Fic: Bel Canto - 11/16 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 6.8k out of 126k
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
As Green enters Mr Havill’s office, those already gathered turn to him in unison. “Anything?” Mr Havill asks.
Green shakes his head. “Nothing, sir.”
Mr Havill looks around the room, eyes travelling from Green to John, over Jamison, Beaumont and Westy. He takes in Hopkins and Miss Hooper by the door, and Mrs Hudson beside Holmes. Mr Johnson fidgets with his pocket watch by the window.
“That’s everyone,” Mr Havill says. He closes his eyes for a solid moment before resuming where he’d left off. “We’ll repeat the search once the rest of the staff arrives. For those of you here from last night, I’d advise breakfast and a strong coffee. Take your rest while you can, gentlemen.” He looks pointedly at Holmes.
Holmes doesn’t return his glance, if only because Holmes lies upon Mr Havill’s sofa like so many of John’s previous aristocratic patrons. A noose is a far different method of suffocation than a corset and there is no further loosening of clothing that would improve Holmes’ breathing. Too high to be hidden by his collar, the forming bruise about his neck breaks the pallor of his skin with a mottled purple. Though each breath must pain him, Holmes betrays no sign. The sofa supports him from crown to mid-thigh, his feet flat upon the floor.
Mrs Hudson sits next to his head, her hand upon his shoulder. “We should get you something to drink, dear.”
Holmes clears his throat, but his voice remains low. “Water. Any alcohol will put me right to sleep.”
Sleep isn’t a bad idea. John nearly says so, but Miss Hooper steps forward first.
“I’ll bring you a glass, sir,” she volunteers, leaving John’s side. She nods to Mr Havill on her way out.
Before she can exit, Green instructs, “Jamison, stay with her. No one goes alone until we know what’s been hidden.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Mr Havill confirms. “He’s made liberal use of fire in the past. We must prepare for the worst.”
“Mr Havill, will my girls be expected to join in the search?” Mrs Hudson asks. “And the boys, for that matter. We’re running low on our numbers as it is.”
“Anyone who appears on stage is given priority,” Mr Havill answers. “The musicians as well, Mr Johnson, and you. Mr Hopkins, the ushers will simply have to do their best. Any man who cannot comply with the dress code will be kept out of sight.”
“Very fair, sir,” Hopkins replies.
Further discussion blends in John’s ears, his vision blurring slightly. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open, exhaustion creeping in. Green gives him a slight nod.
“Mr Havill, sir, I think we’ll take your advice and get that breakfast,” John interjects when the proper pause arises.
Mr Havill gestures them out. Green and Hopkins follow on John’s heels. As they exit, Miss Hooper reappears with Holmes’ water. Hopkins lingers for the sake of holding the door open for her, and John and Green wait for Hopkins. Having only arrived this morning, Miss Hooper won’t be accompanying them out, but it takes John a distracted moment to remember this as Holmes sits up and thanks Miss Hooper for the glass. Exhaustion providing fierce inertia, John pulls himself away to follow Green and Hopkins. Westy and Beaumont trail after them.
Stagehands and ushers stand gathered in the lobby, the seamstresses and two injured dancers carefully to the side. Green gives the signal to move out and, as one stumbling horde, they exit the building with their hats pulled down and collars pulled up. Hiding yawns behind gloved hands, the troop staggers down the street before invading a small cafe. They install the dancers at the table closest to the door. This concern addressed, the rest of them promptly pack themselves in wherever they may fit, disturbing several men with half-full plates and unseating a small bootblack. The boy complains loudly and receives a swat for his trouble.
Green tugs at John’s elbow and nods toward the corner. John snags Hopkins in turn. They sit pressed knee to knee, John cramped in the corner chair, but they all have seats. Others are less fortunate.
By the time their coffee arrives, John and Green have nearly nodded off. Hopkins prods John, John prods Green, and they accept their coffee with heartfelt thanks.
“Was that the first time, Dr Watson?” Hopkins asks.
John blinks at him blearily.
“That you, well. That you killed someone.”
John shakes his head.
“I don’t, I don’t mean unintentionally as a doctor, I mean...”
“I know what you mean.”
“Beg pardon,” Hopkins replies. “Must be more tired than I thought, asking you something like that.”
“It’s a normal enough question.” He sips his coffee and promptly burns his tongue.
“How much of an accent on him?” Green asks.
“Hm?”
“The Chinese strangler.”
“Oh,” John says. “Not much. I honestly didn’t notice one.” He’d been much too busy fearing for Holmes’ life. He’d had no idea the acrobat wasn’t English until they’d rolled his corpse over.
“So we’re looking at the child of immigrants,” Green concludes.
John considers that. He nearly mentions that Miss Adler is, in fact, from New Jersey and no one would ever know this to hear her. “Maybe.”
“Westy sounds British.” Hopkins gestures toward the table closest to the door, Westy with his back to the cold entrance and Lucy Harrison leaning close to him. “Then again, his father’s from Yorkshire, I think.”
“I’m more interested in who the strangler knew, honestly.” John risks another sip of his coffee. “Still have the puppet master out there. Just a bit more important.”
Green laughs. “True.”
They sit and drink, listening to the others talk. The tale of the strangler attacking Holmes grows and grows until John thinks he might be ill. He blames the state of his stomach on the greasy food and bitter coffee.
“Do you think that’s the only one, sir?” Hopkins asks Green.
“Only what?”
“The only phantom,” Hopkins says. “I know we’ve the puppet master out there, but it’s the puppets who come to bother us.”
“Probably not.” Green grimaces. “We’re not finished keeping watch just yet.”
“He wasn’t the Red Death from New Year’s,” John says. “Red Death was taller than me. The voice was different too.” Not that different voices mean much, as it turns out. “The entire attitude was different. Red Death would have threatened me personally.”
Green pats him on the shoulder. “You’re such a charmer.”
“I suppose he could keep on hiring more ghosts,” Hopkins muses. “We should write to the circuses and such. Warn them to keep track of their acrobats.”
Green gives him an odd look. “Or else what?”
“Or else they’ll be accessory to the attempted murder of an earl’s brother and heir,” Hopkins says. “That’s just a bit of warning.”
“Showing weakness, though,” Green says. “Don’t much want to advertise it.”
Hopkins shrugs, cradling his coffee cup to the table. “That’s up to Mr Havill and the Earl, I suppose.”
John finishes eating first, then simply sits with his cooling cup between his hands. In a moment of paranoia, he checks under his nails for blood and finds none. He leans back in his chair until his head rests against the spot where the walls meet. He closes his eyes.
Much too soon, Green nudges him. “Doc, your girl’s at the door. Looks like she needs you.”
John frowns at him. “My...? Oh. We’re not... never mind.” He tries to stand, but Hopkins won’t budge his chair, staring not at John but toward Miss Hooper at the door. “Excuse me.”
Hopkins startles. “You’re not what, sir?” he asks, his wide eyes red with exhaustion. “You and Miss Hooper, you’re not...?”
“No,” John says, frowning. “Excuse me.” He manages to slip around Hopkins with coat and hat in hand. Navigating around the rest of the crowd is a challenge, but he succeeds and joins Miss Hooper at the door.
They exit without exchanging a word. He keeps up easily with her long strides until his thigh begins to twinge out a warning.
“How urgent?” John asks. “Sorry, it’s just.” He indicates his leg.
“Mr Holmes started vomiting. Is that a normal reaction to being strangled?”
“It might be a stress reaction.” It would be Holmes, wouldn’t it? The stomach acid can’t be doing his throat any favours. “Did he send you for me?”
Molly shakes her head. “Mrs Hudson did. Mr Holmes kept insisting he didn’t need a doctor, but he looked really panicked.”
“Do you know what he’s vomiting?” Holmes hasn’t eaten since yesterday.
“The water first, then some dry heaving. He was sort of curled up in a ball when I left.”
John increases his pace, grateful that it’s not far. “He needs to be taken home. Mr Havill’s office is no place for him in his condition.”
“Mrs Hudson wanted to be sure he was fit for travel first.”
“He ought to be. And once he’s home, he ought to stay home. None of this keeping watch two nights running nonsense. Bad enough Green keeps at it, but at least he’s not been strangled on top of everything else. Holmes needs to go home and stay there.”
“Are you... Sorry, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” John snaps.
Miss Hooper doesn’t so much as blink. “Because you don’t sound fine.”
“I’m fine, so it doesn’t matter what I sound like.”
“All right,” she says. “It’s just, you killed a man to save your friend and now he’s not doing so well. So I worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” Miss Hooper says. Her voice is no more or less gentle than it ever is.
They walk a bit faster.
