Chapter Forty Six: Revelations in the Darkness
Watson
Once Holmes and I were alone, I turned on him fiercely. "What the devil do you think you are doing Holmes?"
"Hmm?" He was genuinely surprised by my question.
"Tell me, right this instant, what your feelings are for Mackenzie. When you learned of the danger she was in, you made a statement that tugged at my heart strings. You said that if she died, you too would die. But when she directly asked you about how you felt, you shrugged off your feelings. What are your intentions Holmes?"
My friend stood quickly, and began to anxiously pace the small sitting room. He did not want to acknowledge any type of emotion. "I don't know Watson! I cannot answer your question."
"You cannot answer it or you will not answer it?" I asked.
He turned and faced me; his eyes were as hard as coffin nails. "Watson, I do not understand why you are inquiring as to my emotions."
His statement caught me off guard. I did not expect any type of response. "Holmes, I know how Mackenzie feels about you. She confides in me, and she has told me, on numerous occasions, that she does not know and I will quote her, 'where you are coming from.' It is only fair for you to explain your feelings to her--"
"Watson, my feelings for Mackenzie, what ever they may be, are no concern of yours! You are my friend Doctor; indeed I have allowed myself to confide in you, I have allowed you to know things about my horrible past that I have kept from everyone else. But I will not explain to you my feelings for this girl!" I had never known him to speak so fiercely.
I raised a hand in defense, a gesture I had unconsciously picked up from Mackenzie. "Holmes, I did not mean to offend--"
"Undoubtedly, but your judgment is, as ever, extremely faulty," he snarled. He stalked over to one of the overstuffed armchairs and sat down, drawing his feet up to his chin.
I had successfully put him in a foul mood. I had brought up an issue that his brain was not yet ready to sort out. "Holmes," I said placing a hand on his sinewy shoulder.
He shrugged my hand off. "Watson, I am not in the mood for one of your maudlin apologies. You have brought some things to my attention that need to be mulled over. I would appreciate some time alone."
Knowing I could get no more out of him, I bid my friend good night and retired to my own room, hoping for some well deserved sleep.
Mac
When I entered my room, I was glad to find Becky fast asleep. I watched jealously as the blankets rose and fell in time with her deep and peaceful breathing. Her mind was not plagued with doubts; her sleep was not hampered by confused emotions. With a frustrated sigh, I climbed into bed, knowing that sleep would not come easily.
As I lay in the dark room, several thoughts swarmed my head. Becky's words kept reverberating in my mind. 'W…well if we ever do find a way to get home, promise me that you will return with me. Promise me that these feelings for Sherlock Holmes aren't strong enough to keep you here in this fucking backwoods century.'
Would it be possible after all that had happened between us, for me to leave Sherlock Holmes? Could I, in my heart of hearts deny my love and return to a life without him? I highly doubted that prospect.
Then what was I to do? I resigned myself to the fact that I would never return home. At first, that thought terrified me, but now, after all that has happened, I found staying in the Victorian Era with Holmes quite appealing.
Mac come on, you don't need all those modern conveniences! I mean who needs a laptop when you have Sherlock Holmes? Your family will defiantly understand your decision! And so will Shawn! They will all be so happy when they learn that you would rather stay with a dope fiend than see them again. Get over it Mac! Girl, you've gotten to get a grip on yourself. When you are finally able to go home, you WILL go home because I, the logical side of your brain, will kick your ass until you start listening!
I shook my head angrily in attempt to shut out the little voice of reason and doubt. Why does my heart beat for him and only him? Why, when I had prepared myself to leave this place, I fell for Holmes? I know I will never return home because I don't want to leave him. I liked my memories nice and prim but I'll have to leave remembering only him.
My mind suddenly focused on Holmes's face, how peaceful it looked when he slept. Why had God put Holmes in my life? Why him? Why me? Why this time? I sighed and rested my head against the pillow, wondering when the hell I was going to be able to sort things out. In addition to my daunting thoughts, my mind continued to replay the events of the evening; I felt like I was in a cinematic nightmare. Gold eyes suspended behind a black mask, a maniacal laugh, freefalling, Holmes's face…
I bit my pillow and screamed silently into the fabric, a habit I had for the longest time. Pent up frustration and anger left my body, leaving me feeling listless and drained. Eventually, I must have fallen into some kind of sleep because I was awakened sometime later by a horrible nightmare where I was being suspended over a deep pit, with golden eyes all around. I free fell, and awoke before I hit the ground, maniacal laughter still ringing in my ears.
I sat up, drenched in sweat and shaking, a scream caught in the back of my throat. I wrapped my arms around my body and rocked back and forth in attempt to calm my nerves. "Get a grip girl, it was just a dream!" Easier said than done, huh kid?
I swallowed hard, forcing the scream back down into my throat. When I was able to stop shaking, I stood and stared into the mirror, watching the tears dry on my face. Finally, calming down somewhat, I hurried into the sitting room in attempt to leave the maniacal laughter and the dream far behind.
I entered the darkened room, which smelled of recently snuffed out tobacco. Sherlock Holmes, I deduced, must have just recently gone to bed. I wished I could join him and he would hold me close to him, protecting me from all the bad things in the world. Knowing that could never be, I sighed and contented myself with lying on the sofa, attempting to get comfortable. I closed my eyes and imagined the cushions I was lying against was Holmes, and I managed to fall into a somewhat peaceful sleep.
"Well well, this is certainly a surprise," a voice said, bringing me out of my slumber.
"What the hell? It's too friggin early!" I groaned keeping my eyes clamped shut.
"What exactly are you doing?"
I groaned again and rubbed sleep from my eyes. I blinked several times; my brain still fogged and looked around for the owner of the voice. When I realized it was Holmes, I forced a smile. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I might ask you the same thing," he said charging his pipe with the left over plugs and dottles from the previous evening.
I raised my eyebrows and then realized he wanted to know why I was on the sofa. "I woke up in the middle of the night and wanted a change of sleeping venue." I stretched. My body was stiff from sleeping on the hard couch and my shoulder was still slightly sore from Watson's ministrations.
