Fic: Bel Canto - 13/16 (BBC Sherlock)

[bendingsignpost]

Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 9.9k 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

Rehearsals rattle forward at a breakneck speed. Opening night looms closer day by day, impossibly near. The choir stumbles through their words, the dancers through their steps, and every day, Holmes looks one step closer to murdering someone.

John stands back, well out of firing range. He’s far too occupied with a new sort of busywork, assuring their principle singers that no one has poisoned them anew. Hypochondria has run rampant enough since the induced epidemic, but with every threatening letter that slips through to their cast, the paranoia increases.

Placating becomes the order of the day, assurances and reassurances that they will remain safe. As long as everyone holds together, the phantom will be caught at the première. As long as the line holds, the plan may continue. While the cast and orchestra rehearse, so do the police.

Three days before opening, the line breaks. A struggling chorus girl leaves her tiny role, only that, but it opens the gate. Once fear turns to action, there is no stopping it. Mr Havil bribes the leads into staying, but they lose Cleopatra even so. More in character than they’d bargained for, their Antony flees after her. An uproar sweeps through the remaining members of the opera house, the crew taking the actors’ flights particularly bitterly.

As per usual, the only person who is unrelentingly optimistic is Miss Hooper. “I’ve brought in a friend for the emergency auditions today,” she tells John over a very quick lunch at the neighbouring café. There’s only so long anyone can remain trapped inside the opera house and retain their sanity. “Well, I say a friend. I mean, he’s, um. Well, he’s more of an acquaintance, really. But he can sing, at least.”

“Anything else?” She looks far too furtive for him not to ask.

Her smile turns guilty. “He’s the perfect size for the costume, and I don’t want to do it again.”

For the first time that day, John laughs a little. “What’s his name?”

“Mr James Zucco.”

“From Italy?”

“I’m not sure,” she admits. “No accent, but I know he speaks it.”

That’s more than a good deal of their remaining cast can claim. “Good luck to Mr Zucco, then.”

Molly nods. They sit for a moment longer before she sighs. “I just don’t want to have to change the costume again.” Another sigh nearly escapes before she visibly perks herself up. “Sorry, I shouldn’t complain. Ready to go?”

They pay and leave. Other members of the theatre staff rise to follow, reminding John of nervous herd animals. Everyone keeps close, even on the street. John and Hopkins frame Molly automatically.

After a long day of assuring everyone that no one is dying, John sits down in the growler with a groan. Though Mrs Hudson tuts at him, she hardly looks any better.

“What’s the verdict?” John asks.

“We have our Antony. He’s quite the job in front of him, two days to learn all those lines. Thank goodness it’s a fairly minor role. And everyone else but Cleopatra has an understudy now.”

That’s certainly good news, to a point. Whether it’s the strain of rushed rehearsals or actual illness setting in, Signor Valeri has been looking poorly, and they do need their captain for the show. “What about Cleopatra?”

“Well... She only has that one duet, doesn’t she? Very minor role.”

A minor role, but one that must be nothing short of magnificent. “We don’t have one, do we.”

“...Perhaps Cleopatra could flee the naval battle early? Without singing?”

“Oh, God.”

Mrs Hudson sighs. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Have you ever pulled through worse?”

“Oh, I’m sure we have,” Mrs Hudson says. “I can’t remember anything off the top of my head. Still, there must have been something.”

They say nothing more for the rest of the ride. Only once John’s paid the cabbie and they’ve warmed themselves up inside the house does John ask, “Have you heard anything about the police search?”

“A number of dead ends, from what I’ve heard,” she replies. “They’ve looked into the old owner and anyone else who was interested in buying at the time. So far, no luck.”

“What about... Sorry, what was the old owner’s name? His family.”

“Mr O’Connell. He didn’t have much in the way of family. No children, so that’s everyone there dead. No, I think they’re right about it being another potential buyer.”

“Long time to wait,” John says.

“It is a bit, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson agrees. “But that’s assuming his goal is to get the opera house back and not just extort money.”

John frowns. “I thought we were a bit past that point.”

“Oh, no,” Mrs Hudson says. “The opera ghost is still writing, you know. Everything goes away for twenty thousand pounds.” She wrinkles her nose at that. “That buys only month, of course, and it’s hardly as if the opera house could afford that now even if we wanted to.”

It doesn’t make much sense from where John’s standing. “Why break a piggy bank you still want to use?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he likes breaking things. He certainly seems to.”

“I’ll give you that.”

They discuss matters a bit more before yawns take them both. They smile tightly at each other and pointedly ignore that John must ask her this information because Holmes will no longer tell him. Or perhaps Holmes would, if John were to ask.

In any case, they say goodnight and go to bed.

Holmes is dangerous to look at.

Holmes is particularly dangerous to look at in public settings.

Naturally, Holmes is also impossible to look away from. John cannot tell if it is better or worse that this problem does not belong to him alone. All of the opera house not otherwise engaged has turned out to see whether opening night must be delayed. Auditions for Cleopatra drag on, a second day and an exhausted supply of singers ahead of them. John and Green have good seats down toward the front, close enough to watch Holmes and Mr Johnson as well as the hapless singers. Once selected, the woman in question will have little more than a full day before taking the stage tomorrow night.

While Mr Johnson makes notes at his temporary desk before the pit, Holmes stands and paces. On rare occasions, he stands still. The cry of “Next!” comes from him twice as often as it does from Mr Johnson, but Mr Johnson never disagrees.

Once and only once, Mr Johnson tells a woman not to leave. Her voice is lovely enough to John’s ears, and it might be possible for her to look the part. He gives her the sheet music for Cleopatra and bids her to show the extent of her memory.

“As a last resort,” Holmes agrees, if this can be called agreement.

“If possible, sir,” Mr Johnson says to Holmes, “I would devise a way around having a Cleopatra. Her role may need to be silent.”

Arms folded, Holmes chews on his lip. His tense body is once again Vernet’s. There are lines in his hair from where he’s raked his fingers through. “I’ve considered that.”

Beside John, Green whispers, “The two of you still on the outs?”

John startles and stares. “What?”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Green continues. “If a man ever befriended me to get at a girl, I’d be right annoyed too.”