He opens the opera house door for her. She thanks him. Having no reason to stay together, they part ways. John can’t help but feel a coward for wishing her a shield.
In Mr Havill’s office, Holmes is obviously worse than he was when John left him, now curled on his side rather than stretched on his back. His colour is poor, his eyes closed. Two consecutive nights of standing guard explains the exhaustion, but this is worse even than that. The strain of the attack has placed him in a pitiful state. Still, it’s hardly a surprise Holmes held himself together until after they left. Holmes does seem the sort to keep from breaking until he has a moment for it, preferably a solitary one.
John looks to Mrs Hudson, standing close by with a worried expression. Mr Havill is off seeing to something else, it seems, leaving only the three of them. Asleep? John mouths.
She shakes her head. With that, Holmes begins to cough. Not a bad sort of cough, nothing wrong with the lungs. Merely a pathetic cough, it shakes his shoulders but little else of his torso.
“When did the vomiting begin?” John asks Mrs Hudson.
“About, oh, twenty minutes or so. At least half an hour after you left.”
“Any food or drink?”
“Only the water,” Mrs Hudson replies. “We didn’t think it would be wise to have him eat anything solid, not so soon after the strangling.”
“I’m awake. Stop talking around me.” Rough and shredded, Holmes’ voice is worse than before.
John comes close to rolling his eyes. “If you don’t want to rest your throat, be my guest.”
Mrs Hudson hugs her arms about her middle. “Boys,” she chides.
“Will you take him home?” John asks.
“Is he all right to be taken home?” Mrs Hudson looks at him as if John is supposed to do something besides stand in the doorway and avoid touching Holmes.
“He’s more all right to be taken than to stay. For all we know, a bomb could be set to go off at any minute.”
Holmes says something that sounds like “smoke bomb” but John’s not listening.
“I’ll take him,” Mrs Hudson agrees.
“Thank you.” John hesitates in the doorway, manners dictating he say something further. He reaches and finds nothing.
Holmes may or may not make a crack at John’s bedside manner. It’s some sort of grumble, but John hesitates to reply to anything Holmes says involving beds.
With an awkward sort of nod, John exits, leaving the door shut tight behind him.
With Holmes removed, John breathes easier. Only slightly easier, but when scouring a very large building filled with a bewildering assortment of props and scenery pieces, any piece of improvement counts.
Regardless of how long they search, they find nothing blatantly sinister, nothing malignant or threatening. A pile of possible suspects develops, but all items are cleared of suspicion under Green’s watchful gaze. It unnerves them all without exception. John begins to think that killing one of their phantoms has only lead to fear of a new, real ghost.
Tensions only ratchet higher when the matinee begins. Then, as if to be utterly perverse, they exhale a collective sigh of relief when the dancers begin to vomit backstage. As the girls stay in cramped arrangements with one another and this is January, it’s not terribly unexpected. Perhaps Holmes caught this morning’s sickness from them.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had much to eat today,” John says to one of the girls as he checks her for fever. Flushed and clammy where she isn’t terribly pale, yes, but her temperature isn’t elevated enough to be worrisome.
The girl in question shakes her head miserably. Her first name is Violet, he thinks, but without a last name, he’s not sure how to address her.
John frowns. “No?”
“I had a bit of a sip from Jamison’s flask,” she admits. “Just to warm me up, that’s all.”
“Just a sip?”
She flushes. “He pours a bit in a mug and we pass it around. Please don’t tell. I know it’s not good on an empty stomach, but we’re all so cold.”
John promises he won’t, as long as it doesn’t prove relevant. After, he immediately goes to Jamison. Either the girls are giving the illness to each other, or Jamison passed it along to them. “How’re you feeling?”
Jamison blinks at him. “Fine, sir. Something the matter?”
John looks about to make sure Green isn’t nearby before leaning in close. “Have you done any drinking from that flask of yours today?”
To his credit, Jamison doesn’t play dumb. “Only a nip for the cold, sir.”
“A nip or two?”
Jamison moves his lips in the shape of a smile.
“But you’re feeling fine?”
“Perfectly sober, I promise. I promise on my job, in fact.” Of course he does. Green won’t allow for anything else.
“I see,” John says. “Thank you.”
“Is this about the sickness?”
“I’ll get back to you on that.” Not spreading from Jamison, then. Vomiting, cramps, and terrible pallor, these are the signs to look for. Some of the girls seem a bit confused as well, but everyone’s nerves are wearing thin by this point.
John seeks out Green only to discover he has a new patient. “Christ, not you too.”
Green swears into his bucket, looking a fright.
“You need to go home,” John tells him.
Green shakes his head with a tiny, delicate motion.
“Headache too?”
A groan serves as confirmation.
“I’ll get you some water,” John says. He returns as quickly as he can and sits with Green through tentative sips. It’s still a touch warm from time spent boiling in the kitchen. Green barely manages half the glass before vomiting it up. The noise Green makes afterward is more exhaustion than frustration, but that isn’t saying much. “However much you can keep down,” John urges. “You’re losing too many fluids.”
“I’ll be fine if I lie down,” Green protests.
“No, I’m taking you home.” It takes some insisting, but John gets Green into a hansom. They bump and jostle through the streets to Green’s house in time for lunch, which John has and Green does not. Mrs Green sends her husband straight up to bed and alternates between feeding John and interrogating him.
By the time John returns to the opera house, there are ten more cases. He starts writing down names, the list growing too long for even his memory.
Less than half an hour after teatime, John receives word that Mr Havill has taken ill as well. John finds him in his office, bent over a small bin, his tea and half-finished cake still on the desk.
“When did the symptoms begin?” John asks him.
“Ten or so minutes,” Mr Havill guesses. He washes his mouth out with more of his tea. “It came on quickly.”
“Can you describe the last twenty minutes for me, sir?”
With a weary, strained voice, Mr Havill complies. He points to the letters on his desk he was reading, to the tea he was having, to the cake he can’t bear to finish now.
“One moment, sir,” John says, an idea pulling together. “I need to find two assistants.”
Jamison and Beaumont come without question at the promise of food. “What’s this?” Mr Havill asks upon the entrance of the two stagehands.
“Our brave volunteers are here to test a theory,” John explains all three of them. “One will have cake, one will have tea. If I am right, one may suffer brief food poisoning, courtesy of the ghost. If I’m wrong, they’ll have enjoyed your tea and cake, sir.”
Jamison and Beaumont exchanges glances, no doubt discouraged by the sight of Mr Havill and his bin.
“Sick leave with pay,” Mr Havill promises. “And something to each of you for your trouble regardless.”
“Yes, sir,” Beaumont says cheerfully. He steps forward and helps himself to the cake.
With his usual swagger, Jamison takes the cup of tea and downs it. Within five minutes, he and Mr Havill are sharing the bin.
“Thank you, Mr Jamison,” John says sincerely. He gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’ve been a great help.”
The water for the tea was boiled in the kitchen, the same as the water John had brought Green and Miss Hooper had brought Holmes. John brings Beaumont downstairs and instructs him to drink directly from the pot. They monitor him mouthful after mouthful, but half an hour passes without Beaumont’s stomach turning.
“Maybe the chap with the poison is still alive,” Beaumont suggests. “He tampered with the tea after it left the kitchen.”
“I don’t know,” John says, mulling it over.
The matter of Jamison’s flask and the ill dancers is another confounding issue. That certainly wasn’t water. The strangler must have poisoned multiple sources, but how poison the dancers without poisoning Jamison in the same attempt? For that matter, the flask must have been on Jamison’s person the entire time last night. Surely the strangler wasn’t so deft as to manage a poisoning under those conditions. John can’t make head or tail of it.
A blanket order goes across the opera house. No one is permitted to drink anything that they did not carry in upon their own person. No one is to share drinks. It’s already much too late for the dancers and far too late for the singers. Everyone from Miss Adler to the star soprano spends the early evening turning pale and running to a bucket. Though the matinee was able to limp through to the end, tonight’s show is cancelled. They simply have no cast.
“He beat us dead.” Hopkins shakes his head, his eyes disbelieving. “It doesn’t make any sense, but he did.”
“We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” John assures him. “It has to fade.”
“What if another one sneaks in tonight?” Hopkins asks. “I went to ask Mr Havill, but he’s gone home.”
“Green too.”
Hopkins fights down a pained noise for them both. “Well... I’d better get back to refunding tickets.”
“Mm. I’ll rest up. Taking watch again tonight.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?” Hopkins asks immediately. “You’re the only doctor we have. If you’re exhausted tomorrow, I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”
John hesitates before nodding. “You’re right, Hopkins. I’ll speak to the rest, then head home.”
They nod and part ways.