He studied my face until I turned my head, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. "Nightmare?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied, not even curious as to how he deduced it. "What are we up to this morning?"
As usual, Holmes was stubborn. "Near death experiences aren't easily forgotten. Watson can verify that these memories often manifest themselves in your mind. It is best, therefore, to discuss these situations and then your mind will be somewhat relieved of its burden."
"Thanks for the lecture Professor Holmes," I said sarcastically, "but I said I was fine. Now, just shut up about my nightmare and we'll be cool. Now what are you plans for today?"
"I am returning to the Opera House," he said quietly.
"Sounds fun. I'm coming with you."
"Were you invited?"
"Well I sure as hell aint gonna let you have all the fun!"
"Are you certain that you will be able to return to the opera house?"
"Yes Holmes, I'm one hundred percent positive," I growled hotly. Jesus Christ, I wanted him to be concerned for me, but this is a little ridiculous!
He said nothing but smoked in silence for several moments. When he finally turned to me once again, he flashed me a brief Jeremy Brett half smile. "Well then, I suggest we do not waste any more time. You must dress, for I am anxious to reach the opera house. I have a few theories that I need to test."
"What about Watson and Becky?"
"Watson expressed his desire to sleep late this morning and I have no doubt that your friend has the same wish. Now, you can either dress and accompany me, or you can remain here. The choice, Miss, is entirely yours."
"I'll be ready in five," I said getting to my feet. I tiptoed into the bedroom, found a dress and threw it on. After quickly brushing my teeth and leaving a brief note for Becky, I returned to the sitting room to find Holmes pacing.
"Quick enough for ya Monsieur Holmes?"
"I do hope you realize that there is no time for breakfast," he said over his shoulder.
"Yeah, I realized that Holmes," I lied. Figures! You decide to accompany him and he won't even feed you. Remind me again Mac why you love him?
"Oh shut up!"
Holmes turned around. "I beg your pardon?"
I felt my face catch fire. I did not realize I had spoken those words aloud. "I wasn't talking to you!" I barked.
He raised one cynical eyebrow. "Then to whom were you speaking?"
"Myself!" Good Mac, now you sound like a schizo! "Holmes, don't worry about it."
He shrugged his slender shoulders and took held the door open so I could pass. We walked through the hotel in silence. Once we were outside, Holmes suggested a walk to the Opera House.
"Whatever," I replied.
He took my arm in his and we walked to Garnier's Palace of Music. When we arrived outside the opera house, I was surprised to see several men in plain dress, idling around, watching the building. I broke our mutual silence and asked Holmes about the crowd.
The detective made no reply and studied the men for a few moments. All of a sudden, a smile broke out on his face and he shook his head good humouredly. Without a word, Holmes and I entered the opera house and walked to the office of the managers.
"Mackenzie," Holmes said in a low voice when we were standing outside the office door. "I am sure Monsieur Richard is in a foul mood. Pray do not say anything that will antagonize him."
"Now Holmes," I said with mock innocence, "what ever gave you the idea that I would say something slightly off color?"
He ignored me and rapped on the door. The sallow faced Monsieur Rémy answered my friend's knock.
"Monsieur, how can I help you?" He asked, his voice as nasally as ever.
"I am Sherlock Holmes and I must speak with either Monsieur Moncharmin or Monsieur Richard. It is extremely urgent."
"Mr. Holmes you are expected. You may enter," Rémy said, fixing me with an icy glance.
I ignored him and followed Holmes through a short corridor ad reached yet another door. This one led to the inner sanctum of the managers' office.
Holmes rapped on the door and in an instant, it was opened by a pale faced Moncharmin.
"Thank heavens you've come Monsieur Holmes! Something horrible has occurred!"
Holmes smiled grimly. "It seems, my dear Monsieur Manager, that whenever we meet something terrible has occurred. I would appreciate it if you would kindly omit your preamble and get to the point."
Moncharmin colored slight and ushered us into the sparsely furnished office. Once inside, Holmes and I sat across from the mahogany desk where Richard was seated; his fingers angrily tapping Morse Code on the wooden surface.
"Monsieur Holmes, this is insufferable! We engaged your serves as a consulting detective so an end can be put to this business of the ghost. You have been here, in Paris at the Opera's expense, a little over one month and you have not given us one solid bit of information! Now Monsieur Holmes, are you conducting an investigation or are you simply enjoying Paris at our expense?"
Outwardly, Holmes gave no sign of being agitated by Richard's verbal assault. However, I, after spending much time in the detective's company, recognized the stiffness in his posture and the almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw and grinding of his teeth. Both of these betrayed his outward attitude of sangfroid and showed that Richard's comments struck a chord.
"Monsieur Richard," Holmes said tightly, "I have been doing my best to unravel your mystery. However this man that you are intent on my finding is a most formidable opponent and--"
"Enough excuses Monsieur Holmes!" Richard bellowed. He slammed his fist against the desk with such force that the ink bottle jumped. "I want results and I want them now. If you feel you do not have the mental capacity to solve my problem then say so."
At that accusation, I nearly leapt to my feet and strangled the manager. "How dare you say that about Holmes! For your information--"
"Easy Mackenzie," the detective said, placing a restraining hand on my shoulder. He looked Richard in the eye and spoke deliberately. "Monsieur Richard, you have done me a great many injustices. Another man would simply leave you and your problem, allowing you to solve it on your own. Indeed, I would if lives were not in danger. I am going to continue to assist you.
'You spoke of me having to tangible evidence. You are incorrect in your assumption. In my hand, I hold many threads each of which will lead me to a conclusion. Shall I, perhaps explain to you where we all stand?"
"Do so," Richard snarled.
"Your opera ghost is not a ghost at all. He is a man of roughly six feet five inched and weighs approximately fourteen stone. He lives in darkness and rarely ventures out in the daylight. The few times he does leave his home, he has a strong purpose. He is moderately rich and wears a heavy black cloak of the finest material.
