masked man strolling about.”
“You were the one to instigate the strolling, Doctor.”
“Sneaking about,” John rephrases. “Down here is one thing, but up there’s another.”
Vernet hovers closer, as if about to smooth his palms down John’s upper arms. He clearly thinks better of it, and his hands circle in an abortive soothing motion. Comforting to know that John isn’t the only one tempted to shake the other into cooperating.
John stands his ground.
Shaking his head, Vernet pulls back. “When you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”
“It’s a terrible idea,” John warns.
Vernet flaps a dismissive hand at him. “One I’ve already executed perfectly. On multiple occasions, no less. If you’re so worried, you can come.”
“No, thank you,” John replies. “I’ll be on duty. With my job.”
“As you are right now?”
“I’m on my lunch break, actually.” Mrs Hudson has been kind in her scheduling of ballet rehearsals, but John is still pressed for time down below. He checks his watch. “Or, rather, I was. Best be getting back.”
Vernet groans. “But we haven’t accomplished anything.”
“Goodbye,” John bids him, stepping pointedly around Vernet to return to his bag. “And please don’t do anything stupid.”
“Obviously not.”
“I mean it.”
“As do I,” Vernet replies, so confident John almost believes him. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
“No you won’t.”
Vernet simply smiles.
By the second act, John is writhing. Inwardly, of course, only inwardly, but writhing nonetheless. Attendance is somewhat low tonight, lowering the oppressive heat of the theatre into something manageable. If anyone collapses, it won’t be from heat. If it’s not from heat, the opera house can’t be blamed.
With this in mind, John tucks away his yellowback novel and takes a walk. This walk happens to lead upstairs. The curved hall stretches in both directions, doors set into the inner wall at regular intervals. The door to Box Five is no different than any of the others. In the middle of the second act, no one is up and about. There’s not even an usher in sight.
The door handle is cool to the touch. It turns noiselessly, but the slightest press inward immediately brings heightened sound through the door. John slips through quickly and closes the door, securing himself in the dark. The box curtains haven’t been drawn, the thick cloth dully glowing red from the chandelier beyond. Against that backdrop, John sees a shape.
“Vernet?” John whispers.
With a sharp motion, the shape gestures for John to sit.
With careful steps and searching hands, John encounters a chair. He edges between it and another, feeling the arms of the chairs, and sits.
The other man shifts closer, his breath soft and nearly cool in the stuffy box. “You’re late,” Vernet whispers into his ear. His upper arm presses against John’s shoulder.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” John answers.
“No one will check inside,” Vernet promises. “As long as no one sees you exiting. Duck out during an aria, and no one will ever be the wiser.” Low and hushed, his words are damnably reasonable. “We’ve over three acts remaining. No need to rush.”
“I’m not staying for the rest of the performance.” That would be hours.
“No?”
“No. I only wanted to see if you were actually in here.”
“And so you’ve seen,” Vernet murmurs. He turns his face toward the closed curtains. “You’re free to leave, Doctor.”
Keeping a tight rein over his volume if not his temper, John asks, “Then why did you ask me here in the first place?”
“Hm?” Distracted already.
“What was the point of me being here?”
“Your presence is conducive to thought,” Vernet replies.
Outside, a solo ends and the audience applauds. The buzz of human voices rises shortly thereafter. The risk of speaking temporarily decreases.
John considers leaving, considers questioning. He decides against both.
Vernet’s gaze is a solid weight in the dark. As is his approval.
John waits, straining his ears for anything that sounds at all close to Vernet’s opera, but Vernet’s creation and tonight’s performance seem to have nothing in common.
He waits and he wonders. The music meanders through melancholy before bursting into triumph. Unwitting overexposure to opera has taught John little about the subject, but it has dulled his ability to sit through long stretches of music. Excluding Vernet’s sessions upon his violin, of course. The lecture of the opera proves alienating when compared to the conversations of a soldier and a violinist. Eventually, he leans close and asks, “What are you listening for?”
Something pale and cool brushes across John’s nose: Vernet’s mask as the man turns his head toward John’s whisper. They both pull back only to stop upon feeling the other move. The resulting stalemate lasts short a moment, long enough for John to taste Vernet’s breath. John eases back farther.
“You’re interrupting,” Vernet accuses mildly.
“Explain how this is helping,” John doesn’t quite ask.
“Hearing an orchestra with my ears varies from creating one within my mind.”
“Because all the parts are playing at once?”
Vernet scoffs softly. “Because it’s flawed. And it interacts with space and must compete with the audience speaking over it.” By his disdainful tone, it’s clear no errant thought has ever dared to do such a thing to the orchestra within Vernet’s head.
“You can really hear music?”
Absolutely mocking, Vernet’s silence pierces the dark better than any facial expression ever could.
“When there’s none playing,” John amends, an unspoken insult tacked on at the end.
“You can’t?”
John shakes his head, the sound audible in the shift of his collar against the skin of his neck.
“Can you hear phrases?” Vernet asks.
Musical sentences, he means. “When there’s music playing, yes.”
“Tell me when the next phrase begins and ends.”
“All right.” John waits for it, head tilted, eyes focused on the curtain. “Now,” he whispers after a noticeable breath. His tiny amount of exposure to the clarinet taught him well the need for breathing. He follows the phrase as well as he can and repeats, “Now,” when he thinks the moment has come.
Vernet hums softly rather than praise or berate. The neutrality is by far the more unnerving result. “Can you hear the individual parts?” Vernet asks.
“You mean instruments?”
An audible roll of the eyes. “No, I mean parts.”
John tries. He closes his eyes and strains his ears. He nods.
“How many?”
“I... have no idea,” John admits. He readies himself for Vernet’s inevitable smugness only to realise the stiffness beside him is disappointment. “Could you walk me through them?”
“Possibly,” Vernet allows. Then: “Give me your arm.”
By now, John knows better than to ask the man what for. He simply lifts his right arm from the armrest and offers it to Vernet as if embarking upon a stroll. Vernet takes it in an entirely different manner, drawing John’s elbow against his own upper arm, his long fingers curled about John’s cuff. John allows it, too intrigued to do otherwise. When Vernet’s fingertips settle along the back of John’s wrist, their spacing artfully deliberate, the position becomes clear: John’s forearm will substitute for a violin, his wrist for the fingerboard, his down-facing palm the scroll.
At first, Vernet merely taps the beats against the back of John’s wrist. Once John’s head begins to nod, as if of its own accord, Vernet begins to play. In the heat of the box, his hands have lost their characteristic coolness but maintain their graceful control. His fingertips tap out a flawless dance, his movement leading the music rather than following. They tremble a vibrato into John’s skin.
“The violin part,” Vernet clarifies needlessly, shifting his hand up John’s arm as the pitch of the instruments below rises. Jacket and shirtsleeves diffuse sensation, but there is no doubting Vernet’s continuing precision.
“You’ve memorised it,” John whispers.
“Obviously. Can you distinguish it now?”
John nods.
With that, Vernet’s hand slips back to John’s wrist with a sudden glide, its movements much changed. Vernet hooks his thumb against John’s cuff, pushing it up John’s wrist a negligible amount, and John has the sudden urge to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeve for the man.
“Viola?” John guesses instead.
“Wrong.”
John listens, closing his eyes and wetting his lips. The position of his arm says string instrument, but is that what Vernet is copying? He listens and he thinks. He whispers, “Flute?”
“Yes. Much better.” Vernet plays him the remainder of the second act, on him and for him. John’s shoulder aches from the odd position no matter how he tries to pretend otherwise, and it’s with regret that he stops their game.
A second game begins with the third act, or perhaps a more difficult lesson.
“Your turn, Doctor.” Vernet offers his palm, upturned upon his armrest. “Show me what you hear.”
John rubs the heel of his hand against the thigh of his trousers, knowing the action futile. Although John sweats little in what passes for heat in England, the test leaves him unduly nervous in his eagerness to please. He plants his elbow against his own armrest. His fingers descend to encounter skin in the dark. A rough pattern scrapes his fingertips amid the relative softness, and John recognises the marks of sutures sown by his own hand. He shifts his touch higher, away from the line of scarring and the accompanying needle marks.
In an act of cowardice, he chooses the percussion first and taps the obvious result into Vernet’s palm. When the dramatic drumbeats no longer need to support the male singer’s voice, John hesitates through the actress’s verse, his forearm against Vernet’s, his fingers posed above the man’s hand. John waits for the return of the drums and is shortly rewarded with a rousing section. A two-fingered tap serves for the faster portion.
At the next round of applause, John stops. Vernet catches his fingers before he can begin again. A firm squeeze, then withdrawal of contact. It doesn’t feel like a rebuke, but a small confused portion of John’s chest was hoping for more obvious praise.
“What now?” John asks, eyes on the side of his face.
“Follow on your own,” Vernet instructs.
John closes his eyes once more and complies. The mental strain of observation requires more endurance than casual listening to an opera ever could. Whenever his mind attempts to wander, Vernet nudges John’s knee with his own. How the man keeps reading John’s mind, John will never know.
By the end of the third act, he’s absolutely exhausted. Exhausted and warm in the dark box. He begins to focus on Vernet’s breathing rather than the music and is pleased to find that Vernet can’t tell which sounds John attends to, only whether John’s ears are attentive. The sound is nigh silent for all that it’s close. Steady. Soft. John shifts lower in the comfort of his seat. He drifts.
Firm warmth touches his shoulder. Incongruous chills flicker down his back, a prickling cascade of sensation.
“Doctor,” Vernet whispers, very much in John’s ear.
“Mm?”
“Act five is nearly over.”
John blinks his eyes open. “What? When...?”
“You fell asleep in the middle of the fourth act. I don’t blame you. The repetition was tedious.”
“I, I need to...” John gestures to the door behind them.
“Mm,” Vernet agrees. “You should be able to slip out unobserved during the next five minutes.”
“How close is it to the end?”
“Another half hour, provided the soprano stops dragging out every note,” Vernet answers with an audible sneer. “She’s wreaked havoc on the tempo.”
John nods absently, patting his pockets before he remembers that what he’s looking for is his medical bag, and that lies between his feet. “I’ll be going, then.”