With so many to look after, John arrives home separately from Mrs Hudson. She’s already had her late dinner, but some has been set out for him.
“I’m almost afraid to eat,” he admits.
Mrs Hudson smiles faintly. “Eliza’s cooking is nothing to be afraid of.”
John attempts a similar expression. He eats. She sits across from him. They don’t make conversation. John finishes his dinner and waits for Eliza to take his plate away. Only once they’re alone does he ask, “Did he speak to you about it?”
The well-known guilt fills her features.
“I’ve known for a few days,” John continues. “I had a hunch, at least, but I didn’t want to risk it.”
“I’m sorry.”
John shakes his head as if this will hold his anger back. “You promised not to tell.”
“It still seems a stupid promise not to have broken,” she says.
“A stupid promise to the owner of your workplace.”
She laughs a bit nervously at that and John feels an arse for having mentioned it. They shift in their seats, John straightening his jacket.
“What do you want to ask, dear?”
John shakes his head. “I don’t... I just want to be rid of him, really. I’ve had enough.”
“He’s always had terrible impulse control. Never thinks things through until after he has both feet in it.”
“Sorry, are we talking about the same man?” John leans forward with a frown. “This is Mr Sherlock ‘Ten Plans At Once’ Holmes we’re talking about.”
“It’s how he gets out of the trouble he’s put himself in,” Mrs Hudson explains.
“Not very well, apparently.”
“He was trying not to upset you. I know it didn’t work out that way.”
“You mean, if I’d been easier to control, his plan to control me wouldn’t seem so horrible?”
Mrs Hudson clearly hasn’t considered it this way before. Just as clearly, the thought upsets her. “He’s thoughtless and lonely. He didn’t intend for it to...” She bites her lip, avoiding John’s eyes to instead look at his shoulder.
“Well, if he didn’t intend to, that’s all right, isn’t it. Perfectly acceptable. I only wish that extended to my profession. I can’t tell you the trouble I’ve had, killing people I didn’t intend to.”
Instead of taking offence or making excuses, Mrs Hudson does a very curious thing. She says, “Oh, oh you poor dear.” She stands up. She comes around the small table, leans down, and hugs him about his shoulders. Being touched is the last thing he wants, so the way his arms rise to wrap about her back must be some permutation of his good manners. She pulls back before he has a chance to properly adjust.
“Is it really so bad as that?” she asks. “Vernet isn’t dead, John. Sherlock didn’t kill him.”
Something in John shakes that has no business shaking in front of anyone, let alone in front of Mrs Hudson. “I know that.” A man who isn’t real can’t be killed, merely stolen. He’s ruined and gone, nothing more than a cold mask abandoned upon a table.
“You need time, dear. Trust me on that. At my age, I’m an expert.”
John attempts a smile and she hugs him again. Her shoulders are thin under his hands, jarringly fragile.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” he says.
“Oh, what was I thinking? You must be exhausted. Yes, off you go.” She fusses with the shoulder of his jacket, smoothing it as if John were a tablecloth.
He stands, looks her directly and deliberately in the eye, and says, “You do know I’m not angry with you.”
Her mouth falls into a sad shape. “I would be furious with me.”
“You’re a very difficult woman to be furious with, Mrs Hudson.”
Though John has never heard a guilty chortle before, that is precisely the sound she makes. “Then I must be very talented.”
“Immeasurably.” He kisses her on the cheek, the sort of peck that strains the neck forward while pulling the shoulders back. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
With Mr Havill and Green ill, the chain of command flounders about onto the backs of Mr Johnson, Mrs Hudson, Hopkins, and Miss Hooper. Mr Johnson retains control of the music, from orchestra to choir. Mrs Hudson has her dancers and enough clout to boss the stagehands about despite Beaumont’s status as assistant stage manager. Hopkins has performed nearly every odd job in the house over his time here, and he orders his remaining ushers and ticket sellers to emulate this feat. Miss Hooper vacillates between a flustered air and a manner of competence, but she seems to have everything well in hand.
As for John, he’s kept busy as the remaining staff begins to drop as well. Though everyone is under strict orders to consume only what they have personally brought in with them, the poisoning continues. It arises without any discernible pattern. Very rapidly, John reaches the conclusion that once any one person has begun to vomit, there is nothing for it but to send the individual home.
Though the matinee is already cancelled, they quickly realize there’s no other option but to change the entertainment of the night to a basic ballet, nothing more. Hopkins fusses over the refunds until John begins to feel grateful for his own lot.
Through unanimous, spontaneous agreement, they wind up in Mr Havill’s office shortly before the ballet to hold an emergency meeting. “We can’t go on like this,” Mr Johnson announces.
“Dr Watson is working to find the cause,” Miss Hooper says, looking anxiously towards John. “Once everyone stops being sick--”
“It won’t matter,” Mr Johnson interrupts. “Our lead singers have already quit.”
“What, all of them?” Hopkins asks.
Mr Johnson nods. “It’s the final straw. There are rumbles of discontent even in the best of times, but now, oh, now it’s very bad indeed. They’re gone. They’ll be snatched up in an instant, I’m sure. There will be no getting them back.”
“Who do we have left?” Mrs Hudson asks.
Mr Johnson gives the list, but it’s very short. John is distantly pleased to hear Miss Adler hasn’t left them yet. She hasn’t been in today, but it’s still a small piece of good news. “I’m holding auditions for the chorus girls tonight,” Mr Johnson adds. “One or two might be ready to take that leap up, but it’s going to be a risky business.”
“At least the advancement might convince them to stay,” Mrs Hudson says.
“We can hope,” Mr Johnson agrees. “We need more men as well. That’s going to be an issue.”
The clock in the office chimes.
“House to open in fifteen minutes,” Hopkins announces.
Mr Johnson sighs and shares a pointed look with Mrs Hudson. They leave with Hopkins, each to their station. Miss Hooper remains, sitting on the sofa with a sigh. She nods at the cushion beside her and John sits as well. For a moment, they enjoy the dull silence of being exhausted with another, equally exhausted person.
“It’s liquid,” John says. “I’m sure of that much. Not a powder.”
Miss Hooper doesn’t lift her head from its lean against the sofa back. She doesn’t even open her eyes. “Because of Mr Holmes?”
“He was the first. It wasn’t related to trauma after all.”
“But the water was fine?”
“It was. I checked it myself. Beaumont drank it.”
Miss Hooper forces herself awake and aware. “Did you check the water from his glass? Mr Holmes’, I mean.”
John shakes his head. “Already taken away by the time I realized it wasn’t only him. Other glasses, yes, but those were already confirmed contaminated when I--”
“What was that?”
John stops and listens. His hand goes for his medical bag, for the pistol within, and his eyes fix on the door.
“No,” she says, catching him by the elbow. “What was it you said? Contaminated? You think he put the poison on the cups?”
John stares at her as an immense mental weight collides with his brain. “Oh, God. I’m an idiot.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re right. It’s not the drink that has been poisoned. It’s the cups.”
She frowns a bit. “You really think the ghost went about the entire opera house and poisoned all the cups?”
Put that way, it sounds mental-and therefore perfectly in keeping with the ghost’s plans. “It wouldn’t have to be all of them. And I don’t think it matters how ridiculous the method is when the result is this effective.”
Tentatively, she nods.
With a small groan, John forces himself to stand. “Come on. We’re going to test this.”
Her expression wary, Miss Hooper remains seated. “How?”
“You drink directly from the pot before and after I fill a glass. I drink the glass, and we see if either of us is vomiting in half an hour.”
“If you’re right, you’ll be out of commission for a few days,” Miss Hooper points out.
“If I’m right, we won’t need me to be in commission for a few days,” John counters.
A moment of consideration passes before Miss Hooper nods and stands.
Ten minutes later, John begins to feel it. Twenty-three minutes after drinking from the glass, he vomits into a bucket. Miss Hooper does not.
John returns home early that night, but when Mrs Hudson joins him, she assures him that everyone has been notified to bring a new cup from home. John groans out his victory, as satisfied and sick as any drunken soldier.
By the following afternoon, John feels nearly human again. He makes the mistake of attempting something thicker than broth and grudgingly confines himself to bed for the remainder of the day.
When Mrs Hudson returns in the evening-“Only a ballet again, dear, and then a bit of a concert.”-he joins her downstairs to attempt a weak cup of tea.
“Any new cases?” he asks.
“None. Everyone’s recovering to one degree or another.” She pours the tea before it’s had so much as a minute to steep. John wrinkles his nose to see her smile. It doesn’t work.
He warms his hands about his cup. “How badly are we off?”
Mrs Hudson very nearly hesitates before she sighs. “Very badly. There’s been some talk about concerts and ballets or renting the space to a theatre troupe.”