“I don’t mind having introduced him to Miss Adler,” John lies.

“Then you’re a bigger man than I am.” Green looks over to where Mr Johnson and Holmes are in quiet discussion over some piece of sheet music. “Man owes you his life as well as his girl and goes around cutting you for a week. Poor manners on that one.”

John nearly defends Holmes-it’s hardly as if either of them wants to acknowledge the other when they pass in the halls-but he cannot trust he won’t say too much. Instead, he settles for, “Everyone’s rude when they’re on edge. Everything will settle down soon.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Doc,” Green answers. “I’ll be right here, not believing you.”

“You’re only annoyed because he keeps interfering backstage.”

Green grunts. “It’s not right, him barging in and sticking his nose everywhere. It’s my bloody stage. He comes out, sees everything halfway finished, and throws a strop. Gentlemen are patrons for a reason, you know.”

“I know,” says John. This agreement is permission enough for Green to list, quietly, his long score of grievances against Holmes. It’s not meant to be amusing, not at all, but John bites his cheek to nod and grumble along. Because, yes, of course Holmes has exacting, absurd standards for his vision. Of course he’s constantly bothering everyone. He doesn’t simply think he knows best, he knows he knows best and expects everyone else to fall in line. His frustration and agitation are only to be expected. The music is perfect inside his head, after all, and the musicians in the pit and upon the stage are fallible.

Eventually, even Green’s complaints run dry. They watch a few more auditions before Green sighs and nearly stands. “Oh,” he says instead. “Before I forget.”

“Hm?”

“Best keep an eye on your girl,” Green tells him. “That new Antony’s taken an interest. The Zucco fellow.”

John stares at him blankly. It takes him a moment. “Miss Hooper isn’t my girl.”

“If you don’t make your move soon, she’s going to stay that way. You’re painful to watch, you know.”

“Only to annoy you,” John promises.

“Oh, piss off. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Green stands. “Best get back to work while the terror’s distracted.”

John lifts a hand in parting. He stays in his seat, but there’s not much more to watch. Miss Adler pops in to catch the last of the auditions and her silent, casual entrance is better than their would-be Cleopatra’s entire song. John’s far from the only one to turn to watch her. Holmes and Mr Johnson do as well, and Holmes’ eyes grow wide.

“Could you do both parts?” Holmes calls to her.

“What?” Mr Johnson shakes his head at the idea immediately. “Of course she couldn’t.”

“Her role and Cleopatra’s don’t overlap,” Holmes argues. “A fast enough costume change is all we need.”

“Mr Holmes, while I appreciate your respect for Miss Adler’s talent-”

“Have you appreciated anyone else’s talent today, Maestro?” Holmes asks. “If you have, kindly say so. Otherwise, I believe our options are clear.”

Mr Johnson hesitates, then sighs. “Miss Adler, if you’d be willing to sing the part? Though I believe it may be pushing the limits of your range.”

Drawing near, Miss Adler smiles as she accepts the sheet music. Though John can only see the expression from the side, it’s still enough. Frankly, that Mr Johnson doesn’t back down immediately is a credit to his character and his nerve.

Miss Adler takes to the stage. A rustling fills the air as every last person scattered through the house sits up straighter in their seat. She stands tall. The rustling stops, everyone holding still and silent. She glances over the sheet music as she might a newspaper she has already read. Then, with a soft motion of her hand, she gestures to the pianist as if he were her dearest friend.

“Would you prefer to warm up first?” he asks. She smiles no, and the pianist begins.

The introduction plays, the merest outline of the naval battle upon their incomplete stage. Miss Adler sings, and then there are ships. There are ships riding the sea, ships ridden in turn by their proud queen. She sings of her strength and the sound of it is her beauty. Where the soprano would soar, the contralto must drop, and yet this mars nothing. The flight of her voice doesn’t fall, but swoops, darting down between the waves before rising again above the foam.

And then: the falter, the fear by design. Though she sings alone, the space for Antony is clear. Absent Antony’s silence resounds against her cry. Her terror is plain, her strength tested, and as she retreats, she merely steps backward, and backward, and back again, and yet she takes her ships with her. Cleopatra flees with one final clap of terror, and only Miss Adler remains.

The pianist finishes. The house stands in silence. Holmes glows, euphoric, enraptured, as if Miss Adler were his music made incarnate. John can’t seem to breathe.

Mr Johnson clears his throat. “Well, then.” He looks at Holmes. After a somewhat conspicuous pause, Holmes returns his gaze. “How quickly can you make revisions?”

“Very,” Holmes replies. His voice is rough and deep.

“Right,” Mr Johnson says. “Someone had best inform the costume mistress.”

At the thought of yet more adjustments, Miss Hooper looks like she’s about to cry. At least, that’s what John assumes she’s talking about with Mr Zucco. He doesn’t seem to be a very forceful man, which Miss Hooper likely finds comforting.

Attempting not to intrude as he passes by in the slim hallway, John is still struck by a pang of annoyance. Green’s not right, of course he’s not right, but that is still John’s position, as it were. He is the comforter. He is the one who catches at frantic hands, holds them tight, and says, Explain it to me again. He is the one who keeps a level tone while asking What do you need to do next? Though not technically his job, it’s still his task, a duty between friends, and to be kicked to the side while some singer takes his place is somewhat insulting.

It’s a new kind of helplessness and it cannot be borne. What, exactly, is he to do now? There is so much to be done, and all John is capable of is reassuring another singer that they are not about to be killed. Having been subject to arson twice, John finds his patience exhausted when consoling those afraid of mere letters. After all the fuss, it’s almost a relief that something might be physically wrong with Signor Valeri. John’s mind flitters away to a more pressing itch regardless of how he tries to stop it.

“I’m sure I could help with that,” Mr Zucco volunteers loudly behind him. John turns around before realising Mr Zucco is speaking to Miss Hooper.

“Are you sure it won’t be a problem?”

“No, not at all!”

John fists his hand tighter about the handles of his medical bag. He thinks inappropriately violent thoughts until the urge to act upon them fades.

This is ridiculous. This is utterly and completely ridiculous, and he needs to stop thinking about it because he’s getting worked up. He’s getting so worked up, there’s a physical pain in his chest, a horrible, breathless squeezing.

