Fic: Bel Canto - 4/16 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7.7k 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
It’s not unusual for anyone to take a tumble down the stairs. It’s not unheard of for anyone to break an arm or leg doing this.
Three in a week, however, is a bit much.
None of the unlucky trio is fit for work. Accordingly, John interviews them as much as is possible before they can be laid off. Two are stagehands. One is a dancer. All three fall without witnesses, a rarity in itself within the crowded opera house. All three, upon privacy and John asking, admit to having felt they weren’t alone during the incident. The second stagehand even claims to have been pushed. Remarkable, the information one can glean in exchange for setting a bone or three.
“Misfortunes fall in threes,” Mrs Hudson assures him. “Not so literally, usually, but it’s true.”
“Been meaning to have some of the boys look at those stairs,” Mr Green says while checking up on his stagehands. Soon to be former stagehands, but Green takes the second man aside to promise the return of his job upon recovery.
Realising that superstition and practicality have dismissed the incidents as accidents, John takes two courses of action. First, he reports to Mr Holmes via letter. Second, he speaks with Molly Hooper.
“I already have everyone working in pairs,” Miss Hooper explains. “Then I told everyone to be sure they’re with someone until Mr Green has the stairs repaired. Is that too much? I don’t want to be paranoid, but the way everyone is falling...”
“It’s precisely the safety measure I wanted to speak with you about,” John replies. “You’ve shown good initiative. See that it spreads, won’t you? I don’t want anyone else out in the cold with winter coming. It’s for everyone’s sake.”
Miss Hooper shudders. “No, I will.”
John gives her the best smile he can muster. “I’m sure it will be fine once the repairs are finished.”
Miss Hooper nods, an answer clinging to her closed lips.
“Is something else the matter?” John asks.
“It’s silly,” Miss Hooper says.
“Good,” John says. “I’ve had too much seriousness lately.”
Miss Hooper hesitates, then says, “Sometimes, it feels as if I’m being watched. I’m one of the last to turn in for the night, you know. Well, no, you don’t know, but I am. It’s probably the creaking and the atmosphere, really. I’ve looked around, and no one’s ever there.” She twitches a smile. “I said it was silly.”
“Has the feeling worsened lately?” John asks.
Miss Hooper nods shyly. “Since Joe Harrison died. It’s like the opera house has another ghost now.” She tries to play it as a joke, but it falls terribly flat. She clears her throat. “Anyway.”
“If it worsens,” John says.
“I’m just being silly,” Miss Hooper interrupts.
“Miss Hooper,” John says, slightly louder than before, and certainly more firmly, “as your doctor, I am telling you that if this worsens, you’re to tell me. Yes?”
Miss Hooper bites her lip and nods.
“I used to be in the army,” John says, trying and admittedly failing to reassure her. He hardly wants to tell the woman her sanity is unsound. “Feelings like this do count, sometimes. Mind you, the cause of much paranoia once turned out to be a stealthy monkey, but we did catch the pest before it ruined all the supplies.”
As always, the monkey story brings out a smile, however slight. “I’ll tell you if I see anyone swinging from the rafters,” Miss Hooper promises.
“Good,” John says. “And you might want to find a large net.”
A bit of a giggle there and John grins back. It’s hardly his best flirt, but under the circumstances, that’s for the best. They part ways soon after. John changes his rounds somewhat, keeping in the company of others, and he is very careful on the stairs.
Mr Holmes writes back promptly. His is the fluid, effortless style of a man who has never had to force his right hand and neglect his left. Mr Holmes has sent the names of the injured to a police inspector who seems to owe him a favour. It’s not the policeman’s division, Mr Holmes clarifies, not unless Harrison’s death can be proven as a murder, but his man will have a word with the potential victims. He already has another man looking into the thefts.
Mrs Hudson delivers this letter into John’s medical bag. For an instant, she looks as if she wants to say something more but thinks better of it. Too many other people about, John assumes. When he tries to ask her about it later, she’s forgotten.
“...but the counterpoint, that is where it shines. By assigning the instruments to the different sides of the battle, the two halves of the orchestra will compete with one another. Somewhat limiting, rather simple, but effective here, and-You’re not paying attention.”
John blinks a bit, certain Vernet had been halfway across the room a moment ago. “Beg your pardon?”
“You’re not paying attention,” Vernet repeats, an accusation of the ultimate crime.
“Sorry,” John says and sits up straighter. “You were saying?”
“You don’t want to pay attention,” Vernet continues. His frown dominates his face, is all John knows of his face. “Why don’t you want to pay attention?”
“That’s not it.”
An indignant demand: “Do you have something better to think about?”
John can’t prevent his laughter. “Worse, actually,” he confesses. “There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it, though.”
Vernet groans, gesturing at John as if to shake him. “Then why waste your time?”
“Because battles put me on edge,” John says easily enough.
“But mine is meant to do that.”
“I don’t mean yours.”
“Exactly the problem!” Vernet replies. “What could possibly compete with mine?”
John grins despite himself. “Your ego ought to be aggravating. I’ve no idea how you manage it.”
“Doctor, I am trying to be productive.”
John apologises to little result, and Vernet flaunts his wounded pride as if preening. He plays the prima donna so well that it would be a shame not to indulge him. John continues his apologies until positively saccharine and chokes on his own tongue as Vernet reaches undiscovered heights of self-parody. His hair flops about with each dramatic turn, an eternally tumbling crown. John breaks character first, laughing helplessly, and Vernet crows with his victory.
“Now tell me,” Vernet instructs, practically diving into his chair next to John’s. Impossibly, he lands in a languid sprawl.
“It’s not something I ought to bother you with,” John demurs.
Vernet’s head turns, tilting in question. “Bother? No, I could use this.” He sits properly then leans forward, close to aggressive. “A battle, you said, putting you on edge. Something has happened that reminds you of your combat days. Out with it.”
“There’s been a slew of falls,” John replies. “It’s not important: there are always falls.”
“But these have been serious,” Vernet continues for him. “Injuries requiring your attention. You’ve observed pain and blood recently.”
“Pain and blood don’t bother me,” John says. “I’d be a terrible doctor if they did.”
“Ah,” Vernet says.
“What?”
“Helplessness. And anticipation.”
“Could you not actually do that right now?” John asks.
“Because I’m exacerbating it?”
John hesitates, then nods.
Vernet grins. “Good. What’s the worst of it?”
John fights down a groan. “You’re a terrible friend.”
Vernet’s grin flickers.
His earlier discomfort dwarfed, John rubs at his face. “Um. God, let’s see.” He closes his eyes to think but needs do little more than blink. “Ah. Mm.”
The tilt to Vernet’s head implies furrowed brows. His shoulders project his interest, centred upon John and yet holding back. Waiting. Observing. Determining whether John will find the words on his own.
“When you know the people around you might die, it changes how you think about them,” John says. Simply that and nothing more, because no matter how familiar the sentiment is between his hands, the phrasing of it slips between his fingers. Upon realising that Miss Hooper may be injured or killed, he realised the importance of her wellbeing, of her ability to function and keep those around her functioning. She is a peg holding the planks to the frame. In this way, an acquaintance becomes a priority.
The sentiment is softer to Mrs Hudson, padded where it presses down upon his shoulders. For all her superstitions, Mrs Hudson will never see any “opera ghost” as harmful.
When John thinks of Vernet in that context...
He prefers not to think, and therefore he doesn’t.
“Yes?” Vernet prompts. “Go on.”
“I’m trying to think of something usable,” John prevaricates. “No, um. The chain of command means protecting your superiors for the sake of the whole, but sometimes the people holding everything together aren’t in the chain where they rightly should be.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“You’re deeply uncomfortable,” Vernet states.
There’s no use in denying it. “Will you play your violin?” John asks instead. “Please.”
“How frequently does it still affect you?” Vernet asks. “Your war experience was years ago.”
John shakes his head.
“No, it was years ago,” Vernet insists.
“It was, but... That doesn’t matter.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Morbid fascination fills the well of Vernet’s deep voice, black and bottomless. “How frequently does it still affect you?”
“How frequently does having learned to read affect you?” John counters.
“I, what?” Vernet peers at him in the dim light, candlelight flickering into the holes of his mask. The eyes within are a deep gleam, perhaps blue.
It was the first thought to have come to mind, but now that it’s said, John stands by it. “I learned to see things, and now I can’t stop seeing them. It’s the same basic idea.”
Vernet nods slowly, fingers steepled. “You see danger. No, that’s not right. You enjoy risk. Danger is a guilty pleasure for you. The problem is your helplessness when not confronted with an immediate task. This is why you prefer treating injury over illness. Your success rate is better. I’m fairly certain. Ah, yes. Your wife died of illness, didn’t she? Not something you’d advertise as a doctor, obviously, but your reactions and overbearing air of personal responsibility--”
“Shut up,” John says. “Right there.”
“But--”
“No. If you want to talk about the war, fine. That’s relevant, that will help, that’s fine. But this is off-limits. If you don’t accept that, I leave,” John tells him. “Is that clear?”
Vernet pauses for a moment before saying, “You’re overreacting.”
John stands, reaching for his medical bag, and Vernet catches his wrist. John glares down at him. Vernet doesn’t let go.
“You were agitated before you arrived,” Vernet states, his tone aggravatingly reasonable. He doesn’t move, stable in his forward lean. “I’m hardly insulting your late wife. I’m not stupid enough to ridicule you for the innate limitations of medicine. Now calm down. We’ve work to do.”
“You’ve work to do,” John counters. “I need to be back aboveground.”
“Already?” It’s all too easy to imagine the raised eyebrows behind his mask.
“Yes,” John says and promptly twists his wrist out of Vernet’s grip. “At the rate the accidents are happening, there’s doubtlessly a skull I need to patch together by now.”
“Doctor,” Vernet begins, but John cuts him off.
“I’ll see you in a few days. Good afternoon.”
“Is it really?” Vernet asks dryly, but John’s already out the door.