“Mm,” Vernet hums a second time.
John picks up his bag and stands. He doesn’t groan at the stiffness in his neck or back, though he does come close. He offers Vernet his hand, and Vernet shakes it without standing. John creeps to the door, listens first, opens it gently, and makes a quick check before venturing fully outside. He closes the door behind him as quietly as he can. The last he sees of Vernet that night is a silhouette in the dark, head bowed, hands steepled.
“It’s still not good enough,” Vernet rages two days later, pacing belowground.
“It will be,” John says. He doesn’t look up from his newspaper.
“It won’t.”
“It will be.”
A second horse is stolen from the opera house stables. All of the new stable hands are promptly fired, and the stable master resigns.
The police investigate. They discover nothing.
After three days of fruitless searches in and around the opera house, a very annoyed Mr Sherlock Holmes comes to call on his brother’s behalf. Mr Holmes appears to aid and hinder the investigation in equal measure. The venom in the man’s voice is nothing short of remarkable, and John finds himself reframing his mental picture of the man. The charm of Mr Holmes’ arrogance vanishes in the absence of his good mood.
The distraction Mr Holmes provides could prove useful, however. John has spent the past three days putting off a visit to Vernet lest he bring the police down upon the man. His drive to protect his friend will make any attempt to slip away to him much too obvious. John knows how his body resonates with purpose when he’s worried. He takes the dilemma to Mrs Hudson-surely she’s been down to make sure Vernet has a daily meal-but discovers Mr Holmes in her company.
“There you are!” Mrs Hudson greets John, jarringly cheerful beneath the miasma of irritation permeating the opera house. Where anyone else in the situation would seize onto John as a form of escape, Mrs Hudson simply draws him into the conversation. Mr Holmes’ greeting is curt in the extreme. Entirely unaffected by Mr Holmes’ blatant temper, Mrs Hudson squeezes Mr Holmes’ arm. “It’s almost lunchtime,” she informs Mr Holmes. “Much less chance of being overheard outside, too.”
“A reasonable point,” Mr Holmes acknowledges.
“Sorry, what’s this?” John asks.
“Dr Watson, you speak with effectively every individual in the opera house, do you not?” Mr Holmes asks.
“I do, sir.”
“On a regular basis?”
“It varies on the individual,” John replies. “But yes, fairly regular.”
Mr Holmes nods. “Excellent. I need to borrow you. Meet me in the lobby in...” He checks his pocket watch, a shine of metal and glass nestled in the curve of his fingers. “Twenty minutes.”
“I’ll tell Mr Havill if he asks where you’ve gone,” Mrs Hudson volunteers. “It’s for the investigation: he certainly won’t mind.” The offer of help denies John an excuse to back out. Though he has a few throats to see to, as well as a few cases of the unmentionables, it’s nothing dire enough to require immediate attention.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” John replies.
“Don’t mention it, dear,” she says. “This way, I know everyone is going to have lunch.” She gives Mr Holmes a distinct look upon the emphasised word. While Mr Holmes responds like a sullen nephew to a favourite aunt, John has an inkling that Mrs Hudson is truly referring to Vernet.
Abruptly, a luncheon with an irate Mr Holmes is a tolerable prospect. “If I start, I might be here for hours,” John tells Mr Holmes. “Shall we? Unless you’ve something else to keep you.”
Something between smile and scowl curls at the corner of Mr Holmes’ mouth. He gestures toward the way John had come. “By all means.”
They make their goodbyes to Mrs Hudson. When Mr Holmes turns his back, Mrs Hudson winks at John. John bites the inside of his cheek, following Mr Holmes out.
With two shrill whistles, Mr Holmes summons them a hansom cab and gestures for John to climb in first. John complies wordlessly, shaking out the back of his overcoat before he sits. The cab shifts as Mr Holmes joins him. Mr Holmes turns to the hatch behind their heads and gives the cabdriver the address of the Gloriana, a nearby restaurant. The folding doors of the cab close over their legs, keeping out a small part of the autumn chill.
“You haven’t been there before,” Mr Holmes observes as the horse pulls the cab away from the kerb and into the damp fog. He adjusts his overcoat over his long legs, a fall of black fabric over black fabric arranged by hands sheathed in black leather. Without the colour of his cravat visible, Mr Holmes ought to be much too pale, and yet it suits him. With little warmth in his cheeks and less still in his eyes, his pallor resembles carved marble rather than illness. Curious, the way this man’s attractiveness waxes.
“Is that a yes or a no, Dr Watson?” Holmes asks, irritation plain in his voice. It’s harsher today and familiar for it, though John isn’t certain when he’d personally heard Mr Holmes berating someone this morning.
“I haven’t been, no,” John replies after a moment of hurried remembrance. His words fade into the fog, disappearing into the vanished boundaries of the street. They can see to the next hansom before them and no farther. The open nature of the cab grants them no scenery today. Beyond each other, there is nothing left to look at.
John keeps his gaze straight ahead and his expression mild.
“Is there another establishment nearby you frequent?” Mr Holmes asks.
“No, not particularly.” A lie, but the cramped cafe John lunches at would hardly be suitable for the Earl’s brother. Silence presses in, or perhaps that’s Mr Holmes’ gaze. “I’m sure it’s an excellent choice,” John adds. “I’ve heard the name mentioned before. As it pertains to the restaurant, I mean.” As opposed to Queen Elizabeth.
“You don’t often dine out with company,” Mr Holmes says rather than asks.
“I’ve little need to,” John says. “My occupation keeps me for odd hours.”
“Mr Havill said he hired you for the sake of the singers and the more fragile patrons.”
“That’s correct.”
“Mrs Hudson tells me you treat a far greater number than that.”
“The dancers need to be able to dance, Mr Holmes.”
“I agree,” Mr Holmes replies. “That’s an obvious tautology. A seamstress’ fever and a stagehand’s clap are much less obvious.”
“I’d like to know what your point is, sir,” John says as politely as he still can.
“You enjoy making work for yourself, and you’re desperately bored,” Mr Holmes answers. Beneath the glistening damp sheen of his top hat, Mr Holmes’s eyes put the grey of the fog to shame. The charming man of their last meeting has returned, voice as light and engaging as a spring breeze. “I can help with both,” Mr Holmes promises him.
The cab turns a corner in the haze, a heart-stopping motion that pushes John toward the aristocrat. Their arms press at the elbows. John drags his gaze from Mr Holmes to stare into the fog, certain they’ll strike an object-or worse, a person-but the turn passes uneventfully. John shifts back fully to his side of the small cab. The tiny amount of air between them quickly turns cold.
“You mean,” John says, mind stumbling, “you want my assistance in the investigation. More than simply telling you any suspicious behaviour I’d noticed.”
Mr Holmes’ mouth pulls to the side, the left side, and though John can only see the right, he recognises a smile when it’s directly before his eyes. “Precisely,” Holmes says.
“In what way am I qualified?” John asks.
“Uniquely,” Holmes replies. “You’re familiar with nearly the entire population of the opera house. You’re respected but not inaccessible. Your occupation involves asking invasive questions. You’re altruistic to a degree I would be hard pressed to find elsewhere.”
“Meaning you can’t find anyone else willing to do it,” John gathers.
Holmes laughs. Rather, he exhales through a grin, but the expression clearly catches him by surprise. It suits him much too well. “I don’t need to find anyone else,” Holmes says. “I have you.”
Nervous pleasure churns John’s stomach. “I want the thief caught, but I won’t spy on my patients. If the information is relevant, I’ll pass it on, but only then. Do no harm. That’s the first rule.”
Holmes nods. Whether the motion is agreement or dismissal is a mystery. “I’ll explain the details over lunch.”
With the weather keeping most patrons away, John and Holmes are next to alone in the large room. Holmes takes the chair with its heavy back to the remainder of the room, leaving John the position of his preference. While Holmes takes a cursory scan over the menu, John forcibly pulls his gaze away from the man. There’s enough else to look at without staring at a freckle above his incongruously pale eyebrows.
The dining room of the restaurant ought to be a light, airy affair, but the fog outside the tall windows renders the space dreary, almost underwater in a way mere rain would struggle to accomplish. The walls are white, their trim gold, setting a colour scheme echoed by the pristine tablecloths and the lacquer upon the plates.
The waiter appears before John is ready. Holmes orders coffee for himself and, at John’s hesitation, suggests a specific sort of tea to John that John agrees to. John promptly forgets its name. John recovers well enough to order his meal. His voice and hands remain flawlessly steady as he hands back the menu.
Spreading his napkin over his lap, Mr Holmes asks, “What are the popular theories in the opera house?”
“Regarding the thefts?” John mirrors him, smoothing his napkin over his thighs. “Some finger pointing, some talk of the opera ghost. Nothing too surprising.”
Mr Holmes leans against the high back of his chair, fingers steepled. He prods at John with question after question, sorting each theory by individual, each individual by occupation, each occupation by its physical placement within the opera house. John speaks until his mouth threatens to go dry, but by then, his tea has cooled to a tolerable heat.
Upon the arrival of their main course, Mr Holmes turns from interrogator to narrator, detailing the entire situation as it currently stands. It is respectable for the Earl to own an opera house when that opera house is successful and free of unusual scandal. A rash of thefts undermines the credibility with which patrons will entrust even their coats and cloaks to the cloakroom. “Mycroft hardly wants to fire Eric, but should the horses continue to vanish, the man may need to resign.”
“I beg your pardon, I’m not sure who...”
“Mr Eric Havill,” Mr Holmes clarifies. “He and Mycroft were at school together.”
“Ah.” John drops his gaze to his plate and searches for any remains of chicken beneath the sauce. He finds only greens.
“The relationship is now problematic,” Mr Holmes says, watching John rather than eating his own meal. Such has been his manner since his plate was set in front of him. He holds his fork and knife without applying them.
“How so?”
“Presently, Mr Havill is ultimately responsible for failing to prevent these thefts. The failure is his. My lord brother could wash his hands of Mr Havill should matters continue in this vein. Moreover, he would be right to.”
“But sentiment holds him back,” John concludes.
Mr Holmes’ mouth startles into a grin. “You don’t know my brother.”