'He has a deformity on his face, the severity of which I am not certain. To hide this deformity, he wears a mask of black porcelain. He is a musician and composer, and was instrumental in building this opera house. He is extremely strong and has killed in the past and will kill again.
'However, his killings are not random acts of violence. No, there is a strong motive behind them. For example, he murdered Joseph Buquet not out of malice but out of self defense. His privacy was invaded and he felt he was in danger.
'He has a very strong attachment of Mademoiselle Daaé. This attachment is strong enough from him to deceive her as well as attempt to take the life of the young Raoul de Chagny, a very successful suitor of Mademoiselle Daaé. He seems to have a strong hold over her and I am almost certain she is with him now.
'Monsieur Moncharmin, am I correct in assuming that the urgent and tragic occurrence you informed me of is the fact that Mademoiselle Daaé is missing?"
Both managers stared at my friend as though he was not a detective but some type of god that was standing in front of them. I must admit that some of Holmes's deductions took me by surprise. How the hell did he know Erik worked on building the Opera House? I was certain he would tell me all in good time.
Holmes was forced to repeat his question and only then was Moncharmin able to nod his head.
I looked at the two managers and decided to ask the question that was on both their minds. "All right Holmes, how did you know?"
"Simplicity in itself. What deductions are you unsure of?"
I smiled, realizing that he was allowing me a chance to show off. "Well I know you judged the Opera Ghost's height and weight by his stride."
I glanced at Holmes and he nodded, his eyes glinting with humor. "Well, you also deduced his love for darkness by that cloth you found," I decided to give him the credit, in front of the management at least, for uncovering that bit of material. "The deformity, would be one of the only reasons someone would wear a mask. But I'm not sure how you knew he worked to build the opera house or how you know he has Christine."
Holmes favored me with an ironic Jeremy Brett half smile. "I suppose, my dear apprentice, I should enlighten you. I deduced that our Phantom built the opera house, because of his intimate knowledge of every nook and cranny of Garnier's building. Who else, save someone who worked side by side with the building's creator, could know the building so intimately?"
"True, true," I said, feeling my heart race. I loved his boyish desire to impress others with his remarkable skill.
"Mackenzie, you will remember that when we entered the opera house, you commented on the group of men standing around attempting to act inconspicuous. They were constables, easily recognized, and their presence alerted me that something was amiss. When we entered the building, I noticed that Mademoiselle Daaé's name did not appear on the sign for tonight's performance. That coupled by Moncharmin's exaggerated claim that something was amiss, led me to conclude that Mademoiselle Daaé is missing."
I grinned at Holmes. "Nice!"
"Amazing!" Moncharmin announced.
"Elementary," was the detective's reply. Try as he might, he could not hide the joy the compliments gave him. "Now Messurs, can one of you please tell me when Mademoiselle Daaé was last seen?"
It was Richard who answered. "We noticed she was gone after the incident with the chandelier."
"A very grim occurance, especially since it could have been avoided. But," Holmes's eyes grew bright when he realized his barb was not lost on the two managers, "my question remains unanswered. When and where was Mademoiselle Daaé last seen?"
Moncharmin, who had been standing quietly, answered the question. "You Meg Giry saw her last."
"Meg Giry? Any relation to Madame Giry, the box keeper?" I asked.
"Yes," Richard said sourly. "It is her daughter."
"Where can I find this Meg Giry?" Holmes demanded.
Richard paged through several sheets of paper that were scattered on his desk. He muttered something unintelligible as he searched for the information Holmes requested. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he produced a small, yellowing paper. "Here is her home address Monsieur Holmes. However, if you would like to return around seven thirty this evening, you will be able to find her in her dressing room preparing for tonight's opera."
Holmes snatched the paper and studied it for a moment. "Hmm, 44 Rue de Scribe, interesting."
"What is?" I inquired.
He ignored me and put the paper in his waistcoat pocket. "Very good, this matter should be cleared up in a couple of weeks. Now gentlemen, I only require a dark lantern and then we shall be on our way."
Moncharmin disappeared and a few moments later returned with a dark lantern in his hand. "Why do you need this?" He asked, his voice full of curiosity.
"My associate and I are going into the cellars," he raised a hand to stop Richard's protest. "Fear not Monsieur Richard, my quest is no expense to you. I will find your diva and return her to you, unscathed."
"What the hell? Are you crazy?" I asked when we were well away from the managers' office.
"Come along," he said, not bothering to slow his pace.
"I would, greatly appreciate it if you will tell me what you hope to accomplish by venturing down into the cellars."
"It is not your concern at the moment," was his curt reply.
Of course! "Hey Holmes, why bother telling me? Don't worry about being polite. It's quite all right."
The detective ignored my sarcasm and continued to walk.
"Hey Holmes," I refused to be ignored. "I was thinking--"
"That prospect is surprising," he said caustically.
"Go to hell," I barked back. I was hungry and irritable.
"I daresay Mackenzie, we are several thousands of feet about that particular destination."
"All right wise ass, enough of your sarcasm. I'm curious and I would be much obliged it you would deign to answer my question. How in the name of all that is holy, did you know so much about Buquet's death?
'Did you really deduce those things or did you just give the management a load of bullshit to get them off your back? You can tell me, I swear I won't squeal."
"The deductions I made were fairly simple," he said as he opened a much battered door, which lead to the cellars of the opera house. If he had no idea what bullshit was, he wasn't going to say it. "When I first heard of Buquet's death, I realized at once it was not suicide."
I opened my mouth to question him but he anticipated it and answered my question before I voiced it. "Why would Buquet hang himself in the third cellar of the opera house when quicker and easier means to end his life were at his disposable? The fact that the rope disappeared also suggested murder rather than suicide.
'Following this train of thought, I hypothesized that whoever murdered Buquet did the deed not out of malice but out of fear. This was confirmed when I viewed his body the afternoon of your arrival…"
"Hold up one second buddy! How the hell do you know whoever killed the scene shifter did it out of fear?"
