The Phantom of Baker Street
A/N- I've had the beginning of this story sitting around for a while, and I decided to post it to see if anyone would be interested in reading it and seeing it continued. So make sure to review if you want more!
CHAPTER ONE
"Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG WRONG WRONG!" Sherlock shouted. "Did I not send each of them letters detailing exactly how my theater is to be run? Did I not explicitly say that Ms. Donovan was not to be given the lead in any future productions? And yet they have cast her as Elissa, and no doubt when they move on to Il Muto she'll be playing the Countess."
Sherlock sighed and dropped into an armchair, violin still in hand. "Fools, all of them," he muttered.
John Watson dropped into the armchair opposite Sherlock's and stared into the ever-present fire that he struggled to maintain in an attempt to ward off the chill in the house on the lake.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I gave all of your notes to Mrs. Hudson, and she says she's delivered all of them. There's not much more we can do."
Sherlock did not respond, choosing to pluck out a new tune on his beloved violin instead.
"Sherlock?"
The masked man jumped eagerly to his feet upon hearing the ballet mistress' voice.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson! Just the woman I wanted to see! I'll need you to deliver another note to our dear managers-"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Sherlock? I'm a ballet mistress, not a delivery woman!" she chided.
"Fine," Sherlock pouted. "I suppose I'll have to pay them a visit myself." And with that he took off down one of the many secret passages hidden in the London Opera House, violin still in hand.
"Wait, Sherlock!" John called, hurrying after him. "You're not going to reveal yourself to them, are you?"
"Of course not, my dear Persian!" Sherlock called back. "You seem to forget that I designed the walls of the opera house to be thin, particularly along the path of my passages. They will hear, but not see. Hurry up, if you're coming, and keep silent!"
"I have a name," John grumbled. "You can stop using that bloody nickname! As I recall, you spent just as much time in the Middle East as I did; why don't I call you the Persian for a change?"
At this, Sherlock stopped and turned to face his dear friend.
"I already have a quite a charming sobriquet," he said with a grin. "The Phantom of the Opera."
It was running down his mysterious halls that Sherlock first heard her. Her crying, to be precise. He stopped at once and signaled John to be silent. It only took a glance at the hidden mirror to his right to tell Sherlock that he was outside the prima donna's dressing room; he had made sure to leave himself with opportunities to- not spy, simply keep an eye on some of the more influential people in the opera house when he had helped with the building's design. The managers, the patrons, and of course the first lady of the stage.
Sherlock approached the mirror, smirking as he wondered what had inspired Sally's latest tantrum. To his surprise, it was not Ms. Donovan who had thrown herself on the extravagant bed and sobbed loudly enough to attract Sherlock's attention.
It was a young girl, perhaps eighteen (a ballet or chorus girl then; certainly not one of the lead singers or dancers) with a mass of blonde curls on her head (this paired with her complexion suggested that she was not British, Scandinavian perhaps; if she had blue eyes that would make her Scandinavian heritage almost certain as she didn't have the stout build common in German girls). She must have been a recent addition to the chorus or ballet corps, as Sherlock did not recognize her. He knew everyone in his opera house. Unfortunately, the combination of the girl's face being down on the bed and the fact that he could not approach her any further limited how much he could deduce about her. Until she began to speak.
"Oh, Papa!" she cried. "I am so lost without you. Already they are asking so much of me... how could you have abandoned your Little Lotte before she knew her place in the world?"
She dropped her head back onto the bed and sniffled pitifully for a moment before speaking again.
"I'm sorry, Papa. I did not mean that. I'm simply overwhelmed...in over my head. If only you would send the Angel of Music you promised..."
Interesting. Interesting indeed. Sherlock knew for sure now the girl was Scandinavian, Swedish in fact (Little Lotte and her Angel of Music were characters from a well-known Swedish children's story, but her slight accent would have given her away without the reference to Swedish folk tales), and had likely recently lost her father. Her mother was obviously not with her, most likely she died before the father. Overwhelmed by the amount of work expected from her at the opera house, very new then, or perhaps she was simply poor at adjusting to her new situation (understandable; Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Reyer were both hard taskmasters, of course Sherlock expected nothing less from his employees). Her talent (if she had any at all) obviously lay in her voice if she were begging for a fictional Angel of Music to aid her; the fabled specter did not visit dancers.