By the time John is willing to give ground, several days have passed. Before John can make good on his intentions, Mrs Hudson takes him aside and quietly says, “None of that downstairs business for a few days. He says he’s much too busy.”
“Oh,” John says. He hovers for a moment before asking, “How is he?”
“Having a bit of a sulk, dear,” Mrs Hudson replies. “Don’t worry, he’s often like that.”
“How, um, how long...?”
Mrs Hudson simply pats his arm. “Not your fault. He’ll come around.”
“All right,” John says, not without misgivings.
He returns to waiting and continues on, feigning normalcy.
“Dr Watson,” Hopkins calls. “I think there might be a problem, sir.”
John stands, tucking away his novel with steady hands. “One of the patrons?”
Hopkins shakes his head. “Not quite, sir.”
John frowns and Hopkins explains.
The “Not Quite” is situated upstairs in the curving hall, his face drawn, eyes closed, and back to the wall. Beside him, the door to Box Five is closed. John waves Hopkins away before approaching.
“Mr Holmes,” John greets mildly.
“Dr Watson,” Mr Holmes replies.
“I take it you’re not enjoying the performance.”
“I’m not here for the performance.” Mr Holmes makes no attempt to disguise his bitterness. “I’m here to be gawked at.”
John looks up and down the hall. He looks back to Mr Holmes to find the man has at least opened his eyes. “Begging your pardon, sir,” John says, “but you’re not doing a very good job of it.”
Mr Holmes’ mouth twitches. The motion draws John’s gaze, oddly arresting. “I’ve endured the first act. Isn’t that enough?”
“Is there a problem with the box?”
“There is a problem with my brother,” Mr Holmes says, the word a curse.
“Perhaps we ought to discuss this in private,” John suggests, reaching toward the door to Box Five.
Mr Holmes shakes his head. “That’s not private.”
John releases the handle. “You’ve company.”
“Not of my choosing,” Mr Holmes confirms, his volume possibly such as to be heard inside the box.
“Somewhere else, then.”
“Box Ten is empty tonight,” Mr Holmes says.
John nods. They walk together, their matching footsteps in beat with the music. Upon realising this, John smiles involuntarily. Mr Holmes looks at him oddly, then at their feet, and smiles in turn. In conjunction with a bowed head, the expression seems sheepish as well as delighted. How strange, to need to look up at a boyish smile.
He nearly walks past the door to Box Ten, but Holmes is more aware of their surroundings than John is. Mr Holmes opens the door and beckons John inside. John locates a chair and sits before Mr Holmes closes the door, plunging them into semi-darkness. Mr Holmes picks his path with care before settling down next to John with a satisfied sigh. “Much better,” Mr Holmes murmurs.
John watches him against the red backdrop of the curtain. Agitated and restless, certainly, but slowly quieting. His immaculate hair turns his outline sleek and terribly composed. Or restrained. Certainly restrained.
“If your company inquires as to where you’ve gone, would you be willing to blame a headache?” John asks. “The heat and the lights can have that effect.”
“Making excuses for me, Dr Watson?”
“Only if you’d like some.”
“That would be... convenient,” Holmes acknowledges.
“Whatever I can do,” John says.
Holmes looks at him curiously. “You actually mean that.”
“I’d hardly offer otherwise.”
Holmes’ inspection of his face persists. John becomes jarringly aware of the heat in the booth.
“Are you looking into something tonight?” John asks.
“Being looked at,” Holmes says. “Projecting the illusion of stability. Reassuring idiots.”
John bites down a grin. “Kind of you to think of them.”
“Mycroft’s idea, not mine.”
“And he had other plans, I take it.”
Holmes scoffs, a bitter sound that does little to clarify.
For a short time, they sit without speaking. John’s content to do so until Holmes begins to fidget.
“Any progress on the horses?” John asks.
“A theory,” Holmes responds immediately. “It would require some coordination and one complicit stableman per horse, but they could have been smuggled out via cab.”
John blinks at him. “A horse inside a cab.”
“Pulling the cab, obviously. The cabbie drives in. The horses are exchanged when no one’s looking. The cabbie drives away. When he sends someone to fetch the original horse, no one raises a fuss over letting the strange animal go.”
John mulls that over. It seems exceptionally implausible. “And you’ve thought of this because there were two strange horses?”
“Each time, yes. Old nags, nothing more.”
“Then there’s a cabbie or two out there with a very fine horse right now,” John replies. “Have you contacted the agencies?”
“Nothing unusual there. There wouldn’t be if the horses were switched back later.”
“It still seems a stretch,” John says.
“And yet it’s the only solution that makes sense. More importantly, it’s easy enough to guard against. If it’s an incorrect theory, we’ll find out soon enough.”
John nods. “Supposing the thief turns to other targets?”
“Oh, he doubtlessly will,” Holmes replies, a chuckle beneath his voice.
John stares at him, then immediately attempts not to. “You sound as if you’re enjoying this.”
“He’ll try to escalate,” Holmes replies. “The stables are an easy target. The interior of the opera house, much less so. Once we know he’s inside, we’ll be able to track him that much better.”
“Then you don’t believe the injuries are linked?” John asks.
“I don’t believe we can prove the link,” Holmes answers. “Tying it all together, that’s what is called for. It’s only a matter of time, Dr Watson. Until then, we give no indication anything has gone awry. It’s what our ghost wants, and I won’t play into his hands.”
“Then shouldn’t you return to being gawked at?”
“God, no,” Holmes says with a shudder. “There’s only so much Mycroft can force me to do in one sitting.” With a sudden resolve, he stands and draws open the curtain, the half closer to the stage. He quickly works out the lines of sight and positions his chair slightly farther back than before. “There we are. Have you heard our contralto? She’s remarkable. All of her roles are wasted on her.”
John follows the change of topic much as he had the change of seating. It takes him a moment, but he’s able to respond. “Miss Adler?” She’s the only contralto singing tonight, he’s nearly certain.
“Mm.”
Looking out the gap in the curtain, John locates what appears to be the most attractive man upon the stage. He has to lean somewhat into Holmes’ space, but Holmes doesn’t seem to mind. John leans hard on his armrest and he can feel the contact through layers of cloth when their sleeves touch.
“I wouldn’t say ‘wasted’,” John muses. “If any woman can make so convincing a man, it seems a shame to stop her.”
“Not quite my meaning,” Holmes replies.
Finding Holmes’ gaze upon his face, John shifts back. “What do you mean?”
“When the villain is a better singer than the heroine, it does encourage one to pull for the wrong side,” Holmes explains.
Is she the villain of this opera? John wonders but doesn’t ask. Many of the patrons find his lack of knowledge appalling where opera is involved. As already John’s forgotten the name of tonight’s performance, that reaction is regrettably deserved.
“It’s a simple matter of assigning set roles to particular vocal ranges,” Holmes continues.
“It seems a convention made to be broken,” John says, thinking of Vernet’s intentions.
“You agree?” Though his tone remains mild, surprise shines blue in his eyes. They’d seemed green in the hall, or perhaps John is misremembering. Perhaps it’s the lighting.
“Is there a reason to disagree?” John asks. If his ignorance will out, he might as well claim it boldly.
“Tradition,” Holmes replies, a terrible lightness forced into his voice. “Expectation, convention, habit. Clinging to the established order is very typical. Those who vary and succeed are exceptions, and those who vary and fail were doomed from the start.” He smiles a grimace out toward the stage.
It doesn’t take a clever man to realise Holmes is no longer speaking of opera. What of, however, John has no idea.
“But there are those who vary and succeed,” John counters all the same.
The brunt of Holmes’ attention shifts to John. His focus has physical weight, stones pressed upon the chest to crush out a man’s breath. John meets his gaze only because it seems cowardly not to. Though sitting in fine surroundings and wearing clothing even finer, Holmes gazes at him with something ragged behind his eyes, something rough and worn that turns his attention into a demand.
“Aren’t there?” John asks. His voice holds steady. “I don’t know much of opera, but you said there were.”
Holmes’ mouth twitches, and there is something almost uncanny in the motion. John finds himself staring before he can prevent it. When he matches Holmes’ gaze once more, the man’s eyes are unmistakably green. A matter of lighting, then, and proximity.
John clears his throat and looks away. “I ought to check outside. Be certain no one else has come down with a terrible headache.”
“And leave me defenceless?” Holmes asks. “How callous of you.”
Half out of his seat, John immediately sits back down. The words catch him, not the toying tone. “You think the opera ghost will attack you?”
Holmes rolls his eyes. “I’m hardly near a staircase.” If he intends this as a joke, it’s certainly not a good one.
“Then what?” John asks.
“I’ve not finished avoiding my company at the moment,” Holmes replies. “Or ever, for that matter.”
“I’ll inform them you’re having a much needed moment of rest,” John says. “Otherwise--” He catches himself just in time to keep from insulting his social better. “I’m sure they’re worried.”
“Otherwise I’ll offend them,” Holmes concludes in John’s original tract. “Which I wholly intend to do, now with the plausible deniability your assistance offers.”
Though John hardly voices the question, his entire face configures itself to ask “Why?”
“Because the Viscount has a sister and she does not yet find me odious,” Holmes replies. “I refuse to return until I’ve rectified this.”
John can’t help but stare at him. Holmes is a difficult man not to stare at. “I... don’t follow,” John admits.
“I have no nephews,” Holmes replies succinctly, his light voice soured.
And as his brother’s heir, he must have sons, the logic follows. “I see,” John says.
“Do you?”
“There are easier ways of rejecting a woman,” John says. “If you’d like me to suggest a few--”
“I prefer to offend the brother,” Holmes replies. “Simpler. Hurts his pride to encourage his sister, and the sister has enough sense to be uninterested. Unfortunate. That nearly makes her an appealing prospect.”
“Do you do this often?” John asks, more incredulous in tone than he ought to allow himself. “Beg pardon, sir. I mean, we’ve a madman pretending to be a ghost and threatening your brother. That seems excuse enough to back out.”
“Whereas attending indicates that the largest problem in my life continues to be Mycroft’s efforts to marry me off.” At once annoyed and pleased with himself, Holmes shifts in his chair, turning to face John more fully. “To those who matter most, everything appears absolutely normal.”