We were descending into the first cellar and into subsequent darkness.
"I know it by lack of violence inflicted on Buquet's body. There were no markings on him, save for where the missing rope bit into his flesh."
"So what you're saying is, hanging someone by the neck until they die is not violent?" I couldn't hide the skeptism in my voice.
"Mackenzie, if you hated someone enough to kill them, how would you do it? Tell me the first thing that enters your mind," he said answering my question with one of his own.
The first thing that entered my mind was 'Do the lambs still scream at night Clarice?' I then shuddered at the mental comparison between Holmes and Hannibal Lecter. I decided to answer the detective's question.
"Well, if the person I was going to kill caused me or a loved one pain, I'd want them to experience the agony I felt. I'd use a knife, which is considered a personal and intimate weapon, and pull a Hannibal Lecter and make them peal off their own face and feed it to dogs.
'Then if they were still alive, I'd slit their wrists and watch them bleed."
"You see," Holmes said, stopping at a staircase to light the dark lantern, "you have just demonstrated that if Buquet's murderer killed him out of malice there would have been much more mutilation. Buquet would have suffered longer--"
"Quid pro quo Holmes," I said interrupting him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Quid pro quo. How would you do it?"
The detective did not answer for several minutes. We descended the staircase, our footsteps echoing loudly in the deserted corridor. When he finally answered my question, his voice was soft and barely audible over our footfalls.
"Do you honestly want to know?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I mean you heard how I would kill someone." Sherlock Holmes intrigued me far more than a healthy level of intrigue for a heart's desire. He was hiding something from me, something that was keeping us apart and I wanted to know what it was. When I look back, I am thoroughly ashamed of my actions. I used every psychological trick I knew (which wasn't many) to strip away his mask of emotional indifference.
We once again lapsed into silence as we descended another staircase; the dim light from the lantern did little to pierce the thickening shadows.
"The first thing I would do," his soft words were punctuated by our footfalls against the stone floor, the only sound in the corridor. "I would tie the person to a chair, making sure the bonds were tight enough to bite into his flesh. I would talk to him in measured tones, reminding him of what he did to me.
'I would make him remember every emotion he felt when he ravaged me. I would make him relive those emotions, all the while I would tell him how I felt as those acts were done to me. Then, I would explain exactly what I would do to him, noting with satisfaction the look of extreme fear in his foggy grey eyes." The sinister tone of Holmes's voice chilled me to the marrow as much as the surrounding darkness, which matched our conversation.
"I would then blindfold him and allow him to feel the cold steel of my knife against his hot skin. I would then, very meticulously, remove his--" Holmes stopped speaking, the fevered pitch of his voice revealed that he was overcome by emotion. I did not doubt for one second that he was visualizing the murder in his mind.
We were both silent as we descended the third staircase. A fleeting memory passed through my mind of how I almost died in that very cellar, but it was gone before I could fell any emotional residue from the incident. The darkness grew thicker by the second, our footsteps louder.
"Quid pro quo," Holmes's voice sounded so unnatural in the ethereal silence and startled me so much that I nearly cried out.
"What?"
"Quid pro quo. Who were you thinking about when you were describing murder?"
I was slightly embarrassed to tell him who was in my thoughts at that moment. But, I decided if I was going to get into his psyche, I'd have to reveal information about myself. I took a deep breath. "I was thinking about your father," I said plainly.
Holmes stopped short on the stairs and stood perfectly still, barely breathing as the echo of my words spiraled upward and disappeared. When he turned to face me, I could, despite the wavering light, see the pallid color his face became.
"What did you say?" He asked his voice extremely hoarse.
"I was thinking about killing your father," I said choosing my words carefully and speaking deliberately.
Holmes took a deep breath; certain he had not misunderstood me. "Why?"
"Because I love you Sherlock Holmes. Because I know he did something horrible to you, something so bad that you fear love and distrust everyone. Dear Lord Holmes, it is because of him that you don't believe it's possible for me to love you! He hurt you and by hurting you he hurt me!"
I was terrified that I revealed so much. I hadn't meant to say all I did and was scared of how he would react to my words.
"I see," was his unsteady reply.
"Quid pro quo. Who were you thinking about killing?"
Silence once again. We reached the fourth cellar without saying a word to each other. I wasn't surprised. I knew that what I said rattled the great detective. I was certain that he was trying to rationalize my words and put them in a perspective he was comfortable with.
"I was thinking about the same person," I said at length.
"Your father?"
I could barely see him nod his head in the affirmative. "Yes."
Mentally I debated with myself whether or not to ask the reason. Would I be prying? Absolutely. Did I care? Not really. Did I want to know why he refused to acknowledge love? Absolutely. Did I believe what Watson told me? Yes, but not completely. I couldn't believe that he feared love and women because of the death of his parents. There had to be a deeper reason. But what was it?
Eventually I made up my mind. "Why Holmes?"
"Pardon me?"
"Why were you thinking about killing him?"
He did not answer immediately. He seemed to be pondering about whether or not to answer my question.
The echo of our footsteps sounded loudly in the cold cellar. In the distance, I could hear the faint sound of water lapping against the shore. We seemed to be walking toward the water.
"Father ruined my boyhood, and most probably destroyed my adult life. It is because of him that you terrify me and…" here he took a deep trembling breath. "And I am not certain how I feel toward you. The only woman who I ever loved died because of me. Ever since then, I have put love out of my mind and life.
'But now you are here and I am unsure, once again, of my feelings."
My heart leapt at this strange and random confession. Was it possible that he loved me as much as I loved him? Could he truly reciprocate my feelings? For a moment, my mind went completely numb, rational thinking was impossible. The only thing that went through my brain was the possibility that the great detective had feelings for me.
I snapped out of my reverie and stared at his well-toned form. From his silence, I gathered that any more conversation on the subject was unwelcome. I knew that if I pressed him any further, he would only retreat back into his shell of no emotions and never venture out of it again.
