AN: This was going to be a drabble, but it just grew out of it. I'm making this a multichapter fic.

Apologies for any misinformation about clarinets. I am a trumpet player, pianist and guitarist and I can't for the life of me play reeded stuff. All information is gleaned from my friend who DOES play the clarinet.

EDIT:Repost- fixed the tenses thing (sorry, I was having a present-tense moment when I was writing it and I kept slipping) as well as clarified a couple of sentance things that were unclear. And fixed a few things with advice from somebody who knows about clarinets.


Deadly Requiem

The last chord rolled away into the hall's dark corners, and the conductor lowered his arms ponderously.

'Better,' he announced, and they all sighed in relief. 'But not good enough! Mozart is turning in his grave!' There were eye rolls and mutters, but the Maestro had the authority here. 'More practice, all of you. Woodwind, careful on those triplet cross rhythms.' The flautists grinned smugly in the knowledge that they didn't play the triplets; the other woodwind players glared. A long running rivalry existed between the flautists and the other woodwind players, who don't have their pitch. 'You may leave,' the conductor announced magnanimously.

Gratefully, everyone stood up and began the controlled chaos of clearing up after music practice.

'Are you staying to practice?' asked a young man packing away his clarinet.

The subject of his enquiry shook her dark hair out of her face and grinned ruefully. 'I have to, my apartment banned music the other week.'

Her companion hissed in sympathy. 'That bad?'

'You have no idea,' she said with feeling. 'I'd move out but you know what it's like finding apartments these days.'

'Oh, I completely agree,' he replied. 'By the way, if you're staying then you can keep that reed.'

She clicked her fingers in irritation. 'Of course, I'd forgotten that was yours. Here, I'll pay you back, I can pop out and buy you a new one,' she said hastily, digging through her bag for her purse.

He waved away the proffered money. 'No, no, it's fine, Emily. You keep that. Don't bother paying me, it's not like they're expensive.'

'Not for you,' Emily muttered. 'I'm still out of a job, and he isn't paying us until next week.' She indicated the conductor, who was fastidiously shuffling sheet music.

'Then all the more reason for you to keep it.' The young man smiled at Emily, who sighed in relief.

'If you're sure, Jack.'

'I'm sure,' he said firmly.

'Thank you,' Emily said with a grateful smile.

'How long are you here for?' Jack said with curiosity, pushing a shock of black hair out of his eyes.

'Till five, why?'

'I was going to take you out for dinner.'

'You really don't need to-' Emily began, but Jack cut her off.

'It's not charity. Now, I've got to run- I'll see you at five, OK?'

'Okay,' Emily laughed. 'As if I could stop you! I haven't eaten all day- so expect to pay a big bill!'

'Be my guest,' he said gallantly as he picked up his case. He shrugged on his coat and smiled, a laugh dancing in his blue eyes. 'Farewell, my lady.'

'Get away with you,' Emily flapped him away. He walked halfway across the stage. 'See you tonight,' she called.

He turned, waved, grinned and saluted. She shook her head slightly and waved back, the borrowed reed clutched in her hand. He faded into the darkness off the stage, and around Emily the orchestra dissolved into a host of ordinary, if slightly odd, people.

The empty auditorium was dark and shadowed, a pool of light spread across the bare, dusty stage. The rows of seats stood silent in the peaceful quiet, the stage scuffed and scraped under the carefully regimented semicircle of folding chairs.

The last people had left, going home to their families. Emily was alone in the still, silent darkness, the only light the pool splashed across the stage and the only sound the distant hum of traffic. She picked up her clarinet and quickly began to clean it- she'd noticed it felt a little wrong earlier. A few minutes later, she picked up the reed Jack had given her and quickly slipped it into her mouth. It tasted bitter, but then they weren't exactly made to taste nice, were they? Actually, this wasn't too bad. Sort of like almonds. She'd have to ask him where he bought them from when they met up for dinner. Emily sat down and frowned in concentration at the score in front of her. Carefully, she took a breath and began to play.

The melody wound slowly through the building, falling like drops of rain into the silence on the staccato passages, then building into a rolling river of music on the legato harmony part. The air sped up, darting through the range like a fish through a stream, then slowed to a stately and final conclusion. Emily stumbled a little over the infamous set of triplet rhythms, frowned and began again from that bar, mastering them the second time, then played to the coda flawlessly. Taking up a pencil, she made a few notes on her score, and then began again.

