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errantcomment) wrote2010-10-10 08:22 pm
The Case of the Greenwich Phantom
Rating: PG (Violence)
Pairing: John/Sherlock.
Summary: In a concert hall in Greenwich, a mysterious Phantom is murdering the staff...
It was not turning out to be a good day for Raoul the stage-hand. He had come home to a note from his fiancee: It’s not you it’s me, I need some space. All the old lies. Now, instead of going out and getting peacefully drunk like he’d wanted, he was working overtime. Apparently the lighting was All Wrong and Had to be changed, according to the conductor, with the assurance of one who can pronounce capital letters. He sighed, and pulled the lever that released the next row of lights to the stage. The house lights went out. He swore, and turned on his torch. He to fumbled to the fuse-box. He stubbed his toe. Owowow. Sodding shonky lighting system. He was really going to complain, see if he didn’t. The house lights went back up. He blinked in the light and turned round. Well, that just about put the cherry on top. Now they were going to have to get an electrician in and it was somehow going to to be all his fault like it always was… Somebody was behind him. He turned, agonisingly. And looked into the upside-down and not-at-all-well features of the first violinist. Raoul screamed.
---It was half past seven on Tuesday night. Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, was lying on the couch, with his violin under his chin. He scraped up and down the strings moodily. John Watson, his collegue, tried to ignore him, and focus on the medical journal he was reading. He had read this sentence before, he realised. Several times.
“Sherlock. Sherlock.” No response. “Sherlock!”
“No need to shout,” Sherlock said mildly. His bow wavered on an teeth-aching discord. John sighed. “Do you think you could knock it off, just for a moment?” Sherlock put down the violin, sweeping the bow through the air.
“I’m bored, John. There’s nothing of interest on the website, Lestrade is being disturbingly competent… Really, it’s quite tiresome,” John sighed. The bow was conducting lazy arcs through the air.
“Maybe you could make a cup of tea,” he suggested. Sherlock huffed and swung himself upright and then off the couch. His blue dressing-gown whirled round him. John tried not to watch the way the silk hung off his shoulders and wrapped itself round the dectective’s slender form, accentuating slim hips and long legs. Sherlock put the violin under his chin again and played a snippet of something, possibly made up. Then, eyes on John, he played John’s favourite piece. John was never sure who it was by, but it was beautiful. John tried to concentrate on the swooping music rather than on the far-away look in Sherlock’s eyes, the way his long fingers caressed the neck of the instrument… John swallowed. He was in love, and it was damned inconvenient. Sherlock slipped easily into another piece, and John got up to make the tea, sticking his head in the fridge to cool what he was sure was a glowing blush.
“Can you make an extra cup? Lestrade’s coming,” Sherlock had stopped playing, and John could now hear the policeman’s heavy tread on the stair. Lestrade looked harried, and he took the tea that John proffered gratefully.
“I need you to look at a case,” he said. “I can’t make head nor tail of it.”
Sherlock sighed. “I suppose I can make time. Tell me about it,”
“It’s the new concert hall, in Greenwich. They’ve got a ghost.”
Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a long moment. His mouth twitched.
“I’m not an exorcist, Lestrade. Have you come to waste my time?”
“See, that’s what I thought at first as well. Artistic temperaments, they’re a bit inclined to drama. But people have been turning up dead. We’ve gone through the place half a dozen times, can’t find a thing. They look like accidents. A security guard tripped in the flies, fell twenty feet onto his head. An usher, she died on the way home from work, it looks like she was mugged. The mugger strangled her and left her lying face down in a puddle. She drowned in three inches of water. A stage hand- he didn’t die, but he won’t be working again. Now the first violinist-,”
“What happened to him?” John was interested, despite himself.
“He was a drinker, and he must have stumbled over the ropes in the flies. He got all tangled up and strangled to death,” Lestrade looked down at his mug. “And there are notes,”
“Notes!” Sherlock tried to hide his delight. “I shall need to look at those,”
“Of course, the originals are back at the Yard, but I bought copies,” Lestrade pulled a sheaf of notes out of his pocket. Sherlock took them eagerly, and Lestrade slumped back on the sofa. He was clearly exhausted.