When put that way, it seems very reasonable. “In that case,” John says, once again easing out of his chair, “I ought to keep to my habits as well.” His movements are slow and resist completion.
“Tell that usher where to find you,” Holmes counters. “There’s little sense in you being on alert. The ghost hasn’t threatened to harm any of the patrons until next month.”
John hesitates.
“Problem?”
The news of the ghost or Holmes’ own habits? One topic seems more pressing than the other, and it isn’t the one it should be. “I was under the impression you preferred to watch alone.”
Holmes raises an eyebrow. “From what evidence?”
“Your dislike of watching with company,” John replies, far blunter than he ought to be.
As expected, the comment pleases Holmes. “If there is something worth hearing, I expect to hear it.”
“And if there isn’t, you don’t mind my chatter.”
Holmes blinks, then laughs quietly. “I mind useless chatter,” he allows.
John takes it as a well-intentioned warning. “I’ll tell the usher,” John decides, too long positioned on the edge of his seat. He still doesn’t move, not until Holmes’ eyes shine their approval.
John exits quietly. He informs Hopkins that he’ll be keeping Mr Holmes company in Box Ten. Nonetheless, he should be notified immediately should any of the patrons require medical attention. Hopkins readily agrees and asks after Mr Holmes’ health with the same sort of concern the regular patrons reserve for their favourite soprano. John lies more easily than expected, and Hopkins nearly departs to inform the occupants of Box Five. John stops him and instead informs Holmes’ company himself. The brother is more annoyed than the sister, but both listen patiently as John speaks of the effects of heat and loud sound on a body suffering from dehydration. The sister mentions that Holmes barely touched his dinner. She has a pleasant voice to match her face and bearing. John sincerely thanks her for this information before making his own excuses and exiting.
“You told the Viscount,” Holmes accuses the moment John returns.
“Why on Earth would you think that?” John asks.
“The length of time you were gone,” Holmes replies flatly.
John sits beside him without qualms. “If you have a headache, that’s an early evening and a quiet ride home.”
Holmes considers this. “Fine.”
Recognising grudging thanks when he hears it, John returns his gaze toward the stage. Rather, the amount of the stage he can see through the curtain. The actors sing on and are followed by a short bout of ballet. John’s mind wanders.
“I can feel you thinking,” Holmes murmurs. The raised lilt to his voice acutely conveys his annoyance.
“If you’d rather sit alone,” John begins sincerely, but Holmes cuts him off with a raised hand.
“You’ve a question. Ask it.”
“It’s impertinent,” John warns.
A smile curls at the corner of Holmes’ mouth like the tip of a cat’s tail. “All the better.”
“Are you against marriage or against the candidates for it?” The Viscount’s sister had seemed perfectly lovely, though first opinions of women with chestnut curls piled high are always somewhat biased. Still, she’d responded practically to the news of another’s condition, and that is a trait John admires wherever he finds it.
“Both,” Holmes replies. He sighs, absolutely bored. “Is that all?”
“Have you considered courting a decoy?” John suggests. “Someone tolerable who doesn’t want to marry you.”
“No one wants to marry me,” Holmes replies. “I’ve ensured that much. They want to marry the title I’m posed to inherit.” His bitterness is the reverse of a regular man’s, scorning the interest rather than the cause.
John hums and Holmes’ gaze snaps to John’s face.
“What?” Holmes asks. “You’ve had a thought. What?”
“Well,” John says, “how often would you need to fake a courtship?”
“With luck, not until the New Year’s Masquerade,” Holmes replies.
“Not until the end of next month, then.”
“But you have a candidate in mind now, don’t you?” Holmes demands.
“It’s a bit ridiculous,” John warns.
“Tell me,” Holmes insists.
“Miss Adler,” John says. “It’s a match no one would encourage you to pursue, and beyond Mrs Hudson, she’s the only woman I’ve ever heard you speak well of.”
Holmes considers him much the way he might a dog reciting poetry: as if John’s words are in themselves remarkable, but John is entirely lacking in intellect.
“I have it on good authority she would never seek commitment but would enjoy the public attention,” John adds.
“On what authority?”
“Good authority,” John repeats and will say no more. He is a doctor, and this is an opera house. He treats sore throats and cases of the unmentionables in disproportionate numbers and, as such, always makes a point of treating the source of the unmentionables as well. In Miss Adler’s case, the source was a harpist by the name of Miss Norton. This information had only been procured through the careful mention of John’s late sister. Whether Miss Adler had observed his guilt or merely his desire to help, she’d let him do his job.
That bout had been over a year ago. With no relapses, all evidence points toward a continuing exclusive relationship. Few will voice displeasure within the opera house itself, but the general public admires Miss Adler too much not to wonder at her lack of beau.
Though John says none of this, Holmes nods as if considering a detailed argument. “Or,” Holmes says, “you could attend the masquerade this year and announce my inevitable headache.”
The suggestion takes John by surprise. “You’re set against any female company?”
Holmes grimaces. “Even a connoisseur can drown in wine.”
It’s hardly a metaphor John needs to hear while still thinking of women like Harry. He reaches for a reply only to be interrupted by a terrible noise from outside the box. The noise repeats, as if a giant frog were belching, and the orchestra stumbles.
He and Holmes stare at each other, and then stare out the curtain.
Tonight’s diva stands upon the stage, nervously twisting back and forth in the silence of the orchestra and the murmuring of the audience. She leans forward to say something to the conductor, and the music resumes at a previous point. The murmuring of the audience quiets in anticipation only for another ghastly croak to escape the soprano’s throat. Laughter and concern erupts from the audience in unequal amounts. Horrified, the soprano flees from the stage.
“Excuse me,” John says, grabbing up his medical bag as he stands. “I’m needed backstage.”
Holmes agrees and follows him. By the time they arrive backstage, a replacement is already being rushed into costume while a short ballet stalls for time. John attempts to see to the soprano, but no amount of brandishing his medical bag will force the woman’s indignant husband to permit him inside the dressing room. John turns to Holmes to borrow his societal clout only to realise Holmes has vanished somewhere. It isn’t until the soprano calms down that John can see to her, and by then, untold amounts of tears and panic have already taken their toll on the woman’s throat.
Unexpectedly, Holmes reappears at John’s elbow. “Madam,” Holmes asks the soprano, “is this yours?” He holds a glass vial with a small spraying attachment, not unlike a certain variety of perfume bottles.
“That’s for my throat,” the soprano rasps, reaching for the bottle.
Holmes withholds it. “If your husband would be so kind,” he says, and promptly sprays the husband in the mouth, opened in the beginnings of a question.
“What is the meaning of this?” the husband demands through his sputtering. “Who--” His words break apart into a horrible, hoarse creak.
“I thought as much,” Holmes remarks. He hands the bottle to the husband. “That will be all.” Holmes promptly walks away, shutting the dressing room door behind him.
“It’s been tampered with!” the soprano exclaims, or attempts to exclaim.
Abandoned to his charge, John musters an expression of absolute patience. He musters it for quite some time. The tampering is obvious, the culprit less so. The soprano attempts to tell him a list of her rivals and will only be silenced when John urges her not to risk any damage to her throat. The false ghost, John wants to and cannot say. Unable to warn the woman of the true perpetrator, he navigates uneasily until both singer and husband agree to speak with Mr Havill after their recoveries. John is sure to explain who Holmes is before the pair curses his name to an irreparable degree.
By the time John can convince them he’s no longer called for, the night’s performance is nearly over. John considers returning to Box Ten only to spy Holmes exiting Miss Adler’s dressing room. That will certainly vex the Viscount and his sister.
“Was she in?” John asks.
Holmes shakes his head. “Scouting out the territory. Your plan should prove feasible, though I’ll still require your presence.”
“Beg pardon?” John asks, thoroughly lost after his high-strung ordeal.
“The masquerade,” Holmes replies as if this ought to be perfectly obvious.
“I wasn’t invited,” John explains.
“As of now, you are.” His brisk manner brooks no complaints or denial. “Accompany Mrs Hudson. She’s permitted a guest.”
“Shouldn’t she be asked first?” John asks. It’s entirely rhetorical and yet leads to Holmes setting off purposefully, his long legs performing the silent, almost bouncing stride so common to the stagehands. Unable to copy those quiet footsteps, John follows much more slowly.
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Mrs Hudson agrees just as John catches up with Holmes. “It’s been years since I had someone to coordinate a costume with. My husband, you know.”
Just like that, John has plans for New Year’s Eve.
Eventually, John does manage to take Holmes aside. “What about the ghost?” John demands. “The one choking the singers, do you have any course of action?”
“Yes,” Holmes says. “Last month he took our property, this month he is trying to destroy our performances, and next month he threatens to kill. The New Year’s Masquerade is our most lavish event, and I’ve procured a doctor to stand guard over our beloved dance mistress.” He squeezes John’s shoulder and keeps his hand there. “The rest will follow. I’ve time to arrange it.”
Surprised, John nods.
“Satisfied?” Holmes asks, the question curling with confident amusement.
“Do you ever do anything for one reason?” John asks.
“Just one?”
“Yes.”
“That seems terribly inefficient,” Holmes replies dryly.
John laughs despite himself.
Holmes squeezes John’s shoulder a second time before releasing him. The warmth of the contact is recognised only by the chill of its absence. “You’re a wonderfully convenient ally, Dr Watson. I’d like to see more of you.”
“I can arrange that,” John promises.
Holmes’ eyes positively sparkle, grey in the dim hall. What colour might they be in daylight? “Wonderfully convenient,” Holmes repeats.
John nearly offers to bring his gun to the masquerade, then thinks better of it. But he wants to promise something, something more. It is much too important that Holmes trust him, admire him, and John will gladly allow Holmes to choose his test or challenge. He has the absurd urge to run a gauntlet or battle a dragon.
Instead, John merely shakes his hand and bids him goodnight.
