Major wish fulfillment. This is the product of too much literary study, queer theory, caffeine, and emotions.

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"After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The crying and the shouting
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience"

- The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot

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John Watson's voice was still raw. He cleared his throat, reached up to fidget with the miniature ribbons and medals pinned to his lapel, and tried not to wince at the burning. Christ, felt like he'd swallowed razors. A pair of richly dressed young women passed by, offering amiable smiles. John only nodded politely, hands clasped behind his back. Entirely silent. He had enough sense to keep up appearances, keep the evening professional, because God knew someone had to be. He wouldn't let a personal matter encroach on his evening. That was the end of it, as far as he was concerned. Still, as he listened to the music, all he could hear was his own voice thundering back in his ears. The sound rang in a dissonant harmony with another equally furious voice.

He and Sherlock had taken separate cabs to the isolated estate. John remembered leaning against the cool glass of the car window and looking out at the approaching mansion. The wrought iron gates had parted with a loud complaint as the cab rolled up the drive. He'd glanced in the side view mirror, and caught Sherlock's gaze in the reflection of the cab behind them. His eyes had immediately snapped forward.

It had been hours since the two of them arrived at the gala. When they'd first gotten the invitation, it hadn't seemed like such a chore to go. Of course, not for John, because he wasn't an unsociable bastard. Sherlock had a different opinion on the matter. However, the invitation had been mailed along with a letter from Mycroft, insisting that they attend. It was an odd package, to say the least. One large envelope with two letters inside, one from Mycroft on his own stationary, and the other written on old parchment, folded, and sealed with red wax. A themed party, they had assumed. Sherlock had read both letters, grumbling about his brother as he threw them both into the fireplace. It was some dull gala full of politicians, heirs, and Lombard street pricks. Mycroft wanted Sherlock there to pick up what he could about a few interesting guests, and report back, for the magnificent prize of dropping contact with the younger Holmes for a month. So, worth it. John had been rather excited at first. It offered a bit of a vacation, a chance to glimpse high society, and a getaway from the throbbing of London.

So, that was how John found himself here. Standing awkwardly by a pillar on the edge of the ballroom dance floor, out of place, alone, and wishing for all the world that the pillar would fall on him. His gaze kept gravitating toward the cocktail bar at the other end of the floor. As tempting as it was to retreat over there, he contented himself with the hors d'oeuvre. A shot or two would definitely make this event more bearable, but he didn't want to make an ass of himself.

The ballroom itself was magnificent, a contributing factor to making John feel rather like an ant under the Queen's boot. The walls stretched up into vaulted ceilings, adorned with golden details he could barely make out through the warm glare of the chandeliers. The floors were marble, the windows yawning mouths gaping out at the manicured gardens, the twin staircases curving up to a plush gallery, and here John was, trying to figure out the difference between pâté and mousse. The pillar couldn't come down fast enough.

Moving for the first time in what felt like an hour, John made his way over to a buffet table with a few selections of non-alcoholic drinks. Water would do for now. Despite the unglamorous choice, the beverage was still served with ice, lemon, and a sprig of mint. John took it, tried not to look like a perplexed idiot, and guzzled it down in one go. His esophagus stung, but the cold was soothing. It was as he was bringing the cup down that he caught the reflection in the glass. Sherlock was moving through the crowd on the other side of the room. John set the glass down and turned around, only to slam right into a smaller body carrying a hefty tray. The metal clattered to the ground, cutting for a moment into the idle chatter of the room as people turned to see what the noise was. It didn't last long, though. John recovered, eyes darting up to find that Sherlock was nowhere in sight. The panicked apologies of the maid he'd bumped into drew him back to reality.

"Oh! Oh God- I mean, I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't see-," a flustered young woman stammered as she dropped to her knees to pick up ruined bits of blackberry tarts.

John easily knelt down with her. "No, don't worry about it. I wasn't paying attention. You're okay?" he asked as he helped her pile the mess onto her tray.