But hadn't Mrs. Hudson mentioned a new ballet rat? Sherlock searched for the girl's name, hoping he hadn't deleted it. Christine... Christine Daaé. Definitely Swedish. So this girl was the new ballet rat. What then, was she doing in the prima donna's dressing room. Sherlock sighed. I suppose there is only one way to find out...
He lifted his violin to his chin, making a shushing motion at John, and began to improvise a simple tune. The girl's head immediately snapped up, searching for the source of the sound. Sherlock began to sing.
"Dear child, pray why are you weeping?
Why do you sit there and cry?"
"Who are you?" the girl whispered.
"I am your Angel of Music
I am by your side!"
Christine sat up and smiled, brushing tears from her eyes. She opened her mouth and sang a response.
"Angel, I hear you: speak, I listen!
Stay by my side, guide me.
Angel, I'm lost, I need your guidance!
Help me please, dear Angel!"
Sherlock hesitated only slightly before continuing, hoping his deductions were correct.
"Christine, your voice is a beauty
Just do your best, you will see
You're meant to be in the limelight
For all to see!"
"You can't rhyme 'see' with 'see'!" John hissed. Sherlock waved him off and returned his attention to Christine.
She had relaxed visibly, letting her shoulders droop and tucking her legs underneath to be more comfortable.
"Oh Angel," she sighed. "Your kind words mean so much to me! I have only been a member of this wonderful opera house for a month, and...and already I am being asked to sing a leading part!"
A leading part? Surely not! Sherlock would prefer almost anyone over Ms. Donovan, and the girl's voice wasn't terrible (certainly in use of some training) but someone with a little more experience would be nice! What were these idiotic managers thinking?
"What do you mean, dear child?"
She sniffled and sat up a little straighter. "Well, you see, usually Ms. Donovan plays the part of Elissa. She is the prima donna."
Sherlock resisted the urge to make a scathing sound; angels do not have such disrespect for others, after all.
"But today, during rehearsal, right in the middle of 'Think of Me', the backdrop fell! It almost killed her!"
Please, Sherlock thought. I had it planned perfectly. It struck the most cushioned part of her ridiculous costume; she'll be slightly bruised at worst.
"The managers thought it was Buquet. He's one of the stagehands."
Yes, and an incompetent one at that. Would it be possible for Anderson and Lestrade to hire men who aren't drunkards?
"But some of the other girls...they thought it was the Phantom! Everyone thinks the opera house is haunted. I don't think so. In any case, Ms. Donovan said she had had enough. Apparently accidents like that are common, around her at least. And everyone says it's the Phantom! They blame him for everything." Christine giggled. "Once, one of my friend Molly's hair ties went missing, and she said it must have been the Phantom! Why would a ghost want a girl's hair tie?"
The girl assumed a more serious expression.
"But after Ms. Donovan left, the managers started to panic; they thought they would have to refund a full house for our Gala tonight. And then...Molly said I could sing it! She just told the managers that I knew the song, and I could play the part of Elissa!"
"And do you? Do you know the part?" Sherlock asked, trying hard not to lose his patience with this girl.
Christine blushed. "Well, sort of. We go over everything so much in rehearsal...it's hard not to learn the other parts! And some of Elissa's songs are so beautiful, I can't stop myself singing them every now and then. I suppose Molly must have heard me once; otherwise she wouldn't have any reason to say I knew it. So...the managers asked me to sing 'Think of Me' and I did. But now they want me to replace Ms. Donovan at the Gala tonight! I don't think I can do this, Angel!"
"I am sure you will do fine, my dear. As I said, you have a beautiful voice."
"Thank you, Angel," she said softly.
"I must go now. Unfortunately, I have other matters to attend to."
The girl suddenly looked dismayed. "Oh please, Angel. Can't you stay?"
"I am afraid not, my dear."
Christine nodded sadly. "All right. Goodbye, Angel. Thank you."
"Goodbye, Christine."
Finally Sherlock could continue on his way to the managers' office. The opportunity to deduce Christine had been enough of a distraction without his having to comfort her.
"So, what was that all about?" John asked.
"Simply boosting a girl's confidence," Sherlock replied. "With any luck, we'll have found a replacement for her before tonight."
"Then what was the point of talking to her? She thinks you're an angel now!"
