"Do I really have to do this?" John asked Sherlock.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, straightening his bow tie.
"Don't see why," muttered John, adjusting his own cumberbun.
"You know why," Sherlock said, patronizingly. "The London Orchestra for Musical Nonprofessionals lost a clarinetist to murder. You're taking her position."
"Yes, but why are you coming?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obvious. You have sharper observational skills than most, John, but you're still not me. And they needed a violin." He turned to John, a picture of poshness. He picked up his violin case. "Ready?"
John fidgeted. He hadn't actually performed for years, but he was fairly confident he could keep up with an amateurs' association. He picked up his clarinet and walked to the door. The collar in his shirt itched, but there was nothing he could do about that. He twitched, nervous, but his companion seemed perfectly relaxed (well, as relaxed as Sherlock could get) as they rode in the cab to the miniature concert hall. John turned his mind back to the case.
The woman lay in a pile of sheet music, the crimson of her blood tainting the white paper, her grey-green eyes staring vacantly into nothing. Sherlock tilted his head. It was an unusual wound, not made by a knife, nor by anything else that came to mind. Small, about an inch and a half wide, but enough to be lethal.
All John could think about was how this musician was killed in her prime. She was nineteen, the best days of her life before her. She was lead clarinetist, the best of the lot, and she hadn't gotten there on her looks. As a musician himself, John knew that you had to work hard to be the best.
Sherlock examined her brown hair. Straightened. Her makeup was simple, her dress as well. Elegant and efficient. She worked hard and didn't put too much stock in the power of aesthetics. Ambitious as well. And now dead.
There had been splinters of wood in the wound—arundo, the kind of wood used to make reeds, interesting considering the victim played a reed instrument.
Their quest for justice (and, in Sherlock's case, something to do) led them to the London Orchestra for Musical Nonprofessionals, a small orchestra of amateur musicians. Their violinist had just left as she was six months pregnant, so Sherlock volunteered to step in. He'd volunteered John to step in for their first clarinetist. He knew he probably wasn't going to be as good as the other woman, but John did his best in the audition, and tonight they were to perform.
Somehow John found the idea of performing for a potentially sold-out crowd more nerve-wracking than staring down the barrel of a gun. He'd ended up as fifth clarinet, which wasn't half bad considering he hadn't played in years, while Sherlock, being Sherlock, had not only landed first violin, but had a major solo tonight as they performed Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, widely considered the most technically difficult of all violin pieces. And it was Sherlock's favorite.
John didn't notice what was going on, he was so nervous, but the next thing he knew, he was staring at the back of his friend, resplendent in tails and playing his solo with passion John didn't know he held. John turned back to his music, desperate to not screw this up. The closest he ever got to the musical career his mother had wanted him to embark upon was this moment, right here.
The stage lights were bright enough that he couldn't see the audience (thank God), but once the song had completed, he could hear from the applause that it was a full house. The curtain fell and Sherlock turned back to the group, his face flushed with pride. He'd gotten a standing ovation.
"Enjoying yourself?" John's nerves were slowly recovering.
"Immensely. You?"
"Not so much, no." John packed his clarinet up. Sherlock looked confused. "Not everyone likes being put on the spot, Sherlock! I got nervous just playing for my gran!"
"Well, you did marvelously, if I may say so." Sherlock shut the violin case.
"I—I did?" John wasn't used to being complimented by his flatmate.
"Yes, you did. Especially considering your lack of practice." It was plain that Sherlock was as unused to giving compliments as John was to receiving them.
"So, now that you've performed, what now?"
"I thought the killer would be here. She hasn't shown herself."
"She?"
"The killer was a good three or four inches shorter than the victim. None of the men in the orchestra are that short. Therefore, it has to be a woman."
"But why does it have to be someone in the orchestra? Why not someone else?"
Sherlock smiled. "The murder weapon. A reed. Specifically a double reed. And it wasn't that premeditated—a reed can be sharpened quickly with the right tools."
"Sometimes the way you can see everything as a murder weapon frightens me."
Sherlock smirked. "Then be glad I'm not out to kill you." He started walking.
"Where are you going?"
"I need to talk to the conductor." The door shut, leaving John all alone onstage. He always felt there was a sinister atmosphere in an empty concert hall. Like something was lurking just out of vision or watching from the lighting booths. John gulped. He picked up his case and went to the dressing room. It was the same dressing room that poor Jenna Williams had been murdered in, and it sort of bothered John. He couldn't look at the north-facing wall without seeing her body in his mind, contorted with pain.
Suddenly his door flew open.
"Sherlock, you can't—" He stopped as he realized it wasn't Sherlock standing there, but the third oboist was, and she was brandishing her oboe like a weapon. If he hadn't been in danger, John would have laughed at the sight. The woman he'd sat in front of, still looking quite nice, but now angry, was holding him at instrument point. Talking of points, he realized, her reed was frighteningly sharp.
"Where is it?" the woman growled.
"Where is what?"
"The ruby." Her black hair fell across her face.
"What ruby?" John was exasperated, amused, and a bit frightened all at once.
"The ruby! The Bloodstar Ruby!" She lowered the weapon/instrument and ran over to the wall. She pried out the false brick that John hadn't noticed and gave a shout of anguish. "Where is it! Where is it? What have you done with it?" She stood between John and the doorway, brandishing her deadly oboe. Suddenly from behind her, two strong arms pulled the instrument away.
"I'll take that, Miss Szyszko-Bohusz." Sherlock raised the instrument into the air as John reached forward to grab her. Sherlock placed the oboe on the floor and helped to restrain the struggling oboist. After five minutes of the two men simply holding her in place, the police arrived.
"Late as ever, Peterson." The tall, mousy-haired policeman was not amused. He stepped forward, as did the two policeman flanking him.
"Denise Szyszko-Bohusz, you are under arrest for the murder of Jenna Williams." The woman began to spout numerous obscenities which continued until she was out of earshot. Sherlock stood in his tux and white bow tie, as pleased as he was when he got his standing ovation.
"Okay, yeah, but where is the ruby?" asked the Detective Inspector. Sherlock smiled and produced it from his pocket. He handed it to the man. "Oh," was all Peterson managed. "In that case, thanks for your help!"
"Any time," Sherlock smiled. The two of them stood in John's dressing room.
"So…you knew it was her?"
"No. But I did know that the ruby was involved and that Williams must have hidden it. Figured the killer would try to get it back."
"You used me as bait?" John was exasperated.
"In a manner of speaking. But you were never in any real danger." He smiled reassuringly. "Shall we go?"
And off they walked in their tuxedos, carrying their instruments, back to Baker Street, where new adventures awaited them.