Thank you to Charm and Strange once more!


~*The Vicomte's son*~

When I stepped outside of the door, the cool rush of the underground hallways instantly made me feel much better. I turned to look idly door each tunnel that led left and right. The lights held steadily, and, it was strangely quiet. I suppose it only surprised me so much because I always imagined every area of a theatre teeming with work. I stood for a moment, breathing in the cold and then went for the door handle to enter back inside. A sudden blast of ice air rushed up the collar of my shirt, the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up.

"Gardez vos yeux cachés…" A voice whispered to me, echoing off the walls, the floor. I steeled my legs. Its tone seemed strained, malicious.

I turned. "Who's there?" I kept my voice calm. Control, John. Control is imitating to a threat.

"Si vous restez ici, docteur, vous deviendrez aussi fou qu'eux deux…."A soft voice—a different voice than the first one—said, and I quickly snapped my attention to the left hall, pinpointing its location. A tall figured stood in the way. The shadows the crawled along the walls edged by him, spiriting for the door as if invisible people were walking throughout the small corridors. His dark eyes narrowed for a moment during their passing, looking rather ominous. I tried to not appear startled.

"I'm sorry…NonNon.." I floundered wearily for a minute, before entirely giving up translation. "I don't speak bloody French." Damn that book.

"I am sorry, docteur. Your friend speaks it almost perfectly. So, I just thought..." The figure gave a careless shrug as it walked towards me. The threatening volume had all but disappeared as it transition to a clear, accent-less voice. It was relieving to my ears to say the least. Even when these people spoke English I had trouble understanding. Then, I realized that he was the lad that had informed me of the Phantom in the first place.

"Almost perfectly?" I chuckled, relaxing as he came into plain view. "Don't tell him that, then."

"I wouldn't think of it," The boy smiled back, his dark blue eyes brightening for a moment in shared amusement. There was a slightly awkward pause in conversation, I searched for the means of inquiring about the precariously gruesome murder in the next room, but the lad beat me to it with an offhand question of his own.

"Considering your friend, if I may ask...he doesn't believe either, does he?"

"What? You—Oh you mean, with that ghost story, n' all that? Oh God. No. If it isn't logical, I'm pretty sure his entire brain shuts down until whoever's talking about it stops."

The teen chuckled softly for a moment, looking down at the sleek ancient tiles under us.

"Yes, well, I know your friend is right. It's pure delusion to believe in such rubbish. The workers here, they're sweet people, but, they're…gullible. With due respect to them, of course."

"Of course," I agreed. Gullible. I swallowed. I wouldn't know anything about that. "Look, I don't know if this is even right time for you, but may I possibly ask you some questions?"

The lad smiled that same sad smile. "If only, sir. But I have somewhere to be rather soon. I cannot."

"Oh," I breathed out. One dead end down, I guess. I went for the door's handle once more. "Right. Well. Nice to meet you, anyway. Thanks."

I slowly turned the knob, not all too excited to be locked in a stuffy room for three more hours with Sherlock, but I stopped, my ear catching on to a murmur from the lad. I slowly turned and leaned against the wall, nonchalant, as if I hadn't have heard him.

"—He can'tbe real," I caught the end of what the boy whispered, seemly to himself, and I nearly did a double take at what he said next—though, I'm positive that I just heard wrong. All those heavily accented French conversations messing with my head. "It would have fallen for one of my traps. She's crazy…"

"What was that?" I asked, breaking my cooling trace of bracing my back from against the cold, stone wall. A mischievous smile turned upon his lips but a look of alarm beamed out of his blue eyes, then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a very stylish and new-looking mobile.

"Oh, merde," he cursed. (Though, granted, I only knew the word from when Sherlock had used it to answer a text from Mycroft's assistant. 'Political business his fat arse—he's followed us to France, I don'tfucking believe it. Never mind, we'll just have to work doubly hard to avoid him at all costs.')

