AN: And so begins...my take on Sherlock and John solving the Modern!Case Of The Phantom Of The Opera. This should be interesting. Oh dear, what have I done.
Also: I am doing a TON of research into properly updating The Phantom Of The Opera. Book canon references all over the bloody place.

WARNING: This fic will range between Teen For T- To M for Mature. It may contain disturbing images, descriptions, talk of rape, death, sex, philosophy, drugs, bits of mushed up romance/ talked about /slighted acted upon slash/heterosexual intentions. Am I making myself clear? It's *asterisked* for just about every damn thing. Oh, and language. If any of this offends you, please stop your eyeballs from reading...now.

Special thanks to Charm And Strange, as always, for being supportive beta and frankly, putting up with me.


~*Intro*~

I stared at the ticket to Paris, France in my hand, and it at least took fifteen seconds or more before a flurry of confusion and exasperation trekked its way from my sleepy brain and formed words on my tongue. I clumsily gripped for Sherlock's sleeve in the darkness of the cab, and, never to be missed, his pale blue eyes peeled themselves from the taxi's window and focused on mine curiously. I wanted to wipe that ridiculous smirk that was hiding in the shadow of his jaw line completely off.

"Sherlock." I tried to keep my voice causal for the sake of the unfortunate bloke that had to drive us this bloody night. Or was it morning?

"Yes?" his voice was quiet as well, but upon hearing him speak I nearly didn't have the nerve to cast my abrupt anger down on him. His voice seemed to hold a certain explicit excitement and sheer genuine intrigue to an unspoken new case; his excitement was so overwhelming that I became confused for a moment and thought that it was he that had started the conversation, and not my silently controlled angry question. A quick bleary glance at the bit of paper in my hand reminded me.

"Why are we going to France?" I shifted wearily, blinking over and over to try to keep the heaviness from permanently settling on my lids.

"It's Paris, actually. Which reminds me, could you hand me that French translations book in your bag?" He suddenly dug deep into his jacket's pockets and pulled out his mobile. I remained frozen in stunned silence. He pulled his lithe fingers smoothly over the keys and when his mobile's light flashed on at his touch, my eyes nearly watered from the strong, pin-pointing frame in the complete darkness of the cab. Suddenly, his pale fingers came to a stop, and he glanced at me with a small look of confusion.

"John? The book. Please." Even in my unaware state, I did note that unusual "please" tacked-on to his usual demands towards me, and I decided that I might as well play along. Maybe it'd return me to a proper bed faster.

Slowly, I bent down and stuck my hand into my sloppily prepared travel sack until my fingers unmistakably touched a soft, smooth cover of a book. I pulled it out and studied it when enough passing lamplight had collected to read out the title in its entirety. It was, indeed, an English to French translations guide and dictionary. I had no recollection of packing it what so ever. Or even owning one.

"Where did you get—" I began.

"It never hurts to be prepared for this type of situation. Communication is the key to all things, John."

"I understand," I pulled my brows together again. "But…still, we've never owned one—and believe me, I'd remember this from that time we pulled the whole flat apart for all the books we own."

"Yes," Sherlock's answer reverberated with a click of his tongue against his teeth. "I managed to pick it up right before the taxi arrived." I slowly slid my eyes back down to my bag, wondering how much lighter my wallet actually was now, compared to the peaceful night before.

"Don't worry," He added as he, of course, took complete notice of all my actions. "I'll readily pay you back. Once we've arrived. I hope you don't mind Euros."

I sighed again, and opened the book carefully. "What—"

"Page 207, section 'O' Opéra national de Paris." Sherlock nonchalantly directed me. I blink a bit more, and my eyebrows rose as his tone changed to an impeccable French diction.

"Do—do you know French?" I asked stunned as I flipped to the correct page. I suppose I hadn't ever really considered the possibly of Sherlock knowing more than one language. And, giving his mysterious and aloof disposition most of the time, I'd have full reason of not knowing until now.

Sherlock suddenly stopped typing, his eyes slowly locking into my own, and we lapsed into the progressive silence of a clunking cab and the nearly silent rustling of stormy wind.

"Oui John, je sais français,"Sherlock slowly recited to me, as if I had suddenly gone daft and wasn't just half-asleep. Not that Sherlock would understand what being half-asleep even felt like.

"So…you know French, and you didn't feel the need to tell me—"

"Non," Sherlock smirked to me. "Living in London, where nearly all the population speaks proper British English, John, really, the whole matter never really came up."

"Right…" I managed out, running the tips of my fingers down the book's spine. We lapsed once more into a small bit of silence, and I silently wondered what else I didn't know about my flatmate whom I had been rooming with for about a year now.

