A/N – Admittedly, I've been about as subtle as an elephant with the plot, and the only excuse I can offer for Sherlock's blindness is this – We are all fools in love. Oh god, I think I've written Sherlock OCC. Noooo! Your opinions would be very much appreciated with this chapter; it was very difficult to write!


Chapter 3

"Ah, actually, I already have a date. With Sarah." John dashed over to the kitchen and frantically began making a cup of tea. I'm taking her to some posh restaurant in the Soho – can't recall the name at the moment. Reservation's been booked for weeks, couldn't cancel it now." He looked up at Sherlock fleetingly, looking simultaneously guilty and apologetic. "Sorry."

Sherlock looked down at his bare feet, and straightening up, looked square at John.

Feelings of rejection are for petty mortals.

The skull laughed. Sherlock suspected it was at his expense.

"I understand." Sherlock replied. John's look of guilt increased. Sherlock tilted his head. There was something distinctly wrong with John. Scanning his eyes over the man's person several times, Sherlock could not detect any clues, and it was frustrating. John looked worried.

Sherlock continued. "Because only an idiot would want to spend more time with other idiots." John almost let out a sigh of relief. "No matter." Sherlock paused. "I shall not attend. Piano isn't really my area." John chuckled, eyes glazing as he fondly reminisced.

Sherlock lay down on the sofa like a lady fainting, throwing the tickets on the floor in disgust.

John coughed awkwardly. "Well, I have a, uh, date to be getting ready for." Gulping down the scalding cup of tea in record time, he dashed up to his room.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, eyes closed, mind whirring. In reflection, it would be for the best that John hadn't accompanied him. He couldn't have approached the 'Masked Pianist' with John in tow. But the sting of rejection still hurt, even if it could have been spared if he had bothered to turn his charm levels up a notch.

But he stubbornly refused to accept Mycroft's assistance with this matter. Damn his brother, he would solve this enigma alone, and he didn't need help (Sherlock sneered at the word) from any elusive geniuses.

A good place to start would be to follow John on his date. Yes, that was certainly the place to start.

Sherlock heard John from his room an hour later. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

"I'll be back around ten, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent.

"Goodbye then." 69 seconds later, the door slammed shut.

As Sherlock stood up, his phone vibrated, sending spasms down his numb left leg.

New Message from Mycroft

Opening it, Sherlock scanned over the contents. Damn his brother, sending a text message was – he admitted grudgingly – rather tactical. Unlike phone calls, he couldn't hang up, and his innate curiosity always got the better of him – meaning he had to read it.

'Use the tickets and talk to the Masked Pianist – or Mummy will find out exactly how her best china was broken.'

He wouldn't dare. Sherlock cursed his brother with a list of expletives that would have made a washerwoman blush. However, he shouldn't have been surprised – blackmail was just one of the many numerous dirty tricks Mycroft had hidden under his bespoke sleeve.

'You know I would, Sherlock. Use the tickets.' The 'or I'll tell Mummy' was left unspoken.

With a sigh of exasperated despair, Sherlock cursed his brother once more, and arose from the sofa. His plans for following John this evening would have to be postponed.

Casting a glance at his watch, Sherlock loped off to the bathroom. He had two hours before the concert began. Plenty of time.

Sherlock fiddled with his bow tie, resettling himself into seat. He sat in a row of the middle tier in the gladiator arena like concert hall, with the stage in the centre. On the stage sat a regal and expensive looking grand piano. Alas, pianos weren't really Sherlock's area.

If Mycroft was going to blackmail me into enduring this, the least he could have done was got me a front row seat!

When the Masked Pianist entered the stage, he would barely get a glimpse of the man, and that ridiculous face mask would only make deducing more difficult.

His tuxedo was not of place, at least. The seats were upholstered in plush red velvet and lined with gold, and the luxurious carpet and dark red. The gaudiness of it was nauseating.

He was finally going to kill Mycroft when he next saw him.

Silence fell upon the hall as a man strode out onto the stage.

"Welcome, Ladies and Gentleman. Tonight, it is my pleasure to present to you, the elusive, the extraordinary, the famed, Masked Pianist." With a flourish, the swept off the stage. A smattering of applause, and silence fell once more.

Suddenly, the stage began to seep with grey smoke, the fog permeating the air and forming a opaque shield around the stage.

