Made for a prompt over at bbcsherlock_fic. Rating: PG (Violence) Pairing: John/Sherlock. Summary: In a concert hall in Greenwich, a mysterious Phantom is murdering the staff.
John yawned. It had been a long week. He’d had some hours at the surgeryand the normalcy of runny noses and chicken pox had been a welcome break. However, when he got home, it was to a chaos of paper- music and notes fluttered about the room seemingly at random. Sherlock was also conducting some sort of experiment on one of the dried roses he had recieved (one appeared in his locker everyday), and there was glass equipment every where. It was exhilarating and incredibly frustrating all at the same time. They always seemed to be out of milk, as well.
“He’s not going to try anything John. He’s trying to get my measure. If he’s going to do anything, it’ll be at the concert,” Sherlock had said, one evening. “This is almost relaxing, John, I think I have almost all the facts,” He was what John called thinking about smiling, mainly at a petri-dish. John had wanted to kiss him, had almost reached out… But hadn’t. He had cursed himself, but knew it was for the best. Simply being near him would have to be enough. And now it was the big night. Sherlock had been at the concert hall all day, and was nervous, if the snippy texts that John had been receiving were anything to do go by. Three hours to go. He decided to go to the theatre. Sherlock was in conversation with Josie, who was, apparently, quite smitten with Sherlock. John felt a bit sorry for her. When he walked past, Sherlock rolled his eyes behind the girl’s back, and John smiled noncommitally.
The concert itself went off without a hitch. Sherlock was perfect, a soft smile playing over his face, swaying in time to the music. John relaxed, and allowed himself to do something he almost never did, and drink the other man in like he was dying of thirst. He memorised him till the image was almost tangible behind his eyes and the music wove around him. If it hadn’t been for the possibility of a body falling out of the wings, then John would have said it was perfect. After the concert, he went to find Sherlock, and congratulate him on a good performance, if nothing else. But he wasn’t there. Even Josie the flautist looked confused.
“I don’t know John; he was right there. Do you want to interview me now?”
John looked for what felt like an age. He called Mr. Giry. Mr. Giry got the back-stage crew to spread out. No one could find him. John texted Sherlock. No reply. He went home. No Sherlock. He wasn’t with Lestrade. He was just gone. John tried not to be worried.
Text to SH (23:45):‘Text me if you haven’t been murdered. JW’
Text to SH (00:30):‘I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up; I’m not speaking to you ever again. You berk. JW’
Text to SH (01:30) (Not Sent): ‘Please don’t be dead. I need you.’
---
Sherlock came awake in a room. Underground, grey concrete and damp air indicating rising damp problem= under concert hall. Loss of time ?unknown. ?Whereabouts of John (jumperwarmthminehome) ?unknown, therefore irrelevant at this time. Light source= fluorescent bulb. Mirrors reflect light, other walls. Smell of old roses under damp. ?Who??Phone not in trouser pocket. Violin by leg = unlikely to encounter hostiles. A man slipped through the door.Well dressed, dark suit= pride in appearance, vanity. Mask affirms vanity also hides face not mouth/chin ?deformed?scarred?hiding bone-structure/identity? !Probable kidnapper. Key = lock. Recollection of tunnel. Not on plans: secret.
“Sherlock Holmes. No doubt you have guessed who I am. I have been watching you, Sherlock Holmes. You have the makings of a great virtuoso in you, Sherlock Holmes. I will teach you. Think of me,” a smile “Think of me as your Angel of Music. I want you to make music for the angels, Sherlock Holmes.” Classical education, raised in Hampshires. Angels= religion? Came through mud (rising damp). ?Music? Repeat of name= obsessive tendencies?
“Have you been killing people?” he asked, directly.
“Not relevant Sherlock Holmes! Now, there is only music!” the Phantom pulled out a sheaf of paper.
---
John hadn’t really slept. Catnaps don’t count in this case, twenty minutes snatched as he watched Lestrade shout at people and bustle about at Scotland Yard. He clutched his phone with a sweaty palm. The concert hall had been temporarily shut down. No one can get in or out without someone knowing. Sherlock still not found. Sarah called, they need a locum, just for the day. John went in, but when Sarah found out what happened, she sent him home, saying he’s no good to her half there. She didn’t sound pleased, but John was so strung-out he didn’t care. He paced round and round 221B Baker Street, snapping at Mrs Hudson, who was making automatically making tea, the great British band-aid. When everything gets too much, have a cup of tea.
