A/N: As crossover has such a bad advertizing here... I'm not too sure in which category to put this story. I don't believe it's truely the Phantom of the Opera or even a crossover as, in fact, it's just part of a case and that, maybe in the future, I planned to use the same characters ( Sherlock Holmes, Jane Watson, ect.) in another Sherlock story. But I do strongly hesitate between Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes. I prefer the BBC Sherlock ( a bit younger and a bit less human and sociable and more sardonic ) than Doyle's Holmes and Mrs. Hudson (more funnier) and, in the same time, prefer much more the Victorian Era. I've already but a lot more little references to ''A study in Scarlet'' already. As I re-read myself and as I read what is normally done in both fandom (Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes) this story clash a lot is what is expected from the Sherlock fandom even if I use some BBC characters version. I received more feedback from Sherlock Holmes fans than Sherlock. If you have any concern or really feel this story should return back in the Sherlock Holmes section, please, feel free to PM me.

* I'm not allowed to post lyrics here, but I did write this story while listening to the song Motel from the Moriarty band.

Where the author of this singular work tells us
the first encounter they had with Sherlock Holmes.

London,

March 4th 1881.

The tray slipped from my hands, and its contents spread over the floor, in a mess of shattered glass, dirty scalpels and all sorts of fluids in the middle of the room. I felt the cold sweat sink down my neck. I could not breathe, as if I had been locked again in this grave, with that pistol pointed at my cheek. A tear ran down my face. I felt it walk along the hideous blisters of the scar that skirted my cheekbone. I tried to calm down. I was in London, far, very far from it. "The patients' frightened faces surrounded me, and Chief Nurse Hayes' murderous look could have crucified me on the spot. I leaned over, without a word, to pick up the shattered glass when the thick figure of Dr. Stamford, surely alerted by the noise, appeared behind me. I felt his chubby hand gently touching my shoulder.

''Watson.'' Stamford said. ''May I have a word with you, please.''

Mortified with shame, I smoothed my dress, trying to ignore the reddish splashes on my apron, replaced my headdress on my tousled head, and lowered my gaze to obediently follow the doctor through the St. Batholomew's corridors. When he came to his office, he asked me to sit on the bench he reserved for his patients, and in front of me, with that conciliatory smile which was generally reserved for hysterical patients.

'' Jane Harriet Watson '' He smiled as if my name had been a nursery rhyme or an exotic bird name. I was choking and the small room, without any window, made me feel uneasy.

"How long have you been with us, Miss Watson?"

My hands clenched on my apron and I tried to smile as best I could.

"A little less than a month, sir." I replied.

I arrived in London in the middle of January aboard the SS Britannic with nine shillings and six pence on me. Without roof, work or family, with a red scar like blood, hardly healed, on the left cheek, I lived here and there in these pensions, which were asking you for three pence at night, to sleep there, crowded with the others, in these filthy common rooms which were teeming with lice. Forging identity papers and proper references, in the trembling light of a candle, amidst the groans and insults of other boarders had been a feat. And finding that nursing job at the prestigious Barts had been a blessing. The daily tasks were very simple, compared to what I knew ... Too simple, maybe ... much too simple ... Obsessively cleaning oil lamps, dragging a seal of coal with us and cleaning the all the rooms from early the morning to dusk? Really? And you needed references for that? Oh! If they knew ... But I could not afford to lose this job ...

''One month, Miss Watson.'' The doctor smiled at me. ''And you have proved to us that, despite your appearance, if I dare say so, you were an exemplary nurse. We were afraid of the effect of your ... face on our patients but they are not too inconvenienced. Always on time, always ready to help for an extra shift, always care for the sufferers. Doctor Murray has only kind words for you. A real little soldier! So ... I'd like to know ... what happened just now, Miss Watson?''

I cleared my throat and smiled more beautifully, trying to hide the black and brownish stains on my uniform.

''N… Nothing, really, doctor, it's just-''

He stopped me with a wave with his hand, frowned and looked at me with an anxious glance over his round golden glasses.

"I do not need to be a soothsayer, Miss Watson, to see that you're terribly tired and I'm worried." I reread your application and ... indeed, you have excellent references in America. However, someone forgot to write down your current address. Where do you live at this moment, Miss Watson?''

I felt the blood pouring down my face in spite of myself and could not answer. How could I admit that I lived in the lowlands of London without losing my place? Doctor Stamford took off his glasses, sighing to look at me with a distressed look, then winked at me with a good-natured look.