"I- yes, yes I'm okay. I'll just have to go back to the kitchens. I'm sorry again." Strands of tangled blonde hair fell in her face as she took the tray again and rose to her feet. Her clothing was plain, a black dress with a high collar covering her neck, and a white apron. Her hair was held back, though loosely, in a bun.

Seeing that she was still rather unsteady, John took the tray from her, dumped the crumbled tarts into the trash bin beside the drinks table. "You'll not get in trouble for this, will you?" he asked.

The young woman seemed startled. "Hm? Ah, um, I suppose I might..." she replied timidly.

John handed her the empty tray. "What's your name?"

Again, she gaped a moment before answering. "Jane Dawson."

"Well Jane," the Doctor began, "if you should get any blame, have them come speak to John Watson. I'll tell them what happened."

Jane's eyes widened, her breath stuttering. "John Watson?"

"Have we met?" John frowned.

"No, we haven't I just..." Jane trailed off, her voice going soft. "I've read your stories, the ones on your blog."

"Oh," John replied. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. It wasn't the first time he'd met a 'fan' (God, the word sounded so asinine), but he'd never known quite how to deal with it. "Would... would you like an-"

"No! No, it's alright, I'm not asking for an autograph or anything," Jane was quick to cut in. "Sorry, I was just a little starstruck. I really do love your stories, and I didn't expect to see you tonight," she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I have to ask. Is... Mr. Holmes here with you?"

Suddenly, John was all too aware of the hoarseness to his voice. "He should be around here somewhere." Wherever somewhere was, he had no idea.

Jane nodded, fingers drumming against the edge of the tray. "Right. Well, it was very nice meeting you. I'm looking forward to reading your next story." With that, the young woman offered a smile and disappeared into the throng.

John watched her go for a moment, his eyes then flickering to the opposite wall, where he'd sworn he saw Sherlock.

He'd been writing up his next story when they got the invitation to the gala. Sitting in his red chair, he'd had his laptop on one knee, and a whiskey soda on the end table just within reach. The flat had been unbearably silent between the two of them, not a word said for days. Sherlock had come in with the envelopes, grumbled for a solid ten minutes, threw them in the fireplace, and finally spoke. "Gala in Edinburgh, this Sunday. Mycroft's chores."

John had closed his laptop, setting it aside and trading it for his whiskey. "High brow party in the mountains? You'll have to book yourself a train ticket soon," he'd said over the rim of his glass.

"Our tickets," Sherlock had corrected as he dropped into his armchair. "If I'm forced through this torture, I sure as hell am going to drag you down with me."

John had smiled at that, the expression dim and not quite reaching his eyes. "I'd be glad to go along. Might be nice... getting out of the city for a few days."

Sherlock had returned the faded look, gesturing to his laptop. "What were you doing?"

"Writing," John had replied. His voice went low. "Typing up the, ehm, latest case. Or trying."

"Ah," Sherlock had nodded. "Got a title?"

"The Resonant Patient," John'd answered with a sharp tone. "But it isn't the title that is the difficult part."

They were silent after that, the room suddenly feeling empty and filled with dust. Dust, John thought. The ballroom of the mansion seemed to be coated in it. He chalked it up to a large space and not enough hands to clean it. Dust coated the tables, the ornate rails of the staircase, and floated in the air. It created tangible beams, trailing off from the chandelier, dancing in clouds, and catching rays of the setting sun from the windows. It was getting dark out, but the sun had yet to sink down behind the mountain peaks. John supposed it was rather romantic, but all it did was make him too aware of his dry throat. He took up another glass of water.