“Jesus bloody Christ. It’s that-sorry-it’s that bad?”
“Prayers in short form, dear. I understand. But it’s very difficult to have an opera without anyone singing it.”
John sips his watery, tea-tinged milk. “He’s going to keep attacking. Regardless of how we cope, there’s going to be something else. I’m amazed he hasn’t blown the place up yet.”
“At this rate, he might not need to. The new chandelier took a chunk out of the coffers, and being closed nearly all of December hardly helped. We need new talent and can’t afford to attract it.” She shakes her head, tired in a way John’s never before known her. Years of ballet and coaching, years of cold nights and long stairs against her hip, and she has never seemed so exhausted. “Unless we can pull something together soon, this could be the end.”
“There must be something,” John says, if only to say it. Though he puts all his hope into the platitude, the sound of it is still empty.
“It’s not the end of the world. I’m, I’m well off here. I’ve a lovely house and I’ve saved. You’ll build up your practice.” She nods as if hoping to turn motion into conviction. “We’ll be all right.”
“We will,” John promises.
“It won’t be the same, of course,” she continues. “Smaller. Quieter. That’s not so bad. And no more of those cold rides home at night. I’ve never liked those. No more girls complaining about their feet, no more hitting the stagehands for lifting skirts, no more nonsense.”
“It doesn’t have to be the end. Maybe another opera house--”
“Don’t you dare say that, John Watson. Don’t you dare.” She blinks back the shine in her eyes, the line of her mouth crumbling. “You know I can’t start again at my age.”
“Maybe the rest will be able to find work,” he says instead. “And maybe, sometimes, we could go out and see them.”
She presses her mouth tightly shut until it stops trembling. She takes long, slow breaths. She nods. “I’d like that,” she says, and that’s when she begins to cry.
He hands her his handkerchief, and she takes cloth and hand both. They hold tight. John looks at the floor and ceiling in turn. When Mrs Hudson recovers, they both clear their throats and Mrs Hudson pours them more tea. She forgets that John’s cup ought to be weak enough to fall in combat against an unarmed toddler. John drinks it anyway, stomach ache be damned.
“Are you sure you should be up?” Miss Hooper asks, falling in beside him on the way to Mr Havill’s office.
John raises his eyebrows. “Hello to you too.”
“No, really,” she says.
“I’ll be better for keeping active.” As long as he paces himself and doesn’t stand up too quickly, he ought to be fine. There’s only so much a man can do on so little food.
Miss Hooper sighs. “I wish everyone wouldn’t keep saying that.”
“Everyone?” If someone else is being an idiot, John is obligated to browbeat them.
“You, Stanley, and Mr Holmes.”
“Oh,” John says. It takes him a moment to remember that Stanley is Hopkin’s Christian name, but John has other priorities. “Mr Holmes is up already?” And presumably in Mr Havill’s office.
“You’re one to talk, with him poisoned only a day before you.”
“On top of a strangling. And I knew what I was doing. He kept drinking even after the vomiting started.” Which John had encouraged, but he can’t feel poorly over that in any way other than professionally.
They quiet down as they turn the corner to see Mr Johnson and Green entering the office. Green’s still living up to his name around the edges of his face, but it would take someone stronger than John to keep him down.
All enter the office. Inside, Mrs Hudson and Hopkins wait in front of Mr Havill’s desk. Mr Havill stands behind his desk, the Earl beside him. Behind them, Holmes leans against the side of a bookcase. Though Holmes’ body proclaims boredom, his eyes are a challenge John avoids.
“Eric, sit down,” Lord Holmes cajoles Mr Havill. “I refuse to be collapsed upon.”
Mr Havill sits.
“Mr Johnson,” Lord Holmes continues, “tell me, do we have a cast?”
“An incomplete one, my lord. Perhaps with some time, I could say otherwise.”
As the reports continue, the outlook turns increasingly grim. Though there have been no further incursions, the damage has been done. Though the strangler has been traced back to the Black Lotus Circus, none of the other members have admitted to knowing the man’s second occupation. They know the man needed money for his sister’s immigration fees but little else. So far, their best lead has come to nothing.
Worst of all, after their poor record of staying open in the past two months, their audience no longer trusts them. Mocking the ghost could only revive their reputation so far, but killing a man before stopping performances can hardly fill the seats. The projections for how long they’ll be able to stay open are two months at the absolute longest.
Never explicitly stated, an implication fills the room: the opera house has become more of a liability than a keepsake for Lord Holmes. It may yet be sold rather than simply closed, but any potential buyer would be harassed in turn. If the buyer went unmolested, he would immediately be investigated by the police. The entire business has become disreputable down to the core.
“If anyone has any suggestions for drawing out the ghost, now is the time,” Lord Holmes instructs.
The force of the resulting silence is matched only by the strength of their collective urge to avoid eye contact.
“Anyone?” Lord Holmes asks.
“We can keep watch for the next attempt on the opera house, my lord,” Green answers, uncharacteristically tentative. “We’ve not seen anything yet, but we might catch the next man alive.” His gaze flickers to John for an instant.
Mr Holmes makes a soft, disparaging sound. “Why attack us again?” he asks, the lightness of his voice failing him. He sounds like a parody of his brother. “We’re already crippled.”
“It’s a use of resources we can no longer afford,” Mr Havill adds. “It pains me to say so, but there we have it.”
“Excuse me,” Miss Hooper says. “Sorry. My lord, I was wondering if you believe the man in the Red Death costume-the one who threatened again on Mr Holmes’ birthday-if you think he’s the puppet master.”
“Whether he is or not, we would do well to catch him. Do you have any further thoughts, Miss Hooper, or only questions?”
Miss Hooper nods. “He comes out on important occasions, my lord. So... we could have another important occasion. And then lock all of the exits.”
Mr Johnson takes a far less optimistic view. “We’ve very little bait left to put into a trap. No cast, no opera... Beyond another ballet dedicated to mocking him, I’m not sure what we could attempt.”
“Mocking him is no good,” Green interjects. “He’ll only send someone new to punish us.”
“Instead of coming to ruin it on his own?” Mrs Hudson asks.
“That’s only if the Red Death is the puppet master,” Mr Havill says.
“As long as we catch him, sir, does it matter who comes to ruin whatever this event is?” Hopkins asks.
“It matters,” Lord Holmes says. “We can cut to the end or we can linger. I would greatly prefer the first.”
The debate continues on, an exchange that tugs at each ear before turning around upon itself. Tracking it, John’s gaze slides across the room. Though Holmes remains silent, John’s eyes catch upon him. There, they attempt to linger.
“We need to appeal to his sense of drama,” Holmes states, startling John into looking away. “Something not simply to be destroyed, but destroyed personally. He would need to regret not being here in person.”
“I agree, sir,” says Mr Johnson, “but we haven’t a cast to stage such a feat.”
John looks at Mr Johnson sharply. “What kind of feat could we stage?”
“Beg pardon?”
“We don’t have an entire cast, but we do have portions of one. What parts do we still have? Please, maestro, remind me.”
As Mr Johnson begins his list, John looks to Holmes. Nonplussed, Mr Johnson addresses his short recitation to Holmes. All the attention in the room turns upon Holmes. Holmes’ gaze, however, rests squarely upon John. For the moment, John can bear it.
When Mr Johnson concludes, John asks Holmes, “Is that enough?”
Holmes merely stares at him.
The Earl looks between them and captures his brother’s gaze with some effort. “Is it?”
Holmes’ eyes snap to the Earl’s. Though Holmes’ face barely contorts in sullen anger, John recognises a sentiment he had often heard in Vernet’s voice.
“Is what enough?” Hopkins whispers to John.
John shakes his head and mouths Not now.
“My brother and I need a moment alone,” the Earl announces, still locked in his staring contest. “Everyone, if you would be so kind.”
Mystified but obedient, the staff complies. Caught between questions waiting for him in the hall and the ire of the Holmes brothers in the office, John stops to hold the door for Mr Havill.
“The lead role is played by...?” Lord Holmes prompts his brother.
“Miss Adler,” Mr Holmes mutters.
“Dr Watson,” the Earl says. He doesn’t look at John. “If you would be so kind as to fetch Miss Adler? She is here, isn’t she?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Bring her. Explain on the way, but make no promises as to her salary.”
“Yes, my lord,” John repeats. As he closes the door to the office, all those crowded in the hall stare at him with curious faces.
Before anyone gets out a question, Mr Havill pushes on John’s back, urging him onward. “She’s in her dressing room, I believe, preparing for tonight’s concert.”
