Author's note: This work is also published on Archive of our Own. ( /works/9300560/chapters/21080546)

"Watson," enquired Sherlock Holmes, looking away from his usual perch at the window where he smoked his usual evening pipe while watching the people of London go past "Would you call me a normally very dramatic man?"

I looked up from my evening newspaper; which was running the usual headlines of the Prime Minister making a statement, an increasing inflation rate, and a scandal close to Birmingham. "I beg your pardon, Holmes?"

"I asked, would you call me a normally very dramatic man?" Holmes repeated, looking back at me again for another split second, before turning his head away from me again, and taking a long drag of his pipe.

"Well, naturally, that would depend on whether you currently have a case or not." I replied. "However, I certainly would say you are somewhat dramatic."

"Normally?"

"Well, certainly more in some cases more than others. Such as the naval treaty incident, for example."

"Ah yes. I quite literally served up the answer to Mr. Phelps on a silver platter." Holmes chuckled. "And under the promise of breakfast, no less."

"Well then, why is it that you ask?" I enquired.

"For Gregson is about to present to us an interesting, if now somewhat critical case involving the theatre, I can tell. Hush now, Watson, for I can hear him on the stairs. Come in, Inspector Gregson! The door is open!"

And moments later, the door to our suite burst open, and in ran Tobias Gregson, exactly as Sherlock Holmes himself had predicted.

"M-Mr. Holmes..." Wheezed Gregson, out of breath from having sprinted up the stairs as though his very life itself had depended upon it. "I-I've... I've got an interesting case... for... you..."

"Come now Inspector, please take a seat, and feel free to help yourself to some water." Said Holmes, pointing his hand towards the settee. Gregson shuffled to the settee and flopped down onto it as though he were thrown on. He remained quiet for a few minutes, drinking down several glasses of water, before he finally managed to catch his breath.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Said Gregson.

"Come now, Gregson! You never told me you were involved in amateur dramatics!" Cried Sherlock Holmes, with a smirk on his face. "In-fact, I would dare say that you are only returned from a performance."

"How on earth could you tell, Holmes?" I cried.

"Simple, my dear Watson." Holmes explained. "The dear inspector's face is remarkably lacklustre, even though he has just ran for quite a while to get here. This would obviously create an exceptionally large amount of sweat, and yet there is next to no shine of sweat upon his forehead. Thus, he is wearing makeup that is similar to his skin-tone and thus, obviously designed to prevent sweat from showing. The stage lights use lime to create such a bright shine, and additionally, creates over two and a half thousand degrees in temperature - so, a lot of heat, a lot of sweat. Stage makeup prevents sweat from showing and withstands high temperatures. Thus, it must be stage makeup."

Gregson asked, "And the fact that I'm in amateur dramatics?"

"Quite simple." Holmes added, sitting into his armchair. "I recognise the brand of makeup for not being particularly expensive - so, not a large production with an even larger budget. Furthermore, Gregson is better known for his police work than his acting skills. I believe the fact that you yourself, Watson, named a chapter in your Study in Scarlet, "Tobias Gregson shows what he can do" also corroborates this fact. So, he is not a professional actor, and thus it must be amateur dramatics, lest Gregson lead a double life that nobody else knows about."

"You're correct on all points, Mr. Holmes." Said Gregson. "I'm involved in a local amateur dramatics society as you say, and I've run out to come and see you. There was an incident, you see, in the middle of the performance. That's why I'm still in my stage costume."

Tobias Gregson was, indeed, wearing a stage costume of a grey suit with waistcoat, trousers, dark blue tie and black leather shoes, opposed to his usual brown suit, trench coat and bowler hat that Holmes and I were so used to seeing him in when he was working on an investigation.

"Do explain," Said Holmes sitting back in his armchair, with a languid and dream-like expression on his face. "what exactly happened, and perhaps I will be able to provide an explanation for you."

Gregson took a deep breath, and began to recount his tale to us.

"Well, for the last few months, my local amateur dramatics society has been rehearsing for a performance of A.C Doyle's A Murder in Mauve, and our only performance was tonight.

"It was all going well, that is, until we got to the final part of the play. Where Isaac Hopkins, the real culprit of the story, played by Marvin Foreman, tries to hit the detective, Sydney Hope, over the head with his aluminium crutch."

"Ah yes." Interrupted Holmes for a brief moment. "I've seen the play performed before. I found the backstory of cowboys and Mormons to be a little trifling and somewhat tenuous, however. Pray continue, Inspector."

"Yes, well, anyway," Gregson continued, dabbing his brow with his handkerchief and accidentally removing a small amount of his stage make-up at the same time.

"We rehearsed the scene carefully, time after time, with a rubber duplicate of the crutch, just to make sure that there wouldn't be any injury to anybody during the scene. And we performed the scene exactly as we had rehearsed. Except..."

"Except what?" Enquired Holmes, leaning forward in his chair, looking forward to finding out the critical detail.

"Except, when Marvin went to hit Benjamin, the guy who was playing Sydney, and struck him over the head with the crutch, it really did kill him! Cracked his skull open!" Gregson exclaimed suddenly, even going as far to hit his fist into the palm of his other hand for further dramatic effect.

"So then the false aluminium crutch was swapped for a real aluminium crutch." Holmes concluded. "Was the police informed before you ran here?"

"Yes, one of the theatre ushers ran out to get a constable. I went out the other way to come and get you." Gregson explained. "They'll be looking for me back in a while to help with the investigation. I had to be quick, and there was no time to wait around for a cab. That's why I both look and feel as though I ran from here to Dartmoor."

"I see." Said Sherlock Holmes. "However, do you think that, perhaps, the aluminium crutch was switched by mistake - a real aluminium being confused for a rubber decoy - which resulted in such a tragedy below the stage light?"

"Certainly not!" Gregson barked dismissively, as though he had been deeply insulted. "All the props are kept under lock and key, and only the people involved in the production have any access to any of the props!"

"I see, well, Watson and I are able to spare the evening, and we should be delighted to help out with your investigation. Inspector, would you be so kind enough as to go and call a cab? Come now, Watson, for murder most foul has occurred beneath the spotlight."