The evening went on. Largely uneventful, aside from a few toasts and glasses dropped from drunken fingers. There was nothing to break the dull rhythm of the party. John wandered around the ballroom, mostly keeping to himself but occasionally chatting with a few of the guests. They were interesting people. John had a few genuinely entertaining conversations, but he was only half in them. It wasn't being bored that caused his social disconnect. It was that no matter what he did, he couldn't shake the tenseness in his back. He couldn't escape the thoughts that had plagues him since that afternoon. Didn't mean he couldn't try, though. So, he forced himself to mingle, if only to pass the time. The end of every conversation saw John taking a glance around the room for his companion. With no sighting, he'd take another walk around the perimeter of the dance floor until another conversation stepped into his path (Most were successful, though every so often someone would go out of their way to speak to him, just to point out the medals pinned to his breast pocket. They'd ask about war stories, or thank him in some awkward way, and John would without fail find some reason to excuse himself.)

It was as he was side stepping some old man who wanted to shake his hand and talk about politics that he ran into another, more interesting couple. A few flowers had fallen out of a woman's braid, and John picked them up. He tapped on her shoulder and held them out. The woman immediately reached back to find that the flowers in his hand were, in fact, not in her hair.

"Thanks!" she laughed as she took them back. Her husband nodded his thanks and offered to stick them back into her hair. "Never would have noticed. They're fake, but I would've still been disappointed."

"It's not a problem," said John. "So, American I'm guessing?"

"You caught us," the man laughed, one flower between his teeth as he tried to fix his wife's hair. "We're from California."

"Hattie Moulton," she extended her hand for a shake. "This is my husband, Francis."

"John Watson," John replied as he accepted her hand. She had a grip that could crack walnuts- or John's knuckles, the more likely case. "California, then. Did you come out all this way for the gala?"

"It's what inspired the trip," Hattie nodded, only to receive a playful flick on her ear for moving. Hattie reached behind to smack him on the shoulder with her hand bag. "We got the invitation, and we'd been saying for a few years that we wanted to take a trip around the U.K. I lived here for a few years when I was a teenager, and I wanted to show the hubby around. Mr. Bell was one of Daddy's friends. I never met him myself, but it sure was nice of him to extend the invitation to me after Daddy passed."

John frowned. "Mr. Bell?"

Francis shot him an odd look as he pinned the final flower back into place. "The host, man. Ignatius A. C. Bell. He's a writer. Would've figured that's why he invited you, Dr. Watson. Love your stories, by the way."

"Oh, thank you," John replied. "It wasn't actually my invitation, though. I just came along with-"

"Sherlock Holmes?" Hattie asked, her voice pitching in excitement. "Is he here too?"

"Who knows anymore," John shrugged. "Anyway, it was his invitation. I didn't even see what the gala was for."

"Don't think Mr. Bell really had a reason, to be honest," said Hattie as she took her husband's arm. "It didn't say anything on the invitation, anyway. Just seemed like he wanted an excuse to have a party. I can't really blame him, living in this dreary old place. Who wouldn't want to bring a bit of life to it, even if it's just for a night?"

"Yes, I suppose so. But then why would he-" John trailed off in mid sentence when a familiar shape caught his eye. He turned, watching as a head of curly black hair breached the crowd on the adjacent side of the room, disappearing in seconds. "I..." John struggled to regain his train of thought. "Sorry, I-" But when he turned back, the couple was gone. John frowned, casting his eyes about, and finding no sign of the couple he'd been speaking to moments before. The hum of the party went on.

John found himself stranded. The gala, with its music and its richly dressed dancers, all faded away until there was nothing left but the burning in his throat, and the tension in his back. He'd been feeling off all day, long before things went sour this afternoon at the hotel. It had been an early start, with a 05:30 train out of London. He and Sherlock had put their suits into one garment bag, and managed to put the rest of their overnight things in two small suitcases, taking up minimal space in their compartment. Sherlock had used them both to lean back on, stretching his long body across the bench seat across from John. As dawn rose over the countryside, flickering between trees and windmills, Sherlock had slept, soaking up the first warm rays of the sun.

John hadn't been nearly so comfortable. Sitting upright with his laptop on a tray, he'd typed away since the train pulled out of the city, rigid and concentrated. It was as they were crossing through Lancaster that he'd slammed the computer shut and tossed it aside onto the cushion next to him.