John nods. “Thank you, sir.” He sets off quickly, leaving, just for a moment, their prying eyes behind.
previous | next
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 6.8k out of 126k
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
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Op. 20, No. 16
As Green enters Mr Havill’s office, those already gathered turn to him in unison. “Anything?” Mr Havill asks.
Green shakes his head. “Nothing, sir.”
Mr Havill looks around the room, eyes travelling from Green to John, over Jamison, Beaumont and Westy. He takes in Hopkins and Miss Hooper by the door, and Mrs Hudson beside Holmes. Mr Johnson fidgets with his pocket watch by the window.
“That’s everyone,” Mr Havill says. He closes his eyes for a solid moment before resuming where he’d left off. “We’ll repeat the search once the rest of the staff arrives. For those of you here from last night, I’d advise breakfast and a strong coffee. Take your rest while you can, gentlemen.” He looks pointedly at Holmes.
Holmes doesn’t return his glance, if only because Holmes lies upon Mr Havill’s sofa like so many of John’s previous aristocratic patrons. A noose is a far different method of suffocation than a corset and there is no further loosening of clothing that would improve Holmes’ breathing. Too high to be hidden by his collar, the forming bruise about his neck breaks the pallor of his skin with a mottled purple. Though each breath must pain him, Holmes betrays no sign. The sofa supports him from crown to mid-thigh, his feet flat upon the floor.
Mrs Hudson sits next to his head, her hand upon his shoulder. “We should get you something to drink, dear.”
Holmes clears his throat, but his voice remains low. “Water. Any alcohol will put me right to sleep.”
Sleep isn’t a bad idea. John nearly says so, but Miss Hooper steps forward first.
“I’ll bring you a glass, sir,” she volunteers, leaving John’s side. She nods to Mr Havill on her way out.
Before she can exit, Green instructs, “Jamison, stay with her. No one goes alone until we know what’s been hidden.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Mr Havill confirms. “He’s made liberal use of fire in the past. We must prepare for the worst.”
“Mr Havill, will my girls be expected to join in the search?” Mrs Hudson asks. “And the boys, for that matter. We’re running low on our numbers as it is.”
“Anyone who appears on stage is given priority,” Mr Havill answers. “The musicians as well, Mr Johnson, and you. Mr Hopkins, the ushers will simply have to do their best. Any man who cannot comply with the dress code will be kept out of sight.”
“Very fair, sir,” Hopkins replies.
Further discussion blends in John’s ears, his vision blurring slightly. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open, exhaustion creeping in. Green gives him a slight nod.
“Mr Havill, sir, I think we’ll take your advice and get that breakfast,” John interjects when the proper pause arises.
Mr Havill gestures them out. Green and Hopkins follow on John’s heels. As they exit, Miss Hooper reappears with Holmes’ water. Hopkins lingers for the sake of holding the door open for her, and John and Green wait for Hopkins. Having only arrived this morning, Miss Hooper won’t be accompanying them out, but it takes John a distracted moment to remember this as Holmes sits up and thanks Miss Hooper for the glass. Exhaustion providing fierce inertia, John pulls himself away to follow Green and Hopkins. Westy and Beaumont trail after them.
Stagehands and ushers stand gathered in the lobby, the seamstresses and two injured dancers carefully to the side. Green gives the signal to move out and, as one stumbling horde, they exit the building with their hats pulled down and collars pulled up. Hiding yawns behind gloved hands, the troop staggers down the street before invading a small cafe. They install the dancers at the table closest to the door. This concern addressed, the rest of them promptly pack themselves in wherever they may fit, disturbing several men with half-full plates and unseating a small bootblack. The boy complains loudly and receives a swat for his trouble.
Green tugs at John’s elbow and nods toward the corner. John snags Hopkins in turn. They sit pressed knee to knee, John cramped in the corner chair, but they all have seats. Others are less fortunate.
By the time their coffee arrives, John and Green have nearly nodded off. Hopkins prods John, John prods Green, and they accept their coffee with heartfelt thanks.
“Was that the first time, Dr Watson?” Hopkins asks.
John blinks at him blearily.
“That you, well. That you killed someone.”
John shakes his head.
“I don’t, I don’t mean unintentionally as a doctor, I mean...”
“I know what you mean.”
“Beg pardon,” Hopkins replies. “Must be more tired than I thought, asking you something like that.”
“It’s a normal enough question.” He sips his coffee and promptly burns his tongue.
“How much of an accent on him?” Green asks.
“Hm?”
“The Chinese strangler.”
“Oh,” John says. “Not much. I honestly didn’t notice one.” He’d been much too busy fearing for Holmes’ life. He’d had no idea the acrobat wasn’t English until they’d rolled his corpse over.
“So we’re looking at the child of immigrants,” Green concludes.
John considers that. He nearly mentions that Miss Adler is, in fact, from New Jersey and no one would ever know this to hear her. “Maybe.”
“Westy sounds British.” Hopkins gestures toward the table closest to the door, Westy with his back to the cold entrance and Lucy Harrison leaning close to him. “Then again, his father’s from Yorkshire, I think.”
“I’m more interested in who the strangler knew, honestly.” John risks another sip of his coffee. “Still have the puppet master out there. Just a bit more important.”
Green laughs. “True.”
They sit and drink, listening to the others talk. The tale of the strangler attacking Holmes grows and grows until John thinks he might be ill. He blames the state of his stomach on the greasy food and bitter coffee.
“Do you think that’s the only one, sir?” Hopkins asks Green.
“Only what?”
“The only phantom,” Hopkins says. “I know we’ve the puppet master out there, but it’s the puppets who come to bother us.”
“Probably not.” Green grimaces. “We’re not finished keeping watch just yet.”
“He wasn’t the Red Death from New Year’s,” John says. “Red Death was taller than me. The voice was different too.” Not that different voices mean much, as it turns out. “The entire attitude was different. Red Death would have threatened me personally.”
Green pats him on the shoulder. “You’re such a charmer.”
“I suppose he could keep on hiring more ghosts,” Hopkins muses. “We should write to the circuses and such. Warn them to keep track of their acrobats.”
Green gives him an odd look. “Or else what?”
“Or else they’ll be accessory to the attempted murder of an earl’s brother and heir,” Hopkins says. “That’s just a bit of warning.”
“Showing weakness, though,” Green says. “Don’t much want to advertise it.”
Hopkins shrugs, cradling his coffee cup to the table. “That’s up to Mr Havill and the Earl, I suppose.”
John finishes eating first, then simply sits with his cooling cup between his hands. In a moment of paranoia, he checks under his nails for blood and finds none. He leans back in his chair until his head rests against the spot where the walls meet. He closes his eyes.
Much too soon, Green nudges him. “Doc, your girl’s at the door. Looks like she needs you.”
John frowns at him. “My...? Oh. We’re not... never mind.” He tries to stand, but Hopkins won’t budge his chair, staring not at John but toward Miss Hooper at the door. “Excuse me.”
Hopkins startles. “You’re not what, sir?” he asks, his wide eyes red with exhaustion. “You and Miss Hooper, you’re not...?”
“No,” John says, frowning. “Excuse me.” He manages to slip around Hopkins with coat and hat in hand. Navigating around the rest of the crowd is a challenge, but he succeeds and joins Miss Hooper at the door.
They exit without exchanging a word. He keeps up easily with her long strides until his thigh begins to twinge out a warning.
“How urgent?” John asks. “Sorry, it’s just.” He indicates his leg.
“Mr Holmes started vomiting. Is that a normal reaction to being strangled?”
“It might be a stress reaction.” It would be Holmes, wouldn’t it? The stomach acid can’t be doing his throat any favours. “Did he send you for me?”
Molly shakes her head. “Mrs Hudson did. Mr Holmes kept insisting he didn’t need a doctor, but he looked really panicked.”
“Do you know what he’s vomiting?” Holmes hasn’t eaten since yesterday.
“The water first, then some dry heaving. He was sort of curled up in a ball when I left.”
John increases his pace, grateful that it’s not far. “He needs to be taken home. Mr Havill’s office is no place for him in his condition.”
“Mrs Hudson wanted to be sure he was fit for travel first.”
“He ought to be. And once he’s home, he ought to stay home. None of this keeping watch two nights running nonsense. Bad enough Green keeps at it, but at least he’s not been strangled on top of everything else. Holmes needs to go home and stay there.”
“Are you... Sorry, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” John snaps.
Miss Hooper doesn’t so much as blink. “Because you don’t sound fine.”
“I’m fine, so it doesn’t matter what I sound like.”
“All right,” she says. “It’s just, you killed a man to save your friend and now he’s not doing so well. So I worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” Miss Hooper says. Her voice is no more or less gentle than it ever is.
They walk a bit faster.