“Hmm… Most intriguing,” Sherlock flipped through them.
“There’s one other thing,” Lestrade rubbed his hands across his face. “In a fortnight’s time, there’s going to be a big concert. The world’s greatest pianist is coming to give a concert, and it’s going to be bad for business if he gets murdered in the interval. I’ve run up against nothing but dead ends, and there’s pressure coming in from the top…” he trailed off. John felt sorry for the man.
“As a medical practitioner, it is my advice that you go home and get a good night’s sleep. There’s nothing more you can do tonight,” John took the mug from Lestrade’s listless hands. “Do you need a cab?”
“No, it’s fine, I don’t live too far away,” Lestrade levered himself up off the couch, and John saw him out. Sherlock was rummaging for some blu-tac. He stuck the letters to the wall, in chronological order. They were hand-written on the concert hall’s paper.
“Blue pen, Parker, I would imagine,” Sherlock said, kneeling on the couch to get a closer look. “This is a most intricate knot.”
John sighed, and regarded the back of Sherlock’s head. He needed a haircut and the dark hair curled over the collar of the dressing-gown. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch it, and instead went to bed. Behind him Sherlock clapped his long hands together, and started to look for paper and pen.
---
The next morning, John woke up, dressed, and shuffled down the stairs with a vague notion of toast. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in a chair, staring at the letters intently. There was paper everywhere, balled up and chucked in corners, torn in half to lie like confetti on the ground, and even a few paper aeroplanes sitting neatly on top of the fridge and in the skull’s eye-socket. It looked put-upon. John had some fellow-feeling for it. He resisted the urge to go and hug the bony shoulders, soothe the tension out of them, and made tea instead.
“No luck?” he asked, handing a steaming mug over to Sherlock, who took it without looking.
“A lot of theories, but that never did anyone any good. I’m going to have to go there today.” Sherlock huffed out a breath and peered at the wall over his mug. “It appears that someone has taken on the role of a superstition. It starts out innocently enough- advice and such, but he’s progressed to blackmail in the last year- something the old manager complied with, but they’ve got new blood in the three months, according to the website. They aren’t as willing to comply.”
“So he’s started murdering people?” John tracked the letters himself.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s nearly that dull,” Sherlock stood up, putting down his tea. “I’m going there in a while, do you want to come?”
“I suppose,” John looked at the wall. There were now Post-it notes and web-pages stuck up there too, with Sherlock’s scribble and highlights on them. The first note read “Dear Sirs, I welcome you to my concert hall, and request that my salary, which is now two days late, be paid immediately in full (£500). Yours sincerely, The Phantom.” There were a few more along these lines, and one about the “frankly wooden performance of the Nut-Cracker in last night’s performance”, and then (the note had ‘1st Victim’ written on it, in Lestrade’s handwriting) “My Dear Sirs, This is a most regrettable accident. Yours sincerely, The Phantom.” The second victim had a note saying “Dear Sirs, I am sorry for your loss, but she had been stealing funds. Yours sincerely, The Phantom.” Then there were a couple of notes, full of reproach at the lack of salary, but then others with comments like “Could you please ask the cleaners to be more attentive when cleaning my box.” and “I felt the second flautist was a little slow last night.” Then on the third victim: “He should have kept his mind on his work.” They had not yet received one for the violinist.
“He’s a sort of superstition. The new concert hall used to be an old theatre. They gutted it in the sixties and turned it into a concert hall with the occasional ballet,” Sherlock was doing up his suit jacket. “And when they opened again, there was the Phantom. Good performances are put down to his presence, they always keep Box Three free on first nights, and soloists say they feel his presence in the dressing room- he leaves dried roses and bottles of champagne. Dancers won’t go on unless they invoke him, things like that. Complete tosh of course. But then a few years ago, he started leaving notes… Critiques, suggestions, things like that. Then,about a year ago, he demanded a salary, nothing too major, so the old managers paid, it was easier than dealing with shrill musicians I suppose, but these new ones think it’s all quite ridiculous. They’re intent on bringing the place into the twenty-first century, creating a more accessible experience. It doesn’t mean much, but they can charge more for it. They think this Phantom business is an out-moded superstition, not in-keeping with the business profile they want to create.”