“Not sentiment?”
“No, never.” Mr Holmes leans forward. He scans the mirror on the wall behind John’s head and lowers his voice. “As of this moment, you are sworn to secrecy. Do you understand?”
John nods, setting down knife and fork. He folds his hands in his lap. “I understand.”
“We have received letters,” Mr Holmes informs him. “Not by post, not by hand. Mr Havill finds them in a locked drawer of his desk in his locked office. The envelopes are addressed to my brother in a man’s handwriting with a good pen. As for the letters themselves, the words are always cut from a newspaper, though the newspaper in question varies.
“The content is fairly consistent from letter to letter. The writer promises three things. First, an escalation of thievery. Second, further violence. Third, my brother’s destruction. We assume he plans to accomplish the third by a combination of the first and second.”
“Further violence?” John asks. “I don’t-wait. Joseph Harrison?”
“Incredibly dramatic for a suicide, yes,” Mr Holmes replies. “As a warning to an entire opera house, very concise: death shall descend upon you. The first letter arrived only after the death was officially declared a suicide.”
John leans forward, frowning. “Does he want anything else? Beyond your lord brother’s destruction.”
“Money,” Mr Holmes answers. “I believe the thefts will continue to escalate in target and frequency until the amount stolen equals the amount demanded.”
“How much?” John asks.
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
John whistles softly at the sum. Two horses is barely a start. Surely the paintings in the lobby will follow.
“Per month,” Mr Holmes adds.
“That... He can’t possibly expect that sum. Not monthly. A quarter of a million pounds in a year?”
“A full million in four years, two months, yes. Obviously not a demand which inspires obedience.”
“Obviously not,” John echoes. “But if the thefts do continue to that amount, the opera house will run out of things to steal.”
“At which point, I believe our options are property damage and fatal accidents.”
“How long do you think it will be until then?”
“Never, provided we catch him,” Mr Holmes replies. “Now, as to what I was saying about Mr Havill’s problematic friendship with my brother. The letters appear in Mr Havill’s desk without warning and with no sign of forced entry. The simplest solution is that Mr Havill is attempting to extort an absurd amount of money from my brother while playing the victim.”
“You’re sure he isn’t?”
“Exceedingly. My brother is a very discriminating man, Dr Watson. But we’ve no concrete proof of his innocence.”
“You haven’t taken this to the police?”
“The thefts, yes. The letters, however, have been viewed as a hoax, particularly since Harrison’s murder was declared a suicide.”
They pause as the waiter returns to freshen the coffee and tea.
“Why would the police ignore the letters?” John asks when the waiter departs. “That’s substantial evidence.”
“Because all of them have been signed by the opera ghost,” Mr Holmes answers.
“The... opera ghost.”
“Yes.”
“That...”
“I’m aware of the absurdity,” Mr Holmes states.
“It would be easy to pin the blame on anyone, that way,” John says. “Everyone already blames the ghost for anything that goes wrong. The, er, ‘real’ ghost. The one we’ve always had. If word got out, we’d have a witch hunt on our hands.” Superstition and gossip in close corridors are a terrible combination.
“Which is why you must tell no one,” Mr Holmes says.
“Of course,” John promises. “But with the ‘ghost’ so set on destroying the opera house, do you really believe he’s coming from inside?”
“I don’t,” Mr Holmes replies. “However, I see no point in drawing attention to our extorter when he’s clearly looking for a public scandal.”
“No, of course not.”
Mr Holmes nods. “Do you have any further questions?”
John thinks for a moment, looking into his tea. “When is the next payment due?”
“The last was due on Monday, when the second horse was stolen. Whether the next month has thefts or violence in store remains to be seen.”
And so Mr Holmes recruits a doctor. “Accidents do happen,” John says. “I know what the usual damage is, but if someone falls down the stairs, I won’t be able to determine if they were shoved.”
“But the victims will speak with you,” Mr Holmes counters. “Moreover, you’ll listen to them. It could be anyone in the opera house. The thefts began small, cloth before horses. I imagine the deaths will follow that pattern as well. A debtor of a stagehand followed by a seamstress, perhaps. And then a dancer. Then a singer. Or patrons, for a more visible scandal.”
John nods. “Should I contact you directly? Or report to Mr Havill.”
“You’ll contact me,” Mr Holmes confirms. “Give your letter to Mrs Hudson in a sealed, unaddressed envelope. She writes to me regularly. If our ghost has eyes outside the opera house as well as within, that correspondence will still appear perfectly normal.”
“You think it’s more than one man?”
Mr Holmes nods. “He’s exhibited an incredibly diverse skill set. If one man, he’s too extraordinary to be believed. The thefts of the horses, for example, must be two man jobs. At the very least.”
“I still don’t understand how no one saw the horses go,” John says. “Or heard, for that matter.”
“That’s not for you to worry about. Focus on the people.”
“Even more so than usual, sir,” John promises. Upon that reminder, his eyes fall to Mr Holmes’ plate, still largely full.
Mr Holmes follows his gaze but doesn’t reach for his long abandoned silverware. “If that’s all?”
“Ah, yes.”
Mr Holmes signals to the waiter, then prevents John from paying. “I consider it a business expense,” Mr Holmes states as the waiter goes to bring him his change. There’s an underlying quip in the curve of his lips, the joke of business and a gentleman of Holmes’ stature in combination. John immediately decides to pay for the next hansom. Holmes’ lips quirk further, and beneath his gaze, John can feel his mind fall open like the covers of a book.
They don their hats and coats, pull on their gloves, and venture out into the fog.
A full week after the second horse theft, John finally finds a safe moment to venture into the tunnels. Mrs Hudson had warned him away until after the police and Mr Holmes departed late Saturday night, and John had spent his Sunday in a state of overeager anticipation.
John isn’t the only one. He doesn’t reach Vernet’s door before the man throws it open, startling John to no end.
“Jesus Christ!”
“I heard your footsteps: you should have heard mine. Come in!” He promptly pulls John inside, hand first at John’s elbow before Vernet grips him by the upper arms. “It’s finished! Act two is finished! Some editing required, of course, but it’s all there, Doctor.”
“That’s brilliant!” John exclaims, attempting without success to put down his medical bag. “Hold on, hold on, let me--”
“It’s done,” Vernet crows, releasing him. He spins on the ball of one foot, hands thrown into the air, jacket flaring out with the motion. One hand darts to his face mid-spin to hold the mask in place. “Oh, it’s wonderful!”
John smiles helplessly as Vernet adjusts the mask over his features. As soon as John deposits his bag upon the table, Vernet seizes him by the arms a second time to whirl him about en route to a chair.
“Sit, sit! Listen to it now, listen, listen!”
John laughs. “I will,” he promises, mouth already aching with affection.
Vernet gathers up the papers strewn across the second table and arranges them into a new order upon his slanted desk. That done, he spins away to fetch his instrument. “It’s absolutely brilliant, Doctor.”
“What happened?”
A distracted noise as Vernet tunes his violin: “Hm?”
“Your breakthrough?” John asks.
“I took a break,” Vernet replies. “It worked.”
“Next time I tell you to take one, will you?”
“What? No. I’ll protest every step of the way.” Giddy and matter of fact at once, Vernet grins at him. “Now listen. Close your eyes and listen.”
John listens, but he does not close his eyes. Vernet is a creature of drama and gesticulation, and even when his soul is converted to sound, the performance of his body mesmerises. The speed of his fingers, the controlled tremble of his wrist, the sweet curve of his neck as his violin plays him; all compels sight.
Vernet punctuates this private concert with transitions such as “And then!” or “With this playing over that” or “Imagine a bass drum when I tap my foot” or “What about this way, do you prefer this way?” He demands for John to name the plot of each scene as he plays it sans libretto. John responds as best he’s able, applauds in more places than it’s called for, and permits himself to simply bask in his admiration of the man.
“And there it is,” Vernet concludes all too soon, although his playing must have lasted for the better part of an hour.
“What about the libretto?” John asks.
“Finished as well,” Vernet replies, slinging his instrument down from his shoulder. He checks the sudden movement and sets the bow into its case with gentle reverence. He whisks out a cloth and begins to clean the white rosin dust from his instrument. “We’re ready for act three.”
“But the libretto was where you were stuck.”
“Yes, and?”
“And I’d like to hear it,” John answers, still half-smiling. Vernet hadn’t sung the libretto of the first act for him either. John hadn’t pressed at the time, but after the fuss of this act, he’d like to hear it.
Vernet shakes his head. “No good.”
“What? Why not?”
“The lack of adequate singers, for a start.”
“You manage to play the essence of each act on one instrument,” John reasons. “Why not with one voice?”
“Because mine is hardly adequate,” Vernet replies, abruptly on the edge of snapping. “Stop asking.”
“All right, all right.” John shifts in his seat. “Could you simply say it? In English.”
Vernet purses his lips into a sullen wrinkle. “All opera sounds idiotic in English. Even simply spoken, it’s atrocious.”
John sits up straight, folds his hands in his lap, and lifts his chin.
“If you’re determined to wait, you’ll wait a long time,” Vernet warns.
“If it’s stupid, it’s my fault,” John reminds him.
“If it’s stupid, I’ll still sound stupid.”
“And I’ll still know better,” John counters.
Vernet glares at him.
John allows his overabundance of eagerness to show.
Vernet sighs, looking away. “One scene. You can have one scene.”
“Which was the one you were stuck on? The bit where the young soldier is about to signal the mutiny forward, but then his commanding officer talks him out of it?”
Vernet groans. “That’s the one you want to hear?”
“Yes,” John answers. “Definitely that one.”
Vernet tucks his violin away, stows the cloth, and closes the case. He fastens it shut, his back turned toward John. “Fine. But we act it out.”
“All right.” John stands.
“Come here.” Vernet beckons him over. He begins to pull his gloves on against the chamber’s chill. This truncates his gesticulations greatly. “The entry door is stage left. The door to my second room is stage right. The desk is the orchestra pit. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Good. The young soldier enters from stage right. No, don’t go in: just stand at the door and come back to centre stage.”
John does so, uncertain of how to stand. He’s abruptly certain Vernet only decided to act out the scene to make John even more uncomfortable than Vernet is.