And that song, that stupid song keeps going around in his head, around and around in his head and he doesn’t even know the lyrics properly because they’re in Italian. It’s not even meant to be a significant role, Cleopatra or not. It’s a guest spot for a diva with a cold. Impressive in name and suspense, for the majesty rather than magnitude of the part. It’s nothing so amazing, and the substitution was a logical choice besides. Hardly a gift. Hardly another gift, it would be more appropriate to say.

Besides, it’s hardly as if what everyone is saying is true. Holmes didn’t write her an opera. Holmes doesn’t write for anyone besides himself. John’s seen him at it, has seen the way Holmes is driven forward, run absolutely ragged by the forces inside his own mind. The idea of Holmes composing for any other reason than to appease those demons is absurd. If no one else sees this, that’s only because they’ve never seen him in the grip of his work. They don’t know any better.

There’s a difference between finding inspiration and dedicating a work to that muse. A large, obvious difference. How many paintings are there dedicated to bowls of fruit? None, that’s how many. Miss Adler is a singer and a lovely one, and should Holmes’ eyes caress her as his fingers do his violin, so be it. Should he marvel at her rendition of his score, then his appreciation is for himself as well as her. Any act of admiration is one of ego by default, and Holmes has ego to spare. Of course his admiration should be so blatant.

If John had been present at the first instance Holmes had heard his score performed, John would have seen the same expression of worship. If diluted over an entire orchestra rather than condensed upon one woman, that expression would be only appropriate. Expected, even. It’s much the same thing, orchestra and singer, and therefore nothing to make a fuss over. Holmes is simply pleased with the culmination, the approaching conclusion.

At any rate, if Holmes were pleased with a muse, that would hardly be Miss Adler. Not that John was ever much of a muse. No, John was a primary resource, but he was a good one. He’d never been able to see Vernet’s full expression while he’d spoken of the army and India and all the death infection can bring after the battle. John hadn’t been much for eye contact during those talks. Even so, he had never doubted the absolute focus trained upon him in those moments. Every pain revisited, every fear relived, every pointless moment he’d ever endured had finally proven itself useful. So many useless, paralyzing memories abruptly given purpose.

Had Holmes looked at him like that, then? Had it all been the unending analysis, or had there been awe?

There’s a foolish question. Of course not. However much Holmes may have appreciated a firsthand account, John’s merit came later. The pushing and the prodding, the cajoling and the calming: that must have been where it began for Holmes. The work came first, for John as well as Holmes, and perhaps that is what Holmes saw in him.

Still. Useless to wonder about now. Especially when he has a job to do. He knocks on the dressing room door and calls for Signor Valeri by name. Valeri responds in an exhausted baritone. Though his colouring is poor, his temperature is fine. John urges him to rest and hydrate, but Valeri takes offense when John suggests he take something for his nerves. Valeri snaps and does not apologise, but after years in a high-strung environment, John takes little note of it.

“Tomorrow night,” Mrs Hudson keeps saying. “I can’t believe it. Tomorrow night.”

“He’s confirmed he’s coming, hasn’t he?” John checks.

“The ghost is coming and the police are ready.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods and finally offers a new tidbit. “They put an ad in the paper offering him a box and he accepted.”

“Oh, good. That’s not an obvious trap at all.”

Mrs Hudson laughs nervously, which is more than John can do. They sit for a bit longer at the table, fighting back yawns. John rolls his shoulder, clicking it. Their tea has gone cold with time, or perhaps Mrs Hudson has truly put that much whiskey in. It does take the edge off quite nicely. He highly doubts he’ll fall asleep tonight any other way.

“Tomorrow night,” Mrs Hudson says again. “I can’t believe it.”

“God, I hope this works.”

“The opera or the trap?” she asks.

“Both?” He nods. “Both.”

“We might only have one or the other,” she warns.

“I know.” He turns his teacup around as if studying the repeating blue pattern. He isn’t. “I’d take the trap. Apologise to the patrons and then assure them everything will return to normal.”

Mrs Hudson hums a sound like a smile, if a faint one. “That would be nice. Still, if the opera isn’t well-received... I do worry. It would break his heart, poor thing.”

John takes a fresh interest in his teacup.

Belatedly, Mrs Hudson realises what she’s said. “Oh! Oh, I didn’t, of course I didn’t--”

“It’s fine,” John says firmly. “I think I’ll head up. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she says. “Quite right. I should get to bed myself.”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good night, John,” she answers, and there’s an apology in it.

John does his best not to dwell as he changes for bed, but it’s a difficult matter to put from his mind. He imagines Holmes sitting up in Box Five with his brother, the pair of them protected by any number of policemen. Should this opera fail, will Holmes be permitted more time to hide away from society for his work? There’s enough desperation to him already without adding any more.

Shaking his head at himself, John extinguishes the lights. He climbs into bed. Once on his back, he hisses at the slow release of tension in his spine. The pain prevents sleep, but it does not prevent thought.

Perhaps, and only perhaps, John should have gone to dinner. Except he shouldn’t have. Of course he shouldn’t have.

And yet, what if that was the last chance? It’s bizarre thought in light of the sheer number of times Holmes has thrown an invitation into his lap, but there’s merit to it. Holmes had been exhausted and visibly disoriented. Drained by his work, he’d reached to John out of habit. While alert, he’d been a creature of hostility and avoidance, as if he was the one who had been wronged. Rejected, certainly, but not wronged. Not lied to.

“You said you loved me for my character,” echoes accusing memory. Except that’s not fair. John hadn’t known it. He’d never had the chance, not a real chance. He’d spoken without possessing the facts, and if Holmes insists upon holding this against him, so be it.

If that last invitation to dinner is truly the last, that’s fine. That’s for the best, honestly. What sort of life could he possibly have with Holmes? Holmes, who is two-faced in the most literal of ways, a veritable Janus. Even if he could make Holmes swear all he said was true, what then? It would still be a life doomed to the shadows. To be held, he must be hidden, and to resign himself to such silence is beyond bearing. All too keenly, he finally understands his late sister.