He opens the opera house door for her. She thanks him. Having no reason to stay together, they part ways. John can’t help but feel a coward for wishing her a shield.
In Mr Havill’s office, Holmes is obviously worse than he was when John left him, now curled on his side rather than stretched on his back. His colour is poor, his eyes closed. Two consecutive nights of standing guard explains the exhaustion, but this is worse even than that. The strain of the attack has placed him in a pitiful state. Still, it’s hardly a surprise Holmes held himself together until after they left. Holmes does seem the sort to keep from breaking until he has a moment for it, preferably a solitary one.
John looks to Mrs Hudson, standing close by with a worried expression. Mr Havill is off seeing to something else, it seems, leaving only the three of them. Asleep? John mouths.
She shakes her head. With that, Holmes begins to cough. Not a bad sort of cough, nothing wrong with the lungs. Merely a pathetic cough, it shakes his shoulders but little else of his torso.
“When did the vomiting begin?” John asks Mrs Hudson.
“About, oh, twenty minutes or so. At least half an hour after you left.”
“Any food or drink?”
“Only the water,” Mrs Hudson replies. “We didn’t think it would be wise to have him eat anything solid, not so soon after the strangling.”
“I’m awake. Stop talking around me.” Rough and shredded, Holmes’ voice is worse than before.
John comes close to rolling his eyes. “If you don’t want to rest your throat, be my guest.”
Mrs Hudson hugs her arms about her middle. “Boys,” she chides.
“Will you take him home?” John asks.
“Is he all right to be taken home?” Mrs Hudson looks at him as if John is supposed to do something besides stand in the doorway and avoid touching Holmes.
“He’s more all right to be taken than to stay. For all we know, a bomb could be set to go off at any minute.”
Holmes says something that sounds like “smoke bomb” but John’s not listening.
“I’ll take him,” Mrs Hudson agrees.
“Thank you.” John hesitates in the doorway, manners dictating he say something further. He reaches and finds nothing.
Holmes may or may not make a crack at John’s bedside manner. It’s some sort of grumble, but John hesitates to reply to anything Holmes says involving beds.
With an awkward sort of nod, John exits, leaving the door shut tight behind him.
With Holmes removed, John breathes easier. Only slightly easier, but when scouring a very large building filled with a bewildering assortment of props and scenery pieces, any piece of improvement counts.
Regardless of how long they search, they find nothing blatantly sinister, nothing malignant or threatening. A pile of possible suspects develops, but all items are cleared of suspicion under Green’s watchful gaze. It unnerves them all without exception. John begins to think that killing one of their phantoms has only lead to fear of a new, real ghost.
Tensions only ratchet higher when the matinee begins. Then, as if to be utterly perverse, they exhale a collective sigh of relief when the dancers begin to vomit backstage. As the girls stay in cramped arrangements with one another and this is January, it’s not terribly unexpected. Perhaps Holmes caught this morning’s sickness from them.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had much to eat today,” John says to one of the girls as he checks her for fever. Flushed and clammy where she isn’t terribly pale, yes, but her temperature isn’t elevated enough to be worrisome.
The girl in question shakes her head miserably. Her first name is Violet, he thinks, but without a last name, he’s not sure how to address her.
John frowns. “No?”
“I had a bit of a sip from Jamison’s flask,” she admits. “Just to warm me up, that’s all.”
“Just a sip?”
She flushes. “He pours a bit in a mug and we pass it around. Please don’t tell. I know it’s not good on an empty stomach, but we’re all so cold.”
John promises he won’t, as long as it doesn’t prove relevant. After, he immediately goes to Jamison. Either the girls are giving the illness to each other, or Jamison passed it along to them. “How’re you feeling?”
Jamison blinks at him. “Fine, sir. Something the matter?”
John looks about to make sure Green isn’t nearby before leaning in close. “Have you done any drinking from that flask of yours today?”
To his credit, Jamison doesn’t play dumb. “Only a nip for the cold, sir.”
“A nip or two?”
Jamison moves his lips in the shape of a smile.
“But you’re feeling fine?”
“Perfectly sober, I promise. I promise on my job, in fact.” Of course he does. Green won’t allow for anything else.
“I see,” John says. “Thank you.”
“Is this about the sickness?”
“I’ll get back to you on that.” Not spreading from Jamison, then. Vomiting, cramps, and terrible pallor, these are the signs to look for. Some of the girls seem a bit confused as well, but everyone’s nerves are wearing thin by this point.
John seeks out Green only to discover he has a new patient. “Christ, not you too.”
Green swears into his bucket, looking a fright.
“You need to go home,” John tells him.
Green shakes his head with a tiny, delicate motion.
“Headache too?”
A groan serves as confirmation.
“I’ll get you some water,” John says. He returns as quickly as he can and sits with Green through tentative sips. It’s still a touch warm from time spent boiling in the kitchen. Green barely manages half the glass before vomiting it up. The noise Green makes afterward is more exhaustion than frustration, but that isn’t saying much. “However much you can keep down,” John urges. “You’re losing too many fluids.”
“I’ll be fine if I lie down,” Green protests.
“No, I’m taking you home.” It takes some insisting, but John gets Green into a hansom. They bump and jostle through the streets to Green’s house in time for lunch, which John has and Green does not. Mrs Green sends her husband straight up to bed and alternates between feeding John and interrogating him.
By the time John returns to the opera house, there are ten more cases. He starts writing down names, the list growing too long for even his memory.
Less than half an hour after teatime, John receives word that Mr Havill has taken ill as well. John finds him in his office, bent over a small bin, his tea and half-finished cake still on the desk.
“When did the symptoms begin?” John asks him.
“Ten or so minutes,” Mr Havill guesses. He washes his mouth out with more of his tea. “It came on quickly.”
“Can you describe the last twenty minutes for me, sir?”
With a weary, strained voice, Mr Havill complies. He points to the letters on his desk he was reading, to the tea he was having, to the cake he can’t bear to finish now.
“One moment, sir,” John says, an idea pulling together. “I need to find two assistants.”
Jamison and Beaumont come without question at the promise of food. “What’s this?” Mr Havill asks upon the entrance of the two stagehands.
“Our brave volunteers are here to test a theory,” John explains all three of them. “One will have cake, one will have tea. If I am right, one may suffer brief food poisoning, courtesy of the ghost. If I’m wrong, they’ll have enjoyed your tea and cake, sir.”
Jamison and Beaumont exchanges glances, no doubt discouraged by the sight of Mr Havill and his bin.
“Sick leave with pay,” Mr Havill promises. “And something to each of you for your trouble regardless.”
“Yes, sir,” Beaumont says cheerfully. He steps forward and helps himself to the cake.
With his usual swagger, Jamison takes the cup of tea and downs it. Within five minutes, he and Mr Havill are sharing the bin.
“Thank you, Mr Jamison,” John says sincerely. He gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’ve been a great help.”
The water for the tea was boiled in the kitchen, the same as the water John had brought Green and Miss Hooper had brought Holmes. John brings Beaumont downstairs and instructs him to drink directly from the pot. They monitor him mouthful after mouthful, but half an hour passes without Beaumont’s stomach turning.
“Maybe the chap with the poison is still alive,” Beaumont suggests. “He tampered with the tea after it left the kitchen.”
“I don’t know,” John says, mulling it over.
The matter of Jamison’s flask and the ill dancers is another confounding issue. That certainly wasn’t water. The strangler must have poisoned multiple sources, but how poison the dancers without poisoning Jamison in the same attempt? For that matter, the flask must have been on Jamison’s person the entire time last night. Surely the strangler wasn’t so deft as to manage a poisoning under those conditions. John can’t make head or tail of it.
A blanket order goes across the opera house. No one is permitted to drink anything that they did not carry in upon their own person. No one is to share drinks. It’s already much too late for the dancers and far too late for the singers. Everyone from Miss Adler to the star soprano spends the early evening turning pale and running to a bucket. Though the matinee was able to limp through to the end, tonight’s show is cancelled. They simply have no cast.
“He beat us dead.” Hopkins shakes his head, his eyes disbelieving. “It doesn’t make any sense, but he did.”
“We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” John assures him. “It has to fade.”
“What if another one sneaks in tonight?” Hopkins asks. “I went to ask Mr Havill, but he’s gone home.”
“Green too.”
Hopkins fights down a pained noise for them both. “Well... I’d better get back to refunding tickets.”
“Mm. I’ll rest up. Taking watch again tonight.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?” Hopkins asks immediately. “You’re the only doctor we have. If you’re exhausted tomorrow, I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”
John hesitates before nodding. “You’re right, Hopkins. I’ll speak to the rest, then head home.”
They nod and part ways.