“The soldier sings a reprise of the earlier song used to convert him to the mutineers’ cause. In short: my body cries for Rome, the rock that forms my bones, the stone within my spine. How can I stand without you, my home, my strength? I long for you, for my life to come. Here, fantasy is but air. Though I may breathe it, I cannot capture it within my lungs. All escapes. Sand shifts beneath my feet, and beneath Antony’s also. If all know my general cannot stand, then can I not escape blame for his fall?”
For this part, John closes his eyes, trying to match the words to the well-remembered theme. The English rhythm makes the comparison a difficult mental exercise. He tilts his head as he listens, his ears distantly registering Vernet’s motions as he circles in the small room.
“Song ends suddenly with the captain’s entrance. The audience doesn’t see him, nor does the soldier. The officer springs out behind him, like so.”
John startles at the sudden contact, a perfectly natural response to a hand about his neck. Vernet presses against his back, right hand cradling John’s throat. His other hand swipes across John’s front and pulls John’s jacket back to his hip. Vernet’s palm presses there, heavier than the leather-clad hold around John’s neck.
“Hand at the throat to prevent a cry,” Vernet rumbles into John’s left ear. “Hand on the sword hilt to prevent a counterattack. Is that effective blocking?”
John nods, throat thick. He can still talk. He’s certain of that. It’s simply the suddenness of the position which forbids his lungs from pulling in air.
“The captain warns: cry out and die. I know what you’re attempting. Life does not lie that way. Be true to me once more and live.” Vernet shifts his grip on John’s neck, his thumb below John’s ear. Though his fingertips remain along John’s jaw, Vernet’s palm slides so slightly southward, permitting reply. “His theme plays for his lines, then merges with the reprise for the soldier’s portion.
“The soldier protests innocence, but the captain contradicts, quoting the overheard mutiny plans back to him. Again, the same theme as the mutiny reprise. The captain asks if he can trust the soldier should he let him go. The soldier admits uncertainty. Transition into the captain’s theme.” Vernet hums the familiar melody.
Though he can hear perfectly well, John tilts his head, angling his ear. The motion rubs dark leather against his skin, over his jumping pulse.
“What are your thoughts thus far?” Vernet asks. His voice is the same as it always is when they speak like this, absolutely hungering for feedback.
“Good scene,” John manages to say. He clears his throat, blaming his tone on Vernet’s hand. “Good tension. But I’d still prefer it sung. How it’s intended, after all.”
Vernet groans, much too loud for having his mouth so close to John’s ear. John manages not to jerk away at the noise, but only just. “I loathe singing for an audience,” Vernet protests.
“I’m not an audience. I’m your assistant.”
Vernet scoffs. “You’re always my audience.” He taps his fingertips against John’s jaw, as if having forgotten something. The touch is oddly companionable, as if Vernet thinks no more of touching John than he would of touching himself. “Ah, yes, the captain’s solo. This sounds much better in Italian. Fits the measure. It’s also three times longer when sung.”
“I consider myself warned,” John replies.
“The captain’s part: do not mistake the foundations of your bones for Caesar’s rule. For though your bones are of Caesar’s land, they are not Caesar’s. Caesar cannot bid you to stand, though Antony may bid you to die. For it is Antony who owns your heart.” Here, Vernet’s hand slides from John’s neck to his chest, solid pressure against his waistcoat. His throat quickly grows cold in the absence of that touch.
“We are of a kind,” Vernet continues as the captain, “and so I know you. I have dreamt your dreams and struggled your life, and I know they lead to Antony. The comforting touch of Lady Rome is a touch you never shall know, but take Duty as your wife, and Glory shall be your daughter, Honour your son, and Antony grandfather of Honour and Glory both. For though the splendours of Egypt pass out of us with every breath, so do we inhale them yet again. Do not hold your breath, but breathe, and live. You say you cannot stand without your home, yet there is no life without air. Stay and live, and wed your duty as I have married mine. Seek no greater love, for there shall be none. What say you to me?”
John’s heart races, ears straining, and Vernet releases him. Vernet releases him and presses on John’s shoulder until John turns, clumsy, to face him. Vernet turns them farther, spinning them both in a half-circle to exchange positions.
“I say ‘yes’,” Vernet states, his back as straight as a soldier’s, his voice as proud as a fool’s. “I say I will fight with you, and for you, and I will not again be pulled astray. Should stone crumble and my bones be pulled from my limbs, I will cry out, but I shall still breathe. And should it be my last, I shall breathe it for Antony.”
Silence rings in the wake of his voice. A hushed tingling settles through John’s limbs. The music plays on inside his mind.
“I can hear it,” John realises. “The, the violin, I can...” He points from the case to his own head. “I can hear it.”
Softly, Vernet smiles. “Good.”
“Very good,” John says. “Extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary.” His entire body feels as if it’s trembling, and the sensation refuses to fade. He rubs his hand over his face, laughing. “God, if this is a botched mutiny, the battle scene is going to be... I won’t have the words. I mean that.”
Shifting on the balls of his feet, Vernet preens.
“It’s really only a matter of time,” John says.
“I know,” Vernet agrees, blissful. He rushes forward, grips John gleefully by the shoulders. “It’s never been so simple!”
John laughs, filled up by the other man’s giddy burst. Vernet spins him about again, and they stumble about, so terribly pleased with themselves, so terribly pleased with Vernet. John swears to himself, swears and swears again, that whatever it takes to push the world back, to keep the investigations of the opera house above from disturbing this man, he will do. He fears for Vernet’s safety, though never for his innocence. To look on this happiness and think of it stripped away is a form of torture in itself.
“Doctor?” Vernet asks, smile fading at the edges.
“I need to return to work,” John says with all the mournfulness such a statement requires. He squeezes Vernet’s hands, catching leather clad fingers as Vernet drops them from John’s shoulders. “Enjoy act three.”
“A naval battle, Doctor! Antony and Cleopatra’s one duet!”
“And the first significant death?” John asks and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Thoughts of Joseph Harrison are too fresh, worries for Vernet too near. If a stagehand is easy prey, what of the anonymous man in the basement?
Vernet hums with satisfaction, oblivious to John’s concerns or perhaps ignoring them. “Off you go, Doctor. I should have something to show you by the time you return.”
“You’d better,” John warns.
Vernet grins and waves him on into the world above.
art
previous | next
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 8.6k 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
“No,” John urges. “No, we can do this. Come on, it’s all right.”
Face against his desk, arms draped over the back of his own head, Vernet groans. The deep rumble echoes off the walls and the high ceiling. Limp, his hands droop, dipping pale fingertips into dark curls.
John sighs, comes around to the other side, and seizes Vernet’s chair low on its back. He hauls man and chair backward with a terrible scraping sound. Vernet startles to his feet, shouting at him, and John immediately grips him by the elbow. He drags the taller man into the centre of the room, the pair of them now wholly encompassed within the circle of candlelight.
“You don’t need to rewrite everything,” John tells him. “It’s all right. I asked around the orchestra, and they all say this is normal. Don’t scrap it.”
“But it would burn so nicely.”
John crosses his arms. “None of that.”
“But it’s all so stupid. And I wrote it! How did I write something so stupid?”
“Words in songs always sound stupid,” John says. “That must mean you’re doing it right.”
Vernet sulks at him, wrapping his long arms about himself. His fingers curl about his elbows, starkly pale against the dark fabric. There’s something of a chill to the tunnels today, though not enough for Vernet to fuss over his violin instead of his opera.
“Tell me the story,” John says.
“You already know the story.”
“Tell it to me again.”
Vernet fiddles with a cufflink.
“Act one,” John prompts.
“Antony returns to Alexandria, newly married to Octavia,” Vernet recites dully. “The soldiers are relieved. More glory, more fighting, so on, so on, until Antony goes back to Cleopatra. The commanders can’t upstage their general by outperforming him and pull themselves back on their missions from Rome. Tension among the troops, talk of turning against Rome. End act one.”
“Good. Act two.”
“More talk of turning against Rome. Torn loyalties. Young soldier joins mutiny in crucial role. Captain talks him out of it. Come morning, they’re all to be deployed at sea despite better strength on land. Promise of Cleopatra’s eighty ships to come. Doubts abound as to whether this promise will be kept. End act two.”
“Act three.”
“We’re still on act two,” Vernet says, hands now indignant upon his hips.
“Tell me act three anyway.”
“Naval battle.”
“What about the naval battle?” John asks.
“Antony and Cleopatra are at the heads of their respective fleets,” Vernet answers, ruffling his hair as he turns away. He begins to pace a short circuit. “Grand moment of splendour for Cleopatra. Antony joins in or was already singing, I haven’t decided which yet. The Roman theme keeps cutting them off.” His quick motions imitate flute and drum in quick succession, fluttering beside his face before dropping into a rapid tap before his stomach. “Cleopatra flees the naval battle, all is lost. The commander dies in the arms of the young soldier he kept from mutinying. End act three.”
“Excellent. Act four?”
Vernet whirls to face him and says with absolute satisfaction: “Everyone dies.”
“And don’t you want to kill everyone off?”
“Doctor, we’ve established how rhetorical your question is.”
“Exactly,” John says. “Which means we need to work through act two first.”
“I hate act two.”
“Then change it,” John says. “Or write it or edit it. Do something. You’ve sulked for weeks.”
“Only two,” Vernet mutters.
“Weeks, yes,” John says.
Vernet pouts. The mask turns the expression absolutely ridiculous.
John’s mouth twitches. “Fine. How about a break?”
“I don’t want a break.”
“You don’t want to do this either,” John reminds him. He takes up his lantern and lights it with one of the many candles littering the tables. “Blow those out. We’re going for a walk.”
“And where exactly would we be going?”
“I haven’t had a chance to explore the tunnels,” John says. “I’d like the tour, please.”
Vernet doesn’t move. “They’re tunnels.”
“I’ve noticed.” John sets about blowing out the candles on his own. Eventually, with no small sigh, Vernet joins him, pursing his lips and making no attempt to disguise his poor mood. Candle by candle, the small chamber fades into darkness until the sole source of light is the single lantern.