"Well…'' He sighted "That will be our little secret, Miss Watson. You seem like a brave girl who just needs a good start! You know, you're the second person to talk to me about housing issues today!''

I bit my lip, caught doubt by throwing a nervous look towards the closed door.

''The second one?'' I asked. ''Who's the first?''

"I have this patient, Mrs. Hudson, a very respectable lady, I assure you, who desperately seeks a decent person to occupy the second room of her boarding-house." I am sure she would be delighted to have you as a tenant. And ... and I'm sure you'll both agree with a very affordable rent; Mrs. Hudson can wait a little, until you get your first wages. What do you say about that, Miss Watson?''

I stood there for a moment, blinking like an idiot. I would have given everything, right now, for a small and clean room where I could sleep on my own. I muttered a few words of thanks and asked, in a breath.

"So… Why is this Mrs. Hudson so desperate to find a tenant if she offer a affordable and decent room, Doctor?"

Stamford's smile faded away and he took off his glasses to wipe out an imaginary spot. He put them back on his nose and gave me a look of embarrassment and a heavy sigh of understatements.

''Well ... you see ...'' He scratched his big hairless cheek and gave me an embarrassed smile.

''Your future flatmate is ... a little eccentric, that's all. Do not worry. He's a decent gentleman and Mrs Hudson would not allow any misbehaviours. You just have to ... arm yourself with a bit of patience.''

"And who better than a nurse like you to radiate patience?" His smile widened ''Listen ... this gentleman must be at the very moment at the morgue, here, just below. He's a scientist, sort of, and he's a regular at the Barts, if I may say so. Why not go and visit him right away, huh? You will decide whether cohabitation is possible. I would not want to disappoint poor Mrs. Hudson again.''

I stood straight and smiled politely at Stamford. How many poor wretches had he innocently referred to Mrs. Hudson? How many of them withdrew after meeting this infamous gentleman? My imagination left me with scenario's meanders that could only apply to the Marquis de Sade. Yet, out of despair, I followed Dr. Stamford on the endless stairs of St. Bartholomew's and in the dark, damp corridors leading to the morgue. I had to stop at a moment, a prey to dizziness. My heart was loudly pounding in my chest and had the impression that the stone walls were closing up on us and that I would be left forever in these depths. My face covered with sweat, I leaned against the stone to catch my breath, under the alarmed glance of the doctor. I heard what seemed to be shots or whips in the distance, but it must have been my imagination. I shook my head and waved to the doctor to continue to the morgue and did my best to regain my composure. The doctor stepped towards me, surely filled with compassion, but I made him an explicit sign that he must keep his distance. We continued our journey, in a awkward silence.

''Doux Jésus!''

I let go a French curse without even noticing it, and the man in front of us stopped his motion, his whip in the air ready to fall back on the naked corpse in front of him.

The individual was about thirty years old. His steel-blue eyes peered at me for a brief moment before one of his thin, ink-stained hands swept a long curly wisp of brown hair on his forehead. He gave us a tight smile, accentuating his prominent cheekbones, as if the expression itself had been the skillful mimicry of an ape.

''Montreal. Or maybe Quebec city? No really. Montreal, it's obvious.''

Stamford looked at me sideways, shrugged and gave me a sad look and pointed the man a polite smile.

"Miss Watson, may I introduce you to Mr. Holmes?" Mister Holmes, this is Miss Watson, one of our new nurses.

I stepped back, ready to leave. How could this man know? How? I did my best to contain the panic that crept into my chest. I looked around. I needed that room. The powerful smell of ethanol and the hazardous content of the jars all around us did not frighten me, far from it; I knew what each of them contained, I stroked the scalpels of dissection with my finger. Here, I was in known territory. Human anatomy no longer had any secrets for me. How many times had I accompanied my father in his experiments? I could almost feel the sweet smell of his pipe again. I almost forgot, for a few minutes, that I was trapped underground with two strangers. I attempted as best I could to regain my spirits. Then my gaze was directed towards the corpse that I examined from the corner of my eye. It was not pretty. But Stamford seemed not to have realized anything, absolutely nothing. He pointed at the corpulent mass in front of us.

''Still this experience on bruises, Holmes? Poor devil! It's the machinist we took off from his rope at the Royal Opera House last night, did not we? Joseph Beckett? Sad story. To commit suicide like that ... I see, by his shoulder that your experience is conclusive and-''

Mr. Holmes looked up at the ceiling, gave an exasperated sigh, and looked at me.