With so many to look after, John arrives home separately from Mrs Hudson. She’s already had her late dinner, but some has been set out for him.
“I’m almost afraid to eat,” he admits.
Mrs Hudson smiles faintly. “Eliza’s cooking is nothing to be afraid of.”
John attempts a similar expression. He eats. She sits across from him. They don’t make conversation. John finishes his dinner and waits for Eliza to take his plate away. Only once they’re alone does he ask, “Did he speak to you about it?”
The well-known guilt fills her features.
“I’ve known for a few days,” John continues. “I had a hunch, at least, but I didn’t want to risk it.”
“I’m sorry.”
John shakes his head as if this will hold his anger back. “You promised not to tell.”
“It still seems a stupid promise not to have broken,” she says.
“A stupid promise to the owner of your workplace.”
She laughs a bit nervously at that and John feels an arse for having mentioned it. They shift in their seats, John straightening his jacket.
“What do you want to ask, dear?”
John shakes his head. “I don’t... I just want to be rid of him, really. I’ve had enough.”
“He’s always had terrible impulse control. Never thinks things through until after he has both feet in it.”
“Sorry, are we talking about the same man?” John leans forward with a frown. “This is Mr Sherlock ‘Ten Plans At Once’ Holmes we’re talking about.”
“It’s how he gets out of the trouble he’s put himself in,” Mrs Hudson explains.
“Not very well, apparently.”
“He was trying not to upset you. I know it didn’t work out that way.”
“You mean, if I’d been easier to control, his plan to control me wouldn’t seem so horrible?”
Mrs Hudson clearly hasn’t considered it this way before. Just as clearly, the thought upsets her. “He’s thoughtless and lonely. He didn’t intend for it to...” She bites her lip, avoiding John’s eyes to instead look at his shoulder.
“Well, if he didn’t intend to, that’s all right, isn’t it. Perfectly acceptable. I only wish that extended to my profession. I can’t tell you the trouble I’ve had, killing people I didn’t intend to.”
Instead of taking offence or making excuses, Mrs Hudson does a very curious thing. She says, “Oh, oh you poor dear.” She stands up. She comes around the small table, leans down, and hugs him about his shoulders. Being touched is the last thing he wants, so the way his arms rise to wrap about her back must be some permutation of his good manners. She pulls back before he has a chance to properly adjust.
“Is it really so bad as that?” she asks. “Vernet isn’t dead, John. Sherlock didn’t kill him.”
Something in John shakes that has no business shaking in front of anyone, let alone in front of Mrs Hudson. “I know that.” A man who isn’t real can’t be killed, merely stolen. He’s ruined and gone, nothing more than a cold mask abandoned upon a table.
“You need time, dear. Trust me on that. At my age, I’m an expert.”
John attempts a smile and she hugs him again. Her shoulders are thin under his hands, jarringly fragile.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” he says.
“Oh, what was I thinking? You must be exhausted. Yes, off you go.” She fusses with the shoulder of his jacket, smoothing it as if John were a tablecloth.
He stands, looks her directly and deliberately in the eye, and says, “You do know I’m not angry with you.”
Her mouth falls into a sad shape. “I would be furious with me.”
“You’re a very difficult woman to be furious with, Mrs Hudson.”
Though John has never heard a guilty chortle before, that is precisely the sound she makes. “Then I must be very talented.”
“Immeasurably.” He kisses her on the cheek, the sort of peck that strains the neck forward while pulling the shoulders back. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
With Mr Havill and Green ill, the chain of command flounders about onto the backs of Mr Johnson, Mrs Hudson, Hopkins, and Miss Hooper. Mr Johnson retains control of the music, from orchestra to choir. Mrs Hudson has her dancers and enough clout to boss the stagehands about despite Beaumont’s status as assistant stage manager. Hopkins has performed nearly every odd job in the house over his time here, and he orders his remaining ushers and ticket sellers to emulate this feat. Miss Hooper vacillates between a flustered air and a manner of competence, but she seems to have everything well in hand.
As for John, he’s kept busy as the remaining staff begins to drop as well. Though everyone is under strict orders to consume only what they have personally brought in with them, the poisoning continues. It arises without any discernible pattern. Very rapidly, John reaches the conclusion that once any one person has begun to vomit, there is nothing for it but to send the individual home.
Though the matinee is already cancelled, they quickly realize there’s no other option but to change the entertainment of the night to a basic ballet, nothing more. Hopkins fusses over the refunds until John begins to feel grateful for his own lot.
Through unanimous, spontaneous agreement, they wind up in Mr Havill’s office shortly before the ballet to hold an emergency meeting. “We can’t go on like this,” Mr Johnson announces.
“Dr Watson is working to find the cause,” Miss Hooper says, looking anxiously towards John. “Once everyone stops being sick--”
“It won’t matter,” Mr Johnson interrupts. “Our lead singers have already quit.”
“What, all of them?” Hopkins asks.
Mr Johnson nods. “It’s the final straw. There are rumbles of discontent even in the best of times, but now, oh, now it’s very bad indeed. They’re gone. They’ll be snatched up in an instant, I’m sure. There will be no getting them back.”
“Who do we have left?” Mrs Hudson asks.
Mr Johnson gives the list, but it’s very short. John is distantly pleased to hear Miss Adler hasn’t left them yet. She hasn’t been in today, but it’s still a small piece of good news. “I’m holding auditions for the chorus girls tonight,” Mr Johnson adds. “One or two might be ready to take that leap up, but it’s going to be a risky business.”
“At least the advancement might convince them to stay,” Mrs Hudson says.
“We can hope,” Mr Johnson agrees. “We need more men as well. That’s going to be an issue.”
The clock in the office chimes.
“House to open in fifteen minutes,” Hopkins announces.
Mr Johnson sighs and shares a pointed look with Mrs Hudson. They leave with Hopkins, each to their station. Miss Hooper remains, sitting on the sofa with a sigh. She nods at the cushion beside her and John sits as well. For a moment, they enjoy the dull silence of being exhausted with another, equally exhausted person.
“It’s liquid,” John says. “I’m sure of that much. Not a powder.”
Miss Hooper doesn’t lift her head from its lean against the sofa back. She doesn’t even open her eyes. “Because of Mr Holmes?”
“He was the first. It wasn’t related to trauma after all.”
“But the water was fine?”
“It was. I checked it myself. Beaumont drank it.”
Miss Hooper forces herself awake and aware. “Did you check the water from his glass? Mr Holmes’, I mean.”
John shakes his head. “Already taken away by the time I realized it wasn’t only him. Other glasses, yes, but those were already confirmed contaminated when I--”
“What was that?”
John stops and listens. His hand goes for his medical bag, for the pistol within, and his eyes fix on the door.
“No,” she says, catching him by the elbow. “What was it you said? Contaminated? You think he put the poison on the cups?”
John stares at her as an immense mental weight collides with his brain. “Oh, God. I’m an idiot.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re right. It’s not the drink that has been poisoned. It’s the cups.”
She frowns a bit. “You really think the ghost went about the entire opera house and poisoned all the cups?”
Put that way, it sounds mental-and therefore perfectly in keeping with the ghost’s plans. “It wouldn’t have to be all of them. And I don’t think it matters how ridiculous the method is when the result is this effective.”
Tentatively, she nods.
With a small groan, John forces himself to stand. “Come on. We’re going to test this.”
Her expression wary, Miss Hooper remains seated. “How?”
“You drink directly from the pot before and after I fill a glass. I drink the glass, and we see if either of us is vomiting in half an hour.”
“If you’re right, you’ll be out of commission for a few days,” Miss Hooper points out.
“If I’m right, we won’t need me to be in commission for a few days,” John counters.
A moment of consideration passes before Miss Hooper nods and stands.
Ten minutes later, John begins to feel it. Twenty-three minutes after drinking from the glass, he vomits into a bucket. Miss Hooper does not.
John returns home early that night, but when Mrs Hudson joins him, she assures him that everyone has been notified to bring a new cup from home. John groans out his victory, as satisfied and sick as any drunken soldier.
By the following afternoon, John feels nearly human again. He makes the mistake of attempting something thicker than broth and grudgingly confines himself to bed for the remainder of the day.
When Mrs Hudson returns in the evening-“Only a ballet again, dear, and then a bit of a concert.”-he joins her downstairs to attempt a weak cup of tea.
“Any new cases?” he asks.
“None. Everyone’s recovering to one degree or another.” She pours the tea before it’s had so much as a minute to steep. John wrinkles his nose to see her smile. It doesn’t work.
He warms his hands about his cup. “How badly are we off?”
Mrs Hudson very nearly hesitates before she sighs. “Very badly. There’s been some talk about concerts and ballets or renting the space to a theatre troupe.”