That done, John opens the door and pointedly waits until Vernet joins him. Nearly lost in shadow, the mask and the white shock of Vernet’s shirt are the only visible pieces of the man. Lantern in his left hand, John offers Vernet his opposite elbow.
Sighing yet again, Vernet links his arm with John’s. “It’s very little of a walk and the air is poor.”
“What a lovely tour it is already.”
“Part of it smells of urine and faeces.”
“How reminiscent of the army. Stop, you’ll make me homesick.”
A small huff of breath beside his ear: not quite a laugh, but close.
They walk. The tunnels are just wide enough for them to move abreast with linked arms. It strikes John strangely, this proof of the slimness of Vernet’s frame, the shock of tangible, sustained contact. Vernet isn’t a man who ought to have a defined shape. He’s a creature of motion and gesticulation, constant only in his changes. The human body is something John knows well, but Vernet’s form, like his moods, is too mercurial to confidently touch.
“Where did they come from?” John asks. His voice echoes dully, interrupting the rhythm of their synced footsteps. “They must have been built for a reason.”
“Construction for an Underground line,” Vernet replies. “There were plans to have an entrance leading immediately outside of the opera house. In exchange for the increased foot traffic, the owner allowed construction.”
“But the plans fell through?”
“Almost literally,” Vernet answers. “Flooding from the Thames, structural instability... the list goes on.”
Before them, a corner. They attempt to turn and the narrowing width of the passage forces them to abandon their illusion of a casual stroll. Rats scamper away from them, then creep back to the edge of the lantern light.
“How far does it go?” John asks.
“Not very. That way merely leads down to the flooded portion. Unless you’d rather smell the Thames...”
“I do enough of that already,” John replies.
They turn around, and this time, Vernet offers his arm.
John switches the lantern from one hand to the other before linking arms. “I told you a walk would do you good. A change of pace.”
“If that was an intentional pun, we’re never doing this again,” Vernet replies.
“Beg pardon?”
“Ah, it wasn’t. Good.”
They return to Vernet’s chamber, and Vernet withdraws the newspaper from John’s medical bag without permission or prompting. For his part, John lights one of the smaller candles with the lantern’s flame and sets about returning the room to its proper state.
“You’re going to ruin your eyesight,” John warns, not for the first time.
When Vernet doesn’t respond with his typical “Yes, Doctor,” John looks up from the task at hand. Frozen, Vernet seems to be staring at the far wall.
“Problem?” John asks.
“I need more reference material,” Vernet answers without moving.
“And...?”
Vernet’s gaze snaps to John’s face. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m on duty,” John answers.
Vernet slinks forward, feigning disinterest with the angle of his head. The rest of his body betrays his intent. His feet and hips point where his face does not. For all his hands adjust the candles upon his desk, his focus is unquestionably John. “Yes, but you’re not actually busy.”
“Whatever you’re planning: no.”
“I haven’t said what it is!” Vernet protests.
“No, but if it involves me shirking my job more than I already am--”
“It will be fine.”
“Oh, God help me, it does.”
“Come to Box Five tonight,” Vernet urges.
“Right, and be sacked by morning.”
Vernet shakes his head. “You won’t be sacked.”
“No good plan ever started with ‘you won’t be sacked’.”
Vernet leans in, the angles of his body utterly beseeching.
“There’s no use making that face when I can’t see most of it,” John points out.
“Come to Box Five. You’ll know I’ll be there even if you aren’t.” Low and warm, his voice glistens with temptation. This close, the man is magnetic.
John leans back, arms folded across his chest. “Why is it so important you see tonight’s opera?”
“I told you: reference material. I need to hear other voices. And instruments, real ones, not simply the sounds inside my head.”
That shouldn’t sound so reasonable. “But if you’re caught-or even if you’re only seen--”
“I haven’t been so far.”
John fights down the urge to shake him. “The entire building is paranoid over thefts. The last thing we need is a masked man strolling about.”
“You were the one to instigate the strolling, Doctor.”
“Sneaking about,” John rephrases. “Down here is one thing, but up there’s another.”
Vernet hovers closer, as if about to smooth his palms down John’s upper arms. He clearly thinks better of it, and his hands circle in an abortive soothing motion. Comforting to know that John isn’t the only one tempted to shake the other into cooperating.
John stands his ground.
Shaking his head, Vernet pulls back. “When you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”
“It’s a terrible idea,” John warns.
Vernet flaps a dismissive hand at him. “One I’ve already executed perfectly. On multiple occasions, no less. If you’re so worried, you can come.”
“No, thank you,” John replies. “I’ll be on duty. With my job.”
“As you are right now?”
“I’m on my lunch break, actually.” Mrs Hudson has been kind in her scheduling of ballet rehearsals, but John is still pressed for time down below. He checks his watch. “Or, rather, I was. Best be getting back.”
Vernet groans. “But we haven’t accomplished anything.”
“Goodbye,” John bids him, stepping pointedly around Vernet to return to his bag. “And please don’t do anything stupid.”
“Obviously not.”
“I mean it.”
“As do I,” Vernet replies, so confident John almost believes him. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
“No you won’t.”
Vernet simply smiles.
By the second act, John is writhing. Inwardly, of course, only inwardly, but writhing nonetheless. Attendance is somewhat low tonight, lowering the oppressive heat of the theatre into something manageable. If anyone collapses, it won’t be from heat. If it’s not from heat, the opera house can’t be blamed.
With this in mind, John tucks away his yellowback novel and takes a walk. This walk happens to lead upstairs. The curved hall stretches in both directions, doors set into the inner wall at regular intervals. The door to Box Five is no different than any of the others. In the middle of the second act, no one is up and about. There’s not even an usher in sight.
The door handle is cool to the touch. It turns noiselessly, but the slightest press inward immediately brings heightened sound through the door. John slips through quickly and closes the door, securing himself in the dark. The box curtains haven’t been drawn, the thick cloth dully glowing red from the chandelier beyond. Against that backdrop, John sees a shape.
“Vernet?” John whispers.
With a sharp motion, the shape gestures for John to sit.
With careful steps and searching hands, John encounters a chair. He edges between it and another, feeling the arms of the chairs, and sits.
The other man shifts closer, his breath soft and nearly cool in the stuffy box. “You’re late,” Vernet whispers into his ear. His upper arm presses against John’s shoulder.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” John answers.
“No one will check inside,” Vernet promises. “As long as no one sees you exiting. Duck out during an aria, and no one will ever be the wiser.” Low and hushed, his words are damnably reasonable. “We’ve over three acts remaining. No need to rush.”
“I’m not staying for the rest of the performance.” That would be hours.
“No?”
“No. I only wanted to see if you were actually in here.”
“And so you’ve seen,” Vernet murmurs. He turns his face toward the closed curtains. “You’re free to leave, Doctor.”
Keeping a tight rein over his volume if not his temper, John asks, “Then why did you ask me here in the first place?”
“Hm?” Distracted already.
“What was the point of me being here?”
“Your presence is conducive to thought,” Vernet replies.
Outside, a solo ends and the audience applauds. The buzz of human voices rises shortly thereafter. The risk of speaking temporarily decreases.
John considers leaving, considers questioning. He decides against both.
Vernet’s gaze is a solid weight in the dark. As is his approval.
John waits, straining his ears for anything that sounds at all close to Vernet’s opera, but Vernet’s creation and tonight’s performance seem to have nothing in common.
He waits and he wonders. The music meanders through melancholy before bursting into triumph. Unwitting overexposure to opera has taught John little about the subject, but it has dulled his ability to sit through long stretches of music. Excluding Vernet’s sessions upon his violin, of course. The lecture of the opera proves alienating when compared to the conversations of a soldier and a violinist. Eventually, he leans close and asks, “What are you listening for?”
Something pale and cool brushes across John’s nose: Vernet’s mask as the man turns his head toward John’s whisper. They both pull back only to stop upon feeling the other move. The resulting stalemate lasts short a moment, long enough for John to taste Vernet’s breath. John eases back farther.
“You’re interrupting,” Vernet accuses mildly.
“Explain how this is helping,” John doesn’t quite ask.
“Hearing an orchestra with my ears varies from creating one within my mind.”
“Because all the parts are playing at once?”
Vernet scoffs softly. “Because it’s flawed. And it interacts with space and must compete with the audience speaking over it.” By his disdainful tone, it’s clear no errant thought has ever dared to do such a thing to the orchestra within Vernet’s head.
“You can really hear music?”
Absolutely mocking, Vernet’s silence pierces the dark better than any facial expression ever could.
“When there’s none playing,” John amends, an unspoken insult tacked on at the end.
“You can’t?”
John shakes his head, the sound audible in the shift of his collar against the skin of his neck.
“Can you hear phrases?” Vernet asks.
Musical sentences, he means. “When there’s music playing, yes.”
“Tell me when the next phrase begins and ends.”
“All right.” John waits for it, head tilted, eyes focused on the curtain. “Now,” he whispers after a noticeable breath. His tiny amount of exposure to the clarinet taught him well the need for breathing. He follows the phrase as well as he can and repeats, “Now,” when he thinks the moment has come.
Vernet hums softly rather than praise or berate. The neutrality is by far the more unnerving result. “Can you hear the individual parts?” Vernet asks.
“You mean instruments?”
An audible roll of the eyes. “No, I mean parts.”
John tries. He closes his eyes and strains his ears. He nods.
“How many?”
“I... have no idea,” John admits. He readies himself for Vernet’s inevitable smugness only to realise the stiffness beside him is disappointment. “Could you walk me through them?”
“Possibly,” Vernet allows. Then: “Give me your arm.”
By now, John knows better than to ask the man what for. He simply lifts his right arm from the armrest and offers it to Vernet as if embarking upon a stroll. Vernet takes it in an entirely different manner, drawing John’s elbow against his own upper arm, his long fingers curled about John’s cuff. John allows it, too intrigued to do otherwise. When Vernet’s fingertips settle along the back of John’s wrist, their spacing artfully deliberate, the position becomes clear: John’s forearm will substitute for a violin, his wrist for the fingerboard, his down-facing palm the scroll.