The following morning, he catches himself humming the mutiny theme. He doesn’t recognise it at first, not until hanging up his hat and coat at the opera house. But then: oh.
Vernet. When was the last time he’d seen Vernet? At least two weeks. Possibly longer. Nearly three. How did he let that happen?
When he asks Mrs Hudson, she hesitates before telling him Vernet must be busy. John thanks her and moves on. Possibly too quickly. He’s disappointed to find the stairway busy at this time of day, annoyed with himself for being out of place so obviously. He bides his time until after midday before finally venturing down.
The lantern is where it should be, reassuring in its presence. Though likely left out for Mrs Hudson, John can pretend the courtesy is extended to him as well. He lights it and ventures down the tunnel. He tries to recall what they’d fought over and can’t. John hadn’t been paying attention to the opera, and Vernet had said something stupid about Mary. He thinks that’s the case. He’s no longer certain why it’s kept him away. Stubbornness and pride, he can only conclude, though more on Vernet’s part than his own.
When he reaches what ought to be the right spot, he stops in confusion. Absolutely no light shines through the cracks between warping door and aging frame. John opens the door with his heart in his throat and finds the chamber absolutely dark, every candle unlit. The wax is cool and hard to the touch. Vernet is gone. Where?
John searches the chamber, the desk first and the composition upon it. Tiny, cramped handwriting fills the margins, indecipherable to John’s eyes, but the notes and staffs are clear. Sheets upon sheets of music remain in the chamber.
With that realisation, the air isn’t quite so thin. Vernet would never leave this, not permanently. He has merely stepped out. Working by only the light of his lantern, John seeks Vernet’s violin but finds that missing, case and all. He checks under the desk and atop the two tables. Spying a lump beneath paper, he shifts one ink-stained sheet and promptly feels the world tilt.
Staring up from the table, eyes emptier than any human gaze, Vernet’s mask lies abandoned among the papers.
His hand rises to his own face, to his cheeks and nose. He can’t pull his gaze away from the mask, from where porcelain ought to transition abruptly into skin. It’s merely a mask, not Vernet’s face, and yet seeing the one without the other is more painful than seeing an amputee denied his prosthesis.
The porcelain is cool to the touch. It’s smooth and lifeless, the face of an uncanny doll without Vernet to support it. When lifted, it’s heavier than it should be, lighter than expected. John sets down the lantern and turns the mask over in its light. He studies the band, black and easily tightened. He touches the inner surface between the bits of padding and nearly startles at its coolness, identical to the chill of its exterior. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet it sits poorly. This is his friend’s face: a dead object.
For a moment, for a strange moment, it occurs to John that he could put the mask on himself. He could feel the differences between their features, the size of their heads, the slopes of their noses. While the exterior of the mask may disguise the shape of Vernet’s face, the padding underneath contains ample evidence. Though curiosity pulls at him like a biting gust, the sense of invasion repels him.
He turns the mask over to look at it from the outer side, the proper side, and it is slightly less like holding a piece of his friend’s shattered skull. He tries to put it down. He fails.
Too much time passes before he remembers the unused door, the second door of the chamber. He reminds himself that it is afternoon, that all the lights are unlit, and that Vernet neglects himself for the sake of his music. For the first time, John takes the door by its handle and softly pushes it open.
With the lantern on the table, he’s blocking his own light. He fetches the lantern and enters, mask in his left hand, lamp in his right.
The space is very small. There is a Saratoga trunk to the right, likely containing clothing. Clothing certainly lies draped over it, Vernet’s trousers, shirt and jacket. Next to this, a stack of cans, unopened, and a pile of yet more, empty. He finds the violin case before him, a pair of shoes huddled against it like two pups with their mother. They lie at the foot of what must be a small cot beneath its bed curtains. Rather than a wooden frame, a pair of hooks keeps the cloth suspended from the ceiling. The cloth is red and gold and faded, a cross between the fort of a dreaming child and the abode of a successful beggar.
Though the room has a strong odour, the scent is musty and sour, the result of dust and dirty cans. There’s nothing rotted, no stink of infection or cloying sweetness of sickness.
John holds his breath. He strains to listen. The curtain is thick enough to keep in heat, it must be, and so it must be thick enough to hide the soft sound of breathing. Vernet is simply asleep. At nearly one in the afternoon, Vernet must simply be asleep.
He nearly approaches the bed before the mask in his hand grows heavy with consequence. He checks his progress.
“Vernet,” he calls softly. And louder: “Vernet.”
He hears a shifting noise, the slide of cloth on cloth, and the knot within his stomach eases.
“Vernet, are you all right?”
Vernet groans, a low sound, and the knot immediately tightens in a fresh configuration.
Hovering on the edge of action, John eases forward, raising the lantern to indicate his presence.
“What are you doing here?” Vernet grumbles, his words muffled through cloth and perhaps against it.
“It’s one in the afternoon,” John states.
“Doctor, unless you’ve decided to become a clock, you haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m visiting you,” John says. “Which should be obvious. I thought you might want to work on your battle scene. Unless you’ve finished it, in which case I thought you might want to play it.”
There’s no reply for a moment. A slow rustling follows the stillness, then a waking stretch. The bed curtain shifts as the blankets within press against it. The cot creaks.
“Afternoon, you said,” Vernet half-states, half-asks. By the location of his voice, he’s still lying down.
“Yes.”
Impossibly deep, another low groan rumbles from the back of Vernet’s throat. “I worked late last night,” he explains.
“Should I leave you to your rest?”
“No,” Vernet replies in put upon tones. “I’m awake. I’ll stay that way.”
“Sorry,” John says. “I shouldn’t have--”
“My mask is in the other room. On the closer table, somewhat buried.”
“I have it here.”
“Do you?” Two casual words, and the weight of John’s presumption crashes upon his shoulders.
“Here,” John repeats. He steps forward, offering the mask to draping cloth.
The bed curtain bunches, pulled up from the floor, and Vernet’s hand slides out beneath it. The bed curtains hold back his sleeve, catch it, revealing wrist and forearm. His palm upturned as if bidding John to inspect the lasting scar, Vernet beckons. “Give it here.”
John does so.
Vernet retracts his hand. The cot creaks as he shifts upon it.
“I’m sorry,” John tells him, sincere.
“For waking me, for rifling through my belongings, or for storming off in a huff?”
John flushes. He says, “Yes.”
Vernet chuckles, a sound that hardly guarantees forgiveness. He draws back the bed curtains and ducks his head against the light. Tousled beyond belief, his hair falls over his forehead, over his ears and hidden cheek. The mask suits him, is irrevocably his face in John’s mind, and yet the urge to reach out and remove it has never before curled John’s fingers. Such an act would void Vernet’s contract, of course. Such an act would irrevocably end their friendship, sending Vernet from the opera house and John from whatever good graces he retains. And yet John wants to do it.
“You were worried,” Vernet states. He sits with his legs drawn up beneath his nightshirt, arms encircling his knees. His toes peek out beneath the grey cloth before tucking beneath the blanket.
“I was surprised,” John corrects. “I’ve never come in without the candles lit.”
“And so you worried.”
“Are you against all of your friends showing concern for your wellbeing, or is it only me?” John asks.
“Yes.”
John’s frown only causes Vernet to grin.
“As I’ve said: your sense of personal responsibility is absurd.” The insult is stated with clear affection, but John bristles nonetheless.
“Have you honestly waited three weeks to fling the same argument in my face?”
“Hardly. You do understand you’ve no responsibility for my behaviour?”
“I do,” John says.
“Then?”
“If someone crept in and bludgeoned you to death before I had a turn at it, I’d be very disappointed,” John replies.
Perhaps Vernet’s lips twitch. Perhaps it’s an effect of the lantern light. “Is this typical in ex-army doctors?”
“Sorry?”
“An elevated interest in the wellbeing of those around you. It’s as if any injury suffered by someone under your protection is a personal attack. Is that an army mentality?”
“I don’t do that.”
Vernet’s amusement is plain in the tilt of his mask.
“I don’t,” John insists.
“Then how do you behave towards those under your protection?” Vernet asks.
“Not like that,” John begins, then stops.
“Yes?”
“I’ve walked into some sort of verbal trap, but I’m not sure what,” John admits.
“You admit that there are individuals you consider under your protection,” Vernet replies. “Not simply the patients who come to you, but anyone your position will allow you to approach.” He tucks his legs beneath him, two quick flashes of shin that disappear once more beneath his nightshirt.
“Not anyone,” John says, and it feels like lying.
Vernet simply watches him. Though a creature of curiosity, he shows no sign of passing judgement. “Am I right?” he asks, sounding like a child who wants his well-earned prize.
“There are some people I dislike, you realise.”
“Does that matter?” Vernet asks.
No. Not in the slightest.
John’s sigh is nearly a groan. “Are you always right?”
Vernet grins, bright and sharp. “Almost always.”
A second sigh. “Something I’ll adapt to, no doubt.”
Vernet’s expression twitches, changes. The curve of his lips turns strange when soft, unfamiliar. When John frowns in concern, Vernet shakes his head and lifts a hand. “Doubtlessly,” Vernet agrees.
John ought to retreat, ought to let him dress himself, but he hesitates. “Is it a problem?” he asks. The protectiveness.
“I don’t need the light to dress by,” Vernet replies, answering the wrong question.
“I don’t mean the lantern.” He hovers on the edge of properly asking.
“It’s not a problem,” Vernet says with an impatient wave of the hand. “Now leave so I can get dressed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Vernet snaps. “I’m cold. Move. We’ve work to catch up on.”
“I’ll leave the light,” John says and does so. He closes the door behind him on his way into the main chamber, shutting himself into darkness. He reaches for the table, then leans against it. John is a protective man, always has been. By any consideration, Vernet is a man worth protecting. There’s nothing unusual in John’s intentions, save for perhaps their intensity. But Vernet is a man to inspire intensity. It’s a skill of Vernet’s, yet another talent he possesses in abundance. He’s a remarkable man, and the exceptional can be exceptions in many ways.
