John was surprised at Sherlock's sudden lack of direction. He could have sworn the lobby meant for Intermission was the opposite way they were going.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock chided in response to his unspoken question. "Catching a murderer is much less dull than buying over-priced biscuits."
"All this- This... outing, it's for a case?" John didn't know why he was so disappointed. He liked cases.
"Yes." Sherlock gave him a calculating look.
"Oh," said John. "Right. Let's get on with it, then."
If there was a change in the detective's expression, he walked out of John's sight before it could be seen. John, telling himself repeatedly that he liked cases, followed.
Their excursion brought them to the front row of the theatre. The curtain was drawn; a pity, he would have liked to see the set closer up. Sherlock, however, wasn't interested in the stage. He calmly leapt over the rail onto the roof of the orchestra shell.
John glanced at the ushers stationed to either side. The one on the right had noticed and was speaking into a walkie talkie. As John watched, the call was finished, the walkie replaced in the usher's belt, and brisk steps were bringing him their way.
"John, the game," Sherlock reminded him. His hand was outstretched to beckon him over the rail as well.
"I don't care what's afoot," John told him. He didn't know why he bothered protesting, he was already hefting himself over the rail to join his companion. "I don't want to get kicked out before I've seen the second act."
Sherlock reached out to steady his landing, though there wasn't much need. "We'll see the rest. Otherwise, why would I wait for Intermission?"
"Don't pretend the timing is anything but a coincidence," said John. The two strolled down the side of the convex structure as if it were a regular London walk. The usher overlooking them from the rail was quite peeved. "You worked out ahead of time when the action would be."
"A happy coincidence, then," Sherlock conceded with a grin. John rolled his eyes.
The orchestra pit was comfortably arranged with instruments and their musicians; an idle chatter replacing the earlier score. There was a fair amount of massaging sore lips from the wind players. John was astonished that such a full sound could be produced by such a small number of musicians.
Sherlock gazed longingly at the violin section, but tore his attention from them to pursue their mission. He made his way to the percussion section instead, his resolve growing stronger when the strings were behind him.
One percussionist was busy tuning the timpani. There were only two, the other was repositioning a bass drum.
"Excuse me," he called to the man at the timpani. The percussionist looked up from where he was hunched over the drum, eyes wide as if startled from a trance. A round, silver tool of some sort was still at his mouth, ready to blow a reference note.
"Are you allowed back here?" the man asked. He set his single mallet on the largest timpani and straightened up to address them.
"Not really, no," Sherlock admitted. "Your sister sent me, she wants to let you know that she switched her tickets to tomorrow's performance. And to 'let it wail' on your solo next act." Cue fabricated smile.
"Oh, sure," he said. "Don't know why she'd send you, though. You owe her a favor?"
Sherlock shrugged with an air of 'what could I do?'. "Yeah, does that happen a lot?"
"Tons," the percussionist assured him. "She always has some bloke or another under her spell."
"I'm sure," said Sherlock.
The man smirked knowingly. "But really, how did you-"
"John," Sherlock suddenly interrupted. "Take these." He shoved a pair of open hand cuffs in his general direction, which John caught on instinct.
"What for?" John asked, alarmed.
"Who for," Sherlock corrected. "Her. With the bass drum."
The woman snapped to her feet, but John was quicker. He'd hurdled a marimba and locked her in one side of the cuffs before she could get five paces.
"Why her?" John asked. He knew when to save his questions until after the moment of capture.
"Watch your feet, John," Sherlock pointed to the ground. "Two pairs of shoes in one night would be quite an inconvenience."
"Not more adhesive," he groaned. Sure enough, a layer of it was visible around the drum.
"It's meant for him," Sherlock gestured to the not-hand cuffed percussionist. "She bolted the square of adhesive to the floor before the show. She's in charge of the bass drum for act one, so it starts over there," he pointed to the spot it had been moved from. "In the next act, there's a twenty-four bar solo that he's in charge of; plenty of time for the glue to set. In her pocket is a pistol. The solo ends when a gun goes off on stage, so she would time her shot with that. The exit is at the back here, so she'd be off before the dialogue ended and the pit started to miss the chimes for the next song."
"How did you know?" she snarled.
"The culprit was someone strong, they'd have to be to push over two grown men without falling over themselves. You demonstrated that by moving the drum, you had to lift it, wheel cart and all, over the adhesive patch. You may be leaving tonight, but you didn't want to damage the equipment, even if it was only compromising the rollers.
"Also, the victims were all regulars on an anti-feminist website." He turned to the percussionist with the timpani. "This one here's an editor. You should cut that out. It's bad for your health, as our culprit has kindly demonstrated.
"The other murders all took place within a five minute walk of this location and thirty minutes of the show's end time. Obviously someone involved with production. At first I assumed actor, but a small cast like this would notice any immediate absences. There's surely some kind of tedious tradition after every performance. The pit wouldn't be held to such nonsense." There was a pause, as if Sherlock were waiting for something. After a moment, he looked at John expectantly.
"What?" John snapped to attention from his own thoughts. "Oh, right. Brilliant. That's amazing." He started to drift again. Sherlock looked a little betrayed.
The culprit took advantage of John zoning out to yank the cuffs out of he captor's hand and bolt out the door at the back of the shell.
"Shit," John cursed. He took off after his escaped query with Sherlock on his heels.
The culprit was at an advantage by knowing her way around backstage. She weaved between tuba and bass clarinet cases and wrenched open a side door. John skidded around the threshold, catching the door before I closed behind her. Steps lay ahead. God help him.
The flittering steps of heels echoed down to him. That was a blessing. He took the steps two or three at a time. He gained enough ground to spot his query's high-heeled foot before it disappeared through another door.
The final stretch was before him, the end point marked by a glowing green exit sign. The last straightaway was a catwalk, the curtain visible off to the right. John concentrated on his target and willed his legs in to motion. He was gaining, but she was fast too and already more than halfway down the line. The distance was closing. Ten meters. Seven. Five. Two. It was close, but he wasn't going to make it.
"John!" Sherlock called from the door.
Great. Now he'll see me being utterly incompetent twice in one date, John thought in a separate part of his mind than the running part. Day. I meant day.
The next stride put the culprit almost within his reach. John thrust out his hand, aiming for her right, which had the half cuff fastened to it. To his astonishment, his hand connected with metal and he clamped the open ring to the rail in one motion. A satisfying clang resounded in the upper atmosphere of the theatre and the culprit was jerked to a halt.
"Good work John," Sherlock congratulated him, barely breathing hard. "Let's get back to our seats. I saw the lights flicker for the next act."