He’s hardly giving anything up in relinquishing Holmes. Though he might ache for the violin to turn fresh nightmares into melody, there’s little else. He’ll never miss opera, though it was an unexpected joy to work on it together. Someone else will have to push Holmes through his moments of frantic insecurity. Good luck to them, whoever they are. It’s certainly not going to be Miss Adler.

John sighs and rolls over. He shuts his eyes tighter against an inexplicable urge to pace.

He’s giving up a friend. There is that. A selfish, arrogant, commanding friend with no sense of boundaries and a quick and clever tongue. As in, as in speaking. As in wit. Though the other sense certainly applies, John refuses to dwell on it. He’s just going to lie here, in his bed, and not think about that.

He rolls over to face the other way, and he does not stop thinking. If anything, the thinking grows worse. He thinks of Holmes pressing against him through his trousers, waits for the instinctual revulsion, and finds nothing. Rather, he finds the opposite of revulsion. His body no longer seems to care that those kisses came from Holmes in disguise. Christ, this is hopeless.

In an act of betrayal, his mind continues forward. What if Holmes hadn’t stalled him with music? In the small room behind the main chamber, had the bed still stood? Little more than a cot with curtains, yes, but a bed all the same.

An unwitting smile pulls at his face as he relives the memory of absurd bedhead in the early afternoon. The afternoon he’d gone down and found the candles cold, the mask up the table, this moment is emblazoned upon his mind beyond any hope of purging. The fear of Vernet being gone, of something having befallen him, had been strong even then. Almost laughably so, considering how everything has turned out. No, there’d been no reason for concern that afternoon. Vernet had simply overworked himself in the timeless, endless night of the tunnels.

Except... no. That’s wrong. That was after yet another of their countless arguments, though John can’t recall what that particular one was about. He does remember the separation. He’d been hoping to see him too much to forget that gap entirely, or the way Holmes had filled it. He’d been annoyed at Holmes, even, for keeping him away from the tunnels. Holmes had stayed late to be certain John left the opera house before him.

Which means, in the cot... Of course it was Holmes in the cot. Vernet without his mask is Holmes, and the mask was in John’s hand. But Holmes must have rushed about all night for the investigation only to hurry back to a subterranean cot. What other absurd manoeuvres had he pulled off in order to obey his brother’s command?

It is staggering, certainly. A man a heartbeat away from being an earl, sleeping in those conditions and eating out of tins. What sort of idiot does that? Bad enough that a mere gentleman would make the attempt. And running back and forth, the utter strain of keeping his lives separate, what kind of absurd dedication does that require? And all for a bloody opera.

With a terrible sinking sensation, John realises he knows Holmes’ character. It is as magnificent as it is imbecilic.

John rolls onto his back to better stare at the ceiling. Slowly, as if buttoning a coat, he fits one side of his recollections against the other, sliding the prominent details through the gaps in his knowledge. There is an envelope in the drawer of John’s borrowed desk, and John had pressed his money into Vernet’s palm long before Holmes began paying for John’s meals out. He recalls Vernet’s unprovoked rage after his rejection of Holmes, and Holmes’ uncharacteristic forgiveness after John’s acceptance of Vernet. One man, just the one, struggling and stupid under the weight of two lives.

If Holmes had seen the way out, matters might have ended differently. The path is so infuriatingly simple. Would it have killed him to ask John to wait? Was there some reason why he couldn’t have been there when John returned and explained he needed time to unravel the complexities of his situation? He could have warned John that he would be terribly furious. He could have told John to wait until early autumn, until after his niece or nephew is born. It could have been framed as a terribly sentimental gesture, waiting until the anniversary of their first meeting.

It would have been a long wait, to be certain. They’d have written to each other in the interim, or would they have? Letters filled with a cramped scrawl rather than a flowing script, yes, this is possible. Would the strain have driven Mrs Hudson to tears, or would she have been relieved at the greater plan? John hopes the second.

Then, after half a year of never seeing Vernet and remaining politely distant with Holmes, John would receive a letter instructing him to choose a restaurant and reminding him to hold onto his temper. John would select a destination with alacrity and laugh at the thought of being angry for anything beyond the delay.

The moment of truth would arrive unexpectedly. Unable to resist the drama of a delayed arrival, Holmes would enter once John was already seated. With unflappable charm, Holmes would sit down across from him while John fumbled for an excuse to make Holmes leave, lest Vernet see John at an occupied table and believe him disloyal.

Holmes would reveal himself quietly but dramatically. Perhaps he’d pass John a slip of paper with a note, something along the lines of Don’t be furious, I did warn you. Perhaps he’d offer John his healed palm and insist until John saw the faded scar. Perhaps he’d simply let his voice drop low and say, “I’m glad you waited.”

John would be startled and furious, but the public setting would be enough to keep him quiet. Holmes could continue, saying something like, “I thought it best to address your concerns from the Masquerade” before updating John on the developments in his life, his family, his music. After months of warnings, John would be better prepared. His anger might last all the way into the salad course and fade entirely before dessert.

After that, John isn’t sure. But something would have happened, something different than their current stalemate. They’d climb into a hansom cab after, shoulder to shoulder, hands hidden below the doors closed over their legs. They’d return to 221 Baker Street first and let Mrs Hudson know everything was sorted. She’d be relieved, absolutely overjoyed. Then, Holmes would ask John whatever had become of his scarf and follow John up to his bedroom when he went to fetch it. What followed would be complicated, certainly, but John would do his utmost to guard them from society while guiding Holmes through his music. There are worse lives.

They could have had this. If Holmes hadn’t run off that night after a few sweet kisses, they could have had this.

Gone, now. Supposing that offer of dinner was Holmes’ final attempt, gone for good.

John rolls over one final time and falls asleep wishing he’d said yes.

In the morning, he puts the envelope in his medical bag atop his gun. He has no idea what to do with it, but perhaps he’ll think of something before the première. The scarf couldn’t possibly fit inside the envelope, but what about the scarf pin? No, too ambiguous. The scarf itself is too much of a declaration, besides. He can hardly wear it. After its previous usage, that would be far too crass.