I decided to ask him a question about the case at hand, to get his mind, as well as mine, off other things. "Holmes, how do you know Erik killed because his privacy was disturbed?"
"Honestly Mackenzie, you showed such promise before of being able to put together a chain of deductive reasoning! What has happened to your mind?" His words were harsh, I liked to believe they were harsher than he intended, but that, I fear, I will never know.
"I don't know Holmes," I replied icily. "Gee, perhaps all of us in the world aren't as intelligent as you! And maybe all of us cannot possibly understand the way your mind works!"
Holmes grunted and deigned to answer me. "If our Phantom did not murder out of malice, but the murder was intentional, there are very few motives left for homicide.
'Our antagonist has a deformity on his face, one of the only logical reasons he would constantly wear a mask," he said anticipating my question. "As you stated before, I deduced from the scrap of silk from Perros, he does not venture into the daylight. These two findings led me to deduce that he is an extremely private individual.
'Since Buquet was found murdered in the cellars, the fabled Phantom's lair, and had no connection with Mademoiselle Daaé, the only possible motive for murder was Erik felt threatened by Buquet's presence."
I won't deny that he great detective impressed me with his reasoning. All those loose threads, that I could not make head nor tail of, he summed up in a matter of seconds. To me, that type of reasoning ability was unheard of.
"Amazing Holmes," I said not bothering to hide my admiration. "Just one question."
"Hmm?"
"How do you know so much about Erik?"
I could sense Holmes's sardonic smile in the blackness. "One tortured soul can connect with another," he murmured softly. His tone then took on one of a lecturing professor. "Our Phantom, although he does not realize it, leaves behind many clues. Once I found these clues, I was able to piece together Erik's personality--"
"Sorta like a profiler?"
"A what?"
"In the time where I'm from, the FBI or Federal Bureau of Investigation has what are known as criminal profilers. They look at all the evidence and try to get into the criminal's mind. It's really cool."
"I take it you are planning on pursuing that profession?"
"Yuppers," I replied with a grin.
I could sense Holmes raise his eyebrows. "It's just an expression Holmes."
"I see," he answered quickly.
The sound of water was completely audible and the darkness impenetrable when we finally stopped our relentless pace. The light from the dark lantern did little to cut through the gloom.
"All right Holmes, we're down here, in what I assume to be the fifth cellar of Garnier's Palace. Now, would you mind telling me exactly you propose to do here?"
"We are going to cross the lake and see if our Phantom makes his home down here."
Goody Goody! The thought of plunging into icy water that I couldn't see and had no way of judging its depth did not appeal to me.
"Mr. Detective, how exactly do you plan to cross the lake? I sure as hell aint gonna swim across it!"
Suddenly, the meager light from the dark lantern disappeared, plunging me into total darkness.
"Oh shit! Holmes, what the hell happened?"
When I received no answer, fear began to claw at my chest, causing it to tighten. I closed my eyes and opened them in vain attempt to make the darkness disappear. I had no luck.
Okay girl, calm down! Mac, relax deep breaths! That's it. Holmes has to be somewhere nearby.
My judgment and sense of direction was thrown off, and I did not know what way I was facing or what way I had to go to get back to the stairs. I was royally screwed! I felt tears of fear and frustration well up in my eyes and I angrily blinked them back.
This is no time to loose it kid! Crying will get you no where. Why don't you…what the fuck?
A loud booming sound interrupted my mental chastising. I heard it again and I realized the sound came from a pipe organ. A haunting and chilling melody echoed through the lowest cellar; notes strung together by ominous chords.
I strained my ears to get a fix on the sound, but to no avail. The chords were reverberating off the cement walls, making it impossible to find its source.
I shivered involuntarily and fervently wished I could find Holmes. I called his name, but only the echo of my voice answered me.
Is he all right? What if Erik got him? Could he be lying hurt somewhere, calling out for help but his voice is too soft to be heard above the din?
The thought of Holmes hurt frightened me more then the darkness and Erik. I took a deep breath and called the detective's name at the top of my voice. My voice tore through the resonating and reverberating organ chords, causing a cacophony of sound to spiral toward the ceiling.
When I received no reply, I opened my mouth to yell again when I felt a strong hand grab me from behind and cover my mouth.
Another arm went around my chest and started pulling me in the opposite direction. I struggled, attempting to kick or punch my assailant. Several of my blows hit home but I was not released.
When I felt my foot touch water, I simultaneously heard a voice at my ear.
"If I let you go, do you promise not to make another sound?"
"Mmffmf!" I tried to answer but no intelligible words came out. My fear turned to anger when I realized my mugger was none other then Sherlock Holmes.
"Was that a yes?"
I nodded and felt Holmes remove his hand from my mouth and arm from around me. Instantly, I whirled around and pushed him squarely in the chest. "What the fuck were you thinking? I thought you were hurt! Dear Lord I thought Erik had you! What the fuck is wrong with you? Scaring me half to death like that!"
Holmes grabbed my hands and held them tightly so I could not strike him again. "Are you quite finished?" He asked with a hard edge to his voice. "The lantern the management gave us ran out of oil. I was attempting to find a way to cross the lake without its aid."
"I take it you found one?" I whispered with some heat.
"Yes."
"You could elaborate."
As an answer, Holmes let go of my hands and I heard a splash in the water.
"I am NOT swimming."
"You do not have to. I found a punt."
"A what?"
"A punt. It is a small boat."
"How convenient. Is it safe?"
"I believe it will hold us both."
"How, oh mighty one, do you propose I get into the damn thing when I can't even see it?"
"I will direct you," came the detective's soft reply. "Take ten paces forward and then turn to your left."
Mentally, I counted out my steps. When I reached pace five I was ankle deep in the frigid water. Silently, I cursed Erik, Holmes and the incompetent management. "Seven, eight, nine, ten! Ready or not here I come! You said to turn to my left, right?"
"Right."
"Wait, I thought you said turn left!"
"I did!"
"No, you said right!"
I heard his exasperated sigh. "I meant that you were correct when you said to turn left."