Listening to the slide of cloth on skin beyond the closed door, John tells himself this until he believes it.
previous | next
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7.7k 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
It’s not unusual for anyone to take a tumble down the stairs. It’s not unheard of for anyone to break an arm or leg doing this.
Three in a week, however, is a bit much.
None of the unlucky trio is fit for work. Accordingly, John interviews them as much as is possible before they can be laid off. Two are stagehands. One is a dancer. All three fall without witnesses, a rarity in itself within the crowded opera house. All three, upon privacy and John asking, admit to having felt they weren’t alone during the incident. The second stagehand even claims to have been pushed. Remarkable, the information one can glean in exchange for setting a bone or three.
“Misfortunes fall in threes,” Mrs Hudson assures him. “Not so literally, usually, but it’s true.”
“Been meaning to have some of the boys look at those stairs,” Mr Green says while checking up on his stagehands. Soon to be former stagehands, but Green takes the second man aside to promise the return of his job upon recovery.
Realising that superstition and practicality have dismissed the incidents as accidents, John takes two courses of action. First, he reports to Mr Holmes via letter. Second, he speaks with Molly Hooper.
“I already have everyone working in pairs,” Miss Hooper explains. “Then I told everyone to be sure they’re with someone until Mr Green has the stairs repaired. Is that too much? I don’t want to be paranoid, but the way everyone is falling...”
“It’s precisely the safety measure I wanted to speak with you about,” John replies. “You’ve shown good initiative. See that it spreads, won’t you? I don’t want anyone else out in the cold with winter coming. It’s for everyone’s sake.”
Miss Hooper shudders. “No, I will.”
John gives her the best smile he can muster. “I’m sure it will be fine once the repairs are finished.”
Miss Hooper nods, an answer clinging to her closed lips.
“Is something else the matter?” John asks.
“It’s silly,” Miss Hooper says.
“Good,” John says. “I’ve had too much seriousness lately.”
Miss Hooper hesitates, then says, “Sometimes, it feels as if I’m being watched. I’m one of the last to turn in for the night, you know. Well, no, you don’t know, but I am. It’s probably the creaking and the atmosphere, really. I’ve looked around, and no one’s ever there.” She twitches a smile. “I said it was silly.”
“Has the feeling worsened lately?” John asks.
Miss Hooper nods shyly. “Since Joe Harrison died. It’s like the opera house has another ghost now.” She tries to play it as a joke, but it falls terribly flat. She clears her throat. “Anyway.”
“If it worsens,” John says.
“I’m just being silly,” Miss Hooper interrupts.
“Miss Hooper,” John says, slightly louder than before, and certainly more firmly, “as your doctor, I am telling you that if this worsens, you’re to tell me. Yes?”
Miss Hooper bites her lip and nods.
“I used to be in the army,” John says, trying and admittedly failing to reassure her. He hardly wants to tell the woman her sanity is unsound. “Feelings like this do count, sometimes. Mind you, the cause of much paranoia once turned out to be a stealthy monkey, but we did catch the pest before it ruined all the supplies.”
As always, the monkey story brings out a smile, however slight. “I’ll tell you if I see anyone swinging from the rafters,” Miss Hooper promises.
“Good,” John says. “And you might want to find a large net.”
A bit of a giggle there and John grins back. It’s hardly his best flirt, but under the circumstances, that’s for the best. They part ways soon after. John changes his rounds somewhat, keeping in the company of others, and he is very careful on the stairs.
Mr Holmes writes back promptly. His is the fluid, effortless style of a man who has never had to force his right hand and neglect his left. Mr Holmes has sent the names of the injured to a police inspector who seems to owe him a favour. It’s not the policeman’s division, Mr Holmes clarifies, not unless Harrison’s death can be proven as a murder, but his man will have a word with the potential victims. He already has another man looking into the thefts.
Mrs Hudson delivers this letter into John’s medical bag. For an instant, she looks as if she wants to say something more but thinks better of it. Too many other people about, John assumes. When he tries to ask her about it later, she’s forgotten.
“...but the counterpoint, that is where it shines. By assigning the instruments to the different sides of the battle, the two halves of the orchestra will compete with one another. Somewhat limiting, rather simple, but effective here, and-You’re not paying attention.”
John blinks a bit, certain Vernet had been halfway across the room a moment ago. “Beg your pardon?”
“You’re not paying attention,” Vernet repeats, an accusation of the ultimate crime.
“Sorry,” John says and sits up straighter. “You were saying?”
“You don’t want to pay attention,” Vernet continues. His frown dominates his face, is all John knows of his face. “Why don’t you want to pay attention?”
“That’s not it.”
An indignant demand: “Do you have something better to think about?”
John can’t prevent his laughter. “Worse, actually,” he confesses. “There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it, though.”
Vernet groans, gesturing at John as if to shake him. “Then why waste your time?”
“Because battles put me on edge,” John says easily enough.
“But mine is meant to do that.”
“I don’t mean yours.”
“Exactly the problem!” Vernet replies. “What could possibly compete with mine?”
John grins despite himself. “Your ego ought to be aggravating. I’ve no idea how you manage it.”
“Doctor, I am trying to be productive.”
John apologises to little result, and Vernet flaunts his wounded pride as if preening. He plays the prima donna so well that it would be a shame not to indulge him. John continues his apologies until positively saccharine and chokes on his own tongue as Vernet reaches undiscovered heights of self-parody. His hair flops about with each dramatic turn, an eternally tumbling crown. John breaks character first, laughing helplessly, and Vernet crows with his victory.
“Now tell me,” Vernet instructs, practically diving into his chair next to John’s. Impossibly, he lands in a languid sprawl.
“It’s not something I ought to bother you with,” John demurs.
Vernet’s head turns, tilting in question. “Bother? No, I could use this.” He sits properly then leans forward, close to aggressive. “A battle, you said, putting you on edge. Something has happened that reminds you of your combat days. Out with it.”
“There’s been a slew of falls,” John replies. “It’s not important: there are always falls.”
“But these have been serious,” Vernet continues for him. “Injuries requiring your attention. You’ve observed pain and blood recently.”
“Pain and blood don’t bother me,” John says. “I’d be a terrible doctor if they did.”
“Ah,” Vernet says.
“What?”
“Helplessness. And anticipation.”
“Could you not actually do that right now?” John asks.
“Because I’m exacerbating it?”
John hesitates, then nods.
Vernet grins. “Good. What’s the worst of it?”
John fights down a groan. “You’re a terrible friend.”
Vernet’s grin flickers.
His earlier discomfort dwarfed, John rubs at his face. “Um. God, let’s see.” He closes his eyes to think but needs do little more than blink. “Ah. Mm.”
The tilt to Vernet’s head implies furrowed brows. His shoulders project his interest, centred upon John and yet holding back. Waiting. Observing. Determining whether John will find the words on his own.
“When you know the people around you might die, it changes how you think about them,” John says. Simply that and nothing more, because no matter how familiar the sentiment is between his hands, the phrasing of it slips between his fingers. Upon realising that Miss Hooper may be injured or killed, he realised the importance of her wellbeing, of her ability to function and keep those around her functioning. She is a peg holding the planks to the frame. In this way, an acquaintance becomes a priority.
The sentiment is softer to Mrs Hudson, padded where it presses down upon his shoulders. For all her superstitions, Mrs Hudson will never see any “opera ghost” as harmful.
When John thinks of Vernet in that context...
He prefers not to think, and therefore he doesn’t.
“Yes?” Vernet prompts. “Go on.”
“I’m trying to think of something usable,” John prevaricates. “No, um. The chain of command means protecting your superiors for the sake of the whole, but sometimes the people holding everything together aren’t in the chain where they rightly should be.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“You’re deeply uncomfortable,” Vernet states.
There’s no use in denying it. “Will you play your violin?” John asks instead. “Please.”
“How frequently does it still affect you?” Vernet asks. “Your war experience was years ago.”
John shakes his head.
“No, it was years ago,” Vernet insists.
“It was, but... That doesn’t matter.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Morbid fascination fills the well of Vernet’s deep voice, black and bottomless. “How frequently does it still affect you?”
“How frequently does having learned to read affect you?” John counters.
“I, what?” Vernet peers at him in the dim light, candlelight flickering into the holes of his mask. The eyes within are a deep gleam, perhaps blue.
It was the first thought to have come to mind, but now that it’s said, John stands by it. “I learned to see things, and now I can’t stop seeing them. It’s the same basic idea.”
Vernet nods slowly, fingers steepled. “You see danger. No, that’s not right. You enjoy risk. Danger is a guilty pleasure for you. The problem is your helplessness when not confronted with an immediate task. This is why you prefer treating injury over illness. Your success rate is better. I’m fairly certain. Ah, yes. Your wife died of illness, didn’t she? Not something you’d advertise as a doctor, obviously, but your reactions and overbearing air of personal responsibility--”
“Shut up,” John says. “Right there.”
“But--”
“No. If you want to talk about the war, fine. That’s relevant, that will help, that’s fine. But this is off-limits. If you don’t accept that, I leave,” John tells him. “Is that clear?”
Vernet pauses for a moment before saying, “You’re overreacting.”
John stands, reaching for his medical bag, and Vernet catches his wrist. John glares down at him. Vernet doesn’t let go.
“You were agitated before you arrived,” Vernet states, his tone aggravatingly reasonable. He doesn’t move, stable in his forward lean. “I’m hardly insulting your late wife. I’m not stupid enough to ridicule you for the innate limitations of medicine. Now calm down. We’ve work to do.”
“You’ve work to do,” John counters. “I need to be back aboveground.”
“Already?” It’s all too easy to imagine the raised eyebrows behind his mask.
“Yes,” John says and promptly twists his wrist out of Vernet’s grip. “At the rate the accidents are happening, there’s doubtlessly a skull I need to patch together by now.”
“Doctor,” Vernet begins, but John cuts him off.
“I’ll see you in a few days. Good afternoon.”
“Is it really?” Vernet asks dryly, but John’s already out the door.
By the time John is willing to give ground, several days have passed. Before John can make good on his intentions, Mrs Hudson takes him aside and quietly says, “None of that downstairs business for a few days. He says he’s much too busy.”