There must be something else, something small. John’s hardly about to ask Holmes to leap into his arms. Not to mention, Holmes must have learned to stop leaping by now. John simply needs a first step, a notification of impending forgiveness. And it must be before the opera opens. After, and it might be mistaken as a form of fleeting praise. Or worse, as a reward, as if John were a prize to be given out based on merit or consolation. No, it must be before.

After a long moment of hesitation, he tucks the scarf away into his medical bag as well. Something will come to him before tonight. Best to be prepared for whatever it is.

Naturally, John’s formative plans are torn to shreds within an instant of walking through the opera house doors. Hopkins pauses only a moment to say hello to Mrs Hudson before giving John a look that portends absolute doom.

“Where’s the problem?” John asks.

Hopkins twitches his mouth in the shape of an apology. “Signor Valeri’s dressing room. He’s locked himself in.”

That’s much more histrionic than John would expect from Valeri, but an actor is an actor. Still, the timing of it is terrible and far from what John would have deemed normal for the man. “I’m not sure what you expect me to do, Hopkins.”

“Well,” Hopkins says, abruptly very tactful indeed, “you’re better at calming people than, well. Than some others might be.”

“Ah,” John says and follows him.

The first thing John hears in the back hallway is the yelling. This would be typical enough backstage if the voice didn’t belong to Mr Johnson. As John and Hopkins round the corner, they spot the crowd gathered about Valeri’s door. It would be difficult to miss in the slim hall, and impossible to avoid.

“I couldn’t find the key, sirs,” Hopkins calls over the onlookers. People shuffle to the sides as best as they can to let Hopkins and John through. “But I did find Dr Watson.”

“Lovely,” Holmes remarks dryly beside Mr Johnson. “And can Dr Watson pick locks?”

“Not in the slightest,” John says. “But I can clear a hallway. Hopkins, I’m certain Mr Havill can find use for so many idle hands-be sure to remember names, won’t you?” He raises his voice as he says the last, and for one magnificent moment, John feels tall. A side effect of military posture and a gaggle of stagehands backing off while feigning indifference, no doubt. John looks pointedly at the stragglers until they at least pretend to simply be standing in the hallway rather than snooping. One of the men, Mr Zucco, may actually have an excuse. Most singers hovering behind Mr Johnson are not present by choice.

“We’re meant to be rehearsing the naval battle,” Mr Johnson explains. “We have our Antony--” he gestures to Mr Zucco “-and Cleopatra is already dressed and waiting. But unless Signor Valeri will come out...”

“May I try?” John asks. He directs this question to Holmes as well as Mr Johnson, looking between the two.

Holmes gestures to the door in clear challenge. Mr Johnson pleads with his eyes.

John knocks lightly on the door. “Maintenance!” he calls cheerfully.

Holmes scoffs, turning away, but Signor Valeri does answer.

“I won’t come out!”

“Perfectly all right,” John answers, shoulder against the wall, speaking to where the door meets its frame.

There is a loud silence from behind the door.

“Would you mind company?” John asks.

Mr Johnson gestures furiously at him as well as at the pocket watch in his hand.

Get the understudy, John mouths to Hopkins. Hopkins sets off immediately.

Holmes shakes his head. He’s terrible, he mouths with a wrinkled nose.

Rather than asking the point of a terrible understudy, John knocks lightly on the door once more. “Signor Valeri? Would you mind if I came inside? Only me, just to sit.”

“They want me to come out! I will not come out!” His voice is much closer than previously.

“Mr Johnson will rehearse the scene with your understudy. Could I come in?”

Valeri’s silence is an unsteady one. His breathing is much too loud, incredibly audible now that he’s approached the door.

“Signor, if I can describe your condition, will you permit me inside?” John asks. He keeps his head bowed, one ear toward the door, and this points his gaze to Holmes shoes. He closes his eyes, much too aware of Holmes’ ever-watching eyes.

“I am not ill!” Valeri shouts with a desperate, shaking rage. “I have been threatened! Myself, my family, our lives have been threatened, and each time, the police fail to catch this monster. I will not be killed for my art! I will not set this opera above my children!”

“No one is going to kill you, Signor Valeri,” John replies in a steady voice.

“I die in the third act! Where better for him to kill me?”

“No one is going to kill you, Signor,” John repeats slowly.

Hopkins returns with the understudy in tow, a Mr Montaine. With a sigh, Mr Johnson signals to Mr Zucco and they set off toward the stage. Holmes looks as if the world is ending and does not budge from his spot in the hall. When the interested crowd attempts to reassemble itself by piecemeal, Holmes glares at them until they duck away once more.

“I understand that it’s looming,” John continues. “The danger is very real. I know. I’ve been set on fire twice and had to jump out a window. Believe me, I know. But he is not going to kill you tonight. He tried to kill Mr Havill and Mr Johnson at the Masquerade, but they’re still alive. He tried to kill me twice, and I am alive. He tried to kill Mr Holmes, and Mr Holmes here is alive. Whatever he says, he is not very good at killing people.

“I, however, am very good at killing people, Signor Valeri, and our phantom is already down one assassin. His only assassin, as far as we’ve seen, and I can promise you that he is very dead. If there is another, he will also be very dead.”

“Dead does not matter to a ghost. He’s coming tonight.” Valeri’s panicked certainty is unshakeable, though John would wager the man himself is trembling.

“Yes, he is,” John says. “Because we’ve called him to a trap. But he is not a ghost. A ghost wouldn’t be threatened by a gun.”

Holmes checks his pocket watch and attempts to show John the time. John waves him off, steadfastly not looking at him. If John looks, he will falter.

“He is only a man,” John continues, “and men are very good at teaching others to be afraid of them. That’s all this is. He has been teaching us fear. You were observant enough to learn. That’s all. It’s not cowardice. It’s not the end of all things. It’s learned fear.”

“My life has been threatened, Dr Watson. This is not fear. This is sanity!”

That’s a terribly fair point. “And this is a danger that will not end until we catch him, and we need the opera to catch him. As I understand it, your understudy is terrible.” He looks to Holmes as he says this, and Holmes nods with conviction. “If this is going to end, we need your help to end it. Your family doesn’t have to live in fear, Signor.”

“Nor must my children live without a father. I refuse.”

“You do realise your position is at stake?” Holmes demands.