“Until people started turning up dead,” John tried not to make it too much of a question, and put on his jacket. Sherlock wrapped himself in his long coat, and pulled on black gloves. John reached up and brushed some dust off the taller man’s shoulder.
“You had white… Stuff,” he mumbled when Sherlock looked at him questioningly. When Sherlock was going down the stairs, John shook out his hand, and wondered if Sherlock had felt the same jolt of electricity.
---
Lestrade met them outside the concert hall with a powerfully built man who introduced himself as Moncharmin. Sherlock shook hands politely, but that was as far as social niceties went.
“I need a plan of the concert hall, as well your employee records and full access to every part of the building…” he looked the man up and down, but turned away without another word, and strode into the building. “I need to see where the murders happened,” he called back over his shoulder. Moncharmin hurried after him, along with Lestrade and John. He caught up with Sherlock in the lobby.
“Er, I am a busy man, Mister Holmes, lots to organise and all that. I’ve actually arranged a guide for you.”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock’s attention was suddenly fully trained on the bigger man, who looked unnerved.
“Er. Yes. Er. Mister Giry. He’s the stage manager, he’s been here since the place opened, and if there’s anything he doesn’t know about this place, it’s not worth knowing,” Mr Giry was short and with a certain amount of middle-aged padding. He was going bald on top and had a tool-belt on. He didn’t look like he had time for this.
“We’ve got a performance tonight and if I waste any more time they’re going to be doing it in the dark,” he complained as he lead them into the big hall. “I’ve tried telling them if they paid the Phantom then it wouldn’t be a problem, all this ‘bad luck’ would go away. I mean, the place makes enough money to cover it, but no. Too old-fashioned, no profit. The Phantom keeps this place going. Without him, we’d go under within a week. I’ve tried telling these new boys, but they just won’t listen. I remember when this place was about the music...” he led them backstage and gave them a couple of printed sheets. “This is for this floor and the basement- that’s where we keep pretty much everything. It comes up on this lift, you can see here. This is for the flies and attics,” John took the maps. They were photocopied, and a bit dark. John turned to to Sherlock, and sighed when he saw him, apparently ignoring the ongoing lecture from Mr. Giry, strolling over to the levers and wheels that controlled the rows of lights above them. He pulled one, and a row started to descend.
“Oi, what are you doing?” Mr. Giry hurried over. “Mister Holmes, this is not a playground. You are not allowed to just tug on things.”
“Oh, sorry,” the smile John thought of as Sherlock’s ‘people’ smile was in effect. (As opposed to his violin smile, his hot-cup-of-tea-on-a-cold-day smile, his unexpected-joke-from-John smile… Focus! Mental slap.) John faded back in, just in time to hear Mr. Giry say “…Well, I can’t stand around playing nursemaid all day, I’ve got work to do. Mark! Mark, come here boy,” a thin lad of about eighteen with dark hair and large dark eyes came running across the stage. He stumbled a little but still managed to come to a slightly flailing halt. John couldn’t help but smile a little.
“This is my boy, Mark. He works here in summer, but he’s not much use up here at the moment, so I can spare him. Mark, you show these gentlemen anything they need to see,”
“But I was-,” Mark protested.
“Never mind that,” his father snapped.
“This is about the murders?” Mark was suddenly interested.
“What do you know about them, Mark?” Sherlock asked, apparently casually.
“I know the Phantom did them. Me and Dad, we know a lot about him. Dad used to tell me stories about him,” he took them to a side door which went down some narrow stairs. “He’s always been good for the theatre, but he don’t like people what don’t show proper respect. That’s why people are getting murdered, but try telling them up there! He’s not a bad sort though. He hasn’t done anything to no one who didn’t deserve it.”
