Chapter Text
"Look what I got!" John came waltzing into the flat, grinning ear to ear.
Sherlock barely glanced up from the cluttered table, where six mugs of varying sizes sat in a row, each filled with something that hissed faintly. "A case?"
John faltered. "Not... quite. What are you doing?"
"Timing how long it takes for different acids to dissolve skin."
"...Right." John cleared his throat, peering at the nearest mug. "Just—make sure you clean them properly when you're done, yeah? And at least you left my Swindon mug alone this time."
Sherlock's eyes flicked toward the bin. He immediately changed the subject. "You said you had news?"
"Ah, yes." John held up two stiff slips of paper like trophies. "So I ran into Stammo—"
"I thought he was on his honeymoon?"
"They leave tomorrow. Anyway, apparently someone gave them theatre tickets, but neither he nor Nadia is a fan. He remembered you were, so..." John let the suspense hang for a beat.
"John," Sherlock urged, gesturing impatiently.
"So," John announced, "we're off to see The Phantom of the Opera at His Majesty's Theatre. Tonight.
Sherlock sat up straighter, a smile beginning to form on his lips, "Seriously?"
"Yeah, Royal Circle tickets too. Not bad"
Sherlock looked like he was about to start vibrating. That is, until they heard a crack coming from the kitchen table. One of the mugs had split under the acid's steady burn, spilling a mixture of fluid and pale sloughed-off skin across the table.
"Oh, for" John lunged forward, grabbing the nearest dish towel. Sherlock scrambled to lift the remaining mugs away from the spreading puddle.
"Quickly, before it stains!" John barked, mopping frantically. "If Mariana comes home and finds this on her table, we are dead men."
//////
"Damn, these are some nice seats," John muttered as he slid into place, setting his drink carefully by his feet. His eyes immediately went to the massive chandelier, shrouded in its white covering, resting at the centre of the stage.
Next to him, Sherlock was already buried in the programme, scanning each page; an excited glint lit his eyes. His long knees pressed awkwardly against the barrier in front of them; comfort clearly wasn't the priority.
John adjusted the tiny mic at his collar, making sure it was well hidden. He hadn't planned to bring it, but at the last minute, something made him tuck the smaller one into his pocket. If nothing happened, well, he'd just delete the whole recording later.
"You know, I've never actually seen this in person," John said, glancing around as the theatre filled with the soft hum of conversation and rustle of coats.
"I've seen it twice." Sherlock passed him the programme, apparently finished.
"Really?"
"Yes. I told you my parents weren't around much when I was younger. But when they were, they'd take me to the theatre."
John smiled at that, a genuine warmth softening his face. "That sounds nice."
"It was," Sherlock admitted with a faint, crooked smile. "Until My—" He broke off with an abrupt cough. "Sorry. Until I got older. Then my parents spent more time away than at home."
A flicker of something wistful crossed his face before he tipped his chin toward the stage, eager for distraction.
The house lights dimmed, sweeping the theatre in hush and shadow.
"It's about to begin," Sherlock murmured, eyes fixed on the stage, his whole posture leaning forward like a boy waiting for magic.
//////
The show was amazing. John leaned back in shock as the chandelier came crashing down onto the stage, plunging the whole theatre into darkness as the first act came to an end.
Applause broke out, and John joined in enthusiastically, fully immersed in the show.
"That was brilliant," he breathed, turning to Sherlock, only to notice the detective hadn't moved. Sherlock sat rigid, frowning.
"Is everything alright, mate?" John asked, taking a seat as the house lights came back on.
"Something's wrong"
"What? Was the violinist two bars off?"
Sherlock didn't even blink. "The chandelier hasn't been raised again."
"Okay?"
"So they're distracted backstage, something's happened."
Before John could argue, a smartly dressed man hurried out onto the stage. His hair was rumpled, his expression taut. He gestured to someone in the wings, and only then did the chandelier creak upward again, out of sight. The man took a mic, clearing his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice too tight, too forced. The audience stilled. "I'm terribly sorry, but tonight's performance has been cancelled. A portion of your tickets will be refunded, and we sincerely apologise for the inconvenience. If you could make your way to the exits. Thank you, and once again, our apologies."
He gave a brisk wave and vanished backstage.
"Come on, Watson", Sherlock shot out of his seat.
"Wh-what? Are we leaving?" John asked.
"Of course not", Sherlock bounded up the stairs, John struggling to keep up as the crowd began to leave "We're going to find out what's going on"
John muttered under his breath but followed, jostled by the exiting crowd.
They reached the stage door, only to be blocked by a wall of muscle in a security jacket. "Sorry, gents, you can't go in there"
Sherlock exhaled through his nose, already impatient. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my companion, Doctor John Watson. I'm the country's only consulting detective, and I have just witnessed a show get closed down without a reasonable explanation, and would very much like to know what's going on. If you don't believe me, feel free to contact Dame Gwen Lestrade, Head Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Doctor Watson has her number."