“Oh,” John says. He hovers for a moment before asking, “How is he?”
“Having a bit of a sulk, dear,” Mrs Hudson replies. “Don’t worry, he’s often like that.”
“How, um, how long...?”
Mrs Hudson simply pats his arm. “Not your fault. He’ll come around.”
“All right,” John says, not without misgivings.
He returns to waiting and continues on, feigning normalcy.
“Dr Watson,” Hopkins calls. “I think there might be a problem, sir.”
John stands, tucking away his novel with steady hands. “One of the patrons?”
Hopkins shakes his head. “Not quite, sir.”
John frowns and Hopkins explains.
The “Not Quite” is situated upstairs in the curving hall, his face drawn, eyes closed, and back to the wall. Beside him, the door to Box Five is closed. John waves Hopkins away before approaching.
“Mr Holmes,” John greets mildly.
“Dr Watson,” Mr Holmes replies.
“I take it you’re not enjoying the performance.”
“I’m not here for the performance.” Mr Holmes makes no attempt to disguise his bitterness. “I’m here to be gawked at.”
John looks up and down the hall. He looks back to Mr Holmes to find the man has at least opened his eyes. “Begging your pardon, sir,” John says, “but you’re not doing a very good job of it.”
Mr Holmes’ mouth twitches. The motion draws John’s gaze, oddly arresting. “I’ve endured the first act. Isn’t that enough?”
“Is there a problem with the box?”
“There is a problem with my brother,” Mr Holmes says, the word a curse.
“Perhaps we ought to discuss this in private,” John suggests, reaching toward the door to Box Five.
Mr Holmes shakes his head. “That’s not private.”
John releases the handle. “You’ve company.”
“Not of my choosing,” Mr Holmes confirms, his volume possibly such as to be heard inside the box.
“Somewhere else, then.”
“Box Ten is empty tonight,” Mr Holmes says.
John nods. They walk together, their matching footsteps in beat with the music. Upon realising this, John smiles involuntarily. Mr Holmes looks at him oddly, then at their feet, and smiles in turn. In conjunction with a bowed head, the expression seems sheepish as well as delighted. How strange, to need to look up at a boyish smile.
He nearly walks past the door to Box Ten, but Holmes is more aware of their surroundings than John is. Mr Holmes opens the door and beckons John inside. John locates a chair and sits before Mr Holmes closes the door, plunging them into semi-darkness. Mr Holmes picks his path with care before settling down next to John with a satisfied sigh. “Much better,” Mr Holmes murmurs.
John watches him against the red backdrop of the curtain. Agitated and restless, certainly, but slowly quieting. His immaculate hair turns his outline sleek and terribly composed. Or restrained. Certainly restrained.
“If your company inquires as to where you’ve gone, would you be willing to blame a headache?” John asks. “The heat and the lights can have that effect.”
“Making excuses for me, Dr Watson?”
“Only if you’d like some.”
“That would be... convenient,” Holmes acknowledges.
“Whatever I can do,” John says.
Holmes looks at him curiously. “You actually mean that.”
“I’d hardly offer otherwise.”
Holmes’ inspection of his face persists. John becomes jarringly aware of the heat in the booth.
“Are you looking into something tonight?” John asks.
“Being looked at,” Holmes says. “Projecting the illusion of stability. Reassuring idiots.”
John bites down a grin. “Kind of you to think of them.”
“Mycroft’s idea, not mine.”
“And he had other plans, I take it.”
Holmes scoffs, a bitter sound that does little to clarify.
For a short time, they sit without speaking. John’s content to do so until Holmes begins to fidget.
“Any progress on the horses?” John asks.
“A theory,” Holmes responds immediately. “It would require some coordination and one complicit stableman per horse, but they could have been smuggled out via cab.”
John blinks at him. “A horse inside a cab.”
“Pulling the cab, obviously. The cabbie drives in. The horses are exchanged when no one’s looking. The cabbie drives away. When he sends someone to fetch the original horse, no one raises a fuss over letting the strange animal go.”
John mulls that over. It seems exceptionally implausible. “And you’ve thought of this because there were two strange horses?”
“Each time, yes. Old nags, nothing more.”
“Then there’s a cabbie or two out there with a very fine horse right now,” John replies. “Have you contacted the agencies?”
“Nothing unusual there. There wouldn’t be if the horses were switched back later.”
“It still seems a stretch,” John says.
“And yet it’s the only solution that makes sense. More importantly, it’s easy enough to guard against. If it’s an incorrect theory, we’ll find out soon enough.”
John nods. “Supposing the thief turns to other targets?”
“Oh, he doubtlessly will,” Holmes replies, a chuckle beneath his voice.
John stares at him, then immediately attempts not to. “You sound as if you’re enjoying this.”
“He’ll try to escalate,” Holmes replies. “The stables are an easy target. The interior of the opera house, much less so. Once we know he’s inside, we’ll be able to track him that much better.”
“Then you don’t believe the injuries are linked?” John asks.
“I don’t believe we can prove the link,” Holmes answers. “Tying it all together, that’s what is called for. It’s only a matter of time, Dr Watson. Until then, we give no indication anything has gone awry. It’s what our ghost wants, and I won’t play into his hands.”
“Then shouldn’t you return to being gawked at?”
“God, no,” Holmes says with a shudder. “There’s only so much Mycroft can force me to do in one sitting.” With a sudden resolve, he stands and draws open the curtain, the half closer to the stage. He quickly works out the lines of sight and positions his chair slightly farther back than before. “There we are. Have you heard our contralto? She’s remarkable. All of her roles are wasted on her.”
John follows the change of topic much as he had the change of seating. It takes him a moment, but he’s able to respond. “Miss Adler?” She’s the only contralto singing tonight, he’s nearly certain.
“Mm.”
Looking out the gap in the curtain, John locates what appears to be the most attractive man upon the stage. He has to lean somewhat into Holmes’ space, but Holmes doesn’t seem to mind. John leans hard on his armrest and he can feel the contact through layers of cloth when their sleeves touch.
“I wouldn’t say ‘wasted’,” John muses. “If any woman can make so convincing a man, it seems a shame to stop her.”
“Not quite my meaning,” Holmes replies.
Finding Holmes’ gaze upon his face, John shifts back. “What do you mean?”
“When the villain is a better singer than the heroine, it does encourage one to pull for the wrong side,” Holmes explains.
Is she the villain of this opera? John wonders but doesn’t ask. Many of the patrons find his lack of knowledge appalling where opera is involved. As already John’s forgotten the name of tonight’s performance, that reaction is regrettably deserved.
“It’s a simple matter of assigning set roles to particular vocal ranges,” Holmes continues.
“It seems a convention made to be broken,” John says, thinking of Vernet’s intentions.
“You agree?” Though his tone remains mild, surprise shines blue in his eyes. They’d seemed green in the hall, or perhaps John is misremembering. Perhaps it’s the lighting.
“Is there a reason to disagree?” John asks. If his ignorance will out, he might as well claim it boldly.
“Tradition,” Holmes replies, a terrible lightness forced into his voice. “Expectation, convention, habit. Clinging to the established order is very typical. Those who vary and succeed are exceptions, and those who vary and fail were doomed from the start.” He smiles a grimace out toward the stage.
It doesn’t take a clever man to realise Holmes is no longer speaking of opera. What of, however, John has no idea.
“But there are those who vary and succeed,” John counters all the same.
The brunt of Holmes’ attention shifts to John. His focus has physical weight, stones pressed upon the chest to crush out a man’s breath. John meets his gaze only because it seems cowardly not to. Though sitting in fine surroundings and wearing clothing even finer, Holmes gazes at him with something ragged behind his eyes, something rough and worn that turns his attention into a demand.
“Aren’t there?” John asks. His voice holds steady. “I don’t know much of opera, but you said there were.”
Holmes’ mouth twitches, and there is something almost uncanny in the motion. John finds himself staring before he can prevent it. When he matches Holmes’ gaze once more, the man’s eyes are unmistakably green. A matter of lighting, then, and proximity.
John clears his throat and looks away. “I ought to check outside. Be certain no one else has come down with a terrible headache.”
“And leave me defenceless?” Holmes asks. “How callous of you.”
Half out of his seat, John immediately sits back down. The words catch him, not the toying tone. “You think the opera ghost will attack you?”
Holmes rolls his eyes. “I’m hardly near a staircase.” If he intends this as a joke, it’s certainly not a good one.
“Then what?” John asks.
“I’ve not finished avoiding my company at the moment,” Holmes replies. “Or ever, for that matter.”
“I’ll inform them you’re having a much needed moment of rest,” John says. “Otherwise--” He catches himself just in time to keep from insulting his social better. “I’m sure they’re worried.”
“Otherwise I’ll offend them,” Holmes concludes in John’s original tract. “Which I wholly intend to do, now with the plausible deniability your assistance offers.”
Though John hardly voices the question, his entire face configures itself to ask “Why?”
“Because the Viscount has a sister and she does not yet find me odious,” Holmes replies. “I refuse to return until I’ve rectified this.”
John can’t help but stare at him. Holmes is a difficult man not to stare at. “I... don’t follow,” John admits.
“I have no nephews,” Holmes replies succinctly, his light voice soured.
And as his brother’s heir, he must have sons, the logic follows. “I see,” John says.
“Do you?”
“There are easier ways of rejecting a woman,” John says. “If you’d like me to suggest a few--”
“I prefer to offend the brother,” Holmes replies. “Simpler. Hurts his pride to encourage his sister, and the sister has enough sense to be uninterested. Unfortunate. That nearly makes her an appealing prospect.”
“Do you do this often?” John asks, more incredulous in tone than he ought to allow himself. “Beg pardon, sir. I mean, we’ve a madman pretending to be a ghost and threatening your brother. That seems excuse enough to back out.”
“Whereas attending indicates that the largest problem in my life continues to be Mycroft’s efforts to marry me off.” At once annoyed and pleased with himself, Holmes shifts in his chair, turning to face John more fully. “To those who matter most, everything appears absolutely normal.”