''Watson?''

I jumped and turned to the two men, alarmed.

''It's been the third time I'm calling you.'' Holmes said, in a cold tone.''Does violin bother you?''

I gave him a puzzled glance and shook my head.

"And you do not know how to sing, I presume?"

I cast a another glance at Dr. Stamford, who merely grimaced with an overwhelmed gesture. I shook my head again, wary. Holmes paced in the small room, speaking out loud, as though we were not there.

''Of course she does not know how to sing!'' He seemed almost angry, now. ''With that scar, she wouldn't even make it to the chorus! We will find something else Watson. You'll do.''

He sighed again, visibly bothered and gesticulated in the direction of the deceased.

''Your diagnosis, Doctor Watson.''

I opened my mouth, more and more puzzled, but Stamford, already quite red with that indignation that was expected from a decent gentleman protecting a lady, got ahead of me.

''Holmes! But what are you thinking? She's a nurse! A nurse! Let this poor girl alone, will you? Look, she's all pale now! Poor child!''

Holmes gave a last savage blow to the corpse and threw the whip at me. I grab it instinctively and the young man made another cold grin in my direction.

"Stamford, with all the respect I owe you, you are quite boring." He sighted. ''I hear Mrs. Hudson complaining at breakfast of the headaches caused by the concern of not being able to rent this room, for the umpteenth time, and here you are, soon after lunch, with this young… person freshly disembarked from the SS Britannic seeking for a decent lodging. You are counting on her to be grateful to hide the poverty of her condition to keep her place and the fact that her colleagues avoid her because of her face and her false references – Don't worry Stamford, they didn't warned her about your wandering hands yet – so that she has to accept that sketchy invitation of yours for next Saturday evening, after Norman Neruda concert. Boring. '' He glanced back at me. ''Watson please, your diagnosis, we don't have much time''

I felt anger and shame rise to my cheeks and glanced scandalously at Dr. Stamford, my hand gripped on the whip, who was wiping his forehead and seemed to want to burry his immense body mass underground. Already he was walking a few steps to the door, ready to flee. I boiled with rage at having been fooled by these two amateurs. I looked at the two men in turn with a murderous look and gave a mean grin at Stamford, with my head raised towards the corpse and grabbed a magnifying glass on the table next to me. If my estimates were correct, the corpse had to weigh at least 250 pounds. It belonged to a man of about forty years who seemed to have seen a lot of things in his life. He was tall, robust, hairy and stout. An alcoholic loner, probably, looking at the length of his nails. But even Stamford could have guessed it by himself. Mr. Holmes's whip had left his mark on the corpse but not as much as he would have liked. I bent closer above the shoulder and its blackened skin to examine it attentively, then glanced at the corpse's bluish lips. Delicately, I opened it's mouth. The pestilential smell of the orifice assailed me for a moment and I frowned. The tongue was black. The rope marks on his neck had scarcely broken the flesh. I slipped two fingers under Beckett's neck to examine the vertebrae. The man's neck was intact.

I breathed a sigh and took a cloth to clean my hands. Should I be satisfied with myself or completely terrified? I took the most solemn tone I could. Didn't I already lost my job and, by the same token, decent housing, anyway?

"Your experience is a failure, Mr. Holmes. Corpses have no blood flow and so ... no more bruises. And you know it. Is there any medical purpose for all this beside frightening every Mrs. Hudson tennants? The necrosis area you see there, on the shoulder, is…a scorpion bite. And marks on the neck... probably an failed attempt to make it look like a suicide and restrict the dying in his long agony. It takes a professional to hang properly a man of this size. This Beckett could not have done it alone without breaking his neck. This man... this man has been murdered, Mister Holmes.

I raised my head to Holmes to find him, hands clasped under his chin, meditating on my scar with an enigmatic smile. I heard the heavy iron door open and close behind us. Stamford was running away.

''Good answer, Watson. We'll get along just fine. 7 pm, tomorrow evening.''

He took his top hat on a stool and pulled on his coat with a dramatic gesture before I could even protest.

''Oh! And the address is 221b Baker Street. My name is Sherlock Holmes. You can take the room upstairs. See you tomorrow, Watson.''

And he left the room, just like that. Leaving me completely alone with Beckett's corpse, in the dark corridors of the St-Bartholomew's morgue.