John went back to the concert hall. Lestrade sent him home. John went to Scotland Yard. Lestrade sent him home. John collapsed on the couch, which smelt so much like Sherlock, and for the first time in a long time, had a nightmare about blood on dusty sand, and screaming. He woke up, and he wept in the dark apartment, with Sherlock’s dressing-gown covering him, surrounding him in the sensation of grey eyes and dark hair. Then he made a cup of tea, and stared out of the window.
---
?Time passed? Music. *Minor*major*arpeggios* Sherlock flexed out his hands and wrists. The Phantom had graciously allowed him a break. ?Mask? ?Deformity? Unknown bone-structure= Stranger. Have to get out. Back to John (homewarmsmilemine). Important developments. Must get back to John (teaminegood). Tell Lestrade (cigarettebad!timescity). John (dimsumtellymine) ?Mask? Remove mask= possible unbalancing= injury!death!release? (John!mine) Only one way to find out… Sherlock reached out, before the Phantom could do anything, he pulled off the mask. The Phantom screamed.
---
It was the next day. Sherlock was still missing. John was at the concert hall. Lestrade no longer bothered to send him home. He prowled up and down the building, waiting for anything to happen. Lestrade made him eat. Mycroft came by, unofficially. He had told John to try not to worry.
“Are you not worrying?” John asked, smiling a little.
“Oh, definitely not,” Mycroft smiled wryly back. “I’ll be in touch John. I have to try and keep this from the ambassador; it’s really taking up a lot of time.”
“Ambassador?” John was exhausted. He grabbed the word out of the sick tendrils of fog in his head.
“Yes. Other countries won’t play at all if they think we might play too rough, and a ghost killing random people... Well, it simply doesn’t look good,”
And he had driven away.John had kicked a wall, and then hopped on one foot, cursing. Then he had a sit down.
---
Mask= Disfigured. Congenital/no sun/?injury? Loss of mask= Apparent loss of mental capacity. Self defence may be necessary= Break nose, kick kneecap/groin, use knee to head to incapacitate. (Find John!MINE!) Key in jacket pocket. Follow clean air to surface!John!MINE! (Consider MINEfeeling= complicated) The Phantom snatched the mask.
“Why Sherlock Holmes? Why? We could have been so good together…” he sobbed as he tried to tie the mask on. “I loved you Sherlock Holmes. The music for the angels…” He finally succeeded with the mask, and seemed to regain some of his composure. “I will take you back now. You have ruined it Sherlock Holmes…” and Sherlock is blindfolded. Black silk= -tie –handkerchief =sleeping mask. Five paces through door spunroundtwice walking forward… twenty yards. Ragged breathing=distressed mental state. Fresher air= surface(John!MINE) Turn right then thirty yards. Spunroundtwice go left…
---
John looked through his notebook for any clue to Sherlock’s whereabouts for the fourth time that day. He looked up at the chandelier, then at the stage. He remembered Sherlock’s performance two nights ago, and smiled, remembering the music. He closed his eyes, trying to recall ever last detail, from the look in his pale grey eyes, to one foot tapping lazily in time with the music. John opened his eyes. Standing on the stage, looking dazed, like someone coming from a dark room into the light, and still wearing his suit from the last time John had seen him, clutching his violin, was Sherlock Holmes. John scrambled up. This was it, he had cracked. He blinked. No, the man was still there. Then he was on the stage.
“I’m going to kill you,” was what he was going to say but instead he kissed him roughly on the mouth. Sherlock looked surprised, but hugged him back.
“Mine,” he growled into John’s hair. After a moment, they pulled apart. Sherlock looked thoughtful, but stooped to kiss John’s face. Just once. Then he pulled away.
“John, have there been any more notes from the Phantom?” he said, as casually as if he’d only stepped outside for a moment.
“What- Where have you been? Why didn’t you text? What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” John was aware of his voice rising in volume and quite possibly pitch. Lestrade came in and let out a yell.
“I couldn’t text, he took my phone. You won’t believe where I’ve been, and I was playing the violin. Obviously.” Sherlock said, waving the instrument. “Lestrade, we have a plan!”