Oh please, save me the dramatics. Sherlock sneered disdainfully, but he couldn't help but feel minutely impressed.

The smoke faded almost immediately, revealing a man dressed in the typical black tail coat wearing a black face mask. Sherlock squinted. Male, slightly smaller than average height with brown or blonde hair – it was almost impossible to tell from here. Sherlock craned his neck hopelessly.

The face mask was not conducive to his deductions. Inky black, elegant, with exquisite detail – although it was hazy from this distance – it covered his entire face, with slits for the eyes, nostrils and mouth. It clung to the man with no assistance, obviously bespoke.

Mycroft, you conniving bastard. Sherlock knew his brother had placed him here on purpose.

With one gallant bow, the man sat down at the piano.

Piano may not have been his area, but it was certainly Mummy's. Memories of being dragged by the collar by Father to the numerous concerts as a child had remained infuriatingly lodged in his mind. Sherlock had catalogued in a mental file many hundreds of piano pieces – filed for future reference, as it were.

The soft, sweet notes of Chaminade's Autumn fell upon his ears. But unlike the other audience members, he did not jump when the piece flew into the forte, staccato section. Obviously the man possessed some modicum of talent, but nowhere near enough for Sherlock to call him a genius.

A small pause once the piece ended and the pianist began Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. As he the music fell upon his ears, Sherlock fidgeted in a nervous state of tension and impatience. He could deduce virtually nothing about the pianist from this distance, and the added distraction of the piano was frustrating. He thrice cursed himself for not bringing binoculars.

One piece flew into another as Sherlock sat in his tense hiatus, although he did pick up some of his favourites – de Falla's Ritual Fire Dance and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The pianist possessed stamina in large quantities, and the dexterity of his fingers was sublime, three hours of almost continuous playing, excepting the ten minute interval halfway, in which Sherlock barely breathed, let alone moved.

Grudgingly, he admitted the man must have possessed more than just a modicum of talent. The audience was visibly entranced, and absolute silence had fallen, except for the sweet music of the piano.

There was something achingly familiar about the pianist, which only increased Sherlock's suspended agitation. The pianist himself seemed very tense, on edge, even.

Even Clair de Lune could not calm his jittering nerves. As the last notes of Grieg's Solitary Traveller faded out, he prayed to whatever God (s) that were that this would be the end.

The pianist arose, and walking to the front of the piano, bowed deeply. The audience burst into rapturous applause, copious amounts of whistles and cheers adding to the cacophony. Sherlock clapped politely.

As the audience arose to leave, the pianist turned to walk off the stage. Sherlock saw his chance. Politely barging his way through the crowds, he vaulted on the stage, and slid behind the black curtains that circumferenced the stage, heading for the door the pianist had left through.

Slamming the door behind him in a frantic frenzy, Sherlock chased after the pianist who was heading towards the fire exit at the bottom of the left corridor.

"Wait!" Sherlock hollered. The man turned around. Still wearing his mask, Sherlock could not read his facial expression, but he saw something akin to panic spark in the man's eyes.

Slowly turning around, the pianist began to sprint towards the exit. Surprised, it took Sherlock half a second to commence the chase.

The man was half way out of the exit door before the detective slammed into the back of him, Sherlock's long legs easily making up the distance. In a blind panic, Sherlock grabbed out. Something hard came into his grasp. Tugging, it gave way, and for a moment, Sherlock was worried he might have ripped the man's face off, before realising it was in fact the black face mask.

The pianist stumbled from the impact, and with no facade left to hide his face, the pianist gave Sherlock a quick flash of terror and dismay. However, the stumble had provided him with the propellant needed to continue his sprint down the dank alleyway which the exit opened out onto.

But Sherlock did not follow. He was frozen to the spot, face mask clenched tightly between his two fists, eyes fixed on the cobbles beneath. He swayed slightly as his brain processed facts and images.

Everything clicked into place. John's table tapping had been piano miming. He had been attending concerts instead of dates on his late nights.

How could he have been so blind? All the facts had been laid out on a silver platter right under his nose. He felt so stupid he literally kicked himself.

Even Mycroft had discovered this before him, and Sherlock lived with John, for the love of Darwin.

10:00pm.Inevitably, John would be home before him, but if everything went according to plan, that wouldn't matter.

After all, as Mycroft said, Sherlock had always had a flair for the dramatic.


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