A/N This is an idea I've had for some time, this is my expanded version of "What Dreams May Come." I have long since associated Sherlock with Hamlet and was overjoyed upon hearing Benedict will take on the role in August 2015.
It is not required for you to read WDMC first but if you are looking for something digestible in a short amount of time fill your boots.
I own nothing, credit goes to Sir William Shakespeare, Sir ACD, and Messer's Moffat and Gatiss
In the line of show canon events this fic takes place sometime before Hounds.
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts"
-William Shakespeare (As You Like It)
John and Sherlock were summoned to the crime scene in the usual fashion. It was all swooping Belstaff and messy curls as they rushed into The Knox Community Theater. John had insisted there was no rush, the corpse could wait for them after all, but Sherlock had been plucking idly at his violin stings for hours when he got the call to investigate a murder.
Lestrade and company were already there milling about the lobby and aisles of the theatre, collecting evidence. The corpse was on the floor, just below the stage and Sherlock strode towards it with precision, John jogging slightly to keep up with his taller friend's stride.
The hour was late; no one was supposed to be at the theatre this time of night. The only light illuminating the rather large area was the ghost light on the stage, just above the body.
"How long" Sherlock demanded as he knelt down next to the corpse looking for clues others surely missed.
"Not long, maybe two hours, tops." Lestrade replied.
"You look like shit, if you don't mind my saying so." Lestrade said turning to John, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, and other signs that betrayed his lack of sleep.
"I would sleep, 'were it not that I have bad dreams'" John replied.
Lestrade made a soft laugh at John's little joke and gave him a knowing look, Sherlock ignored them.
"Who is the victim, then?" John asked nodding his head toward Sherlock and the corpse.
"A mister Clinton Ramsey, he was going to be the lead in the play."
"What was the play?" Sherlock asked suddenly coming to stand by them.
A sudden chill ran through the room and everyone seemed to have stopped performing their tasks. Some even openly stared at Sherlock in horror.
"Well" Lestrade let out a shaky breath and the whole room began to breathe again "you see, Sherlock, The Play's the thing."
"Where in I'll catch the conscious of the king?" Sherlock replied turning the phrase into a question and raising an eyebrow. He turned back to the corpse with a frown on his face.
Lestrade and John both blinked several times very quickly.
"Well he is English" John attempted by way of explanation, "He's bound to know some Shakespeare."
"Yeah, but I could quote Doctor Who all day, and he wouldn't have a clue what I was on about" Lestrade retorted.
"I don't know Shakespeare, John, I know Hamlet. Was it Hamlet that he was supposed to play in?" Sherlock asked turning back to Lestrade.
The room held its breath again and Lestrade shook his head no.
Sherlock looked back at the corpse. He wasn't dressed in costume just normal jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He had been found dead on the floor less than half an hour ago by the loan member of the custodial staff. There was no obvious sign of death. No blood, no blunt force trauma, no cuts or unusual marks of any kind. And the door had been locked. The janitor had to use his key to enter the room.
Sherlock didn't know much about Shakespeare but he knew Lestrade had given him a clue albeit by refusing to say the name of the play, "the play's the thing" he had said, Sherlock let the words play over and over again putting emphases on different words each time. Finally it snapped in place The Play is the thing, the thing which caused harm to the actor. It was because of the play he chose to do that he had met his untimely end. But what play was it, and why would no one tell Sherlock.
"You don't look too pretty either." Sherlock heard John say to Lestrade, no doubt carrying on an earlier conversation. Delete. Focus.
"Yeah,'to sleep perchance to dream' and all that" Lestrade said, keeping with the evenings theme. "You should hear the dream I had the other night. It was weird to be sure."
"Oh? Do tell." John was genuinely interested; anything that didn't involve him almost dying was a good dream.
"So I was this sort of bounty hunter" Lestrade began "and somehow I'd ended up hunting dinosaurs on this spaceship that was hurtling towards earth."
"Really!" John exclaimed, he couldn't believe the Detective Inspector had such bizarre dreams.
"Yeah and the best bit was Queen Nefertiti was there and afterword's she came back to live with me."
"You're just missing your ex-wife" Sherlock interjected, still mulling over the body.
"Sounds more like the plot of a science fiction show then a dream Greg, you sure you just didn't fall asleep with the telly on?" John asked.
"Might 'ave done." Lestrade replied with a shrug of his shoulder.
"You say the man was going to be the lead?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
"Yes" confirmed the Detective Inspector.
"Well obviously it was his understudy who did it. We just have to figure -"
But the DI was already shaking his head in the negative, "there wasn't one."
"Wasn't one what?" Sherlock let a flicker of confusion cross his face.
"An understudy, no one else wanted the part."
"You mean to tell me this theater;" here Sherlock moved his hands around to show him encompassing the building "is putting on a production of a Shakespeare play with only one person being selected to play the lead."
It was every bit as unbelievable as Sherlock made it sound.
"Perhaps I could work it out, if only I knew the Name of The Play." Sherlock near shouted, making no effort to hide the frustration in his voice and ignored the people closest to him who visibly shuddered. A new girl on the forensics team actually squeaked and ran from the room.
It was time. John took Sherlock forcefully by the elbow and dragged him from the theatre auditorium. Out in the lobby John found what he was looking for. Pinned to one of the cork boards was a call for auditions for Macbeth. John pointed at it but Sherlock only stared at him quizzically.
"John I think you overestimate my acting abilities, I really only know a little Hamlet."
"I don't want you to audition for it Sherlock," John said though a clenched jaw, "it's the play, you know, The Play."
"Oh, you mean the one no one will tell me the name of." Sherlock said using his most condescending voice.
"Yes." John huffed out a breath of frustration.
"Why won't they say it?" Sherlock asked all genuine curiosity.
"Well, because a lot of bad stuff happens around this play. People can be very superstitious about it. One thing is its bad luck to say the name in a theater unless you are performing it. It's something that has become ingrained into the culture." John explained.
He was standing close enough that he could see Sherlock's eyes dilate fractionally in understanding then looked confused again. "It's only a name" he protested, "what harm can come from a name?"
"Maybe that's a better question for Romeo and Juliet." John quibbled.
"What? I told you John I only know-"
"Hamlet, I know, I get it." John finished cutting him off. John was quite familiar with the tragedy himself but he was also aware of many of Shakespeare's other works.
Sherlock made his way back into the auditorium but thirty minutes later he was no closer to solving the, was it murder? or just accidental death? Logistics told him the man was pushed off the stage, but a quick check of his neck showed no sign of broken bones. He could have tripped, but on what? Not even the carpets had a fold in them. Sherlock checked the man's pulse points several times just to make sure, but in the end he had to admit defeat.