At first, Vernet merely taps the beats against the back of John’s wrist. Once John’s head begins to nod, as if of its own accord, Vernet begins to play. In the heat of the box, his hands have lost their characteristic coolness but maintain their graceful control. His fingertips tap out a flawless dance, his movement leading the music rather than following. They tremble a vibrato into John’s skin.
“The violin part,” Vernet clarifies needlessly, shifting his hand up John’s arm as the pitch of the instruments below rises. Jacket and shirtsleeves diffuse sensation, but there is no doubting Vernet’s continuing precision.
“You’ve memorised it,” John whispers.
“Obviously. Can you distinguish it now?”
John nods.
With that, Vernet’s hand slips back to John’s wrist with a sudden glide, its movements much changed. Vernet hooks his thumb against John’s cuff, pushing it up John’s wrist a negligible amount, and John has the sudden urge to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeve for the man.
“Viola?” John guesses instead.
“Wrong.”
John listens, closing his eyes and wetting his lips. The position of his arm says string instrument, but is that what Vernet is copying? He listens and he thinks. He whispers, “Flute?”
“Yes. Much better.” Vernet plays him the remainder of the second act, on him and for him. John’s shoulder aches from the odd position no matter how he tries to pretend otherwise, and it’s with regret that he stops their game.
A second game begins with the third act, or perhaps a more difficult lesson.
“Your turn, Doctor.” Vernet offers his palm, upturned upon his armrest. “Show me what you hear.”
John rubs the heel of his hand against the thigh of his trousers, knowing the action futile. Although John sweats little in what passes for heat in England, the test leaves him unduly nervous in his eagerness to please. He plants his elbow against his own armrest. His fingers descend to encounter skin in the dark. A rough pattern scrapes his fingertips amid the relative softness, and John recognises the marks of sutures sown by his own hand. He shifts his touch higher, away from the line of scarring and the accompanying needle marks.
In an act of cowardice, he chooses the percussion first and taps the obvious result into Vernet’s palm. When the dramatic drumbeats no longer need to support the male singer’s voice, John hesitates through the actress’s verse, his forearm against Vernet’s, his fingers posed above the man’s hand. John waits for the return of the drums and is shortly rewarded with a rousing section. A two-fingered tap serves for the faster portion.
At the next round of applause, John stops. Vernet catches his fingers before he can begin again. A firm squeeze, then withdrawal of contact. It doesn’t feel like a rebuke, but a small confused portion of John’s chest was hoping for more obvious praise.
“What now?” John asks, eyes on the side of his face.
“Follow on your own,” Vernet instructs.
John closes his eyes once more and complies. The mental strain of observation requires more endurance than casual listening to an opera ever could. Whenever his mind attempts to wander, Vernet nudges John’s knee with his own. How the man keeps reading John’s mind, John will never know.
By the end of the third act, he’s absolutely exhausted. Exhausted and warm in the dark box. He begins to focus on Vernet’s breathing rather than the music and is pleased to find that Vernet can’t tell which sounds John attends to, only whether John’s ears are attentive. The sound is nigh silent for all that it’s close. Steady. Soft. John shifts lower in the comfort of his seat. He drifts.
Firm warmth touches his shoulder. Incongruous chills flicker down his back, a prickling cascade of sensation.
“Doctor,” Vernet whispers, very much in John’s ear.
“Mm?”
“Act five is nearly over.”
John blinks his eyes open. “What? When...?”
“You fell asleep in the middle of the fourth act. I don’t blame you. The repetition was tedious.”
“I, I need to...” John gestures to the door behind them.
“Mm,” Vernet agrees. “You should be able to slip out unobserved during the next five minutes.”
“How close is it to the end?”
“Another half hour, provided the soprano stops dragging out every note,” Vernet answers with an audible sneer. “She’s wreaked havoc on the tempo.”
John nods absently, patting his pockets before he remembers that what he’s looking for is his medical bag, and that lies between his feet. “I’ll be going, then.”
“Mm,” Vernet hums a second time.
John picks up his bag and stands. He doesn’t groan at the stiffness in his neck or back, though he does come close. He offers Vernet his hand, and Vernet shakes it without standing. John creeps to the door, listens first, opens it gently, and makes a quick check before venturing fully outside. He closes the door behind him as quietly as he can. The last he sees of Vernet that night is a silhouette in the dark, head bowed, hands steepled.
“It’s still not good enough,” Vernet rages two days later, pacing belowground.
“It will be,” John says. He doesn’t look up from his newspaper.
“It won’t.”
“It will be.”
A second horse is stolen from the opera house stables. All of the new stable hands are promptly fired, and the stable master resigns.
The police investigate. They discover nothing.
After three days of fruitless searches in and around the opera house, a very annoyed Mr Sherlock Holmes comes to call on his brother’s behalf. Mr Holmes appears to aid and hinder the investigation in equal measure. The venom in the man’s voice is nothing short of remarkable, and John finds himself reframing his mental picture of the man. The charm of Mr Holmes’ arrogance vanishes in the absence of his good mood.
The distraction Mr Holmes provides could prove useful, however. John has spent the past three days putting off a visit to Vernet lest he bring the police down upon the man. His drive to protect his friend will make any attempt to slip away to him much too obvious. John knows how his body resonates with purpose when he’s worried. He takes the dilemma to Mrs Hudson-surely she’s been down to make sure Vernet has a daily meal-but discovers Mr Holmes in her company.
“There you are!” Mrs Hudson greets John, jarringly cheerful beneath the miasma of irritation permeating the opera house. Where anyone else in the situation would seize onto John as a form of escape, Mrs Hudson simply draws him into the conversation. Mr Holmes’ greeting is curt in the extreme. Entirely unaffected by Mr Holmes’ blatant temper, Mrs Hudson squeezes Mr Holmes’ arm. “It’s almost lunchtime,” she informs Mr Holmes. “Much less chance of being overheard outside, too.”
“A reasonable point,” Mr Holmes acknowledges.
“Sorry, what’s this?” John asks.
“Dr Watson, you speak with effectively every individual in the opera house, do you not?” Mr Holmes asks.
“I do, sir.”
“On a regular basis?”
“It varies on the individual,” John replies. “But yes, fairly regular.”
Mr Holmes nods. “Excellent. I need to borrow you. Meet me in the lobby in...” He checks his pocket watch, a shine of metal and glass nestled in the curve of his fingers. “Twenty minutes.”
“I’ll tell Mr Havill if he asks where you’ve gone,” Mrs Hudson volunteers. “It’s for the investigation: he certainly won’t mind.” The offer of help denies John an excuse to back out. Though he has a few throats to see to, as well as a few cases of the unmentionables, it’s nothing dire enough to require immediate attention.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” John replies.
“Don’t mention it, dear,” she says. “This way, I know everyone is going to have lunch.” She gives Mr Holmes a distinct look upon the emphasised word. While Mr Holmes responds like a sullen nephew to a favourite aunt, John has an inkling that Mrs Hudson is truly referring to Vernet.
Abruptly, a luncheon with an irate Mr Holmes is a tolerable prospect. “If I start, I might be here for hours,” John tells Mr Holmes. “Shall we? Unless you’ve something else to keep you.”
Something between smile and scowl curls at the corner of Mr Holmes’ mouth. He gestures toward the way John had come. “By all means.”
They make their goodbyes to Mrs Hudson. When Mr Holmes turns his back, Mrs Hudson winks at John. John bites the inside of his cheek, following Mr Holmes out.
With two shrill whistles, Mr Holmes summons them a hansom cab and gestures for John to climb in first. John complies wordlessly, shaking out the back of his overcoat before he sits. The cab shifts as Mr Holmes joins him. Mr Holmes turns to the hatch behind their heads and gives the cabdriver the address of the Gloriana, a nearby restaurant. The folding doors of the cab close over their legs, keeping out a small part of the autumn chill.
“You haven’t been there before,” Mr Holmes observes as the horse pulls the cab away from the kerb and into the damp fog. He adjusts his overcoat over his long legs, a fall of black fabric over black fabric arranged by hands sheathed in black leather. Without the colour of his cravat visible, Mr Holmes ought to be much too pale, and yet it suits him. With little warmth in his cheeks and less still in his eyes, his pallor resembles carved marble rather than illness. Curious, the way this man’s attractiveness waxes.
“Is that a yes or a no, Dr Watson?” Holmes asks, irritation plain in his voice. It’s harsher today and familiar for it, though John isn’t certain when he’d personally heard Mr Holmes berating someone this morning.
“I haven’t been, no,” John replies after a moment of hurried remembrance. His words fade into the fog, disappearing into the vanished boundaries of the street. They can see to the next hansom before them and no farther. The open nature of the cab grants them no scenery today. Beyond each other, there is nothing left to look at.
John keeps his gaze straight ahead and his expression mild.
“Is there another establishment nearby you frequent?” Mr Holmes asks.
“No, not particularly.” A lie, but the cramped cafe John lunches at would hardly be suitable for the Earl’s brother. Silence presses in, or perhaps that’s Mr Holmes’ gaze. “I’m sure it’s an excellent choice,” John adds. “I’ve heard the name mentioned before. As it pertains to the restaurant, I mean.” As opposed to Queen Elizabeth.
“You don’t often dine out with company,” Mr Holmes says rather than asks.
“I’ve little need to,” John says. “My occupation keeps me for odd hours.”
“Mr Havill said he hired you for the sake of the singers and the more fragile patrons.”
“That’s correct.”
“Mrs Hudson tells me you treat a far greater number than that.”
“The dancers need to be able to dance, Mr Holmes.”
“I agree,” Mr Holmes replies. “That’s an obvious tautology. A seamstress’ fever and a stagehand’s clap are much less obvious.”
“I’d like to know what your point is, sir,” John says as politely as he still can.
“You enjoy making work for yourself, and you’re desperately bored,” Mr Holmes answers. Beneath the glistening damp sheen of his top hat, Mr Holmes’s eyes put the grey of the fog to shame. The charming man of their last meeting has returned, voice as light and engaging as a spring breeze. “I can help with both,” Mr Holmes promises him.