The boy glanced up at me, politely apologizing. "I must leave now, apparently, docteur. I am very sorry," He turned on his heel in a charming way, like he was used to dashing about the Opera—though, funnily enough, I never thought a gangly, uninteresting, scowling teenager such as himself would be backstage of an Opera house.

"Wait," The teenager stopped on his heel, turning partially to me, like he was strictly at war with himself on whatever he wanted to say. He looked slowly to me, his eyes appearing all the more dark, and strangely tired.

"Not to impose that you are a gullible man, but…you, you want to know more, don't you, docteur?"

"More?" I tensed. "Well, considering how we've done nothing to run on, I don't see how learning what we can from the people that work here would hurt. If you can recommend anyone that I could interview-"

"Non," The boy slowly shook his head. His shoulder length hair tossing disorderly, siding down into his face. "Of the story. Of the Phantom. You have that look in your eyes, just like hers."

"Who?" I shifted on my bad leg, which, for some reason, had started sporadically paining me. It's not real—the pain, I mean. I know it's not. Just, ngh, can't help it sometimes.

A loud beeping noise triggered at that moment from the lad's mobile, and he then cursed again.

"I've no time—but, Madam Giry, she can tell you."

"Madam Giry," I struggled over the French name. " Was she that woman from earlier? Right, okay. Where can I find her?"

The lad was already a good length down the shadowy hall before I noticed a gangly arm pointing in my opposite direction. "Down that hall," he instructed. "Take two lefts, and it's the first down on the right. Don't doubt yourself daft, you can't miss it."

And, as secretly as he had come, the teen was gone.

What a strange kid. I popped off the wall, and began in the direction he had pointed. Sherlock could wait. I had no idea why Sherlock didn't find his woman and her notes fascinating.

I walked down the hall and took two lefts, and stopped at the door on my first right. It was a red door, looking splotchy and old, with chipping paint. I raised my knuckle to knock when I saw movement from the corner of my eye. My heart beat started to speed up, a light thud in my ears. I swallowed nervously.

The damp lights flickered above me, and I paused, twisting to look behind me. The drippings of the moist stone plopped to the floor. A chill ran up my back like I was being followed. I pressed my back to the wall behind me, standing my ground. Something thundered from high above the underground cambers—a performance, I told myself—and dirt came towering down from the dirty ceiling, sprinkling into my eyes. I blinked, and the second I re-opened my eyes, a strong hand shot around from behind me, hooking around my throat and clamping down over my mouth, pulling backwards.

I tried to cry out, fighting against my primitive urge of sheer panic while I sought for the palmed skin near my teeth, trying to bite, my legs under me, trying to kick back, but it was no use. I was pulled roughly into a dark room, and then quickly released. Tightening my fists, my heart bursting in my ears, my lungs on fire, I sped around fast towards my attacker. A bright flash illuminated the room.

"Sherlock?"I gasped, my mind going blank.

Sherlock's tall jacketed frame stood in front of me, a small made of beheld amusement on his lips. He then twitched them, and they disappeared into their usual form of seriousness. In his hand, his brightly lit up phone kept our view of each other.

"I needed your assistance. Realized you had gone when you didn't answer my questions about the bodies for the sixth time. Popped out to come find you and instead I found this room—curious thing though. Just look at it. It hasn't been used for some time. Thought you were in it at first because I had heard you. My mistake. Then I heard you again, outside, and alerted you to my presence."

I rubbed the back of my neck, then my jaw. What.

"By rough-housing me into a dark room?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow confusedly. "Is that bad? I didn't want us to be seen. This room appears to have not been used for decades. This could be useful to us, and only us."

"Thank God no one did see us doing that!" I gawked at him. Jesus. People talk bad enough about us back in London. I calmed for a moment, realizing that this was the very room that lad had directed me to. Or had I gotten lost? This place was like a labyrinth, in a way. All the stones and halls looking the same.

The something struck me funny. "Heard me…how did you even get in here without going past me? I was right outside the crime scene door!"

Sherlock continued to stare at me, a strange glow in his eyes. I knew that look.