“What do you mean?” Lestrade snapped. The corridor was lit by bare fluorescent bulbs, with concrete walls. The air felt increasingly clammy. John retreated into his thin jacket, wishing he had bought a jumper.
“Well, the security guard, Rick, he was careless. He used to let kids drink on the steps, and there’d be so much broken glass, and they’d smash all the windows and draw on the walls, it fair broke your heart on a Monday morning, and Lizzy, she was purloinin’ from the till at the Concessions stand, everyone knew it, but she had somethin’ on the Head Usher, that’s Mills, he wouldn’t do nothing about it. And Harry, ‘im what got all smashed up, he used to bring his girlfriend in when he should be working and the first violinist, Romeo, he used to come in drunk all the time, and it weren’t professional. Say what you like, sir, they had to go. I wish it hadn’t been like that, but no one was sorry to see them go sir, and that’s the truth of it!” Sherlock raised an eye-brow.
“A vigilante, how singular,” Sherlock muttered. John smiled into the collar of his coat, and then shivered. He wished he’d brought his jumper. It was cold and a little damp down here. They were passing through room after room of the paraphernalia that seemed to build up in any big theatre over time.
Mark didn’t seem to notice. “These new managers, all they see is the profits. They don’t love the old place. No respect.” There was a slightly awkward silence. Lestrade cleared his throat.
“Well, we’re goin’ through all the prop cellars at the moment,” he waved vaguely at the junk around them. “The lift is over there, that’s how we get ‘em all up into the main auditorium,” As they passed through a narrow gap, John felt something soft pressed into his hand. It was a scarf. He wrapped it round his throat, glad of the warmth. It smelt familiar… he looked up and saw Sherlock striding on, deep in talk with Mark, Lestrade listening intently. Sherlock’s neck was bare, and John’s mouth went a little dry. He’d always had a bit of a thing for Sherlock’s neck… He pulled it up over his nose, breathing Sherlock’s cologne, and followed the others, with a little smile.
In the attics, Mark showed them all the ropes. There were weights and pulleys and it was like some sort of bizarre spider’s web. In the end, after tripping for what felt like the billionth time, John just stayed still, but Sherlock insisted on exploring the whole place thoroughly, including the two-foot by six-foot box that contained the inner workings of the pipe-organ. He looked like a boy on a day-trip, and John thought it was irresistible. Then Mark took them to Box Three, and Sherlock poked into every corner, under the seats, and even balanced on the plush seats to prod at the ceiling.
“It is first night tonight, is it not?”
“Er, yes,” Mark had watched Sherlock at work with a certain amount of bemusement.
“Excellent. I shall meet you here at eight then,” Sherlock nodded, and put his gloves back on.
“But, you can’t have this box, any other night would be fine, but not tonight! It’s the Phantom’s box,” the boy protested.
“Yes, I can’t wait to meet him,” Sherlock swept out of the room. “I can tell your manager on the way out,”
---
Sherlock and John arrived at the concert hall reasonably on time, after an argument over whether Sherlock would really need to bring what appeared to be his entire chemistry set. John had his gun though, in the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t know what to expect, but just a night at a concert, well, that would be a little dull, right?
A tight-lipped concierge showed them to Box Five with a hint of disapproval.
“No doubt the whole orchestra knows by now,” Sherlock sighed as they settled into their seats. “I’m not sure we shall see any ghosts tonight, John,”
And they didn’t. Instead, John watched Sherlock listening to music, his long fingers beat time languidly, and there was no sign of the brilliant mind behind it. He looked… Softer. Kissable. John sighed, and settled back in his seat, and tried to enjoy the music.
After the concert, Sherlock had, called Lestrade:
“No, there was nothing… I don’t think the conventional route is going to work… Well, then, why did you ask me?” he hung up in disgust.
“Come along, John, we have things to do. Hopefully no one else is going to be murdered tonight, we seem to have quite scared him away,” John sighed and followed his flatmate. When they got home, Sherlock, wrapped in his coat, curled up onto the couch, clutching his knees.
“I have some thinking to do.” He said abruptly. “Did you have a nice time?”