Mozart's refrain filled the empty concert hall until half past four. It was beginning to falter at ten past, stopped entirely at twenty past, picked up again in a choking, rubato, off-pitch mockery of music at twenty five past. By half past, it had stopped for good, and it didn't restart. Emily Sato will never play again.

When Jack returns at five o'clock, he is surprised to find the place silent. He shrugs, decides she must be packing away, and ventures through the twisting maze of passages backstage.

The auditorium lights are on and the chairs are still there. Jack is confused, and a little worried, as he sees Emily's coat slung over the back of her chair, her music still on the stand. He hastens his steps towards the stage, worried, with a dread growing in his heart that increases as he sees a bundle of clothes on the floor- Emily's clothes- that look horribly like a body. He moves nearer and sees she is lying on the stage, face down, awkwardly- like she's collapsed.

When he reaches out, hand shaking, and touches her shoulder as she lies still, he jerks back in horror. It's cold in this hall, and Emily is stiff and cool. In terror and shock, he lifts up her head, and almost drops her.

One side of her face- the side that was on the floor- is covered in pink blotches. Her eyes are open, but they're staring at nothing. Her muscles are slack but stiff, and Jack lays her head down on the stage and stumbles back into a row of music stands, knocking them all over like dominos as he fumbles for his phone.


John Watson is woken, half asleep, by gunfire. His first thought is panic, and this is what makes him jump out of bed and dive for cover. His second thought is Sherlock, followed by a string of unprintable words, as he remembers he is not in Afghanistan, he is in 221B Baker Street, which is nearly as dangerous and far less predictable. Also, he is not paid for being shot at which is why he gets up and dresses before going downstairs to yell at Sherlock.

Then the world flicks sharply into a new perspective for John as he hears- distinctly- the sound of two shots being fired at once, then a yell, then what sounds horribly like a gun barrel clicking empty, and he knows this isn't just Sherlock being, well, Sherlock and he thunders downstairs just as fast as he can whilst still keeping quiet and peeks around the corner into the living room to find-

Sherlock sitting comfortably in an armchair, rubbing his shoulder and wincing slightly. John's not fooled and he sees the two pistols lying on the floor, having been unconvincingly kicked under the table, and he also sees the unconscious, bound and gagged man unconvincingly hidden behind the armchair, and he also sees the blood Sherlock is leaking everywhere, and the pain unconvincingly hidden behind his mask of stoicism.

Finally, John speaks. 'Why,' he says slowly, 'do I even bother with going to sleep?'

Then he fetches his first aid kit and calls the police and patches up Sherlock, who was only grazed by the bullet after all, and argues with him about going to hospital (which he refuses to do), then dispatches the attacker to Scotland Yard, and cleans up the flat and makes tea.

John collapses into his chair and looks at a clock. Four o'clock in the afternoon, he's been awake for two hours sorting that out, and before that he'd had roughly three hours sleep because Sherlock had been busy on a case and dragged him with him. They'd got back at 11 in the morning, but they'd left at 11 the previous night and all John wanted was sleep, and Sherlock had been wise enough to leave the violin in its case and refrain from exploding things.

'Well?' John asked, rubbing his eyes.

'Not my fault,' Sherlock said blandly.

'Armed attacker. Right after you finish getting the gang of armed robbers smuggling jewellery overseas convicted. Oh, what a funny coincidence I think not. Your fault.'

Sherlock glanced at him. 'You're oddly aggressive today.'

'I've had precisely three hours sleep out of the last twenty. Yes. I'm tired and I'm grumpy, Sherlock, so could we refrain from near-death experiences today?'

John knew that was a pointless thing to ask because just being in a room with Sherlock was a near-death experience. His dark glare, however, was enough to make Sherlock Holmes keep his mouth shut and quietly begin typing something up on the laptop. This, in itself, was frankly a miracle.

John calmly got up and went back to bed, where he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Barely an hour later he was woken up by Sherlock.

This time around, Sherlock was not being shot. He was not being strangled. He was not, in fact, in any danger at all and this was why he was standing over John and shaking him cautiously (because even sociopaths have a self preservation instinct).

John shot upwards through layers of calm black sleep, surfaced into consciousness, and sat bolt upright, hitting Sherlock in the stomach.