"Gotcha," I muttered. "Christ, you could've explained that better."
"Are you facing your left?"
"Oui Monsieur."
"Good, now take four paces forward. You will feel the punt and my hand."
"You know something Holmes? This whole thing sucks! Three, four! Okay where is your hand?"
"Here," I felt his icy grip on my wrist. "I'm going to pull you up."
With some effort, I managed to get inside the punt; my weight caused it to rock and water to splash over its side onto the bottom of the craft.
"Well that was bloody fun!" I said with some asperity. "I wanna do it again sometime."
"Quiet!" he barked. He lifted a large pole and hit me on the side of the head with it as he moved it forward.
"Hey watch it!" I said rubbing my head.
"Hush!"
"Sorry," I whispered, watching my words turn to vapor. I sat moodily against one of the sides of the punt, attempting to see through the darkness.
The water of the lake was a phosphorescent blue and gave off a slight glow, making the darkness more bearable.
Holmes rowed for about a quarter of an hour while I sat shivering. The movement and constant rowing forced the detective to remove his jacket; his white shirt was unnaturally bright in the shadows.
Out of no where, a faint sound could be heard above the splashing of the pole. It sounded like a female's voice singing a wordless melody. Being interested in the paranormal, I checked with Holmes to see if he too heard the voice.
He answered in the affirmative. A few seconds later, the sound grew louder and I was certain a female was singing.
"Do you think it is Christine?"
"No, the pitch of this voice is an octave higher than hers."
"Well then, who do you think it is?"
"I must confess that I haven't the slightest idea."
"Are we going to check it out? You know, see if we can find the source of it?"
As an answer, I felt the punt turn in a different direction. Holmes was as curious as I to find the origin of the voice.
"How do you know where we are going?"
"I've been counting columns."
"Oh," I had no idea what he was talking about but I refused to admit that.
Much to my joy, the singing grew louder, indicating that we were heading in the correct direction.
"It's getting louder," I informed.
"Yes, my hearing is not impaired."
"'My hearing is not impaired' well excuse me for observing something," I grumbled.
I kept my ears pealed, listening to the beautiful and sense numbing music. I closed my eyes to listen as the singing reached a crescendo—
Suddenly, the boat capsized and I found myself sinking in the icy water. Water filled my nose and mouth and subsequently my lungs. I forced my eyes open and looked around the water for Holmes but it was as black as pitch and I couldn't see a thing.
My lungs burned for air and I made to swim for the surface, but something held me back. I used more of my strength in attempt to break the surface, but it was to no avail. I looked behind me and to my dismay I saw two amber orbs floating in the inky water!
Panic filled me and I began to thrash wildly. My lungs burned and my head started to swim. I thrashed harder as my vision turned to black. My last thought before I slipped into unconsciousness was Holmes's safety.
"Mackenzie! Mackenzie!" A faraway voice stirred my memory, but I couldn't for the life of me place it. I was too tired to think, my mind felt clogged and my eyes remained closed, for I didn't have the strength to open them.
"Mackenzie!" I felt lips on my own and a great pressure on my chest. Air seemed to enter my lungs as water rose to my throat. I began to cough spitting up water as I did so.
Slowly I opened my eyes but everything was blurry. My lungs burned for air and once again lips were on mine, forcing air into my lungs. I coughed up more water.
My vision started to clear and I blinked my eyes several times.
"Mackenzie, thank God!" Two strong arms drew me into a tight embrace. When I smelt sandalwood mixed with wet fabric, I knew it was Sherlock Holmes.
I put my arms around him and rested my fogged head against his soaking we shoulder. We sat like that for several minutes. "Holmes, what happened?" I rasped.
"Thank God you're all right," he whispered. "I thought I lost you."
As my mind cleared, memories rushed to me. I remembered those bright amber eyes and the woman's voice.
"Holmes," I grasped his arm. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, thank you. Mackenzie; do you think you are strong enough to sit on your own?"
I nodded and felt the comfortable weight of his arm leave my back. We separated and I looked into his face. Even in the strange erratic light from the lake, I saw his eyes bright with unshed tears.
My heart hammered against my chest when I saw the open, unguarded look of concern on his face. He cares about me! I mean something to him!
"Holmes, what happened?" I asked, attempting to restore some normalcy to our situation. "I remember a voice, then water all around me and amber eyes…"
He put a finger against my lips to silence me. He cleared his throat and spoke softly. "Erik attempted to kill us and he very nearly succeeded. Everything I said about him before is true. Christine Daaé is with him, that much is clear and he is willing to do everything and anything in his power to keep her in his possession.
'We are playing on a double edged sword Mackenzie. I must protect both young de Chagny and Mademoiselle Daaé from Erik's wrath; the consequences if I fail are dire."
"How do you know Christine is with him?"
"I saw her. It is because of her that Erik let go of me, and I was able to save you." There was sadness in Holmes's grey eyes; the reason would be made known to me. "Mackenzie," his voice shook slightly, "I want you and your friend to leave Watson and me. I will give you money for a new place of lodging but you must stay away from us."
I was hurt by his sudden dismissal of me. "Why? I thought we were in this together!"
"I have my reasons!"
"Then tell me!" My tone matched his in iciness.
"You want to know? Fine, I will tell you! Your presence in a distraction and I have made several blunders! Erik has attempted your life three times now and I refuse to allow you to die because of me.
'I want you out of my life Mackenzie Sterling! Go back where you came from and leave me alone. Allow me some peace of mind!" The intensity of his words echoed loudly in the subterranean cavern.
His words were a dagger in me. I felt tears fill my eyes but I tried my hardest to keep them from spilling out. "Fine Holmes, if that is what you really want I will go."
"It is not what I really want!" he blurted out. "But with you around, I have to think of my past, think of how your emotions cannot be, think about how I will destroy you in time! Those memories are distracting me from the problem at hand!"
I raised my hand and pushed a piece of raven hair behind his ear, ignoring the fact that his body tensed when I touched him in that manner. "My dear Holmes," I tried to hide the hurt in my voice. "You do not have to shoulder this burden alone."