“At a doomed opera house, yes! I will not go out!”

Holmes strikes the door.

Valeri lets out a terrified squeak, but the door remains shut.

Holmes lifts his hand a second time, and John catches him by the wrist. Holmes’ eyes could nail him to the door, but John holds firm.

“Not helping,” John says quietly.

“You’re doing little better.” Holmes twists his hand free, wrenching John’s arm. John flinches, the pain sharp into his shoulder, but Holmes’ face contains nothing of an apology, only viciousness. “Unless you’d care to shoot the lock.”

Inside the dressing room, Valeri audibly staggers back from the door.

John rolls his eyes, tightens his grip on his medical bag and speaks loudly to the doorframe. “If you withdraw from the production, your protection is likewise withdrawn. Have you considered that?”

Silence, but a silence even Holmes is listening to.

“We’re going to leave now,” John continues. “If you want to come out and do your part, by all means. Otherwise, it would be helpful to have the costume back. Your choice.” With that, he steps away and gestures to Holmes to follow him.

Scowling, Holmes does. “A promising start and a pathetic end: you keep to your patterns well.”

“Mm, with insurmountable idiots in the middle,” John retorts and immediately regrets.

“A doctor routinely bested by idiots. Is that why you’re so good at killing people, then?”

“No,” John says tightly. “The gun helps. Understandable you forgot that part. You were rather busy being strangled at the time.”

Holmes storms past him. Though Holmes’ face is frozen, John knows the curve of his shoulders. He knows those shoulders better than any face.

“Holmes.” John doesn’t catch at his arm, but he nearly does. The hall is largely abandoned with rehearsal once again underway. If they keep their voices down, it might be safe. Though far from private, the opera house is a very particular sort of public space.

“What?” Holmes snaps, whirling about.

So much for lowered voices. John searches for something that could be loudly said, anything. “Is the understudy really that terrible?”

“Atrocious,” Holmes answers without hesitation. “We’re dead in the water. Valeri was passable, but Montaine is a drowned cat. Half the time, he sings with his throat. If the role were in French, his diction might be halfway understandable, but his Italian is utter gibberish. There’s a chance the audience might not leave before the first intermission, but it’s the same chance they’ll all be tone deaf.”

“Well,” John says slowly, “at least that will make the phantom easy to spot.”

“Why come now?” Holmes demands, rounding on him. John’s heel hits the wall as he backs against it. John can retreat or be headbutted, and Holmes stands much too closely all the same. “Hm? Why bother when we’ve already ruined ourselves? There’s no point!”

“Of course there’s a point--”

“There isn’t!” Holmes lifts his hands, recalls the pomade in his hair just in time, and clenches a fist on either side of his head. “The stage may have come together, the orchestra is as far along as it is ever going to get, and none of this is going to save my opera when that idiot takes the stage. Put him anywhere near Irene and he is hopelessly outmatched. But opposite her? Good God! He’ll vanish into the scenery!”

“At least no one will see him, then.”

For an instant, the threat of one of those shaking fists falling upon John turns terribly real. “Is everything a joke to you?”

John shakes his head, eyes averted. A vein stands out in Holmes’ neck beside a freckle. John averts his eyes a bit more. “Sorry.”

“Are you?” Rhetorical, almost darkly amused at John’s expense.

John nods all the same.

As if realising their proximity for the first time, Holmes stops leaning forward. He doesn’t step back, but the effect is comparable. When he drops his arms, a cage door effectively opens.

“I thought the line would hold,” John says to the buttons of Holmes’ waistcoat.

“The line.”

John nods.

Holmes scoffs. “Do you think you’re still in India, Doctor?”

John flexes his hand, adjusting his grip on his bag. He lifts his chin before he can lift his eyes. Holmes’ are a cold green. Or blue. A shadow falling across half his face, the colour is split, as if the force of Holmes’ gaze cannot be expressed by one set of eyes alone. It’s so appropriate, John very nearly smiles.

“I thought I was in an opera house where a singer was brave enough to sing,” John answers. “That’s not usually a problem.”

“It is tonight.”

“Today,” he corrects. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Yes, thank you. Plenty of time for the rest of it to fall apart.”

“No,” John says. “No. Plenty of time for Miss Adler to bludgeon Signor Valeri back onstage.”

“Won’t work. Already tried. Years of exposure dulled the effect.”

“But it’s not as if he’s immune.” No one’s immune. “Wait, is he?”

Holmes visibly suppresses a sigh. “Immune enough.”

“Christ, he really is on the edge of a breakdown.”

An odd sound catches in Holmes’ throat, muffled behind closed lips, but John recognises it instantly. He’s missed it.

“That wasn’t a joke,” John says in a tone of surety designed to provoke giggles. “She could order a corpse to move, and it would.”

“If she could make one sing, we’d have a better chance,” Holmes says.

John laughs. “No, corpses have notoriously poor timing.”

“Always late, I assume.”

John dares a grin, amazed by the sheer warmth of Holmes when he’s forgotten to be ice. “How’d you guess?”

Abruptly, Holmes remembers his chill. He pulls his mouth into a harsh line as if chastising it for finding John amusing. Then he glares at John for staring at his mouth.

John leans somewhat harder against the wall, increasing the distance between their faces from six inches to perhaps seven.

Holmes steps backward, an unspoken accusation across his features. This is patently unfair. The unfailing magnetism between their bodies is hardly John’s fault, and Holmes is the idiot wearing cologne.

Sounds from the stage invade their brittle silence. Holmes turns his head and scowls, but at least he aims the expression away from John. “Lovely. Another moron to shout at.”

Until that moment, John hadn’t realised he’d never heard Montaine as other than part of a chorus. “Oh... dear.”

“Now do you understand?” Holmes demands. “That is what you’ve reduced my opera to.”

Though the words lash, they don’t sting, too absurd to strike home. “How the hell is this my fault? Signor Valeri--”

“It wasn’t ready! It wasn’t even finished, but no, let’s fling it like bait into a trap in the hopes a beast will gnaw on it. These are the worst conditions for a première I’ve ever heard of. It’s going to flop from lack of preparation and a surfeit of idiocy, but the form will be blamed for the failure. It will be denounced as the work of a besotted idiot. Do you understand what this appears to be? Not a break in convention, but an ill-devised attempt to lift a skirt!”