"What did you find?"

"A trapdoor." He smiled.

"A—a trapdoor? From where?"

"There's two doors in near the crime scene. One where the manager led us from and the other that connects to the other side of yet another underground hallway. I decided to see where the second door led, and, after some stone shifting, I found a doorway. It led to here. The tunnel was full of dirt and spiders though—no one's used it for probably centuries. Same with this room, as I had mentioned. Highly doubtful our killer knew about it. But trapdoors John! Just think about the possibilities!"

Sherlock glanced about the room again, full of excitement. "Well, anyways, much too dark in here for a use now. Let's go back to the crime scene."

And Sherlock Holmes, causal as ever, walked out of the room, expectant of me to follow. Sighing, I did.

"John," Sherlock began, once we were back at the crime scene. It had been only five minutes. Sherlock had already said my name nine other times, and I had yet to respond. But still, he persisted. Couldn't he tell I wasn't in the mood for chatting?

"John,"

Occasionally my eyes gazed tracing at the hanging girl, bile churning inside of my head. Harry. I should call her sometime. I mean, God, her drinking. What was I doing, just distancing myself from her? What if I could help her?

"John,"

I tossed my head. She wouldn't accept my help. Besides, calling her now from France, what good would that do now but start some stupid row?

"John—"

"What?"I said testily, breaking my train of thought. I was still miffed from his odd earlier attempt to get my attention. This place was creepy enough without Sherlock leaping out of random doors. Not that I'd ever let him know that. And that Madam Giry. Unless I'd managed to get ahold of one of the tizzing managers, or find that allusive boy again, how was I ever going to reach her?

"I know you're thinking about Harry."

I stiffened, blinking a couple of times. I didn't bother turning towards him. I didn't want to know how he even knew. Sherlock didn't even turn himself towards me as he spoke, still at the bodies.

"Do you need something, Sherlock? I can't be much more help until I get my medical bag flown in."

"Yes, Mycroft is handling that, apparently." Sherlock tone turned to acid over only his brother's name, every other word coming out calm and normal. He sniffed disdainfully. I didn't say anything else for a while.

"I heard your voice while I was in that empty room, John. Were you talking to someone?"

Heard my voice? What? When I had been talking to that teenager, I'd to have been a least several hallways away from that empty room.

"Don't look so surprised. The sound in there simply resonates a quite a while down. But that's not important. Who were you talking to?"

"Are you sure it was my voice?" I questioned.

Sherlock started stonily at me. "Yes John, your voice. I'd know your voice anywhere."

He said it in such a 'matter-of-fact-way' that I couldn't help but grin a bit. My flatmate was so eccentric.

"I…I don't know his name. But he informed me of the Phantom Of The Opera—"

"The what?"

"That ghost story here, Sherlock? That Madam Giry spoke about?"

"Oh. That." Sherlock said bitterly. "You were talking to Raoul Chagny."

"Yeah, nice kid. Seemed a bit odd, though. He looks really familiar with running 'round down here."

Sherlock made a scoffing noise, as if I had just pointed that the sky was blue, or that birds could fly.

"Well, of course. He's the son of the Count."

I stopped, my eyes fixing to Sherlock's boney shoulders as he continued to hunch over the bodies. "The—the what?"

"Vicomte de Chagny,"

"God," I felt a strange laugh struggled up my throat, out of my mouth. Vicomtes. Counts. Phantoms. All these old names…

"What?" Sherlock didn't even look at me with his question.

"Sorry," I snickered awkwardly, "Sorry. Just. This whole place. It's like something from a fairy tale. Something lost in time."

" 'Lost in time'. You need to stop watching that rubbish show 'Doctor Who'. Too much telly time is rotting what very little of your brain that you use."

I thumbed at my nose, the last of my chuckles finally dissipating on the moisture that lay on the air from my breath.

"Weren't you the one that got me into watching the show in the first place?" I shot back.

Sherlock paused for a moment, his eyes debating the flickering endeavor that was looking at me, or focusing on memorizing more damage. "Yes…but I didn't get addicted to it."