When put that way, it seems very reasonable. “In that case,” John says, once again easing out of his chair, “I ought to keep to my habits as well.” His movements are slow and resist completion.
“Tell that usher where to find you,” Holmes counters. “There’s little sense in you being on alert. The ghost hasn’t threatened to harm any of the patrons until next month.”
John hesitates.
“Problem?”
The news of the ghost or Holmes’ own habits? One topic seems more pressing than the other, and it isn’t the one it should be. “I was under the impression you preferred to watch alone.”
Holmes raises an eyebrow. “From what evidence?”
“Your dislike of watching with company,” John replies, far blunter than he ought to be.
As expected, the comment pleases Holmes. “If there is something worth hearing, I expect to hear it.”
“And if there isn’t, you don’t mind my chatter.”
Holmes blinks, then laughs quietly. “I mind useless chatter,” he allows.
John takes it as a well-intentioned warning. “I’ll tell the usher,” John decides, too long positioned on the edge of his seat. He still doesn’t move, not until Holmes’ eyes shine their approval.
John exits quietly. He informs Hopkins that he’ll be keeping Mr Holmes company in Box Ten. Nonetheless, he should be notified immediately should any of the patrons require medical attention. Hopkins readily agrees and asks after Mr Holmes’ health with the same sort of concern the regular patrons reserve for their favourite soprano. John lies more easily than expected, and Hopkins nearly departs to inform the occupants of Box Five. John stops him and instead informs Holmes’ company himself. The brother is more annoyed than the sister, but both listen patiently as John speaks of the effects of heat and loud sound on a body suffering from dehydration. The sister mentions that Holmes barely touched his dinner. She has a pleasant voice to match her face and bearing. John sincerely thanks her for this information before making his own excuses and exiting.
“You told the Viscount,” Holmes accuses the moment John returns.
“Why on Earth would you think that?” John asks.
“The length of time you were gone,” Holmes replies flatly.
John sits beside him without qualms. “If you have a headache, that’s an early evening and a quiet ride home.”
Holmes considers this. “Fine.”
Recognising grudging thanks when he hears it, John returns his gaze toward the stage. Rather, the amount of the stage he can see through the curtain. The actors sing on and are followed by a short bout of ballet. John’s mind wanders.
“I can feel you thinking,” Holmes murmurs. The raised lilt to his voice acutely conveys his annoyance.
“If you’d rather sit alone,” John begins sincerely, but Holmes cuts him off with a raised hand.
“You’ve a question. Ask it.”
“It’s impertinent,” John warns.
A smile curls at the corner of Holmes’ mouth like the tip of a cat’s tail. “All the better.”
“Are you against marriage or against the candidates for it?” The Viscount’s sister had seemed perfectly lovely, though first opinions of women with chestnut curls piled high are always somewhat biased. Still, she’d responded practically to the news of another’s condition, and that is a trait John admires wherever he finds it.
“Both,” Holmes replies. He sighs, absolutely bored. “Is that all?”
“Have you considered courting a decoy?” John suggests. “Someone tolerable who doesn’t want to marry you.”
“No one wants to marry me,” Holmes replies. “I’ve ensured that much. They want to marry the title I’m posed to inherit.” His bitterness is the reverse of a regular man’s, scorning the interest rather than the cause.
John hums and Holmes’ gaze snaps to John’s face.
“What?” Holmes asks. “You’ve had a thought. What?”
“Well,” John says, “how often would you need to fake a courtship?”
“With luck, not until the New Year’s Masquerade,” Holmes replies.
“Not until the end of next month, then.”
“But you have a candidate in mind now, don’t you?” Holmes demands.
“It’s a bit ridiculous,” John warns.
“Tell me,” Holmes insists.
“Miss Adler,” John says. “It’s a match no one would encourage you to pursue, and beyond Mrs Hudson, she’s the only woman I’ve ever heard you speak well of.”
Holmes considers him much the way he might a dog reciting poetry: as if John’s words are in themselves remarkable, but John is entirely lacking in intellect.
“I have it on good authority she would never seek commitment but would enjoy the public attention,” John adds.
“On what authority?”
“Good authority,” John repeats and will say no more. He is a doctor, and this is an opera house. He treats sore throats and cases of the unmentionables in disproportionate numbers and, as such, always makes a point of treating the source of the unmentionables as well. In Miss Adler’s case, the source was a harpist by the name of Miss Norton. This information had only been procured through the careful mention of John’s late sister. Whether Miss Adler had observed his guilt or merely his desire to help, she’d let him do his job.
That bout had been over a year ago. With no relapses, all evidence points toward a continuing exclusive relationship. Few will voice displeasure within the opera house itself, but the general public admires Miss Adler too much not to wonder at her lack of beau.
Though John says none of this, Holmes nods as if considering a detailed argument. “Or,” Holmes says, “you could attend the masquerade this year and announce my inevitable headache.”
The suggestion takes John by surprise. “You’re set against any female company?”
Holmes grimaces. “Even a connoisseur can drown in wine.”
It’s hardly a metaphor John needs to hear while still thinking of women like Harry. He reaches for a reply only to be interrupted by a terrible noise from outside the box. The noise repeats, as if a giant frog were belching, and the orchestra stumbles.
He and Holmes stare at each other, and then stare out the curtain.
Tonight’s diva stands upon the stage, nervously twisting back and forth in the silence of the orchestra and the murmuring of the audience. She leans forward to say something to the conductor, and the music resumes at a previous point. The murmuring of the audience quiets in anticipation only for another ghastly croak to escape the soprano’s throat. Laughter and concern erupts from the audience in unequal amounts. Horrified, the soprano flees from the stage.
“Excuse me,” John says, grabbing up his medical bag as he stands. “I’m needed backstage.”
Holmes agrees and follows him. By the time they arrive backstage, a replacement is already being rushed into costume while a short ballet stalls for time. John attempts to see to the soprano, but no amount of brandishing his medical bag will force the woman’s indignant husband to permit him inside the dressing room. John turns to Holmes to borrow his societal clout only to realise Holmes has vanished somewhere. It isn’t until the soprano calms down that John can see to her, and by then, untold amounts of tears and panic have already taken their toll on the woman’s throat.
Unexpectedly, Holmes reappears at John’s elbow. “Madam,” Holmes asks the soprano, “is this yours?” He holds a glass vial with a small spraying attachment, not unlike a certain variety of perfume bottles.
“That’s for my throat,” the soprano rasps, reaching for the bottle.
Holmes withholds it. “If your husband would be so kind,” he says, and promptly sprays the husband in the mouth, opened in the beginnings of a question.
“What is the meaning of this?” the husband demands through his sputtering. “Who--” His words break apart into a horrible, hoarse creak.
“I thought as much,” Holmes remarks. He hands the bottle to the husband. “That will be all.” Holmes promptly walks away, shutting the dressing room door behind him.
“It’s been tampered with!” the soprano exclaims, or attempts to exclaim.
Abandoned to his charge, John musters an expression of absolute patience. He musters it for quite some time. The tampering is obvious, the culprit less so. The soprano attempts to tell him a list of her rivals and will only be silenced when John urges her not to risk any damage to her throat. The false ghost, John wants to and cannot say. Unable to warn the woman of the true perpetrator, he navigates uneasily until both singer and husband agree to speak with Mr Havill after their recoveries. John is sure to explain who Holmes is before the pair curses his name to an irreparable degree.
By the time John can convince them he’s no longer called for, the night’s performance is nearly over. John considers returning to Box Ten only to spy Holmes exiting Miss Adler’s dressing room. That will certainly vex the Viscount and his sister.
“Was she in?” John asks.
Holmes shakes his head. “Scouting out the territory. Your plan should prove feasible, though I’ll still require your presence.”
“Beg pardon?” John asks, thoroughly lost after his high-strung ordeal.
“The masquerade,” Holmes replies as if this ought to be perfectly obvious.
“I wasn’t invited,” John explains.
“As of now, you are.” His brisk manner brooks no complaints or denial. “Accompany Mrs Hudson. She’s permitted a guest.”
“Shouldn’t she be asked first?” John asks. It’s entirely rhetorical and yet leads to Holmes setting off purposefully, his long legs performing the silent, almost bouncing stride so common to the stagehands. Unable to copy those quiet footsteps, John follows much more slowly.
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Mrs Hudson agrees just as John catches up with Holmes. “It’s been years since I had someone to coordinate a costume with. My husband, you know.”
Just like that, John has plans for New Year’s Eve.
Eventually, John does manage to take Holmes aside. “What about the ghost?” John demands. “The one choking the singers, do you have any course of action?”
“Yes,” Holmes says. “Last month he took our property, this month he is trying to destroy our performances, and next month he threatens to kill. The New Year’s Masquerade is our most lavish event, and I’ve procured a doctor to stand guard over our beloved dance mistress.” He squeezes John’s shoulder and keeps his hand there. “The rest will follow. I’ve time to arrange it.”
Surprised, John nods.
“Satisfied?” Holmes asks, the question curling with confident amusement.
“Do you ever do anything for one reason?” John asks.
“Just one?”
“Yes.”
“That seems terribly inefficient,” Holmes replies dryly.
John laughs despite himself.
Holmes squeezes John’s shoulder a second time before releasing him. The warmth of the contact is recognised only by the chill of its absence. “You’re a wonderfully convenient ally, Dr Watson. I’d like to see more of you.”
“I can arrange that,” John promises.
Holmes’ eyes positively sparkle, grey in the dim hall. What colour might they be in daylight? “Wonderfully convenient,” Holmes repeats.
John nearly offers to bring his gun to the masquerade, then thinks better of it. But he wants to promise something, something more. It is much too important that Holmes trust him, admire him, and John will gladly allow Holmes to choose his test or challenge. He has the absurd urge to run a gauntlet or battle a dragon.
Instead, John merely shakes his hand and bids him goodnight.
The following morning, he catches himself humming the mutiny theme. He doesn’t recognise it at first, not until hanging up his hat and coat at the opera house. But then: oh.