The cab turns a corner in the haze, a heart-stopping motion that pushes John toward the aristocrat. Their arms press at the elbows. John drags his gaze from Mr Holmes to stare into the fog, certain they’ll strike an object-or worse, a person-but the turn passes uneventfully. John shifts back fully to his side of the small cab. The tiny amount of air between them quickly turns cold.
“You mean,” John says, mind stumbling, “you want my assistance in the investigation. More than simply telling you any suspicious behaviour I’d noticed.”
Mr Holmes’ mouth pulls to the side, the left side, and though John can only see the right, he recognises a smile when it’s directly before his eyes. “Precisely,” Holmes says.
“In what way am I qualified?” John asks.
“Uniquely,” Holmes replies. “You’re familiar with nearly the entire population of the opera house. You’re respected but not inaccessible. Your occupation involves asking invasive questions. You’re altruistic to a degree I would be hard pressed to find elsewhere.”
“Meaning you can’t find anyone else willing to do it,” John gathers.
Holmes laughs. Rather, he exhales through a grin, but the expression clearly catches him by surprise. It suits him much too well. “I don’t need to find anyone else,” Holmes says. “I have you.”
Nervous pleasure churns John’s stomach. “I want the thief caught, but I won’t spy on my patients. If the information is relevant, I’ll pass it on, but only then. Do no harm. That’s the first rule.”
Holmes nods. Whether the motion is agreement or dismissal is a mystery. “I’ll explain the details over lunch.”
With the weather keeping most patrons away, John and Holmes are next to alone in the large room. Holmes takes the chair with its heavy back to the remainder of the room, leaving John the position of his preference. While Holmes takes a cursory scan over the menu, John forcibly pulls his gaze away from the man. There’s enough else to look at without staring at a freckle above his incongruously pale eyebrows.
The dining room of the restaurant ought to be a light, airy affair, but the fog outside the tall windows renders the space dreary, almost underwater in a way mere rain would struggle to accomplish. The walls are white, their trim gold, setting a colour scheme echoed by the pristine tablecloths and the lacquer upon the plates.
The waiter appears before John is ready. Holmes orders coffee for himself and, at John’s hesitation, suggests a specific sort of tea to John that John agrees to. John promptly forgets its name. John recovers well enough to order his meal. His voice and hands remain flawlessly steady as he hands back the menu.
Spreading his napkin over his lap, Mr Holmes asks, “What are the popular theories in the opera house?”
“Regarding the thefts?” John mirrors him, smoothing his napkin over his thighs. “Some finger pointing, some talk of the opera ghost. Nothing too surprising.”
Mr Holmes leans against the high back of his chair, fingers steepled. He prods at John with question after question, sorting each theory by individual, each individual by occupation, each occupation by its physical placement within the opera house. John speaks until his mouth threatens to go dry, but by then, his tea has cooled to a tolerable heat.
Upon the arrival of their main course, Mr Holmes turns from interrogator to narrator, detailing the entire situation as it currently stands. It is respectable for the Earl to own an opera house when that opera house is successful and free of unusual scandal. A rash of thefts undermines the credibility with which patrons will entrust even their coats and cloaks to the cloakroom. “Mycroft hardly wants to fire Eric, but should the horses continue to vanish, the man may need to resign.”
“I beg your pardon, I’m not sure who...”
“Mr Eric Havill,” Mr Holmes clarifies. “He and Mycroft were at school together.”
“Ah.” John drops his gaze to his plate and searches for any remains of chicken beneath the sauce. He finds only greens.
“The relationship is now problematic,” Mr Holmes says, watching John rather than eating his own meal. Such has been his manner since his plate was set in front of him. He holds his fork and knife without applying them.
“How so?”
“Presently, Mr Havill is ultimately responsible for failing to prevent these thefts. The failure is his. My lord brother could wash his hands of Mr Havill should matters continue in this vein. Moreover, he would be right to.”
“But sentiment holds him back,” John concludes.
Mr Holmes’ mouth startles into a grin. “You don’t know my brother.”
“Not sentiment?”
“No, never.” Mr Holmes leans forward. He scans the mirror on the wall behind John’s head and lowers his voice. “As of this moment, you are sworn to secrecy. Do you understand?”
John nods, setting down knife and fork. He folds his hands in his lap. “I understand.”
“We have received letters,” Mr Holmes informs him. “Not by post, not by hand. Mr Havill finds them in a locked drawer of his desk in his locked office. The envelopes are addressed to my brother in a man’s handwriting with a good pen. As for the letters themselves, the words are always cut from a newspaper, though the newspaper in question varies.
“The content is fairly consistent from letter to letter. The writer promises three things. First, an escalation of thievery. Second, further violence. Third, my brother’s destruction. We assume he plans to accomplish the third by a combination of the first and second.”
“Further violence?” John asks. “I don’t-wait. Joseph Harrison?”
“Incredibly dramatic for a suicide, yes,” Mr Holmes replies. “As a warning to an entire opera house, very concise: death shall descend upon you. The first letter arrived only after the death was officially declared a suicide.”
John leans forward, frowning. “Does he want anything else? Beyond your lord brother’s destruction.”
“Money,” Mr Holmes answers. “I believe the thefts will continue to escalate in target and frequency until the amount stolen equals the amount demanded.”
“How much?” John asks.
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
John whistles softly at the sum. Two horses is barely a start. Surely the paintings in the lobby will follow.
“Per month,” Mr Holmes adds.
“That... He can’t possibly expect that sum. Not monthly. A quarter of a million pounds in a year?”
“A full million in four years, two months, yes. Obviously not a demand which inspires obedience.”
“Obviously not,” John echoes. “But if the thefts do continue to that amount, the opera house will run out of things to steal.”
“At which point, I believe our options are property damage and fatal accidents.”
“How long do you think it will be until then?”
“Never, provided we catch him,” Mr Holmes replies. “Now, as to what I was saying about Mr Havill’s problematic friendship with my brother. The letters appear in Mr Havill’s desk without warning and with no sign of forced entry. The simplest solution is that Mr Havill is attempting to extort an absurd amount of money from my brother while playing the victim.”
“You’re sure he isn’t?”
“Exceedingly. My brother is a very discriminating man, Dr Watson. But we’ve no concrete proof of his innocence.”
“You haven’t taken this to the police?”
“The thefts, yes. The letters, however, have been viewed as a hoax, particularly since Harrison’s murder was declared a suicide.”
They pause as the waiter returns to freshen the coffee and tea.
“Why would the police ignore the letters?” John asks when the waiter departs. “That’s substantial evidence.”
“Because all of them have been signed by the opera ghost,” Mr Holmes answers.
“The... opera ghost.”
“Yes.”
“That...”
“I’m aware of the absurdity,” Mr Holmes states.
“It would be easy to pin the blame on anyone, that way,” John says. “Everyone already blames the ghost for anything that goes wrong. The, er, ‘real’ ghost. The one we’ve always had. If word got out, we’d have a witch hunt on our hands.” Superstition and gossip in close corridors are a terrible combination.
“Which is why you must tell no one,” Mr Holmes says.
“Of course,” John promises. “But with the ‘ghost’ so set on destroying the opera house, do you really believe he’s coming from inside?”
“I don’t,” Mr Holmes replies. “However, I see no point in drawing attention to our extorter when he’s clearly looking for a public scandal.”
“No, of course not.”
Mr Holmes nods. “Do you have any further questions?”
John thinks for a moment, looking into his tea. “When is the next payment due?”
“The last was due on Monday, when the second horse was stolen. Whether the next month has thefts or violence in store remains to be seen.”
And so Mr Holmes recruits a doctor. “Accidents do happen,” John says. “I know what the usual damage is, but if someone falls down the stairs, I won’t be able to determine if they were shoved.”
“But the victims will speak with you,” Mr Holmes counters. “Moreover, you’ll listen to them. It could be anyone in the opera house. The thefts began small, cloth before horses. I imagine the deaths will follow that pattern as well. A debtor of a stagehand followed by a seamstress, perhaps. And then a dancer. Then a singer. Or patrons, for a more visible scandal.”
John nods. “Should I contact you directly? Or report to Mr Havill.”
“You’ll contact me,” Mr Holmes confirms. “Give your letter to Mrs Hudson in a sealed, unaddressed envelope. She writes to me regularly. If our ghost has eyes outside the opera house as well as within, that correspondence will still appear perfectly normal.”
“You think it’s more than one man?”
Mr Holmes nods. “He’s exhibited an incredibly diverse skill set. If one man, he’s too extraordinary to be believed. The thefts of the horses, for example, must be two man jobs. At the very least.”
“I still don’t understand how no one saw the horses go,” John says. “Or heard, for that matter.”
“That’s not for you to worry about. Focus on the people.”
“Even more so than usual, sir,” John promises. Upon that reminder, his eyes fall to Mr Holmes’ plate, still largely full.
Mr Holmes follows his gaze but doesn’t reach for his long abandoned silverware. “If that’s all?”
“Ah, yes.”
Mr Holmes signals to the waiter, then prevents John from paying. “I consider it a business expense,” Mr Holmes states as the waiter goes to bring him his change. There’s an underlying quip in the curve of his lips, the joke of business and a gentleman of Holmes’ stature in combination. John immediately decides to pay for the next hansom. Holmes’ lips quirk further, and beneath his gaze, John can feel his mind fall open like the covers of a book.
They don their hats and coats, pull on their gloves, and venture out into the fog.
A full week after the second horse theft, John finally finds a safe moment to venture into the tunnels. Mrs Hudson had warned him away until after the police and Mr Holmes departed late Saturday night, and John had spent his Sunday in a state of overeager anticipation.
John isn’t the only one. He doesn’t reach Vernet’s door before the man throws it open, startling John to no end.
“Jesus Christ!”
“I heard your footsteps: you should have heard mine. Come in!” He promptly pulls John inside, hand first at John’s elbow before Vernet grips him by the upper arms. “It’s finished! Act two is finished! Some editing required, of course, but it’s all there, Doctor.”
“That’s brilliant!” John exclaims, attempting without success to put down his medical bag. “Hold on, hold on, let me--”
“It’s done,” Vernet crows, releasing him. He spins on the ball of one foot, hands thrown into the air, jacket flaring out with the motion. One hand darts to his face mid-spin to hold the mask in place. “Oh, it’s wonderful!”