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The Case of the Greenwich Phantom: Part Two
Oct. 10th, 2010 08:37 pmMade for a prompt over at bbcsherlock_fic.
Rating: PG (Violence)
Pairing: John/Sherlock.
Summary: In a concert hall in Greenwich, a mysterious Phantom is murdering the staff.
John yawned. It had been a long week. He’d had some hours at the surgery and the normalcy of runny noses and chicken pox had been a welcome break. However, when he got home, it was to a chaos of paper- music and notes fluttered about the room seemingly at random. Sherlock was also conducting some sort of experiment on one of the dried roses he had recieved (one appeared in his locker everyday), and there was glass equipment every where. It was exhilarating and incredibly frustrating all at the same time. They always seemed to be out of milk, as well.
“He’s not going to try anything John. He’s trying to get my measure. If he’s going to do anything, it’ll be at the concert,” Sherlock had said, one evening. “This is almost relaxing, John, I think I have almost all the facts,” He was what John called thinking about smiling, mainly at a petri-dish. John had wanted to kiss him, had almost reached out… But hadn’t. He had cursed himself, but knew it was for the best. Simply being near him would have to be enough. And now it was the big night. Sherlock had been at the concert hall all day, and was nervous, if the snippy texts that John had been receiving were anything to do go by. Three hours to go. He decided to go to the theatre. Sherlock was in conversation with Josie, who was, apparently, quite smitten with Sherlock. John felt a bit sorry for her. When he walked past, Sherlock rolled his eyes behind the girl’s back, and John smiled noncommitally.
The concert itself went off without a hitch. Sherlock was perfect, a soft smile playing over his face, swaying in time to the music. John relaxed, and allowed himself to do something he almost never did, and drink the other man in like he was dying of thirst. He memorised him till the image was almost tangible behind his eyes and the music wove around him. If it hadn’t been for the possibility of a body falling out of the wings, then John would have said it was perfect. After the concert, he went to find Sherlock, and congratulate him on a good performance, if nothing else. But he wasn’t there. Even Josie the flautist looked confused.
“I don’t know John; he was right there. Do you want to interview me now?”
John looked for what felt like an age. He called Mr. Giry. Mr. Giry got the back-stage crew to spread out. No one could find him. John texted Sherlock. No reply. He went home. No Sherlock. He wasn’t with Lestrade. He was just gone. John tried not to be worried.
Text to SH (23:45): ‘Text me if you haven’t been murdered. JW’
Text to SH (00:30): ‘I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up; I’m not speaking to you ever again. You berk. JW’
Text to SH (01:30) (Not Sent): ‘Please don’t be dead. I need you.’
---
Sherlock came awake in a room. Underground, grey concrete and damp air indicating rising damp problem= under concert hall. Loss of time ?unknown. ?Whereabouts of John (jumperwarmthminehome) ?unknown, therefore irrelevant at this time. Light source= fluorescent bulb. Mirrors reflect light, other walls. Smell of old roses under damp. ?Who? ?Phone not in trouser pocket. Violin by leg = unlikely to encounter hostiles. A man slipped through the door. Well dressed, dark suit= pride in appearance, vanity. Mask affirms vanity also hides face not mouth/chin ?deformed?scarred?hiding bone-structure/identity? !Probable kidnapper. Key = lock. Recollection of tunnel. Not on plans: secret.
“Sherlock Holmes. No doubt you have guessed who I am. I have been watching you, Sherlock Holmes. You have the makings of a great virtuoso in you, Sherlock Holmes. I will teach you. Think of me,” a smile “Think of me as your Angel of Music. I want you to make music for the angels, Sherlock Holmes.” Classical education, raised in Hampshires. Angels= religion? Came through mud (rising damp). ?Music? Repeat of name= obsessive tendencies?
“Have you been killing people?” he asked, directly.
“Not relevant Sherlock Holmes! Now, there is only music!” the Phantom pulled out a sheaf of paper.
---
John hadn’t really slept. Catnaps don’t count in this case, twenty minutes snatched as he watched Lestrade shout at people and bustle about at Scotland Yard. He clutched his phone with a sweaty palm. The concert hall had been temporarily shut down. No one can get in or out without someone knowing. Sherlock still not found. Sarah called, they need a locum, just for the day. John went in, but when Sarah found out what happened, she sent him home, saying he’s no good to her half there. She didn’t sound pleased, but John was so strung-out he didn’t care. He paced round and round 221B Baker Street, snapping at Mrs Hudson, who was making automatically making tea, the great British band-aid. When everything gets too much, have a cup of tea.