Sherlock had woken at the sound, cracking an eye open to look at his friend. "Problem?"

"No," John had grumbled. "No problem at all, just felt like checking the hinges."

"I'm sure you found them satisfactory," Sherlock had replied easily. He'd stretched his legs out on the seat with a yawn. "The Resonant Patient?"

John had sighed, rubbing his palm over his jaw as he sank back into his chair. "Can't figure out how to put it into words."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes, patience visibly wearing thin. "Then why are you trying to write it at all? Just leave it, John. There's no need to publish every one of our failures."

"I never said I was going to publish it," John'd snapped. "I need to sort it out. For myself. It was a fair bit more than just a failure, if you cared to know."

They hadn't spoken again, after that. The rumble of the train gliding over the tracks was there to fill the void, but that was it. Sherlock had glared at him a while, before turning on his side, his back to John, and going back to sleep. John stared out the window for a while to calm down before opening his laptop again and continuing to write. They arrived in Carlisle at 09:40, switched trains, and continued on to Edinburgh. Between disembarking, finding a cab, and the trip out of the city, it was noon before they had reached their hotel.

John sighed. He was going to have to confront Sherlock on calmer terms eventually, but the man wasn't exactly making it easy on him. Abandoning him at a gala in the middle of the wilderness of Scotland was a little too much, in his opinion. It had been hours since their spat, they could at least pretend to be on good terms for the night. It would certainly make it less tiring- on second thought, maybe not.

Giving up on finding either his friend or the couple he'd been talking to, John continued his aimless wandering around the ballroom. He avoided the dance floor like the plague, praying that no one would pull him in for an unexpected waltz. He had to admit, the small orchestra band was very good. It was just a bit odd that he couldn't see them. Couldn't be speakers, the building didn't have a single light switch or power outlet so far as he could see, and it sounded too close to be anything but live. John wasn't going to spend the entire evening hunting down the music, though. At this point in the night, he was more keen on hunting down the bar. He'd gone a few hours sober, he deserved a glass of wine.

"Evening, Dr. Watson," the man behind the bar smiled as he approached. His Scottish accent was thick, but enunciated, and combined with the pristine bow tie and upright posture, gave off the impression of superiority. "Chardonnay?"

John looked wary as he walked up to the bar, but still responded. "Merlot."

"Ah," the man chuckled. "Would have pegged you for a Chardonnay man. Here you are."

John took the glass with a nod. "Do you guess all the patrons' drinks?"

"No, no. To be truthful, I'm not the bartender. I am the butler. My name is William Gates, I run Mr. Bell's household," Gates replied. "However, I saw you eying the bar a while ago, and thought I would come and," he smiled again, "introduce myself."

"Right," John took a long sip from his glass. "Well, apparently you already know me."

"Know of you," Gates corrected. "But yes, I should like to think so."

"I've no idea where he is, just so you know."

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock Holmes. They all ask that. He buggered off somewhere as soon as we got here. Haven't seen him for hours."

"Ah, what a pity," Gates drawled. "I'd rather hoped I could show off to him a bit. I've studied his methods, and I like to think I've learned a thing or two about deductive reasoning."

John tried not to scoff at that. There were always people who thought that, having read his blog, they could somehow "master the art" that was just a natural ability to Sherlock. "If I see him, I'll send him your way," he said as he turned to leave.

"If I may," Gates called him back before he could get more than a step away. "I'd like to try it out on you. Give you a 'reading', or whatever you call it."

John raised his brow. "You've seen my blog. Anything you can read off me, you probably read on there."

"No cheating," Gates smiled. "Cross my heart."

Well, it would be entertaining at the very least. "Fine," said John.

Gates' smile grew wider, if possible. Stepping around the bar, the man clasped his hands behind his back and began to glide in a slow circle around John. "You had a disturbance while shaving today. You're left handed, and you have a tremor when you aren't conscious of it." John clenched his hand at that remark. Gates continued. "But you're a Doctor. So, when you concentrate, you must be steady. I would surmise that, when shaving, that concentration keeps you still, as you have no other healing scars on your face. You do, however, have a fresh nick under your jaw on the right side. So, a disturbance."