“Er, yes. No one got murdered. It was very relaxing,” John blinked.
“Good. That’s good,” Sherlock said vaguely. John went to bed. It was a long time before he slept.
It felt like minutes had passed when was shaken awake.
“John, Lestrade is here. Moncharmin has been killed!” Sherlock was looming over him.
“Who- What?” John mumbled.
“Moncharmin, one of the managers! He hung himself, in his office!”
John tumbled out of bed, blinking against the landing light as he made his way to the front-room. Lestrade was there.
“It definitely looks like a suicide, Sherlock. He tied his tie to the lamp fitting and kicked the chair out from underneath himself. Initial investigation confirms, but there was this,” he handed Sherlock a note. Sherlock took it hungrily. John looked as well. ‘I can’t deal with it any more. I need out. Someone worthy should take my place.’
“Excellent, excellent...” he trailed off as he hunted for more blu-tac.
“Do you need to see the scene?” Lestrade asked.
“Oh, yes, I suppose I will.” Sherlock seemed mildly disappointed, like too many hints will spoil the game. He turned to John. “You’re coming,” It wasn’t a question. “Perhaps a pair of pants? I understand pajamas are not the accepted practice at crime scenes,” John rolled his eyes, and went to change.
At the crime scene, Sherlock studied the light fitting and the corpse, who is by now lying on the floor. Strangulation isn’t the prettiest way to go, but it’s definitely the most colourful, John reflected. It was something his lecturer used to say, and it had always somehow raised a smile from the most traumatised student.
“Yes, well, I suppose that’s everything we can get from this,” Sherlock snapped off a glove. “He was murdered though, definitely. Here-,” he pointed to the hairline “There was a blindfold. Wrists were bound, see here? I would say he was drugged. Just enough to make him suggestable, but you’ll have to let me know what the blood work says,” he smiled. “Clever though. The Phantom knows I’m after him, I fear,”
---
Sherlock woke him up the next morning.
“I’ve had an idea. Who gets to go anywhere they like in the concert hall?”
“Er…” John blinked. He looked at his alarm clock. Six am. They’d got in at four. It seemed a little unfair.
“The musicians! I thought stage-hand, but a musician has it all! I can get in the green room, all the backstage areas!”
John, because he was certainly not a cynical man when it came to the vanities of his flatmate, definitely did not think And of course, there is an opportunity to show off in front of hundreds of people… Instead he said:
“And of course, you already play violin,”
“Exactly! It will be an excellent opportunity,” Sherlock beamed. John smiled too, it was hard not to. He considered pulling the man into the bed with him, just see where it went. Everything else is transport… He sighed instead.
“And my part in this is?”
“You are going to be a member of the press, shadowing me for an article,” Sherlock looked like he had it all figured out. “I’ll be up-and-coming, it’s perfect!” he left the room again. John sighed and rolled over. His phone went off. A number he didn’t know. ‘Very bad for international relations if famous person dies here, especially so singularly. Please bear in mind.’
“Yeah, thanks Mycroft,” John groaned and decided to get up.
The day started with a meeting with the other manager, a man who introduced himself as Richard and required proof of Sherlock’s ability to play, (which he gave, with a faintly smug air) and then said,
“Well, if you insist,” Sherlock was swept off to rehearsal, with John in tow, clutching his notebook. He was introduced to the conductor, who called Sherlock dear in a motherly way, and waved him to his seat. John enjoyed the music, but soon became bored. He wished he’d thought to bring a book. By lunchtime, no one had been murdered at all, and Sherlock mingled with the other musicians around the sandwiches that had been laid on. He had slipped into a ‘people’ persona, John could see that. He seemed to have developed the slight hunch that really tall people get trying to be the same height as everyone else, he laughed and chatted cordially, even flirting with a pretty flautist. John tried not to feel a stab of jealousy; he knew that Sherlock didn’t really do that sort of thing, whatever John might wish in the dark of his bedroom. He looked down in his notebook, flipping back through past cases, and trying not to think of how hungry he was- could he go steal something from the buffet table on the stage? He looked up. Sherlock was in front of him.