"Ah, yes, well, your addiction to murder cases. Much more healthy."

"Regretting not being able to sit on the couch?"

"Shut up," I laughed, my bad mood before towards him gone. "Just…just shut up."

There was a brief pause, and I remembered my point of asking Sherlock who that young teen was.

"So, the Vic…V..donte…," I tried, barely remembering the French term.

"Vicomte. It's an old fashioned French term for a lesser class of very, very prominent wealthy family. The Chagny family are huge philanthropists to the arts. Particularly, this Opera. I'd say, six months, at the least, from what the boy's clothing tells me, that they've regularly visited here."

"And the Counts? They're not vampires?"

"John," Sherlock slowly said my name, his tongue clicking in his jaw. I realized that his pale eyes were upon me, a look of stone cold serious sobriety on his face. "That wasn't funny."

"Alright, fine, well, who are they? And by the way, yes, that was hilarious, thank you."

"The parents of young Raoul. Old French family here. They travel often. I'd suspect they're not usually around their children."

"Children?"

"Yes, John, children. Raoul has an elder brother, and two sisters."

"He does?"

"Yes. Regardless of his expensive, up to fashionable French date clothes—his mother's choices. No boy his age would ever have such a recent sense of style and be heterosexual, along with his frankly horrible taste in cologne—trying to find how to stand in his father's shoes, obviously, he steals it from him. The way his hair is maltreated is his obvious rebellion from his lifestyle that is being pressed onto him by his family. But his parents travel—so who is he rebelling consistently against? It could be other adult relatives, but adult relatives with that kind of power would set the boy straight; it's stapled in his character, he values his mother's opinions and admires his father—he's a little weak willed to authority, that's clear enough. So siblings."

"Sisters?"

"Sisters, of course, easy—but older, they don't live with him, but they live close enough to see him often. Married, I'd say, but irrelevant as that's a shot in the dark. They try to dress him up—play with him, really. Keep his hair straight and nice and tidy—but he hates it, so his hair is less of a priority. He spoiled—doted upon—it's not usually in the means of most brothers to be so giving, so, once more, sisters. Sisters that treat their kid brother like the son they want but still do not know how to raise. Although he is a teenager, his skin is clear—unusual. But, under the care of sisters, sisters who are also cultural obsessed with looking good— and, I noticed, that he is very careful and protective of women. Like those closed in around the murder scene."

"And you are sure he's the Count's son?"

"His clothing is new, and clean enough, but it's in the way he holds himself. He has perfect posture. Highly unusual for teenagers, let alone male teenagers. Most teenagers are not always in the persistent need to be proper and classic, so it is in his family. From when he spoke earlier, I found that he speaks in a very formal tone and a very clean French diction. Extremely grammatically correct. So, masterful schooling for rich, young boys that have nothing to with patrons, or art? Possibly. But now, we look more towards his fingers."

"His…his fingers?"

"The dirt under his nails has flecks of that same chipped Opera House boarding outside."

"So?" I raised an eyebrow. "He could be outside the Opera a lot. Maybe it's a popular hangout for teens."

"Think John. You said it yourself—he had an unusual run of the Opera lay out. Made it seem like he knew where he was going. But the dirt is dark, and moist. So, he must frequent the Opera, but, he must be inside, where the dirt would be surrounded with enough underground drafts to keep its consistency."

"Fan…fantastic." I breathed out. Only Sherlock would understand the importance of dirt on people. The literal kind, anyway. He practically had all the different types of dirt in London categorized in his mental computer. I didn't even know different types of top soil dirt even existed in cities.

Sherlock smiled quietly, but something still wasn't explained.

"And…the brother?"

Sherlock's smile suddenly disappeared. "Sometimes, John, one understands the shadow of an elder brother when one has to suffer one himself."

