" Erik. Why Erik?" Sherlock couldn't help thinking it. Out of all the things she could have called him Christine called him her angel. It was touching really, but Sherlock knew he was swimming in dangerous waters. It had been nearly twenty years since the accident and though the wounds had healed, the scars physically and emotionally remained fresh to him. But now his Christine bore a scar also. It gave him a sense of hope to see her injured like that; it allowed him to dream that she would understand what happened and that he would finally be accepted for who he was.

" You're just fooling yourself. How could anyone look past that?" Instinctively, Sherlock's hand went to his face to double check if his mask was still on. He created it after he found a pile of leather that the costume designers had left after the last opera. Picking out a cream sheet and a black sheet, Sherlock took them to his hideaway and began to make his masks. The black one was the first one he started with, its form and suppleness gave him the ability to make a full facial mask that covered all of his scars. The cream one though, was so willing to form. When he tried to make a full mask the leather cracked on the left side, leaving only part of the right unharmed. But when he tried it on, he discovered that it fit perfectly. After wearing it for a while, Sherlock forgot about it, it literally became a part of him and every now and again he would have to double check if it was still on.

Sherlock meandered through his gloomy kingdom avoiding contact with others at all cost. He knew that the superstitious freaks above him thought he was ghost or a phantom and ironically it worked for him. It gave him mobility and power over he weak-minded. Every month he was paid his salary of 20.000 joules, but having this done for twenty years did rack up a lot of cash, which he couldn't spend. That is when he heard her, a lonely voice singing softly as she cleaned off the stage. Her voice was a soprano, but it lacked body. Yet what startled him was that there was a rich sense of emotion that flowed upon the words and through him. Sherlock knew if he could train that voice, she could bring the audience to tears. That is when it began, his greatest mission, that held both secrecy and stealth, but what he didn't expect was love. It wasn't passion; he knew what that was after a few nights of spending some time alone with himself. No, this was different, it was stronger, purer, a feeling that made his hearts rage every time he saw Christine. Truthfully it made the great Opera Ghost cry in rage and hopelessness.

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock made his way up to the rooftop to watch the sunset. Opening the skylight that was his entrance he came across the one person who he didn't want to see. Christine sat there, in the dirt and grime of the roof looking as beautiful and pure as ever. But she was wearing a pair of pants and a shirt that looked awfully familiar to Sherlock. A small chuckle escaped his throat and she whipped around violently to see who shared the sacred space with her.

" Who's there?" This wasn't the voice of a child or even a young woman. This voice was filled with confidence and pride and deep down inside Sherlock it reminded him of someone he used to know.

" It is only I little one." His voice always sounded strange to him, deep and resonating as if he was talking from a deep pit. He watched Christine relax, her body moving almost fluidly into a cross-legged position.

" You are not talking to me through thought Master. Why?" The question punched Sherlock in the gut and he knew the game was up.

" How long have you known?"

" Known that you were the Opera Ghost? Long enough." The curt reply startled Sherlock.

" If you knew for that long why didn't you tell me?"

" You needed to do it in you're own time. I couldn't or wouldn't force you to tell me the truth."

Sherlock wanted to cry. This young beauty knew who he was and didn't care at all.

" Not until she actually sees you." The words burned bright against his eyes. It was with those words that Sherlock suddenly realized that she had planned this.

" And how long have you been following me?" She laughed. It rang around the statues and through Sherlock making his hearts ache for her even more. " That my dear sir, I shall keep to myself, thank you." And with that she was gone, back into the Opera House's warm body.

Sherlock leaned against the Apollo statue, his hearts racing and his mind off somewhere else. It had begun to snow, but his love was so pure that even the cold didn't bother him. She actually cares about him and he didn't even have to show her anything.

"Yet." He told himself. " Yet."


I love making Erik look human, i makes him more desirable. Anyway R&R