"I'll keep telling you not to worry, John," Sherlock's voice broke my thoughts, and, through the dark of the cab, he reached a long arm over and tapped the page I was on with the glove-covered finger of one hand. "I know that it's rather early, but I bought you that translations book so you won't be entirely lost. Just be sure to keep it with you."

"What?" I challenged back, noticing how his eyes never left the burning white light of his phone.

"I was thinking a "thank you" would be more appropriate, but alright."

I groaned into my hand, wondering if an open book would make a suitable pillow. It was too early to be dealing with Sherlock.

"…That is a 'good' thing, isn't it?" Sherlock's voice was low, and it caught me off-guard as I pulled my head back up. I realized his eyes were looking back into mine.

"Uh, no, I mean, yeah, that is nice, just—"

"Perfect then. John. Read the page."

I glared listlessly at his alert eyes, and squinted down at the wrinkled pages on my lap, and spotted a grand but distinctly old picture before me. It was of the famous Opera House in Paris—huge, beautifully carved, with many great columns and weather-battered gargoyles and angels that stared back at me with a tragic look. The photo was in black and white, but the definition below indicated that the Opéra national de Paris was far over 400 years old. It appeared to me as a grand, mysterious colossus towering over the future of the modern world without a mouth to speak of its centuries of harbored secrets.

I slowly read my newly acquired knowledge out loud to Sherlock, whom continued to browse his mobile, until thankfully, he pocketed it, and pulled the book silently from my grasp.

"Ingenious, isn't it?" He breathed, but it seemed much more to himself than towards me.

I simply stared at him once more, and clenched the ticket in my hand, my frustration biting at me more than my general wish for sleep.

"Is that where we are going? To this…Opera house?" I asked Sherlock between my teeth. He never responded to me though, as he was all-at-once absorbed in the translation guide, and I didn't have the strength to antagonize another answer out of him.

I leaned back uncomfortably against the taxi's seat, wondering how the hell this even managed to come about so randomly. Soon enough though, the sound of Sherlock gently flipping through the pages managed to catch my ear and that seemed to drown out all other sounds of the romping wheels and the now pounding raindrops, and I fell asleep once more.

I was shaken awake much later from the long drive than it felt, and before I knew it, I was suddenly in an airplane seat, inner-position, as Sherlock started out the misty window next to me. My stomach suddenly dropped as I listened to the crinkling passenger-beaten leather of the blue seat under me made its presence into my consciousness. I hate flying. I hate flying. I hate flying.

"So, let me just this straight. We're being summoned to France, to see an opera?" I finally sputtered out. The question had been eating at my insides since Sherlock had barged into my room at some ungodly hour and thrown a suit case at me and informed me of the location of our next summoning. I was so disoriented that my eyes could not even make out the large numbers on the alarm clock on the side table next to me. The imperturbable darkness that cast itself like a velvet black certain around London as I packed told me that it was much too early for anyone to have their eyes open.

"Do you have a grudge against musicals, John?" Sherlock asked me simply, smirking into his hand as his pale eyes continuously stared out the plane's window.

He seemed restless in a way—but then again, I can't imagine a time where Sherlock isn't quite bristling with some type of catching energy. Large, bleak raindrops drizzled down from a deep, black, still starry London sky, and streaked gently down the metal structure of the airplane. I could have sworn that as each one struck the window Sherlock became more and more enthralled in their sporadic pattern.

I sighed lightly, rubbing my fingers lightly over my eyes as I let them slide closed. I was exhausted. I had only just managed to pack an over-night bag, and I didn't even have a toothbrush for good measure.

"No," I finally answered, as I tightly squeezed my eyes, desperately willing some energy into them. "I just really would like to know why I was thrown out of bed at two this morning and now am now on a plane an hour later, off to France," I begrudged to the limitless man, trying not yawn. God, I missed sleep.

Sherlock simply turned to me with a look in his eyes of…uncertainty. My God…did...did he not know? Sherlock Holmes not know? He then smiled—actually smiled, and the clash of thunder mixed with the roar of the horribly noisy airplane engine didn't help my foreboding feeling. Sherlock never usually smiled for anything normally considered 'good'

"You…you have no idea why we're attending this Opera house, do you…?" The shock in my voice was null compared to the striking bright and flawless happiness that seemed to rise deep from within some hidden chamber in the great enigma of Sherlock's mind. That smile had only allowed me a glimpse through into his inner workings.

"Not even the slightest." He cheerfully announced to me, as if I had finally solved some great game we had been curating an hour before. "Isn't it wonderful?"


EAN: Indeed, short opening is short. But I have 30 more pages to show you guys.
If you enjoyed, please give me a lil' encouraging review?

p.s.: Just so you guys know, this is going to be a VERY long story. I'm talking
novel length. So, if you stick with me, you're in for a treat.