He blinked away sleep from his eyes, took in the detective gasping for air on his carpet, and decided that since he was not in any actual life-threatening danger he was going back to sleep.

'John, wake up!' Sherlock said when he got his breath back. Keeping his distance, he cautiously tapped John on the shoulder again.

'Sherlock,' John mumbled, 'Go. Away. Now.'

'We've got a case!' Sherlock said excitedly.

'Whoopee,' John murmured into his pillow.

Sherlock shrugged and left the room. John heard him walk down the stairs- treading deliberately heavily, he's sure- and a moment later, heard the slam of the door.

John turned over and went back to sleep.

Sherlock waited for a moment outside the flat, then shrugged and hailed a taxi.


The Jones Memorial Concert Hall, or just the Jones Hall as it was known, was on the outskirts of London and not too busy. Or rather, it hadn't been too busy. When Sherlock arrived the place was swarming with police officers and the door was taped off.

Lestrade met him at the stage door.

'One victim. Female. Emily Sato, aged 21, clarinettist. She was rehearsing late and was found by a… friend, dead.'

Sherlock heard Lestrade's infinitesimal pause before "friend". 'Something you want to share about him?'

'How did you- never mind. I don't know what he was to her and he's too distraught to give more than a basic statement.'

'Cause of death?'

'Poison.'

'Administered how?'

'Orally, but in an unknown substance. We're waiting on the autopsy.'

As they spoke they were making their way through the building to the stage, still littered with chairs and music stands. They passed the last of the forensics team as they packed up and left. Sherlock strode past them with hardly a glance.

Lestrade followed him as he picked his way between chairs and knelt by the body.

'Well?'

'When was she found?' Sherlock asked as he prodded and poked the body.

'Five o'clock. The guy had arranged to come meet her for dinner or something. He was a bit incoherent, to be honest.'

'Time of death, four thirty,' Sherlock murmured to himself. 'Cause, cyanide… not eaten so far today, small flat, between jobs, poor…'

'So where's Doctor Watson today?' Lestrade asked in an attempt to make conversation.

'In bed,' Sherlock replied tersely. 'Says he's too tired to help.'

Lestrade blinked and shook his head. 'Making conversation with you is pointless isn't it?'

'Very,' Sherlock replied, his voice muffled as he knelt to examine Emily Sato's fingernails.

'Fine. Anything you can tell me?'

Sherlock straightened up. 'Where's her case?'

'Oh, please don't let's have a repeat of the suitcase thing-'

'Found it,' Sherlock interrupted, pulling Sato's clarinet case towards him. He rifles through it impatiently.

'What are you looking for?' Lestrade asked curiously.

Sherlock pulled out a plastic case. It was empty.

'Reed,' he said shortly.

'You what?' was Lestrade's sophisticated reply.

'She doesn't have a spare,' Sherlock said. He's busily prising the clarinet from the dead woman's hand.

'You lost me at "read". Read what?'

'Reed, clarinet reed. Normally people carry spares…' Sherlock was dismantling the clarinet.

'So… what?'

Sherlock pulled a small brown piece of what looked to Lestrade like wood from the end of the mouthpiece. 'So, this was the only one she had. and if we combine that with the fact she's barely got money to eat…'

Lestrade just looked confused.

'Somebody gave it to her,' Sherlock said in exasperation. 'It's brand new, she has no receipt, and she hasn't been buying anything for days because she's destitute until payday at the end of the week.'

'Right. So somebody gave her a reed. She probably borrowed it from one of the other clarinettists.'

'Only one other clarinettist,' Sherlock said. 'And that puts your witness as our prime suspect.' He stood up quickly.

'How did you know he's a clarinettist?' Lestrade asked, agog.

'There's only the two of them in the orchestra, stands to reason they'd be close. And she's got a card from him in her pocket.' Sherlock Frisbee-d the rectangle of card to Lestrade, who examined it.

'So,' Sherlock said with a humourless smile. 'I need to talk to Jack.'


AN: OK, so, as you may be able to tell I'm a bit obsessed with Torchwood right now. I swear it was a coincidence that most of the characters ended up here...

I've really no idea where this one's going. Really. At all.

And in my head, Lestrade plays the tuba. Don't ask me why. But that gives us a representation of the main families of instruments in the Trio of Awesome (violin, clarinet, tuba). And no, I don't count percussion because I'm elitist :)