Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or have any permission from the BBC to be doing this. I just wanted to take the characters out for a spin. If you think I'm making any money off of this, you're no Sherlock…

This story is set a while after The Great Game, but contains no spoilers for it. What it does have are spoilers for the musical Les Miserables, which I do not own either.

John Watson shut off the telly in disgust. Aside from reruns of Big Brother, there was nothing much on. And, he had to admit it – he was bored. Sarah was off visiting her family and Sherlock hadn't had a case in two weeks. Based on his flatmate's silence, John knew the time was quickly approaching when he might hear the sound of gunshots ringing through the place. But he couldn't bring himself to hide his gun. He was afraid of what Sherlock might do if forced to find an alternative.

"Fancy a night at the theater, John?"

Watson blinked; sure he'd imagined the calm voice emanating from the sofa. He turned to look at Sherlock.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock sat up, and John was shocked to notice that the man was fully dressed. Considering he'd spent the last two days in his dressing gown filling the forums on both their websites with exclamations of the tediousness of life, John was amazed that he'd put in the effort today. It likely meant that his suggestion was no idle one. There was a purpose to this activity.

"Why?" John asked, instantly suspicious. He hadn't forgotten how well Sherlock's suggestion of the circus had turned out.

"No particular reason," Sherlock answered, actually shrugging.

"There are no dead bodies on the West End?"

The detective's brow furrowed in confusion. "Not that I'm aware of."

"And you're not expecting someone to be murdered in the middle of the performance?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "Why-ever would you think that?"

John frowned, still trying to find the man's angle. But he realized there was only one way to know for sure.

"All right," he said, standing and going for his coat. "What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock tied his scarf round his neck with what John recognized as carefully constructed nonchalance. "Well, I'd heard there was a travelling company in to do Les Mis." He broke off, laughing. "So in reality, I do expect people to die in the performance. But unlike their characters, the actors should escape unscathed."

The doctor mirrored his smile, despite the fact that he was more confused than ever. All the plays his friend could have chosen, and he opted for a musical. Not to mention one of the most famously depressing musicals ever made! Women were known to leave sobbing. And Sherlock – the man who only very rarely showed a modicum of true emotion – wanted to see this play? John shook his head as they left the flat and Sherlock hailed a cab.

When they arrived at the theater, Sherlock walked past the ticket counter, withdrawing an envelope from his breast pocket and passing it to John. There were two tickets inside. Dress circle. Not cheap, that. The doctor looked at Sherlock, eyebrows raised.

"An old client sent them 'round," the man said, answering his friend's unspoken question.

"And on a whim, you decided to go."

Sherlock shrugged again. "It seemed a better idea than shooting more holes in the wall."

John couldn't argue with that.

Once they'd made their way upstairs – John once again mentally thanking Sherlock for helping him get rid of that stupid limp – an usher handed them a program and pointed them to their seats. Sherlock had left things to the last possible second, and they were still climbing across the last few patrons – with John alone apologizing while his friend blazed on – as the lights began to dim.

The doctor had already decided that Sherlock was hiding something, despite his explanations to the contrary, and John's peripheral vision was rooted firmly on the detective as the show began. The first few minutes passed without interest. But with the entrance of Fantine to the story, John found his eyes glued to the stage – forgetting about Sherlock.

She was quite beautiful. Her simple costume did little to disguise her figure, and even in a ragged wig she had a certain charm. But what was truly exceptional about the woman was her voice. It washed over the audience, drowning them in sorrowful melodies as she sang of dead dreams. There was no excess breath in her notes – just pure, unadulterated alto. John could almost feel the sound of it flowing through him, mesmerizing him. She was certainly very talented. He glanced over at his friend.

And jumped involuntarily.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, and there was a broad smile painted across his features. The palms of his gloved hands were pressed together, and the tips of his long fingers brushed just under his chin. It was the pose normally reserved for deep thought, and usually accompanied by multiple nicotine patches. But there was no mystery to be solved here.

Except that of why his friend was acting this way. Once the character's death had come and gone, Sherlock's demeanor changed. He sat now with arms folded, his chin dropping to his chest as he fell asleep. John sat dumbfounded.