John smiles helplessly as Vernet adjusts the mask over his features. As soon as John deposits his bag upon the table, Vernet seizes him by the arms a second time to whirl him about en route to a chair.
“Sit, sit! Listen to it now, listen, listen!”
John laughs. “I will,” he promises, mouth already aching with affection.
Vernet gathers up the papers strewn across the second table and arranges them into a new order upon his slanted desk. That done, he spins away to fetch his instrument. “It’s absolutely brilliant, Doctor.”
“What happened?”
A distracted noise as Vernet tunes his violin: “Hm?”
“Your breakthrough?” John asks.
“I took a break,” Vernet replies. “It worked.”
“Next time I tell you to take one, will you?”
“What? No. I’ll protest every step of the way.” Giddy and matter of fact at once, Vernet grins at him. “Now listen. Close your eyes and listen.”
John listens, but he does not close his eyes. Vernet is a creature of drama and gesticulation, and even when his soul is converted to sound, the performance of his body mesmerises. The speed of his fingers, the controlled tremble of his wrist, the sweet curve of his neck as his violin plays him; all compels sight.
Vernet punctuates this private concert with transitions such as “And then!” or “With this playing over that” or “Imagine a bass drum when I tap my foot” or “What about this way, do you prefer this way?” He demands for John to name the plot of each scene as he plays it sans libretto. John responds as best he’s able, applauds in more places than it’s called for, and permits himself to simply bask in his admiration of the man.
“And there it is,” Vernet concludes all too soon, although his playing must have lasted for the better part of an hour.
“What about the libretto?” John asks.
“Finished as well,” Vernet replies, slinging his instrument down from his shoulder. He checks the sudden movement and sets the bow into its case with gentle reverence. He whisks out a cloth and begins to clean the white rosin dust from his instrument. “We’re ready for act three.”
“But the libretto was where you were stuck.”
“Yes, and?”
“And I’d like to hear it,” John answers, still half-smiling. Vernet hadn’t sung the libretto of the first act for him either. John hadn’t pressed at the time, but after the fuss of this act, he’d like to hear it.
Vernet shakes his head. “No good.”
“What? Why not?”
“The lack of adequate singers, for a start.”
“You manage to play the essence of each act on one instrument,” John reasons. “Why not with one voice?”
“Because mine is hardly adequate,” Vernet replies, abruptly on the edge of snapping. “Stop asking.”
“All right, all right.” John shifts in his seat. “Could you simply say it? In English.”
Vernet purses his lips into a sullen wrinkle. “All opera sounds idiotic in English. Even simply spoken, it’s atrocious.”
John sits up straight, folds his hands in his lap, and lifts his chin.
“If you’re determined to wait, you’ll wait a long time,” Vernet warns.
“If it’s stupid, it’s my fault,” John reminds him.
“If it’s stupid, I’ll still sound stupid.”
“And I’ll still know better,” John counters.
Vernet glares at him.
John allows his overabundance of eagerness to show.
Vernet sighs, looking away. “One scene. You can have one scene.”
“Which was the one you were stuck on? The bit where the young soldier is about to signal the mutiny forward, but then his commanding officer talks him out of it?”
Vernet groans. “That’s the one you want to hear?”
“Yes,” John answers. “Definitely that one.”
Vernet tucks his violin away, stows the cloth, and closes the case. He fastens it shut, his back turned toward John. “Fine. But we act it out.”
“All right.” John stands.
“Come here.” Vernet beckons him over. He begins to pull his gloves on against the chamber’s chill. This truncates his gesticulations greatly. “The entry door is stage left. The door to my second room is stage right. The desk is the orchestra pit. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Good. The young soldier enters from stage right. No, don’t go in: just stand at the door and come back to centre stage.”
John does so, uncertain of how to stand. He’s abruptly certain Vernet only decided to act out the scene to make John even more uncomfortable than Vernet is.
“The soldier sings a reprise of the earlier song used to convert him to the mutineers’ cause. In short: my body cries for Rome, the rock that forms my bones, the stone within my spine. How can I stand without you, my home, my strength? I long for you, for my life to come. Here, fantasy is but air. Though I may breathe it, I cannot capture it within my lungs. All escapes. Sand shifts beneath my feet, and beneath Antony’s also. If all know my general cannot stand, then can I not escape blame for his fall?”
For this part, John closes his eyes, trying to match the words to the well-remembered theme. The English rhythm makes the comparison a difficult mental exercise. He tilts his head as he listens, his ears distantly registering Vernet’s motions as he circles in the small room.
“Song ends suddenly with the captain’s entrance. The audience doesn’t see him, nor does the soldier. The officer springs out behind him, like so.”
John startles at the sudden contact, a perfectly natural response to a hand about his neck. Vernet presses against his back, right hand cradling John’s throat. His other hand swipes across John’s front and pulls John’s jacket back to his hip. Vernet’s palm presses there, heavier than the leather-clad hold around John’s neck.
“Hand at the throat to prevent a cry,” Vernet rumbles into John’s left ear. “Hand on the sword hilt to prevent a counterattack. Is that effective blocking?”
John nods, throat thick. He can still talk. He’s certain of that. It’s simply the suddenness of the position which forbids his lungs from pulling in air.
“The captain warns: cry out and die. I know what you’re attempting. Life does not lie that way. Be true to me once more and live.” Vernet shifts his grip on John’s neck, his thumb below John’s ear. Though his fingertips remain along John’s jaw, Vernet’s palm slides so slightly southward, permitting reply. “His theme plays for his lines, then merges with the reprise for the soldier’s portion.
“The soldier protests innocence, but the captain contradicts, quoting the overheard mutiny plans back to him. Again, the same theme as the mutiny reprise. The captain asks if he can trust the soldier should he let him go. The soldier admits uncertainty. Transition into the captain’s theme.” Vernet hums the familiar melody.
Though he can hear perfectly well, John tilts his head, angling his ear. The motion rubs dark leather against his skin, over his jumping pulse.
“What are your thoughts thus far?” Vernet asks. His voice is the same as it always is when they speak like this, absolutely hungering for feedback.
“Good scene,” John manages to say. He clears his throat, blaming his tone on Vernet’s hand. “Good tension. But I’d still prefer it sung. How it’s intended, after all.”
Vernet groans, much too loud for having his mouth so close to John’s ear. John manages not to jerk away at the noise, but only just. “I loathe singing for an audience,” Vernet protests.
“I’m not an audience. I’m your assistant.”
Vernet scoffs. “You’re always my audience.” He taps his fingertips against John’s jaw, as if having forgotten something. The touch is oddly companionable, as if Vernet thinks no more of touching John than he would of touching himself. “Ah, yes, the captain’s solo. This sounds much better in Italian. Fits the measure. It’s also three times longer when sung.”
“I consider myself warned,” John replies.
“The captain’s part: do not mistake the foundations of your bones for Caesar’s rule. For though your bones are of Caesar’s land, they are not Caesar’s. Caesar cannot bid you to stand, though Antony may bid you to die. For it is Antony who owns your heart.” Here, Vernet’s hand slides from John’s neck to his chest, solid pressure against his waistcoat. His throat quickly grows cold in the absence of that touch.
“We are of a kind,” Vernet continues as the captain, “and so I know you. I have dreamt your dreams and struggled your life, and I know they lead to Antony. The comforting touch of Lady Rome is a touch you never shall know, but take Duty as your wife, and Glory shall be your daughter, Honour your son, and Antony grandfather of Honour and Glory both. For though the splendours of Egypt pass out of us with every breath, so do we inhale them yet again. Do not hold your breath, but breathe, and live. You say you cannot stand without your home, yet there is no life without air. Stay and live, and wed your duty as I have married mine. Seek no greater love, for there shall be none. What say you to me?”
John’s heart races, ears straining, and Vernet releases him. Vernet releases him and presses on John’s shoulder until John turns, clumsy, to face him. Vernet turns them farther, spinning them both in a half-circle to exchange positions.
“I say ‘yes’,” Vernet states, his back as straight as a soldier’s, his voice as proud as a fool’s. “I say I will fight with you, and for you, and I will not again be pulled astray. Should stone crumble and my bones be pulled from my limbs, I will cry out, but I shall still breathe. And should it be my last, I shall breathe it for Antony.”
Silence rings in the wake of his voice. A hushed tingling settles through John’s limbs. The music plays on inside his mind.
“I can hear it,” John realises. “The, the violin, I can...” He points from the case to his own head. “I can hear it.”
Softly, Vernet smiles. “Good.”
“Very good,” John says. “Extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary.” His entire body feels as if it’s trembling, and the sensation refuses to fade. He rubs his hand over his face, laughing. “God, if this is a botched mutiny, the battle scene is going to be... I won’t have the words. I mean that.”
Shifting on the balls of his feet, Vernet preens.
“It’s really only a matter of time,” John says.
“I know,” Vernet agrees, blissful. He rushes forward, grips John gleefully by the shoulders. “It’s never been so simple!”
John laughs, filled up by the other man’s giddy burst. Vernet spins him about again, and they stumble about, so terribly pleased with themselves, so terribly pleased with Vernet. John swears to himself, swears and swears again, that whatever it takes to push the world back, to keep the investigations of the opera house above from disturbing this man, he will do. He fears for Vernet’s safety, though never for his innocence. To look on this happiness and think of it stripped away is a form of torture in itself.
“Doctor?” Vernet asks, smile fading at the edges.
“I need to return to work,” John says with all the mournfulness such a statement requires. He squeezes Vernet’s hands, catching leather clad fingers as Vernet drops them from John’s shoulders. “Enjoy act three.”
“A naval battle, Doctor! Antony and Cleopatra’s one duet!”
“And the first significant death?” John asks and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Thoughts of Joseph Harrison are too fresh, worries for Vernet too near. If a stagehand is easy prey, what of the anonymous man in the basement?
Vernet hums with satisfaction, oblivious to John’s concerns or perhaps ignoring them. “Off you go, Doctor. I should have something to show you by the time you return.”
“You’d better,” John warns.
Vernet grins and waves him on into the world above.
art
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