Vernet. When was the last time he’d seen Vernet? At least two weeks. Possibly longer. Nearly three. How did he let that happen?
When he asks Mrs Hudson, she hesitates before telling him Vernet must be busy. John thanks her and moves on. Possibly too quickly. He’s disappointed to find the stairway busy at this time of day, annoyed with himself for being out of place so obviously. He bides his time until after midday before finally venturing down.
The lantern is where it should be, reassuring in its presence. Though likely left out for Mrs Hudson, John can pretend the courtesy is extended to him as well. He lights it and ventures down the tunnel. He tries to recall what they’d fought over and can’t. John hadn’t been paying attention to the opera, and Vernet had said something stupid about Mary. He thinks that’s the case. He’s no longer certain why it’s kept him away. Stubbornness and pride, he can only conclude, though more on Vernet’s part than his own.
When he reaches what ought to be the right spot, he stops in confusion. Absolutely no light shines through the cracks between warping door and aging frame. John opens the door with his heart in his throat and finds the chamber absolutely dark, every candle unlit. The wax is cool and hard to the touch. Vernet is gone. Where?
John searches the chamber, the desk first and the composition upon it. Tiny, cramped handwriting fills the margins, indecipherable to John’s eyes, but the notes and staffs are clear. Sheets upon sheets of music remain in the chamber.
With that realisation, the air isn’t quite so thin. Vernet would never leave this, not permanently. He has merely stepped out. Working by only the light of his lantern, John seeks Vernet’s violin but finds that missing, case and all. He checks under the desk and atop the two tables. Spying a lump beneath paper, he shifts one ink-stained sheet and promptly feels the world tilt.
Staring up from the table, eyes emptier than any human gaze, Vernet’s mask lies abandoned among the papers.
His hand rises to his own face, to his cheeks and nose. He can’t pull his gaze away from the mask, from where porcelain ought to transition abruptly into skin. It’s merely a mask, not Vernet’s face, and yet seeing the one without the other is more painful than seeing an amputee denied his prosthesis.
The porcelain is cool to the touch. It’s smooth and lifeless, the face of an uncanny doll without Vernet to support it. When lifted, it’s heavier than it should be, lighter than expected. John sets down the lantern and turns the mask over in its light. He studies the band, black and easily tightened. He touches the inner surface between the bits of padding and nearly startles at its coolness, identical to the chill of its exterior. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet it sits poorly. This is his friend’s face: a dead object.
For a moment, for a strange moment, it occurs to John that he could put the mask on himself. He could feel the differences between their features, the size of their heads, the slopes of their noses. While the exterior of the mask may disguise the shape of Vernet’s face, the padding underneath contains ample evidence. Though curiosity pulls at him like a biting gust, the sense of invasion repels him.
He turns the mask over to look at it from the outer side, the proper side, and it is slightly less like holding a piece of his friend’s shattered skull. He tries to put it down. He fails.
Too much time passes before he remembers the unused door, the second door of the chamber. He reminds himself that it is afternoon, that all the lights are unlit, and that Vernet neglects himself for the sake of his music. For the first time, John takes the door by its handle and softly pushes it open.
With the lantern on the table, he’s blocking his own light. He fetches the lantern and enters, mask in his left hand, lamp in his right.
The space is very small. There is a Saratoga trunk to the right, likely containing clothing. Clothing certainly lies draped over it, Vernet’s trousers, shirt and jacket. Next to this, a stack of cans, unopened, and a pile of yet more, empty. He finds the violin case before him, a pair of shoes huddled against it like two pups with their mother. They lie at the foot of what must be a small cot beneath its bed curtains. Rather than a wooden frame, a pair of hooks keeps the cloth suspended from the ceiling. The cloth is red and gold and faded, a cross between the fort of a dreaming child and the abode of a successful beggar.
Though the room has a strong odour, the scent is musty and sour, the result of dust and dirty cans. There’s nothing rotted, no stink of infection or cloying sweetness of sickness.
John holds his breath. He strains to listen. The curtain is thick enough to keep in heat, it must be, and so it must be thick enough to hide the soft sound of breathing. Vernet is simply asleep. At nearly one in the afternoon, Vernet must simply be asleep.
He nearly approaches the bed before the mask in his hand grows heavy with consequence. He checks his progress.
“Vernet,” he calls softly. And louder: “Vernet.”
He hears a shifting noise, the slide of cloth on cloth, and the knot within his stomach eases.
“Vernet, are you all right?”
Vernet groans, a low sound, and the knot immediately tightens in a fresh configuration.
Hovering on the edge of action, John eases forward, raising the lantern to indicate his presence.
“What are you doing here?” Vernet grumbles, his words muffled through cloth and perhaps against it.
“It’s one in the afternoon,” John states.
“Doctor, unless you’ve decided to become a clock, you haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m visiting you,” John says. “Which should be obvious. I thought you might want to work on your battle scene. Unless you’ve finished it, in which case I thought you might want to play it.”
There’s no reply for a moment. A slow rustling follows the stillness, then a waking stretch. The bed curtain shifts as the blankets within press against it. The cot creaks.
“Afternoon, you said,” Vernet half-states, half-asks. By the location of his voice, he’s still lying down.
“Yes.”
Impossibly deep, another low groan rumbles from the back of Vernet’s throat. “I worked late last night,” he explains.
“Should I leave you to your rest?”
“No,” Vernet replies in put upon tones. “I’m awake. I’ll stay that way.”
“Sorry,” John says. “I shouldn’t have--”
“My mask is in the other room. On the closer table, somewhat buried.”
“I have it here.”
“Do you?” Two casual words, and the weight of John’s presumption crashes upon his shoulders.
“Here,” John repeats. He steps forward, offering the mask to draping cloth.
The bed curtain bunches, pulled up from the floor, and Vernet’s hand slides out beneath it. The bed curtains hold back his sleeve, catch it, revealing wrist and forearm. His palm upturned as if bidding John to inspect the lasting scar, Vernet beckons. “Give it here.”
John does so.
Vernet retracts his hand. The cot creaks as he shifts upon it.
“I’m sorry,” John tells him, sincere.
“For waking me, for rifling through my belongings, or for storming off in a huff?”
John flushes. He says, “Yes.”
Vernet chuckles, a sound that hardly guarantees forgiveness. He draws back the bed curtains and ducks his head against the light. Tousled beyond belief, his hair falls over his forehead, over his ears and hidden cheek. The mask suits him, is irrevocably his face in John’s mind, and yet the urge to reach out and remove it has never before curled John’s fingers. Such an act would void Vernet’s contract, of course. Such an act would irrevocably end their friendship, sending Vernet from the opera house and John from whatever good graces he retains. And yet John wants to do it.
“You were worried,” Vernet states. He sits with his legs drawn up beneath his nightshirt, arms encircling his knees. His toes peek out beneath the grey cloth before tucking beneath the blanket.
“I was surprised,” John corrects. “I’ve never come in without the candles lit.”
“And so you worried.”
“Are you against all of your friends showing concern for your wellbeing, or is it only me?” John asks.
“Yes.”
John’s frown only causes Vernet to grin.
“As I’ve said: your sense of personal responsibility is absurd.” The insult is stated with clear affection, but John bristles nonetheless.
“Have you honestly waited three weeks to fling the same argument in my face?”
“Hardly. You do understand you’ve no responsibility for my behaviour?”
“I do,” John says.
“Then?”
“If someone crept in and bludgeoned you to death before I had a turn at it, I’d be very disappointed,” John replies.
Perhaps Vernet’s lips twitch. Perhaps it’s an effect of the lantern light. “Is this typical in ex-army doctors?”
“Sorry?”
“An elevated interest in the wellbeing of those around you. It’s as if any injury suffered by someone under your protection is a personal attack. Is that an army mentality?”
“I don’t do that.”
Vernet’s amusement is plain in the tilt of his mask.
“I don’t,” John insists.
“Then how do you behave towards those under your protection?” Vernet asks.
“Not like that,” John begins, then stops.
“Yes?”
“I’ve walked into some sort of verbal trap, but I’m not sure what,” John admits.
“You admit that there are individuals you consider under your protection,” Vernet replies. “Not simply the patients who come to you, but anyone your position will allow you to approach.” He tucks his legs beneath him, two quick flashes of shin that disappear once more beneath his nightshirt.
“Not anyone,” John says, and it feels like lying.
Vernet simply watches him. Though a creature of curiosity, he shows no sign of passing judgement. “Am I right?” he asks, sounding like a child who wants his well-earned prize.
“There are some people I dislike, you realise.”
“Does that matter?” Vernet asks.
No. Not in the slightest.
John’s sigh is nearly a groan. “Are you always right?”
Vernet grins, bright and sharp. “Almost always.”
A second sigh. “Something I’ll adapt to, no doubt.”
Vernet’s expression twitches, changes. The curve of his lips turns strange when soft, unfamiliar. When John frowns in concern, Vernet shakes his head and lifts a hand. “Doubtlessly,” Vernet agrees.
John ought to retreat, ought to let him dress himself, but he hesitates. “Is it a problem?” he asks. The protectiveness.
“I don’t need the light to dress by,” Vernet replies, answering the wrong question.
“I don’t mean the lantern.” He hovers on the edge of properly asking.
“It’s not a problem,” Vernet says with an impatient wave of the hand. “Now leave so I can get dressed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Vernet snaps. “I’m cold. Move. We’ve work to catch up on.”
“I’ll leave the light,” John says and does so. He closes the door behind him on his way into the main chamber, shutting himself into darkness. He reaches for the table, then leans against it. John is a protective man, always has been. By any consideration, Vernet is a man worth protecting. There’s nothing unusual in John’s intentions, save for perhaps their intensity. But Vernet is a man to inspire intensity. It’s a skill of Vernet’s, yet another talent he possesses in abundance. He’s a remarkable man, and the exceptional can be exceptions in many ways.
Listening to the slide of cloth on skin beyond the closed door, John tells himself this until he believes it.
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