John didn't respond at first. Gates was wearing a smug expression, looking down at him without tilting his head. John tensed his jaw. "Alright, well done," he said. "Yes, very well done. If I find Sherlock tonight, I'll be sure to send him your way." John turned on his heel to leave, had another thought, and looked back over his shoulder again. "Though for the record, Sherlock would have been able to 'surmise' what the disturbance was."

Gates shrugged. "I am, tragically, human."

John struggled not to glare back at him. He was smart, John would give him that, but the high and mighty attitude was off putting. With his drink in hand, he turned and headed back into the fray.

The sun hadn't even set yet. John wandered over to the window and looked out over the landscape. The manicured gardens surrounded the entire estate from what he could see, dotted with fountains and stone benches. The careful order then rolled off into the wild brush, dropping into the valley and rising up into the mountains. The estate was entirely isolated. John hadn't seen another living soul for kilometers after they left Edinburgh, and any house they did pass was hopelessly decayed. It might have been a charming area a hundred or so years ago. Now it was just downright creepy.

John turned away from the window when he'd had enough of the scenery, eyes traveling idly over the details of the pillars and the ceiling. As his attention was on its way back down toward the crowd, however, his gaze was caught on something else. Not for the first time that night, either. Standing at the top of the grand staircases, was a man in a beige, tweed suit. He was just standing there, looking down over the ballroom. Ignatius Bell, John thought, but it was only a hunch. He was a tall, burly man, with large hands folded in front of him, and a head like an enormous block. His mustache was thick, and upturned in an old fashioned style. Even from that distance, John could see that he was observing the guests, and he had no idea what he could be looking for until his gaze landed on him. The two of them made eye contact for what seemed like an eternity. John found that he couldn't look away, or wouldn't out of pride. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. There was something about the man's eyes that had the effect of stripping him bare and laying him out to dissect. In the end, Mr. Bell was the one to look away, turning briskly and disappearing behind a heavy door. It was a minute before John felt he could move. When he could, though, he didn't really have anywhere to go. The music and activity of the gala was almost overwhelming at this point.

That's when he saw Sherlock again. It had just been glimpses all night, but now he watched just on the other end of the corridor of pillars as he walked toward the kitchens. Enough was enough. John was going to confront him. They were going to hash it out, and move the hell on, because neither of them were going to make it through the night if they didn't have each others company. John finished off his wine and set it on a round table filled with other empty glasses. Wiping off his mouth, he set off after Sherlock. The detective walked through the kitchen doors just as Jane Dawson was coming out, carrying a tray of butterscotch fudge squares. Sherlock side stepped her, and disappeared. As he passed, John gave the girl a friendly smile and swiped a piece of fudge off her tray. He didn't like sweets. Just wanted to earn a laugh.

John walked into the kitchen, and the silence hit him instantly. The drone of the party was cut by the doors between them, but all too loud in the empty kitchen. Empty. Completely desolate. Dust coated the tables and now floated in the moonbeams from the windows. The sun had set, finally, leaving the room in a cold, indigo light. John dropped the treat on the closest table, watching the impact create ripples in the grim. On the other side of the table, he could see where a finger had been wiped. Dust is eloquent,John remembered Sherlock saying. He'd been through here, but he was nowhere to be see, and it looked as if no one had cooked so much as an omelet in there in decades. This wasn't right, wasn't possible. John turned, eager to leave, only to find William Gates standing not a foot away. He hadn't even heard the butler enter.

"Lost, Dr. Watson?" he asked with an all too pleasant smile.

John cleared his throat "Just wanted to ask for the recipe."

"Yes, well," Gates chuckled, "we must all keep our secrets."