“Bought you a sandwich,” he handed John a paper plate. “Come with me, maybe you can get some ideas, but honestly, they’re all so dull and completely vapid.” He took John by the arm, and walked him up to the stage, like he was discussing the weather, “If the Phantom doesn’t get them I might, they’re completely insufferable- Josie! Josie, you simply must meet John. He’s following me for a report, lovely chap!” the pretty flautist shook his hand. “John, don’t you think it would be nice to maybe have a chat with some of these people?” A small group was gathering around them.
“Yes, it would definitely give our readers an idea of… what it’s like to be in an orchestra,” John finished lamely.
“Well, can you do it after rehearsal, dear?” the conductor said behind them “What with all this police business and poor Mister Moncharmin’s suicide, we’re behind enough as it is.” The group that had formed round them reluctantly dispersed and there were general warming up noises. Sherlock gave his shoulder a little squeeze.
“I’m so sorry John, this must be dead boring for you. Why don’t you take a break, go get a cuppa?” Sherlock smiled, but it wasn’t the nice-but-dim smile that he had used on the flautist, it was a private smile that warmed John down to his boots.
After some wandering, he found the green room. There was a kettle, and he made some tea. A text arrived. Sherlock had apparently found a minute in rehearsal: ‘Nothing interesting going to happen here. Go home if you like. Flutes are so shrill. Hate them. SH’ John sighed. He didn’t have anything better today, and it would be the moment that he left that something would happen. Still, he took his time over a cup of tea, wandering round the performer’s back-stage area. There were a series of lockers, intended for the orchestra, a small changing room for the occasional dances they put on, and another room intended for guest soloists. A locked door proclaimed ‘Office’. John finished his tea, and went back to the auditorium. Lestrade had quite good taste in books, as it turned out.
At the end of the day, Sherlock came bouncing out the theatre, waving goodbye to the other musicians fondly, though he refused their offer of drinks. John took a few numbers, saying that he might need to talk to them later. As they walked away, he seemed to sag internally a little. He stood up straight again, and dropped the polite smile.
“Ugh, what a day. At least I now know none of them are the killer.”
“No?” John stretched.
“No, they stab each other in the back all the time, but they wouldn’t actually wield a proper knife. Couldn’t get their hands dirty,” Sherlock sneered at a passing car. “Anyway. There was one good thing out of the day,”
“What’s that?”
Sherlock carefully drew a dried rose out of his pocket. “I found this in my locker. We have his attention, John,” he grinned, and frightened an old lady with a shopping bag when he spun round exuberantly. “Isn’t it GRAND!”
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There simply are NO words for how wonderful this is! And the achy unrequited love John feels...SO DELICIOUS!
You are a wizard and I can't wait for more!!!
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I'm glad you liked it though. ^_^
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ANd fluff is very welcome as well and will be used to supplement their diet of mystery and pron.
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*Snuggles fic!!!!*
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That's okay, I am bad at links.
So... about that skull...
"The next morning, John woke up, dressed, and shuffled down the stairs with a vague notion of toast. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in a chair, staring at the letters intently. There was paper everywhere, balled up and chucked in corners, torn in half to lie like confetti on the ground, and even a few paper aeroplanes sitting neatly on top of the fridge and in the skull’s eye-socket. It looked put-upon. John had some fellow-feeling for it. He resisted the urge to go and hug the bony shoulders, soothe the tension out of them, and made tea instead."
You talk about him feeling bad for the skull and then John wants to go hug the "bony" shoulders. I had to stop for a second and go, "wait, it's just a skull right?" and then realize you meant Sherlock's shoulder's and then I had a series of very disturbing yet hilarious images of Sherlock with the skull for a head and then I had to put Sherlock's head somewhere and it was just all downhill from there. MY MIND, IT IS A BIZARRE PLACE.
XD
Re: So... about that skull...
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http://errantcomment.livejournal.com/tag/the%20case%20of%20the%20greenwich%20phantom
One day I will fix this.