When the lights finally rose for intermission, he looked at the stock program he had been given. Fantine was being played by a woman named Isabella Astor. No one he'd ever heard of – not that he was up on the musical theater scene. Her bio was short, thanking her friends, family, and husband back home in Austria. John nearly laughed. With a voice like that, she could have been related to one of the Von Trapps.

The play resumed after a few minutes, but Sherlock didn't stir. He slept straight through the guns and cannons of warfare, not even flinching with the loud bursts. The great detective started snoring during a particularly emotional song by a guilty survivor of the massacre, and John had to elbow him to shut him up. Only when the ghost of Fantine appeared on stage for the finale, did Sherlock stir.

He stretched, his movements rather feline in the small space, and riveted his eyes on what remained of the play. After the lights came up and the audience came to their feet, Sherlock stood with the rest, but did not applaud. John's brow furrowed in utter confusion. Quickly borrowing the small set of binoculars from the sniffling woman next to him – whose vision was likely too blurry to see out of them anyway – he leveled his gaze at Fantine.

She was indeed beautiful, but somehow unremarkable. A simple white dress billowed around her feet, and the wig and heavy stage makeup completed the ghostly look. But there was something about her eyes. She was not terribly far away, and the magnifying lenses lessened the distance, but John realized he should not have been able to make them out. Yet he did. They were a vibrant green – the color fairly leapt across the space between them. There was something about those eyes.

As if he'd seen them before…

When the woman left the stage, Sherlock seemed to visibly break himself from his trance and head without comment for the exit. Handing the sobbing woman back her binoculars, John turned to follow – his brow furrowed.

Those eyes…

They seemed alive in his memory, but shrouded in mystery.

Their owner was brilliant – of that he was sure.

That was when the memory surfaced.

A face.

And a picture.

He'd seen it weeks ago, in Sherlock's desk when he was rooting around for his flatmate's half of the rent. It had sat in the corner of a drawer – in a place all its own. Free of bends or marks, the picture had one set of initials written on the back. IA.

Isabella Astor, John realized. But that wasn't the whole story, because he had recognized the photo from an old case that they had worked together. It was one of his favorite mysteries, if only because it had made him feel like James Bond – decked out in some of the latest spy gear. It had been a case of royal blackmail and featured the only woman who had ever outsmarted the great Sherlock Holmes. When confronted about the sentimental nature of keeping the photo, his friend had pointed out that it was logical he keep her picture should they cross paths again.

That woman's name was Irene Adler.

Isabella Astor.

Irene Adler.

IA.

John stopped cold, his jaw agape. Sherlock, unaware, kept walking, and John had to run to catch him up. The detective was stooping into a cab when John called to him.

"Aren't we going to wait 'round the stage door for autographs?"

Sherlock paused, half in and half out of the car, obviously confused. "Why would we do that?"

"You don't want to say hello?" John said with a bit of a smug expression. Sherlock sighed and got in the cab, leaving the doctor no choice but to follow.

After Sherlock recited their Baker St. address to the driver, they sat in silence for a moment.

John broke it.

"Where you ever gonna tell me?"

"How long have you known?" Sherlock stared resolutely ahead.

"That doesn't matter," John said, gesturing back to the theater. "Shouldn't we call Lestrade?"

"Why?" his friend asked, finally looking at him. "What possible crime can she be arrested for?"

"Blackmail," John said, quickly thinking back to the case.

"No evidence," Sherlock said, turning away again.

"Well," John said, knowing he was grasping at straws now, "She stole your scarf."

Sherlock removed said object from his pocket. "Which she returned this morning with the tickets she left. Mrs. Hudson found them on the porch."

John was dumbfounded. They really did have nothing to go on.

"Then…" he began, stammering, "Why did we go to the theater?" He searched his best friend's face for any hint, any clue of an answer.

Sherlock just smiled and closed his eyes.

The end! Another Adler story. The references to her first appearances are from another of my stories Showdown 2. It's not necessary to have read that one, but certain things mentioned here will make more sense if you have… I'm just sad there's no interaction here between Holmes and Adler. That's fun to write.

I hope the clues were subtle enough. :-) As always, reviews are loved!