John didn't respond. Without so much as a nod, he left the room, circling around Gates as he did. He didn't like the idea of showing this man his back. It wasn't until he was through the swinging doors and back into the warm world of the party, that he could breathe easy. What he'd seen in the kitchen seemed like a surreal nightmare. John made a beeline back to the water table, hoping a bit of ice would calm his nerves.

Right back where he started. John stood where he'd begun this bizarre night, sipping at his water and counting down the minutes until he could get a cab back to the hotel. Whatever reason Mycroft wanted them there for was lost on him, and at his point, he didn't care. As he watched guests continue to mingle, his hand idly came up to scratch at a slight irritation on his neck. He hissed when he felt the skin pull, bringing his hand back to find a few specks of blood on his fingertips.

He had cut himself shaving that afternoon. It had been as they were getting ready for the gala, both showered and dried. Sherlock had been in the bedroom, setting his pressed suit out on the twin bed he'd claimed. John had been in the bathroom, of course, shaving.

"You brought your medals," Sherlock had pointed out as he laid out John's suit as well.

"Yep," John had replied. He could just barely see Sherlock through the reflection in the mirror. "It's a black tie event. Usually when we're supposed to wear the miniatures."

"Are you going to wear them?" Sherlock asked.

John struggled not to groan. "I don't know. Don't think so."

"Then why did you bring them?"

"Because it's tradition, and military etiquette."

"But you don't think you're going to wear them."

"No, Sherlock."

"You obviously planned on wearing them when you packed. Something changed your mind."

"Leave it alone."

"What was it?"

John had to force himself to take a deep breath before answering. He could feel his temper building up just beneath the surface of his cracking patience. "Because they are for a Doctor, and I-"

"Oh for God's sake, John, would you get over it?"

That had been the disturbance. The force and volume behind Sherlock's shout, the blatant annoyance in his tone, was what made John faulter for a moment and slice into his skin. John hissed under his breath and slammed the razor down on the sink counter. He grabbed a towel off the rack, roughly wiping away the leftover shaving cream and one streak of blood, before tossing it aside and storming out into the bedroom. "No, Sherlock, I will not fucking get over it!" he had shouted. "I let that man die. I didn't even think to check if he was still alive, I let him hang there when I could have saved him."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at that, and the juvenile attitude toward the subject only fueled John's rage. "The coroner's report said that Blessington's time of death was only a minute after we arrived on the scene."

"A minute is all it takes!"

"He'd been hanging long enough for Dr. Trevelyan to call us up three floors. I doubt very much it would have made any difference."

John had practically snarled. "You don't know that. I'll never know that now."

Sherlock's expression had turned cold, stoic as he stepped forward and loomed over John. "You were an Army Doctor. You've had hundreds of patients die on your tables before you could tend to them. Don't be so transparent, John, and do not take your frustration out on me. Your emotional instability over death is only because of what happened to Ma-"

Sherlock hadn't gotten the chance to let another syllable slip. John had rammed into him, grabbing him by the collar, arm braced against his chest as he slammed him against the wall. "Don't you dare!" he roared. His throat as well as his eyes had started burning. Sherlock's expression had dropped, his indifferent mask giving way to shock and a sliver of fear. "Don't you dare go there," John seethed. "Do you even care? Are you so inhuman that you are incapable of feeling even the slighted remorse for a man who died under our watch?"

"Yes," Sherlock had replied once he'd recovered. "Is that the answer you were looking for? It is pointless to dwell on what could have been, John. We solved the case, we brought justice. If that is all I can do, and if that makes me inhuman, then so be it."

John had shoved Sherlock away, the force sending him stumbling back. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, that isn't enough!"

"Then make it enough!" Sherlock had retorted in a mocking tone. "Go write about it on your blog, make me the compassionate hero! I can save a kitten from a tree while I'm at it!"

"That's what you think I make you? Maybe I haven't been raw enough about the unprincipled drug addict delusional enough to believe he is the final court of law!" John had spat.

"I am delusional? Coming from the alcoholic veteran with a psychosomatic limp, it's hard to take that to heart!"