John just smiled as the security guy glanced over at him.
"If you wouldn't mind taking us to the manager of this theatre. That would be very much appreciated." Sherlock finished.
The guy looked far too tired; he just sighed and opened the door. "Follow me, gents."
He led them through a maze of wires, sets, props, and costumes, but surprisingly, no people.
"Where is everyone?" John asked.
"All the actors were sent back to the changing rooms. The stage crew are in the greenrooms. This is it."
The guy knocked on the door once before opening it. "Sir, these two gentlemen are from the Met. They want to speak to you."
"The Met?" The voice of the man from before asked in shock, "That was quick"
Sherlock swept in without hesitation. "Actually, we were in the audience. Sherlock Holmes. Doctor John Watson. Shall we stop wasting time? What's going on?"
The guard looked half ready to haul Sherlock out by the collar, but the manager held up a hand. "It's fine. Leave us."
Once the door shut, the manager gestured wearily to a pair of chairs. "Please. Sit."
Sherlock and John slowly sat down, watching as the manager viciously rubbed his face, looking exhausted. "I truly don't know where to begin, gentlemen."
"How about we start with your name?" John said gently.
"And then," Sherlock added smoothly, crossing one leg over the other, "You can describe the events of tonight in as much detail as possible."
The manager took a deep breath "My name is Charles Spencer, and I'm the House manager of His Majesty's Theatre. As you may be aware, this was the final night, Bella Carter was to play Christine Daae as her season had come to an end. And everything was going fine. The matinee performance this afternoon went just as well as it had for the past few months. And nothing seemed particularly wrong during the pre-show preparation, except some arguments amongst the orchestra."
Charles shook his head and ran a hand through his hair "It was all perfectly normal until we came near the end of the first act. As you know, a dummy is meant to be dropped from the rafters."
"Meant to be?" John echoed, unease tightening in his chest.
"Yes, tonight there was an accident..." Charles took a deep breath "It wasn't a dummy that was thrown over the edge, it was one of our stagehands...Cameron McLeary."
For a heartbeat, the room was silent except for the hum of backstage electrics.
John sat back heavily, colour draining from his face. "You're saying... the body that fell in the middle of the performance wasn't a prop at all. It was a man."
"That's exactly what he's saying," Sherlock muttered, his eyes scanning the man in front of him.
John felt sick, "Oh god."
Sherlock stood, John quickly following, "Thank you, Mr Spencer. Can we see the body?"
"Mr Holmes", Charles sighed, "It's late and everyone wants to go home."
"Then let's make it quick", Sherlock replied with an approximate smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Please, Mr Spencer," John added, leaning forward. "I'm a doctor. If it was an accident, we'll confirm it. If it wasn't, it's better to know now."
"You think this was murder?" Charles stood up "I can assure you, gentlemen, that none of my employees would dare do such a thing. This was purely an accident."
"That remains to be seen", Sherlock stated.
Charles just glared at the pair for a minute before seeming to relent, "Very well. Follow me."
//////
Charles led them through the maze of corridors until they reached the shadowed space behind the stage. A small group of people had gathered in a hushed semicircle, the body lying at its centre like a grim centrepiece. Among them was the security guard from earlier, arms folded across his chest.
"I thought everyone was supposed to be in the changing room or staff room?" John asked, brow furrowed.
Charles cleared his throat loudly, the sound echoing off the fly ropes. "Gentlemen, this is Olivia Emerson, one of our assistant stagehands. She discovered the body. And this is Dave Chadwick, our stage manager. You've already met Jacob, head of security. Olivia, Dave—this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson from the Met."
"It's good to meet you," John said, offering a nod.
"Indeed," Sherlock murmured distractedly, already striding closer. "Now, if everyone could kindly step back."
With a sharp flick, he produced two pairs of gloves from his pocket and tossed one to John. Then he crouched beside the body, long fingers ghosting over the dead man's jaw, neck, and throat.
Olivia shifted forward, face pale. "What is he doing?"
"Investigating," John replied firmly, pulling on his gloves and kneeling beside Sherlock. "What have you got?"
Sherlock's mouth curved. "Why don't you tell me, Doctor Watson?"
John swallowed, leaning closer to examine the young man. "Well... there's a severe ligature mark across his throat. Bruising consistent with strangulation. Looks like he struggled against the rope."
"But?" Sherlock prompted without looking up.
John pressed his fingertips to Cameron's face, then his hands. The skin was cool and stiff. "Rigour mortis is established in the smaller muscles—face and hands—but not fully in the larger groups. That suggests he's been dead for maybe an hour. Two at most." He frowned, checking again. "But his temperature... It's dropped too quickly. Much faster than it should have been in the thirty minutes since he fell."
Sherlock finally glanced up, eyes glittering.