John went back to the concert hall. Lestrade sent him home. John went to Scotland Yard. Lestrade sent him home. John collapsed on the couch, which smelt so much like Sherlock, and for the first time in a long time, had a nightmare about blood on dusty sand, and screaming. He woke up, and he wept in the dark apartment, with Sherlock’s dressing-gown covering him, surrounding him in the sensation of grey eyes and dark hair. Then he made a cup of tea, and stared out of the window.
---
?Time passed? Music. *Minor*major*arpeggios* Sherlock flexed out his hands and wrists. The Phantom had graciously allowed him a break. ?Mask? ?Deformity? Unknown bone-structure= Stranger. Have to get out. Back to John (homewarmsmilemine). Important developments. Must get back to John (teaminegood). Tell Lestrade (cigarettebad!timescity). John (dimsumtellymine) ?Mask? Remove mask= possible unbalancing= injury!death!release? (John!mine) Only one way to find out… Sherlock reached out, before the Phantom could do anything, he pulled off the mask. The Phantom screamed.
---
It was the next day. Sherlock was still missing. John was at the concert hall. Lestrade no longer bothered to send him home. He prowled up and down the building, waiting for anything to happen. Lestrade made him eat. Mycroft came by, unofficially. He had told John to try not to worry.
“Are you not worrying?” John asked, smiling a little.
“Oh, definitely not,” Mycroft smiled wryly back. “I’ll be in touch John. I have to try and keep this from the ambassador; it’s really taking up a lot of time.”
“Ambassador?” John was exhausted. He grabbed the word out of the sick tendrils of fog in his head.
“Yes. Other countries won’t play at all if they think we might play too rough, and a ghost killing random people... Well, it simply doesn’t look good,”
And he had driven away. John had kicked a wall, and then hopped on one foot, cursing. Then he had a sit down.
---
Mask= Disfigured. Congenital/no sun/?injury? Loss of mask= Apparent loss of mental capacity. Self defence may be necessary= Break nose, kick kneecap/groin, use knee to head to incapacitate. (Find John!MINE!) Key in jacket pocket. Follow clean air to surface!John!MINE! (Consider MINEfeeling= complicated) The Phantom snatched the mask.
“Why Sherlock Holmes? Why? We could have been so good together…” he sobbed as he tried to tie the mask on. “I loved you Sherlock Holmes. The music for the angels…” He finally succeeded with the mask, and seemed to regain some of his composure. “I will take you back now. You have ruined it Sherlock Holmes…” and Sherlock is blindfolded. Black silk= -tie –handkerchief =sleeping mask. Five paces through door spunroundtwice walking forward… twenty yards. Ragged breathing=distressed mental state. Fresher air= surface(John!MINE) Turn right then thirty yards. Spunroundtwice go left…
---
John looked through his notebook for any clue to Sherlock’s whereabouts for the fourth time that day. He looked up at the chandelier, then at the stage. He remembered Sherlock’s performance two nights ago, and smiled, remembering the music. He closed his eyes, trying to recall ever last detail, from the look in his pale grey eyes, to one foot tapping lazily in time with the music. John opened his eyes. Standing on the stage, looking dazed, like someone coming from a dark room into the light, and still wearing his suit from the last time John had seen him, clutching his violin, was Sherlock Holmes. John scrambled up. This was it, he had cracked. He blinked. No, the man was still there. Then he was on the stage.
“I’m going to kill you,” was what he was going to say but instead he kissed him roughly on the mouth. Sherlock looked surprised, but hugged him back.
“Mine,” he growled into John’s hair. After a moment, they pulled apart. Sherlock looked thoughtful, but stooped to kiss John’s face. Just once. Then he pulled away.
“John, have there been any more notes from the Phantom?” he said, as casually as if he’d only stepped outside for a moment.
“What- Where have you been? Why didn’t you text? What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” John was aware of his voice rising in volume and quite possibly pitch. Lestrade came in and let out a yell.
“I couldn’t text, he took my phone. You won’t believe where I’ve been, and I was playing the violin. Obviously.” Sherlock said, waving the instrument. “Lestrade, we have a plan!”