“Then they’re all idiots,” John says, voice low in the attempt to hush Holmes. “And if it saves the opera house, won’t it be worth it?”

“‘If’,” Holmes spits. “Improbable success bought by certain failure?” He shakes his head. “A forced gamble is hardly ‘worth it’.”

“‘Forced’?”

“Between your public announcement and Mycroft, do you think I had any choice in this? Even Mrs Hudson has taken your side. If my work must be a sacrificial lamb, then so be it!”

“Not all of your work. You’ll write more--”

“Oh, then it’s all fine, isn’t it? I can write more. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll write more. Months in a basement eating out of tins and listening to the nightmares of a broken soldier, no, of course none of that matters. I’ll go and repeat the entire process, shall I? I’m sure none of it was terribly agonising--”

John doesn’t quite touch Holmes’ lapel. His hand hovers, his arm barely fitting in the slot of air between their chests. Even so, he does not touch. The motion, the possibility of touch is enough to click Holmes’ jaw shut.

“You’ll write more,” John repeats as calmly as he’s able. “Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything that could prevent you. There will be another opera. And another one. An absurd number of them, I’m sure. Enough that another one will be staged, and another after that. This isn’t the end of your work. And Montaine can’t ruin the score. Maybe the critics won’t take you well as a librettist, but you’ll still be recognised as a composer. That’s a start. You don’t have to be both right away.”

Holmes turns his face away, the vein in his neck prominently on display. He stands very still, tense beyond shaking.

“I mean,” John says, “I know you’re both, but... One is a good start.”

“All or nothing.” Holmes’ words are quiet, nearly as if he means for John not to hear them. “I’m sick to death of being divided.”

Strange, the obvious thoughts John has never thought of. Belatedly, John lowers his hand without touching Holmes. He curls his fingers into a tight fist before he can reach anew. “That’s fair.”

“Oh, is it?” Holmes drawls. “Your standards do change so very rapidly.”

“Shut up.” It comes out much more fond than he intends.

Holmes’ eyes narrow as if John has just laid down an obvious trap. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Why, do you need to have a shout at Mr Montaine for a bit?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Good. Have fun.”

Holmes stares at him. “What the hell are you playing at now?”

“I don’t really play,” John says. “I just blunder around in different directions.”

“Then I’ll take my leave before you change course yet again.” He pulls away, dragging against the gravity which binds them, and it is this visible resistance that bids John to pursue.

“Vernet-!” John chokes on the word a moment too late. Holmes rounds on him in an instant. This would be a perfect moment for the floor to collapse beneath John. Honestly, there will never be a moment more perfect. Why couldn’t he have stood on a trapdoor? “I, fuck. Um.”

“And there it is,” Holmes declares, invading John’s space once more. “The rationale behind the change: the fantasy has returned!”

“That’s not--”

“Hasn’t it? How is it that nothing I do is sufficient? You needed work, I brought you work. Real work, not hand-holding in the basement, and you were pleased to be of use. I--” His voice drops. “I was as blatant as any man could dare to be.”

“Damn opaque, you mean,” John counters. “Just tell me what the hell you want and we can--”

“How many times are we to re-enact this scene, Doctor? Hm? This would be at least the second cycle. You reject and you plead, and I have had enough of your inconsistencies.”

“My inconsistencies?”

“Your variable views on my character.”

“Yes, because you’re not at all variable yourself.” John lowers his voice, whispering harshly in Holmes’ face. “Or does ‘we’ll discuss the logistics’ always mean ‘I’ll swan off and leave you to an empty room, then watch you run around in circles for weeks’? Normally that sort of thing means ‘I’ll be here when you get back,’ so you’ll forgive me for being confused.”

“As confusion is your default state, I forgive you readily,” Holmes snaps. “Fortunately for you, there are worse idiots then even you currently requiring my attention.” With that, Holmes rips himself away.

Breathless, John seizes him by the arm. “Why the hell did you leave?” he demands of Holmes’ turned shoulder.

“You were in love with a phantom. There was no point in staying.”

John tightens his grip on Holmes’ elbow, but still the man refuses to look at him, glaring elsewhere. “And was there a fucking point in leaving?”

“I panicked,” Holmes snaps. He tears his arm from John’s grip with an abrupt turn. “Happy?”

John opens his mouth in the desperate attempt to find a response. No sound emerges.

Colour riding high on his neck and cheeks, Holmes storms away without another word.

John’s legs shake the moment Holmes vanishes from sight. His legs shake, his heart pounds, and he leans against the wall, attempting to breathe. Breathe first, then think. That’s not the end of it-can’t be the end of it-but John needs to breathe. Breathe and think and wonder.

After John has time to breathe, he takes the other way around to find a seat in the house. If Holmes appears calmer after having his shout at Montaine, John will return to him and try again.

Even with his long detour down into the stalls, John seems to have arrived in the middle of the shout. Already settled into a prime spot, Green gestures to John to come join him. Quite abruptly, John realises why no one had interrupted his conversation with Holmes: they’d been much too absorbed in the train wreck that is Mr Montaine as a Roman captain.

A tall man, Montaine is nearly Holmes’ height and considerably more than his width. Like Miss Adler, this will be his first great role. Unlike Miss Adler, he doesn’t deserve it in the slightest. This becomes all too clear as the rehearsal flops and flounders around him.

“We’re doomed,” Green tells John.

“Blunt,” John chastises.

“Refuse to face the facts, and truth will think you rude. We’re doomed.”

The orchestra plays and promptly drowns Montaine out. Whether this is a blessing or a curse is up for debate, and John and Green discuss this between themselves. As Holmes draws closer and closer to losing his temper, the entire house waits like silent, breathless stone. The odds of having a civil conversation with Holmes today shrink by the minute. Holmes’ voice is still high, still feigning fine manners and a steady temperament, but it will only be a matter of time.

The cracks deepen. Even Miss Adler looks close to snapping. Too unfamiliar, Mr Zucco is more difficult to read, but he requires thankfully little correction for his lines as Antony. He defers to Holmes beautifully. Montaine requires correction nearly every other word.