John continued, voice grim. "Which means he was killed earlier and kept somewhere cold. Likely the rafters. He wasn't alive when he fell. He'd been dead at least an hour before."
He met Sherlock's eyes. "This was no accident."
A satisfied puff of pride escaped Sherlock. "Excellent, Watson. An astute deduction."
John couldn't help but smile. "Thank you." He peeled off his gloves and stood.
"What are you talking about?" Charles demanded, face drawn tight.
"I'm sorry, Mr Spencer," Sherlock said smoothly, rising to his full height, "but your stagehand was murdered. The ligature marks confirm strangulation, as Watson observed. The rapid cooling suggests he was left in a cold, high space long before the performance began. And notice-" he crouched briefly to tug at the torn sleeve of Cameron's shirt "These garments. Crude, poorly stitched, far below the standard of any clothing. Scarecrow clothes, stuffed over his uniform. There are straw fibres on the fabric too, from the dummy he was concealed within."
Jacob folded his arms. "You're saying someone stuffed him inside the dummy and threw him off?"
"Precisely." Sherlock straightened. "The plan was simple: a body disguised as a prop, scheduled to be thrown in full view of an audience. If discovered, it could be dismissed as a tragic accident. Rather clever."
Olivia's hands flew to her mouth. "W–Who would want to kill Caz?"
Sherlock's gaze fixed on her, sharp and unblinking. "That," he said, "is exactly what we're here to determine. And, Miss Emerson, we'd like to start with you."
//////
"Why do you want to speak to me?" Olivia asked, her voice tight. She sat stiffly on the wooden chair across from Sherlock and John, the cluttered prop room closing in around her.
"Because you're the one who found the body," Sherlock replied without preamble.
Her chin lifted. "His name was Caz. Cameron. And he was my best friend. We moved down from Scotland together, we met Matthew here, and the three of us became inseparable. I would never hurt him."
"Of course not," Sherlock said steadily. His eyes gleamed. "You were in love with him. Planning to end things with your boyfriend for the chance to be with him. Far more likely you'd want to harm his girlfriend than him."
Olivia froze. Her lips parted. "H–how could you possibly—?"
"I just know." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "What we need from you is not denial. We need his state of mind before tonight's performance."
Colour flushed her cheeks, and she shifted uncomfortably, as though his deduction had stripped her bare. "He was... down. He'd argued with Bella, his girlfriend, over what came next now that her season here was finished. Caz wanted to stay. She wanted to leave. He hated arguing with her, but it was happening more often." Her hands twisted in her lap. "Other than that, nothing was different. We said goodbye before the show and went to our stations. We don't usually meet again until the interval. By then... by then he was already gone."
John glanced at Sherlock, who was staring at her like a hawk, reading every shift of her body language. "Thank you, Olivia. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm him?"
"No," she said firmly. "Everyone liked Caz. He was the sort of person who made friends easily, never picked fights. He'd be the first to buy a round after a good show. Nobody hated him. Nobody."
Sherlock rose abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "Well, that's not true. But thank you, Miss Emerson. We'll be in touch."
John smiled reassuringly at Olivia before following Sherlock out into the hall. "So what do you think?"
Sherlock glanced at him "Not guilty. As I said, she was in love with the guy. She definitely wouldn't have killed him. Her boyfriend, on the other hand."
"So I'm guessing that's where we're going next," John replied, checking the time on his phone.
"Yes, and the Stage manager, he must have seen something."
"And why aren't we calling the police?"
"They'll get in the way."
John stopped "Sherlock, there is a dead body in this theatre. We have to call someone."
"And we will after we've questioned the suspects"
John still wasn't convinced, and it must have shown on his face because Sherlock placed his hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes, "John, I promise the police will be involved as soon as we've finished interviewing the suspects. Do you have your microphone?"
"Yeah", John sighed. "It's been on since the announcement."
"Good. We'll need it when we go home tonight."
He nodded, and they walked down the corridor to see their next suspects. As they made their way back to the stage, a thought occurred to John.
"How did you know Caz already had a girlfriend?"
"Simple, whilst examining the burns from the rope, there was a thin line that left indentations in his skin, suggesting he wore a chain of some kind under his clothing. But the mark wasn't thick, meaning it was more delicate, like those you put a pendant on and sure enough, there was a B at the base of his throat. It was a guess whether it was a girlfriend or a boyfriend." Sherlock replied.
"Brilliant", John muttered, causing Sherlock to flush "But there was no necklace."
Sherlock froze "What?"
"The necklace was missing when I checked the body"
"The necklace", Sherlock said in realisation, "Of course, the killer took the necklace." He turned to him with a glint in his eyes, "Excellent work, Watson. If we find that, we'll find out our murderer."
Sherlock began walking again, a skip in his step "Come. The game is afoot."
John spluttered, his face red as he chased after his companion.