"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed. "She can't be that dense, to think there are such things as angels."
"Well even if she was skeptical before she certainly believes in them now! You just couldn't stay out of it, could you?"
Sherlock said nothing.
"And why bother looking for a replacement? She had a nice enough voice. Better than Sally's screeching. You said yourself it was a beauty! I think it'd be nice to give her a chance to sing."
Sherlock gave John a look. "You didn't think I actually meant that, did you?"
"Oh, have a heart, Sherlock! Was it really that bad?"
Sherlock heaved an enormous sigh and turned to face John.
"Her voice was not terrible," he said, speaking very rapidly. "However she has terrible breath support and the manner in which she pronounces her vowels is simply atrocious. Perhaps with training, a lot of training she could become decent; I admit the girl has potential. However the likeliness of the girl finding a teacher, rehearsing and improving by tonight is next to none. So yes, I will be finding a replacement for Ms. Daaé."
"You could just teach her yourself," John suggested. "You are her Angel of Music, aren't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Well what if Lestrade and Anderson don't find a replacement for her? Sounds like they're fine with having the girl sing."
"They will. They know better than to cross me."
"But Sherlock, what if they don't?"
"I'm going to talk to them now, Watson. They will find a replacement for that girl or I swear to you, a disaster beyond imagination will occur. Mark my words."
After leaving Sherlock to have a word with the managers, John left the opera house to take care of some business of his own. He returned to find Sherlock abusing the piano he had somehow managed to bring all the way down to the fifth cellar, banging out angry and violent chords while Mrs. Hudson looked on, concerned. Obviously the meeting with the managers had not gone well.
"How long has he been going at it?" John shouted over the noise.
Mrs. Hudson shook her head, sighing. "Over an hour. As soon as he got back from the managers' office. Didn't even start on his violin, he went right for the piano. Can't help but feel sorry for the poor instrument!"
Sherlock must have been in a foul mood indeed, if he had picked the piano over his violin; he claimed the former suited angry playing better than the small string instrument and was therefore more useful when he needed to let off steam. John didn't even want to imagine what sort of state the poor violin would be in if Sherlock decided to use it to release his rage.
Still, this had been going on long enough.
"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John called, approaching the piano. Sherlock banged out one final, dissonant chord before slamming down the keyboard cover and turning to face John.
"How did those daft old windbags ever manage to secure positions running an opera house when it is blindingly obvious that they don't know the first thing about music?"
"I take it the meeting didn't go well?" John asked. Sherlock laughed harshly and jumped to his feet, beginning to pace back and forth across the room.
"Oh, not going well is an understatement! They insisted that Ms. Daaé would be singing tonight, after all it would be impossible to locate a replacement at such short notice and besides, the girl's singing was simply marvelous! Ha!"
"Looks like you'll have to teach her yourself," John said, shrugging. Sherlock stopped pacing at once.
"Surely you jest," he said, pulling a face.
"If they're going to make her sing and you want her to sound good-"
"John..."
"Then you're the best man for the job! You can ensure that she'll meet your standards."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically before returning to his seat in front of the piano.
"I don't teach," he said pointedly, lifting the keyboard cover. With that, he returned to his furious pounding of the ivory and ebony keys.
"As far as I know you've never tried!" John reminded him. "Does the brilliant Sherlock Holmes really think himself incapable of spending one afternoon teaching a girl to...what was it you had an issue with, her breathing? Surely it can't be that difficult."
"It seems our managers," he accented the word with an ugly bang of keys, "are leaving me with no choice!" He sighed, resigning himself to the fate set before him. "If the girl is in her room, I'll teach her. See what little musical knowledge I can pound into her empty head."
John beamed. "I'll get your violin."
Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his temples.
"Damn."
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Sherlock, Christine was in her dressing room, alone and ready to be taught. Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, pausing for a brief moment before speaking to Christine.
"I hear you have a big performance tonight, Christine," he said, trying to sound as angelic as possible.
Christine, who had been blankly staring at her reflection in the floor-length mirror that was all that stood between herself and her Angel, brightened considerably and looked around in an attempt to discern the origin of her Angel's voice.
"Angel? You came back! And yes, the Gala performance is tonight. I can hardly wait! ... But I am also nervous."