At last, Holmes berates Montaine too far. A complete idiot, Montaine rises to the ample bait. “If sir would like me to follow his example, perhaps sir should set it,” Montaine challenges. He clearly thinks he’s called Holmes’ bluff of expertise, but even this show of arrogance cannot survive in the face of Holmes’ ego.

Without a word, Holmes gestures Montaine to the side, takes his place and nods to Mr Johnson in the pit. Mr Johnson doesn’t move. Holmes nods a second time. Even from behind, Mr Johnson clearly suppresses a sigh before his hands rouse the orchestra from their temporary rest. Opening chords, now excessively familiar, rise into the air yet again.

Holmes stands at attention. His posture transforms him into someone else, a weary soldier who will never fall. His body sturdy, his feet planted, his form is a reflection of his will. His loyalty cannot be questioned, his moral compass immune to any tempting loadstone. His expression turns stoic and strange, his mouth a stubborn, dedicated line.

Holmes opens his mouth and his voice renders his body insignificant. His posture is magnificent, his bearing that of a captain who ought to be a general, who ought to be a king; and yet compared to his voice, this is nothing.

There are drums in his voice, drums and blood. Driving foreign words deep into flesh, the steady rhythm of a brave heart supports the libretto. His diction cuts, pristine and harsh, as sharp as any officer’s sword. He sings of battle, and he sings against death. Though his voice fills the house, he aims his body directly at Montaine as if to slash him to the bone.

Trumpets blare and Holmes blazes above them. John notes, in a vague and distant way, that Green’s mouth is hanging open. Though wide-eyed, Mr Zucco joins in on cue, Antony urging his men forward in battle. Holmes’ part begins to echo Mr Zucco’s in a relay of commands, immediate sharpness to detached fluidity. In turn, Zucco’s stance mirrors Holmes’.

The orchestra heralds Cleopatra herself, and Miss Adler soars above them both. Though all three share their pride, she alone eludes the battle, confrontational in her withdrawal rather than her advance. Their voices twine and mingle, and the drums echo beneath John’s skin. The words keep their secrets from John’s ears, but the music, their faces, the lines of their bodies; these reveal all.

Miss Adler finishes first, stepping back as her part ends, as her boat would take flight. For a short time, too short a time, the general and the captain sing on without the queen. Then Antony too takes flight, and Holmes’ voice is abruptly insufficient in its solitude. He is a single tree before the axe, one man before the sword, and it matters little how mighty he may be.

The captain’s theme rises, quickens, dragging Holmes to the top of his range. For an instant, his grandeur would rival any king, any emperor. Then, mid-phrase, he cuts off with a pained shout and the orchestra plays the rest of the line without him. John takes to his feet, terrified, before he realises this is deliberate effect. This is the captain’s death, harsh and sudden and terrible. Still bound by the structure of the captain’s commands, the battle swarms on without him.

Come tonight, this scene will unfold with wooden frames dreaming themselves into a fleet. There will be dancers and a chorus, and the chaos will be incredible. There will be costumes, the changes rapid, and when Miss Adler rushes to the captain’s side, she will be a soldier instead of a queen. This morning, she is something in between, and she takes Holmes’ weight with an arm about his back. When she sings, she sings the captain’s theme in a soldier’s voice, so much higher, so much younger. She holds him up against her, tall and brave and trembling, and Holmes’ limp non-response to her voice proves him dead.

The scene, the act, closes upon her voice and hers alone, though tonight the chorus will join her. This morning, there is only her, and she is more than enough alone. The orchestra announces the terror of defeat. With a thunderous clap, all falls silent.

Not a breath, not a whisper, not a brush of cloth upon cloth disturbs the charged air. Then, slowly, as if with a great struggle, Holmes lifts his face from the curve of her neck. He lives once more.

Applause rips through the house in a giddy rush. A piercing whistle jabs into John’s ear, but, standing beside him, Green offers no apology. Unable to do otherwise, they clap until their heated palms ache.

“Did you know he could do that?” Green whispers into John’s ear.

“Somewhat?” John answers. He’d thought Vernet’s voice had filled the chamber because of the acoustics. Perhaps the small space had merely held him back.

Upon the stage, Mr Zucco stares at Holmes as if having never seen him before. A private smile plays about Miss Adler’s mouth. In the pit, the musicians murmur to one another.

Turning to Montaine, Holmes says in the most acidic tone John has ever heard, “Your example. Follow it.”

If there was any colour left in Montaine’s face, the remainder immediately drains. “I,” he says, and nothing more.

“He can’t,” Miss Adler finishes for Montaine.

Holmes checks his pocket watch. “We have nine hours remaining to make him.”

Mr Zucco clears his throat.

Miss Adler seems to have very much the same idea.

In fact, the entire house seems to have very much the same idea.

“Mr Holmes,” Mr Johnson begins. “If you’re fully committed to this production going forward...”

“What are you suggesting,” Holmes says. He does not ask it.

“Looks like your girl’s stuck stitching yet again,” Green mutters to John.

“She’s going to cry,” John agrees without thinking. “Nine hours. Christ.”

“I can’t possibly,” Holmes says upon the stage.

“You can possibly,” Miss Adler disagrees. “In fact, you’re the only one left who can possibly.”

Holmes looks at Mr Johnson as if for help. “Maestro?”

Mr Johnson hesitates before answering, “The lady has a point. And a good one.”

“My lord brother would have everyone sacked,” Holmes says flatly.

“We’re all about to lose our jobs anyway,” Mr Johnson replies. “Mr Montaine, I’m sorry, but the role is simply too much for you.”

“It is,” Montaine agrees, his face now scarlet. “Excuse me.” He practically flees the stage.

“Come back here!” Holmes bellows after him.

Miss Adler catches Holmes by the arm. Though her touch is light and her grip loose, her hold upon him is fast. She says something softly, her eyes locked with his, and something more than words passes between them. Though Holmes’ expression remains stony, hers flowers. John remembers with a jolt that Miss Norton is in the pit at her harp, that Miss Norton can see all of this, and yes, this sudden fury is on Miss Norton’s behalf.

Holmes shakes his arm free. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

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