Day 17 – prompt from Sui Generis Paroxysm: Shakespeare.
Note: I want to thank everybody for not dropping me after reading the previous installment. I know it was a lot to take in, especially from moi, who generally avoids… intimacy… like the plague. (See? I can't even spit it out, even if I can spit out a few swear words every now and then.) I hadn't even originally planned to get as explicit as I did (for the record, some authors would have gotten a lot more detailed), but that's the way the story progressed. My sincerest apologies to anybody who was brain-scarred by that episode. Since today's subject isn't exactly cheerful, either, I hereby direct you, once you're finished with today's install, to one of my lighter pieces, such as "Violinist on the Roof" or chapter 29 of A Study in Stardom. After all, laughter is the best kind of medicine!
==Day 17: The Actor==
"Come along, Ed, and quit gawking at Irving."
Sherlock did not deign to glance at his associate as he whispered back, "In a moment. I want to watch to the end of the scene."
"Very well. Just don't get The Governor riled when he's done, there's a good chap?"
Sherlock nodded irritably and kept his gaze focused upon Henry Irving, manager and star of the Lyceum Theatre, currently rehearsing for the next production. Irving was a brilliant actor—it was easy to see why people flocked to his performances. Sherlock had come here himself as a member of the audience before…
Before.
Now he was investigating a murder that had occurred just outside the theatre two weeks ago, and, to do so, he had gone undercover as a young actor named Edward Love. Just now, he really should be looking into one of the other actors, but the artist in him had been held captive by Irving's rehearsal. He played Shylock magnificently, imbuing him with a dignity seldom found in performances of the character.
"The Merchant of Venice is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. I have always liked Portia very much—her devotion, her intelligence, her wit…"
"Very much like you."
"Sherlock Edward Holmes, have you no shame?"
"You know I don't."
He shut his eyes against the unwelcome memory, pushed it to the back of his mind. Annie had been dead for a year now, but memories of her still had the maddening ability to distract him from his work. Sighing, his hand rose to his chest to clutch at an all-too-physical ache.
He still missed her, terribly.
As he remained in his seat, watching Irving deliver his lines, Sherlock could not help but wonder who was the better actor: the man who could bring crowds night after night to a performance, or a man who could convince the world day by day that he was not dying on the inside of heartache?
Author's Note:
I cycled through several ideas and two drafts before I finally hit upon this. In 1878, actor Henry Irving took control of Lyceum Theatre; a year later, he was performing Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. His employees called him "The Governor," and his dignified performance of Shylock did indeed differ from the norm.
I didn't mean to make this piece romantic angst; it just ended up that way. Sherlock was simply supposed to watch Irving, but then the piece was too short, and I had to add something. Anne Middleton entered the equation and surprised me probably more than she surprised Sherlock. If you haven't read Deliver Us from Evil, Part I: Mortality, then you might be little lost. Annie was created as a love interest for a young, pre-Baker Street Sherlock, their relationship forming a piece of my character development for the Great Detective. As Lestrade says in my online epic, Mortality: "Sherlock Holmes in his early twenties was a young man I would not have wagered on reaching his thirtieth year."
Here's hoping the next installment is brighter in tone! Much brighter!
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