“Jesus bloody Christ. It’s that-sorry-it’s that bad?”
“Prayers in short form, dear. I understand. But it’s very difficult to have an opera without anyone singing it.”
John sips his watery, tea-tinged milk. “He’s going to keep attacking. Regardless of how we cope, there’s going to be something else. I’m amazed he hasn’t blown the place up yet.”
“At this rate, he might not need to. The new chandelier took a chunk out of the coffers, and being closed nearly all of December hardly helped. We need new talent and can’t afford to attract it.” She shakes her head, tired in a way John’s never before known her. Years of ballet and coaching, years of cold nights and long stairs against her hip, and she has never seemed so exhausted. “Unless we can pull something together soon, this could be the end.”
“There must be something,” John says, if only to say it. Though he puts all his hope into the platitude, the sound of it is still empty.
“It’s not the end of the world. I’m, I’m well off here. I’ve a lovely house and I’ve saved. You’ll build up your practice.” She nods as if hoping to turn motion into conviction. “We’ll be all right.”
“We will,” John promises.
“It won’t be the same, of course,” she continues. “Smaller. Quieter. That’s not so bad. And no more of those cold rides home at night. I’ve never liked those. No more girls complaining about their feet, no more hitting the stagehands for lifting skirts, no more nonsense.”
“It doesn’t have to be the end. Maybe another opera house--”
“Don’t you dare say that, John Watson. Don’t you dare.” She blinks back the shine in her eyes, the line of her mouth crumbling. “You know I can’t start again at my age.”
“Maybe the rest will be able to find work,” he says instead. “And maybe, sometimes, we could go out and see them.”
She presses her mouth tightly shut until it stops trembling. She takes long, slow breaths. She nods. “I’d like that,” she says, and that’s when she begins to cry.
He hands her his handkerchief, and she takes cloth and hand both. They hold tight. John looks at the floor and ceiling in turn. When Mrs Hudson recovers, they both clear their throats and Mrs Hudson pours them more tea. She forgets that John’s cup ought to be weak enough to fall in combat against an unarmed toddler. John drinks it anyway, stomach ache be damned.
“Are you sure you should be up?” Miss Hooper asks, falling in beside him on the way to Mr Havill’s office.
John raises his eyebrows. “Hello to you too.”
“No, really,” she says.
“I’ll be better for keeping active.” As long as he paces himself and doesn’t stand up too quickly, he ought to be fine. There’s only so much a man can do on so little food.
Miss Hooper sighs. “I wish everyone wouldn’t keep saying that.”
“Everyone?” If someone else is being an idiot, John is obligated to browbeat them.
“You, Stanley, and Mr Holmes.”
“Oh,” John says. It takes him a moment to remember that Stanley is Hopkin’s Christian name, but John has other priorities. “Mr Holmes is up already?” And presumably in Mr Havill’s office.
“You’re one to talk, with him poisoned only a day before you.”
“On top of a strangling. And I knew what I was doing. He kept drinking even after the vomiting started.” Which John had encouraged, but he can’t feel poorly over that in any way other than professionally.
They quiet down as they turn the corner to see Mr Johnson and Green entering the office. Green’s still living up to his name around the edges of his face, but it would take someone stronger than John to keep him down.
All enter the office. Inside, Mrs Hudson and Hopkins wait in front of Mr Havill’s desk. Mr Havill stands behind his desk, the Earl beside him. Behind them, Holmes leans against the side of a bookcase. Though Holmes’ body proclaims boredom, his eyes are a challenge John avoids.
“Eric, sit down,” Lord Holmes cajoles Mr Havill. “I refuse to be collapsed upon.”
Mr Havill sits.
“Mr Johnson,” Lord Holmes continues, “tell me, do we have a cast?”
“An incomplete one, my lord. Perhaps with some time, I could say otherwise.”
As the reports continue, the outlook turns increasingly grim. Though there have been no further incursions, the damage has been done. Though the strangler has been traced back to the Black Lotus Circus, none of the other members have admitted to knowing the man’s second occupation. They know the man needed money for his sister’s immigration fees but little else. So far, their best lead has come to nothing.
Worst of all, after their poor record of staying open in the past two months, their audience no longer trusts them. Mocking the ghost could only revive their reputation so far, but killing a man before stopping performances can hardly fill the seats. The projections for how long they’ll be able to stay open are two months at the absolute longest.
Never explicitly stated, an implication fills the room: the opera house has become more of a liability than a keepsake for Lord Holmes. It may yet be sold rather than simply closed, but any potential buyer would be harassed in turn. If the buyer went unmolested, he would immediately be investigated by the police. The entire business has become disreputable down to the core.
“If anyone has any suggestions for drawing out the ghost, now is the time,” Lord Holmes instructs.
The force of the resulting silence is matched only by the strength of their collective urge to avoid eye contact.
“Anyone?” Lord Holmes asks.
“We can keep watch for the next attempt on the opera house, my lord,” Green answers, uncharacteristically tentative. “We’ve not seen anything yet, but we might catch the next man alive.” His gaze flickers to John for an instant.
Mr Holmes makes a soft, disparaging sound. “Why attack us again?” he asks, the lightness of his voice failing him. He sounds like a parody of his brother. “We’re already crippled.”
“It’s a use of resources we can no longer afford,” Mr Havill adds. “It pains me to say so, but there we have it.”
“Excuse me,” Miss Hooper says. “Sorry. My lord, I was wondering if you believe the man in the Red Death costume-the one who threatened again on Mr Holmes’ birthday-if you think he’s the puppet master.”
“Whether he is or not, we would do well to catch him. Do you have any further thoughts, Miss Hooper, or only questions?”
Miss Hooper nods. “He comes out on important occasions, my lord. So... we could have another important occasion. And then lock all of the exits.”
Mr Johnson takes a far less optimistic view. “We’ve very little bait left to put into a trap. No cast, no opera... Beyond another ballet dedicated to mocking him, I’m not sure what we could attempt.”
“Mocking him is no good,” Green interjects. “He’ll only send someone new to punish us.”
“Instead of coming to ruin it on his own?” Mrs Hudson asks.
“That’s only if the Red Death is the puppet master,” Mr Havill says.
“As long as we catch him, sir, does it matter who comes to ruin whatever this event is?” Hopkins asks.
“It matters,” Lord Holmes says. “We can cut to the end or we can linger. I would greatly prefer the first.”
The debate continues on, an exchange that tugs at each ear before turning around upon itself. Tracking it, John’s gaze slides across the room. Though Holmes remains silent, John’s eyes catch upon him. There, they attempt to linger.
“We need to appeal to his sense of drama,” Holmes states, startling John into looking away. “Something not simply to be destroyed, but destroyed personally. He would need to regret not being here in person.”
“I agree, sir,” says Mr Johnson, “but we haven’t a cast to stage such a feat.”
John looks at Mr Johnson sharply. “What kind of feat could we stage?”
“Beg pardon?”
“We don’t have an entire cast, but we do have portions of one. What parts do we still have? Please, maestro, remind me.”
As Mr Johnson begins his list, John looks to Holmes. Nonplussed, Mr Johnson addresses his short recitation to Holmes. All the attention in the room turns upon Holmes. Holmes’ gaze, however, rests squarely upon John. For the moment, John can bear it.
When Mr Johnson concludes, John asks Holmes, “Is that enough?”
Holmes merely stares at him.
The Earl looks between them and captures his brother’s gaze with some effort. “Is it?”
Holmes’ eyes snap to the Earl’s. Though Holmes’ face barely contorts in sullen anger, John recognises a sentiment he had often heard in Vernet’s voice.
“Is what enough?” Hopkins whispers to John.
John shakes his head and mouths Not now.
“My brother and I need a moment alone,” the Earl announces, still locked in his staring contest. “Everyone, if you would be so kind.”
Mystified but obedient, the staff complies. Caught between questions waiting for him in the hall and the ire of the Holmes brothers in the office, John stops to hold the door for Mr Havill.
“The lead role is played by...?” Lord Holmes prompts his brother.
“Miss Adler,” Mr Holmes mutters.
“Dr Watson,” the Earl says. He doesn’t look at John. “If you would be so kind as to fetch Miss Adler? She is here, isn’t she?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Bring her. Explain on the way, but make no promises as to her salary.”
“Yes, my lord,” John repeats. As he closes the door to the office, all those crowded in the hall stare at him with curious faces.
Before anyone gets out a question, Mr Havill pushes on John’s back, urging him onward. “She’s in her dressing room, I believe, preparing for tonight’s concert.”
John nods. “Thank you, sir.” He sets off quickly, leaving, just for a moment, their prying eyes behind.
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