My own smile faltered as the conversation pricked again over the terms of Mycroft Holmes, a subject that I did most everything I could to avoid. Sherlock had a point—I didn't have a brother, so I don't know how much that could provoke in a young teenaged boy. Something dark, I'd imagine, given the tone of Sherlock's voice. I quickly throw out my subtle hand at a topic change.

"So, he's the bored child of the Counts De Chagny who, through family funding, has the whole Opera as a playground?"

Sherlock threw back his head, and laughed. " Child. Maybe to our age, John, but for this last part, I thought you'dof all people know what he's stalking around here for."

I swallowed. "I would?"

Sherlock smiled that snidely grin. "It's more your area."

I blinked. "A girl? He's here for a girl?"

My flatmate slowly rose to a stand position, being discreet about the obvious muscle strain that must be spasming up his long legs after squatting up and down for over an hour and a half.

"He's male, heterosexual, and probably 17 or so. It's always a girl."

"Always?"

He sighed. "Does no one pay attention when I talk? I swear—yes, of course, a girl! I said it before, the lad's heterosexual and is prancing about an Opera house!"

"That seems a little—" I stopped, but continued in my mind. Narrow-minded?

"Underground, in the wings, behind the scenes?" Sherlock continued, as if he was practically handing me the answers.

"He could be an actor."

"No way the Opera De Popular would hire him. He's a terrible actor, on stage, or off. I could tell by his knees."

"His knees?" I began.

"There's also the fact that he was holding a girl in his arms," Sherlock sighed out, "in the mist of the crowd."

"He was?"

"Keep up John," Sherlock tsked to me, practically rolling his eyes, and he took out his phone and began snapping all sorts of strangely angled pictures left and right of the crime.

"Monsieur!" A tight, frantic voice from the narrow and tall figure of Co-manager Richard popped his way through the door. He made his way towards us, interrupting the tight, vivid bubble of Sherlock's and my conversation. Once again, I was struck with the overwhelming smell of rich, eye watering cologne. Even in the muck along the floor of the room, his black classic shoes shined. "You can't—" He huffed as he finally reached us, clearly not used to physical exertion. "I'm afraid you cannot take pictures in here."

Sherlock continued taking oddly angled pictures with his mobile, his eyes tight and fascinated. I found myself unable to look away from his concentration. That is, until a harsh, wet, undissmisable sound of a throat being cleared finally snapped the detective to attention.

"I cannot take pictures of a crime scene that my colleague and I have been summoned down on short notice to investigate," Sherlock restated hostilely, not missing a beat. "When furthermore, we two are the only private detectives working this case?"

The manager looked nervously at me, our eyes locking as if to say damn, he's right. Though, of course, I suppose being the co-head manager of such a prestigious operation such as the Opera De Popular required mandatory rules. Rules that had been followed for hundreds of very clean, very strict years. Was this man truly so invested that even murderhad its restrictions?

His eyes darkened, moist and forlorn at his own words. "I'm sorry, but we need this to be as controlled and private as possible. But please, do not get discouraged by this notion. I meant it when I said that I need you, and no one else, Monsieur Holmes."

His eyes flickered to mine once more, fleetingly before they broke my stare to meet the grim floor tiles. "Desperately."

The way he spoke the word 'desperately' reminded me vaguely of the time when Inspector Lestrade used that same phrase towards Sherlock, on our very first case together. It held all the contempt and exasperation of a usually in-sorts man that suddenly found himself with no other options.

"Well, if you need me so undoubtedly, I suggest that some rules be amended," Sherlock snapped.

"I'm sorry Monsieur Holmes, it is out of my hands."

He begrudgingly looked towards the naked bodies of his employees, eerily twirling in midair together. "It appears that everything is falling out of my hands…"


Whew! This is a long one. Sherlock's deductions were fun! Thanks again to all for enjoying so far!

FRENCH TRANSLATIONS (In order of appearance:)

Gardez vos yeux cachés...Keep your hand at the level of your eyes.

Si vous restez ici, docteur, vous deviendrez aussi fou qu'eux deux.….If you stay here, doctor, you'll become as crazy as the both of them.