"I do not under stand," he said, his eyes full of confusion.
"You continually get distracted because you are trying so hard to hide your past from me. Talk to me Holmes, tell me why you are afraid of me, afraid to show how you feel."
"I am not afraid--"
"I can see it in your eyes Holmes. Why do you want to send me away when you care so much about me? Tell me."
Holmes
Her question caught me off guard. How was I to tell her that if I allowed myself to…to care about her, I would only destroy her in the end? How do I say that any woman I allow myself to get close to dies? Do I tell her how Mother died because of me?
I took a deep breath. "I want you to leave because if you get any closer to me you will end up dead." I chose my words carefully. "Mother did."
She looked at me with surprise. It was her turn to question what I meant. She did not disappoint and the next words out of her mouth were: "Holmes, what do you mean?"
I had no answer for her. At that moment Watson's words entered my mind. "You are not to blame Holmes, for the death of your parents…your mother did not know what to do. Do you honestly think she liked seeing you put through such pain? You were and still are her son Holmes; surely you realize she loved you." Could Watson be right? Is it possible that just because Mother loved me and visa versa, that I did not cause her death? Could my disciplined mind have strayed so far from the truth that I have misjudged everything about love and my past?
I realized my silence was wronging Mackenzie. I had to say something, but what? "You would not understand."
"Try me," her hand moved to stroke the side of my face and I inhaled sharply, grasping her hand. The familiarity of that touch stung me; it caused a barrage of emotions to assault my brain. Her innocent gesture brought the humiliating memories of my past to the forefront of my mind.
"Please, do not touch me in that manner. It--"
"What? Holmes, please tell me!" The pleading tone of her voice shook me far more than I cared to admit.
"You would simply turn from me! Everyone else has everyone save Watson."
"Why didn't Watson turn from you?" For once, I could not read between her words.
I shrugged my shoulders, attempting to seem indifferent.
"He didn't turn from you because he cares about you. Don't you realize I feel strongly about you too?"
Her words put me in an awkward position. Should I tell her? Could she understand? Could she help me like she claimed? Is my piece of mind so important that I could risk loosing the one woman I…?
There was only one thing I could do. I had to tell her. Watson was correct, I was being unfair. I had to let her know where I stood.
I cleared my throat and averted my eyes from her young face. This was going to be more difficult than when I told Watson.
"Mackenzie," my voice was much softer then I wanted it to be. "I feel it is only proper for me to put things in perspective, so to speak. What I am about to tell you, Watson is the only person, save my brother who knows.
'I pray you do not interrupt; for once my…my narrative is interrupted I shall not be able to continue. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
I took a deep breath. "My Father was a vile, wicked man…"
Mac
The tragic tale he told me has already been recorded by Watson, elsewhere in this narrative and I do not see a need to reiterate it. In all honesty, I could never set it down because the very thought of what Holmes's father did to him fills me with a rage I have never before felt and am not likely to feel again.
When Holmes finished speaking, tears were freely cascading down his face. I was too shocked to speak. Although I had expected to hear something horrible, nothing could have prepared me for what I heard.
When my mind could once again function, I wrapped my arms around Holmes's shaking body and drew him close to me. I pressed his over-wrought head against my shoulder and ran a comforting hand through his wet, glistening hair.
I said nothing for my actions spoke louder than any words I could have spoken. I held him tightly and gently rocked him back and forth, attempting to calm him.
"You're safe from him now Sherlock," I whispered into his ear. "He's never going to hurt you again."
We sat together for several minutes, neither of us saying anything. Holmes's tears stopped and we sat in the cloak of darkness, wrapped in each others arms.
Eventually, he tried to push me away, but I held him fast. "I love you and always will, regardless of what happened in your past."
"Thank you," he whispered softly.
"I know you don't believe me," I said making my voice light. "But it is true."
Holmes successfully pushed away from me and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Now you know. You know why you have to leave. Why I cannot understand your feelings or my own. But I do know I do not want to see you hurt because of your feelings for me."
"You'll destroy me if you send me away Holmes. There's no place I would rather be then at your side."
There was silence for several minutes; Holmes was trying to weigh my words and the meaning behind them. Suddenly, he broke our silence. "Come along then," he said getting to his feet. He offered me his hand, which I took and helped me to stand. "We have much to do yet."
I grinned and squeezed his hand. "What else?"
In the dim light from the lake, I could see the lines of fear and agony slowly disappear from his face. He seemed more relaxed as though a great weight was lifted from his shoulders.
"I am more determined then ever to see Erik's lair. Once we find that, we will return to the hotel and put on some dry clothing. Then you will stay with your friend and Watson while I return here to sift through ponderous tomes in the opera's library."
"Definitely sounds like fun," I said sarcastically. "I'll pass on the research."
Once again, we lapsed into silence. I followed the detective along the muddy banks of the lake. After walking for God knows how long, I was able to see a faint light in the distance.
"What's that?"
"Hush! Not a sound," Holmes hissed. "We must be very quiet."
I raised my hand and kept my eyes open, peering into the darkness. As we walked, the light grew brighter; it took me a moment to realize that the light I saw was coming from windows of a house.
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but thought better of it when I remembered Holmes's warning not to make a sound.
When I was able to make out the faint outline of the house, Holmes stopped and I felt one of his icy hands close around my wrist as he pulled me into shadows.
"You must stay quiet, do you understand? Don't answer me, just nod."
I followed his instructions and he moved next to me.
In a few minutes, I heard the faint click of a lock being removed and then a spill of light cut through the darkness.
The light took me completely by surprise and blinded me momentarily. Standing in the doorway, framed by light was none other then Erik, the Phantom of the Opera.
"Take the boat and go! You know the way," his voice was extremely cold. I had no idea who he was talking to.
I pulled on Holmes's shirt but he covered my mouth with his hand and pushed us until our backs were flat against the wall.