"You need not worry, my dear," Sherlock said soothingly (fully assuming his role as Angel). "I am here to help you prepare, to ensure that you sound you best."
Christine sat down on her bed, looking grateful. "Oh Angel, I-"
"On your feet!" Sherlock snapped. Christine immediately stood, looking startled. Sherlock hurried to rectify his mistake.
"We can't have you rehearse while you are sitting, my dear," he said gently. Or tried. He took a deep breath, trying very hard to maintain his angelic composure.
"You'll breathe better standing up. Now, Elissa's aria. From the top of the piece, if you please. I will give you your starting note," he told her, playing the note on his violin. Christine hummed the note to herself before beginning.
"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said-"
"No, no, no!" Sherlock interrupted. "You aren't using nearly enough breath support to carry through the entire phrase, and your diction is..."
Sherlock trailed off as he realized that, once again, he had frightened the girl with his outburst. Already her lip was quivering and tears were forming in her eyes. After a quick count to ten and another deep breath, Sherlock addressed the girl more calmly.
"You must forgive me, child. I have very high expectations for someone as...gifted as yourself. I simply wish for you to sound your best. Will you allow me to offer my advice?"
Christine nodded shakily, quickly wiping her eyes.
"First of all, there is something important I must remind you of. Why did I ask you to stand?"
"...so I can breathe better," Christine said in little more than a whimper.
"Exactly!" Sherlock said fiercely.
"You cannot sing if you do not breathe! Your lungs extend three quarters of the way down your torso, further than you may have thought, plenty of room for air. You must always remember to breathe, take advantage of the full capacity of your lungs; you should feel pressure in your abdomen every time you take a breath. Take a deep breath, Christine."
Christine, looking more bewildered than frightened now, complied with her Angel's request.
"Did you feel it? Did you feel that tightness in your stomach?"
Christine nodded, growing in confidence now.
"That is what you must feel every time you take a breath. Taking in more air than is necessary for a phrase will never do you any harm but to run out of breath before you finish a phrase is something I wish to avoid at all costs. Remember to breathe! Now, about your diction: we do not sing as we speak. Enunciate your consonants, at the beginning and end of each word. Your vowels should sound open, think of your airway opening up as you sing. The first phrase is not 'think uv me', rather 'think of me'. 'Ah' not 'uv', do you understand?"
Christine nodded once more. It seemed she had quickly grown accustomed to her teacher's habit of throwing a great deal of information at her at once.
"Good. Now, if you would start from the top of the piece. Your starting note..."
Much to Sherlock's surprise, Christine was a fast learner. He kept her rehearsing until supper, by which time she had improved greatly (not to Sherlock's standards of course, but far closer than he had thought possible; she should be able to make it through the Gala without embarrassing herself). He had dismissed her when he realized the lateness of the hour; she had yet to eat and dress for her performance. She thanked him profusely for his help, and he wished her well on her first performance.
John was waiting for Sherlock when he returned from Christine's lesson.
"How'd it go?" he inquired eagerly. "Tell me everything!"
Sherlock ignored John as he returned his violin to its case and made a cup of tea. When he was finally situated in front of the fire (John sitting opposite with his own cup of tea), he gave John a minimal summary of events.
"The most urgent issues, breathing and diction, were dealt with; however I didn't have nearly enough time to begin addressing her range so I instructed her to sing the ending of the piece down the octave. I will require to meet with her again to fully deal with these issues and begin to address others-"
"Again? As in, give her more lessons?"
Sherlock frowned. "Of course. Presuming her performance goes well tonight, Lestrade and Anderson will continue to have her sing. If she is to continue appearing on my stage, I must get her voice up to scratch, as they say. As you said, I am the only one who will be able to instruct the girl in a manner so that her voice will be satisfactory."
John shrugged, sipping at his tea. "It just sounded like you were intending this to be a one time thing. Did you change you mind about getting Christine replaced?"
Sherlock got to his feet. "I did not change my mind. Christine did. More precisely, her potential did. If you'll excuse me, I shall be in box five watching the Gala."
It was John's turn to frown. "Thought you didn't go to these things."
"Why would I insist on having a box reserved if I never intended to attend a performance? In any case, I must make sure Christine does well."
John smiled. "I see you're calling her Christine now."
Sherlock said nothing; he slipped on his cloak and silently disappeared down one of his numerous passages.
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