A/N: So here you go, guys. Another fanfiction that'll probably never get finished. Anyway, recently GoddessOfOlympus got me into a marvelous show on BBC by the name of Sherlock. So amazing, and now I am totally shipping Johnlock, so I've decided to write this little number. Enjoy! Set three years after The Reichenbach Fall. Modified slightly due to a little error GoddessOfOlympus pointed out.

1

At It Again

John Watson once again began his long trek to the grave of Sherlock Holmes. The few others who had originally paid their respects had quickly dwindled in size until none were bothered with the task any more, and who could blame them? To the rest of the world, Sherlock was a fake, a fraud. But John knew better, and so he returned faithfully every Saturday.

"Three years, huh?" he murmured as he walked up to the shiny black tombstone. "Three years since… well." John paused. "Sherlock, you have no idea how bloody boring it is without you. Nothing happens anymore. I never… never thought I'd find myself saying this, but I miss it. I miss the chases, the random experiments and body parts in the fridge, that awful violin, everything. I miss you. I miss the way you steepled your hands when you were thinking, I miss the way your eyes lit up when you had an interesting case, I miss your endless boredom, I even miss how you left the rest of us confused and in the dust when you were analyzing something. God, Sherlock, I miss everything about you and part of me is still wondering when you'll bloody come back. You have no idea-"

And then John's phone rang. Letting out a long sigh, he pulled it out.

"H-hello," a girl's gasping voice came out, sounding choked, forced, and about to cry. She didn't sound like a child, but still fairly young- maybe eighteen or nineteen at the most.

"What's wrong?" John asked, instantly alarmed.

"I found another… mouthpiece," the girl gasped out. "If you wish for her to live, you will do exactly as I ask."

"Oh dear God," John realized. "We've got another Moriarty."

"Of… course," the girl said. "Let's see if… you're as smart… as Sherlock Holmes was."

John tensed. "Why not just talk to me yourself? I know who you are now."

"No… you don't. Besides, m-maybe you get a thrill out of… the chase, the same way… he did. Maybe… you d-don't have a heart, either."

"Sherlock had a heart, and you know it!" John yelled.

"No he didn't. He a-admitted it h-himself, right before he jumped-"

"SHUT UP! SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP! John screamed.

He could almost see the girl trembling on the other end of the line. "I-if you have a heart… pay attention. Th-this girl has a family… and friends. G-granted, interesting friends-" At this point the girl's tone changed, and she was suddenly no longer talking to John. "How do you know about that?!" she sobbed, and John was sure those were her own words.

There was a brief silence. Then, the girl was clearly being fed words again. "A-as I was saying, this girl has people who care about her. So I… leave you with this clue."

Now John strained to hear the girl's voice. "Shattered… crystals. 1986." Her voice broke, and the next words came out in racking sobs. "You have… three hours. G-go." Then the line cut.

"Dear God," John breathed. "Four hours. How can I do this alone?" He slowly sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. "Dear God, Sherlock, what have we done?"

Back at the flat, John paced. And paced. And paced. "How can crystals shatter? How? It doesn't make any sense!" More pacing. He went on like this for over a half an hour, well aware that time was ticking by and becoming all the more agitated. Finally, he plopped down at the desk and flipped open his laptop. Pulling up Google, he typed in, crystal.

He scrolled through endless results: stone-cutting companies, costume stores, quite a few for Jared and Kay, chandeliers, even a cruise line…

Wait.

Chandelier.

Think, John, think. Chandelier. Chandelier. Why does that sound familiar? Chandelier, crystals. Chandelier, shattered crystals. Shattered crystals, chandelier.

"Remember, there are worse things than a shattered chandelier," he breathed out.

When John was sixteen, his parents had taken him to see The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway when they had been extremely fortunate enough to go on a trip to the U.S. John had found it fantastic and tried to stow the memories in his mind, as they had been unable to afford t-shirts or even programs during the visit. And the line that stood out to John now was a line from the very beginning of Act 2 of Phantom. Suddenly, things started making sense to John. He felt absolutely exhilarated. If this was how Sherlock felt when he figured something out, I don't really blame him for acting arrogant, John thought, then blinked as a sudden wave of grief washed over him. Can't think about that now. Just can't. There's a teen's life at stake. I've got to help.

Phantom of the Opera. Phantom of the Opera. That has to be the answer. But why would he put a date in, too?

Turning his attention back to his laptop, John typed in Phantom of the Opera, 1986. The first thing that came up was, of course, Wikipedia, but John clicked on it anyway.

The Phantom of the Opera is a musical with music by Andrew Lloyd Webber and lyrics by Charles Hart with additions from Richard Stilgoe. Lloyd Webber and Stilgoe also wrote the musical's book together. Based on the French novel Le Phantôme de l'Opéra by Gaston Leroux, its central plot revolves around a beautiful soprano, Christine Daaé, who becomes the obsession of a mysterious, disfigured musical genius.

"Yes, yes, we know," John muttered, not aware of how much like Sherlock he sounded at that moment in time. It was probably a good thing, too, considering how the thought of his former flatmate could often stop John Watson in his tracks. "We already know that." Scrolling down, he scanned for dates, which he right away spotted. The musical opened in London's West End in 1986…

"Yes, but where?" John asked himself. More scrolling. He stopped at a section entitled "West End" and stopped.

Phantom began previews at Her Majesty's Theater in London's West End on 27 September 1986.

"Her Majesty's Theater. That's it," John breathed out in disbelief. "I can't believe I called that." Then he frowned, and looked up. "But it can't just be that easy, can it, Sherlock?" he said. "There's something more. There has to be."

Then his phone rang, and he picked it up in a flash to hear the girl's voice again. "G-good," she choked out. "Very… good. You can come… pick her up."

John frowned. Definitely couldn't be this easy. But he had no choice. He retrieved his semi-automatic from the desk drawer and raced down the stairs and to the front door, grabbing his coat and shrugging it on. Dashing out onto Baker Street, he called, "Taxi!" and hopped in one the moment it had pulled up and stopped. "West End, Her Majesty's Theater. As fast as you can, please."