"I…I don't know what to say…" I nearly gasped aloud when I heard Christine's voice.
"You've said enough!" Erik bellowed. "Now you cannot ever be free! Damn you!"
"I--"
"Go! Go now!"
Christine rushed out of the house and hurried into a small boat at the lake's edge.
Erik remained standing in the doorway, his amber eyes stared after Christine long after the boat disappeared.
"I swear on my life that boy will never get near Christine! Damn you de Chagny!" Erik yelled into the darkness. He then turned on his heel and slammed the door loudly behind him.
Once the slam of the door died into oblivion, Holmes gently tugged my wrist, signaling it was safe to exit our hiding spot.
I knew better then to ask Holmes any questions. We walked around the perimeter of the small building and Holmes was mentally taking measurements as we walked. When he finally decided we could leave, his face was rueful.
We once again walked along the bank of the lake in silence.
"What's the matter?"
"The measurements do not add up!" He growled.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The perimeter of the house," he said angrily, "one side is longer then the rest!"
I did not see the significance of this observation and told him so.
"Mon Dieu woman! Are you dense? Can't you see he has
an extra room?"
Mac do you really love him?
Yeah!
"Holmes, a lot of people have extra rooms in their houses. There is nothing unusual--"
"Silence!" Holmes thundered. "I have no time for dolts!"
I bit my lips so I would not say anything to enrage him. Relating his painful past to me was emotionally draining and I was slightly more tolerant of his violent mood swings, knowing where they came from. Even still, it was hard for me to swallow his belittling comments.
He stopped walking and turned to face me. He took my hands in his and did something that nearly made me faint.
He smiled a smile that lit up his entire face and grabbed me in his arms, drawing me close to him. "I am so sorry," he said, leaning his head atop mine. He spoke into my short blond locks, his breath tickling my scalp. "I am so sorry."
I wasn't sure if he was apologizing for calling me a dolt or for putting me through such emotional turmoil. But truth be told, I didn't care.
"You've nothing to apologize for," I said into his chest.
"I apologize for treating you so shabbily," he said softly.
Although his sweet apology sent my heart soaring, I was a little unnerved by his sudden change of mood.
"You do realize that you are out of character, right?"
It took a minute for my words to register in his mind. When they did, he pulled away from me. "I…I don't know what came over me. I…I just had the strongest desire to hold you." He frowned in confusion, his actions startled him. More then his actions, I think his desire frightened him.
I've had that desire for a very long time.
"It's all right Holmes," I said reaching to stroke his face.
He stopped me. He stopped my hand before, but I didn't know why. Even in the erratic lighting, I could see the paleness of his face and the look of sheer terror in his eyes. "Holmes, what's the matter? What did I do?" My voice sounded slightly shrill because I was worried about him.
"I will tell you again, do not touch me in that manner," his voice was hoarse.
Confusion entered my mind. "Hey, sure, I'm sorry. I forgot that you told me not to. I didn't mean to startle you."
He smiled weakly. "I suppose I should tell you why."
"Only if you want to," I said gently.
He took a deep breath and looked into the lake. When he spoke, his voice was extremely soft. "Father touched me in such a manner at night."
Once the meaning of his words sunk in, I hugged his tense body tightly. "Oh Holmes!" I rubbed his back soothingly, which caused him to tense even more. "I am so sorry; I never meant to remind you…" I stopped speaking, too embarrassed to finish my thought. "You'll put this nightmare behind you Holmes, but you won't do it alone. I'll be with you every step of the way."
He extricated himself from my embrace and without a word took my hand in his. I squeezed his hand reassuringly and together, we made our way out of the cellars and to the hotel hand in hand.
When we reached our hotel room, a new bond formed between us. However, I think I can speak for us both when I say we would have rather stayed in the opera house then enter our hotel room.
Waiting for us in the sitting room, seated between Becky and Watson, was the sniveling viscount de Chagny.
As soon as we entered and Holmes released my hand, a gesture that was not lost on Becky or Watson, Raoul jumped to his feet and demanded to know where Holmes had been.
"I was out," the detective said pealing off his jacket which was made wetter by the storm that raged outside our windows.
Raoul began to angrily pace the small sitting room. "I have been waiting here Monsieur Holmes, for over two hours! I walked here in the pouring rain and in the process, ruined my new suit!"
"Yes, I see that," Holmes replied without enthusiasm. "I too was caught in the storm," he said indicating his soaked attire. "So Monsieur le Vicomte, I am in a hurry to change into dry garments so I would appreciate it if you would state your case and state it quickly."
Raoul groaned and I looked over at Watson, thankfully catching his eye. "Hey Doc, can I talk to you for a minute?" I was desperate to speak with him.
It was quite obvious that Watson wanted to avoid listening to the troubles of the maudlin viscount for he excused himself and followed me into my bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.
"Thank God," he said when we were alone. "I do not believe I could listen to any more of that youth's complaining."
I chuckled and flopped down on my bed. Taking my unspoken cue, Watson sat beside me. "What is troubling you?"
"Holmes told me," I said plainly.
Watson raised his eyebrows, indicating that he was unsure of what I was talking about.
"He told me what his father did to him."
Watson instantly placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "I can only imagine how it affected you."
"Doc I never guessed…" I shrugged in spite of myself. "What's worse is, when I tried to comfort him, he grew frightened because I reminded him of his Father."
I proceeded to tell Watson of the day's events, leaving nothing out.
"Will he ever escape from his Father?" I asked when I concluded. "Will the demons of his past ever give him respite?"
Watson hugged me in a fatherly embrace and smoothed my hair. "You are so young and yet you are faced with so many hardships. I cannot answer your questions Mackenzie. But I can say with confidence, that if you are gentle with him, perhaps his father's ghost will cease to haunt him."
I hugged Watson for giving me hope. I owed the man so much but had no way to repay him. "Thanks Doc."
"Any time," he rose to go but stopped at the door. "He does love you, you know. You just have to show him how much he loves you." With that Watson was gone, leaving me to contemplate his words.