John had been rearing back for the punch. He had been so close to making it physical, but a stomping from the floor about them and a shout to "keep it down or take it outside" broke the moment. It had left the two of them standing off, both panting for breath. John was the one to break it, taking his suit and retreating to the bathroom with the door slammed shut. He was dressed within a minute, damn medals pinned to his breast pocket. He stopped only to take his wallet and his phone before he stormed out of the room. The next time he saw Sherlock, it was through the side view mirror of the cab.

"John," Sherlock stood in front of him. John was brought out of the violent memory by a low and urgent voice, in stark contrast to the shouting still ringing in his ears. He blinked, hadn't even noticed Sherlock approaching him. Now, his hand was gentle on his arm, and his eyes were soft, but urgent. "John," Sherlock whispered again. "Come on, we need to leave. Now."

"I- Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?" said John as he ripped his arm away.

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, searching for something in the churning crowd. "John, please. We don't have time for this. We have to go."

John opened his mouth to respond, but all that left was a gasp. A scream tore out from the middle of the crowd. He and Sherlock exchanged a glance and that was all that needed. Personal tension put aside, argument forgotten. They ran headfirst into the throng, pushing guests aside to get to the epicentre. A ring had been formed of whispering and shocked bystanders, the rest of the party goers either struggling to get a glimpse at what was happening, or struggling to get away. When Sherlock and John finally broke through, they found a man sprawled out on the ground. His eyes were wide, but unmoving, glazed over as they stared up at nothing. His skin was already ashy and lifeless.

"Move back," John barked to the guests. He dropped down to his knees beside the body, going through the well trained motions. Two fingers checked for a pulse, his palm in front of the man's mouth checked for breath. Neither were present. He was still warm, though, and John wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Making a fist with his left hand and covering it with his right, John pressed down hard on the victim's chest.

Sherlock knelt down on the other side, his phone slipping out of his pocket and onto the marble floor as he did. "John, I don't think-"

"Let me try," John hissed. Sherlock did not argue. Another three sets of compressions and breaths passed before John finally sat back and realized that the man was beyond his help.

Not a second after John removed his hands from the body, the room went dark. Shrieks of fear echoed off the vaulted ceilings as every light blew out, and the curtains were all pulled shut by an invisible force. In the darkness, John reached out for Sherlock, latching onto his shoulder while another latched onto his own. When the lights came back on, the corpse was nowhere to be found. All in a matter of seconds. Sherlock let go of John and jumped to his feet, spinning around in circles as he searched through the crowd for something, anything, that would give him a lead on what was happening.

John, however, stayed on the ground. His gaze was drawn down to Sherlock's phone. He reached down and turned it over, the screen still on.

Contact: Mycroft

[18:20] You owe me at least two months of radio silence for this. SH

[18:28] This place is odd, I'll give you that, but if you want me to get something, I'll need more data. SH

[18:29] What on earth are you talking about? MH

[18:39] Ignatius Bell. Gala outside of Edinburgh. You sent the invitation. SH

[18:40] Ramses. SH

[18:40] MOSES. MH

[18:40] EXODUS. MH

The crowd had already dispersed by the time he looked up. John watched as a group of men tried to throw themselves at the grand doors, the heavy clang of a lock refusing to give away reverberating back. Sherlock was watching them as hysteria took over the crowd, until he looked down at John again. There was the understanding again, the unspoken agreement. He lent his hand down, and the Doctor took it, standing up at his side. They'd face peril together, no second thoughts, no conditions.

"A fraudulent invitation," Sherlock began in a low murmur. "A murder, dozens of witnesses. Lights go out, body disappears. Doors are bolted, no one leaves. The perfect locked room mystery. Someone's staged this for us."

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Look."

Sherlock turned away from the impenetrable doors to follow John's line of sight. The two of them stood at the bottom of the twin staircases, where at the top, Ignatius Bell stood looking down at them. He made no gestures, no acknowledgment. He just stared among the chaos, and they stared back. Then, he turned, and he disappeared behind the heavy oak door behind him.