Author's note: Really quick editing job—let me know if I've missed something!
Sherlock doesn't belong to me. If he did…well, let's not get into that, shall we?
The Man with Two Names
By the Salt Monster Ch. 7
The Royal Opera House
I examined myself in the mirror outside my apartment. "Oh, I'm a mess," I moaned and tried to pat down flyaway hairs. My curly gold hair was pulled up into a bun that would have been elegant on anyone besides me. Footsteps on the stairs behind me told me that Sherlock was out of his apartment.
"You look fine," he told me as he walked past me and out the door. I gave one last fleeting look at my hair and dashed outside after him.
He was hailing a taxi when I came outside, which actually looked really funny because he was wearing a tuxedo and tails. I shivered at the curb until a cab pulled over and let us in. When we got inside, I was still shaking, not from the cold, but from nerves.
"Something's on your mind," Sherlock concluded as we pulled up to the opera house. I saw limousines lining the curb and began to feel sick. I gave a shallow nod.
"This opening night…" I said apprehensively. "Who exactly is going to be there?"He shrugged.
"High society mostly," he answered calmly. My stomach did a flip.
"Yeah, high society and a certain Emily Barber," I muttered with a nervous laugh. "I'm not going to fit in at all-you know that."
"Just look down your nose at everyone, exaggerate the truth, and no one will know the difference," he assured me and got out of the cab with me following close behind. He offered me his arm, and I took it as we entered the house.
The lobby was lavishly decorated with portraits and chandeliers, and the opera-goers were dressed to match. With hats. I did my best to hide myself behind Sherlock as people started to stare at me.
"Let's just get to our seats, okay?" I said anxiously, I wanting nothing more than to disappear. Sherlock smirked.
"We have to get our tickets first," he reminded me.
"We haven't got tickets?" I hissed. "How are we going to get in?"
"Relax!" he hissed back. We walked over to the ticket booth where a young lady was working. "Hello, two tickets under Joe Green?" He took the tickets she handed to him and waved them in my face.
"Oh, he was nice enough to get us box seats," I muttered sourly, shoving the tickets back at him. He gave a flicker of a smile.
We entered the theatre itself and heard Sherlock's name almost at once in the many conversations going around us.
"Sherlock! Mr. Holmes!" A group of girls in their late teens and all wearing ridiculous looking hats were gathered around a row of seats and calling over to us. I could hear Sherlock groan, but he turned around and we walked towards them.
"Good evening, ladies," he said, dead-pan.
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," a blonde giggled, holding out a gloved hand. "Do you remember me? I'm Stephanie Robins. You solved my father's murder three years ago." Sherlock just stared at her and she slowly withdrew her hand.
"Sorry, I've had a bit going on since then," he said stiffly. "Might I introduce my date: the celebrated American artist, Emily Barber." My jaw nearly dropped, but then I remembered what Sherlock had said: exaggerate the truth.
"Hi, pleasure to meet you," I said, playing the "famous artist" act up by giving a lofty smile.
"A-American, you say?" Stephanie said, looking startled. "Well, that explains your lack of a hat. You see, it's customary in England to wear—,"
"I know," I said haughtily. "I just don't like wearing foolish looking hats. It's not exactly the best taste." Once again, the girls looked stunned.
"Well," another girl said, making a transparent attempt to change the subject. "You're an artist? Have we heard of any of your works?"
"Perhaps," I said enigmatically. "Big Takes on Little Italy? Romance in 'Bromance'? Southern Bell poses for Pornography?"
"Oh, I might have heard of the last one," the girl said, obviously just trying to be polite. The announcement was made that there was twenty minutes until the curtain rose.
"Alright, time to get to our seats," Sherlock said quickly, giving me an amused look. I smiled cheekily up at him. "Pleasure talking to you ladies." We strolled away and started looking for the stairs to the box seats.
"Don't you think you went a little bit overboard?" he commented as soon as the girls were out of earshot.
"You started it," I countered.
"Yes, but the art names? It seems a bit over the top, don't you agree?" I glared at him.
"Hey! Southern Bell poses for Pornography is hanging in a gallery at my university, for your information," I snapped. "Besides, they didn't seem too impressed."
"I don't know… they're taking off their hats." I glanced over my shoulder. They were indeed.
"Maybe I had more of a lasting effect than I thought," I muttered and smiled, in a particularly better mood.
"You're American, therefore much more stylish and attractive than anyone here. Whatever you say is golden."
"Thus is the workings of the teenage mind," I concluded.
"Precisely."
We reached our seats. Most people in the main house below were still milling about and socializing. Sherlock turned his attention to the program as I people-watched. "D'you see that lady's hat? It looks like a lobster found its way into her hair!" He didn't respond. "Look at that dress—tell me that's not a bit inappropriate for the opera." Silence. I leaned back in my chair, bored and looking for something to do.
"So what's La Forza del Destino about?" I asked Sherlock, whose nose was still stuck in the program.
"It's a cursed opera, though I already knew that," he said, not exactly answering my question. "In 1960 an American baritone dropped dead just before singing Don Carlo's aria in the third act. And a few years ago, the power went out at a performance in New Jersey, again in the United States." I blinked.
"Well, this is going to be interesting, then," I said. The five-minute call was announced and the people below us began to take their seats.
"I realize you've had a long day, but try not to fall asleep, Miss Barber," Sherlock said, closing his program. "At least not in the third act."
"So that gives me-what?-three hours?" I asked with a grin. He smiled.
"Actually, only a little over an hour and a half." I rolled my eyes.
The whispers died down to complete silence. No rustling of programs, no children crying…it was silent. The lights dimmed completely and the overture started.
I managed to stay awake through most of the first act, but by the time Ah, Per Sempre, O Mio Bell'Angiol rolled around, I started to doze I knew it, I was being prodded none too gently awake by Sherlock. "Act three is starting soon," he said, continuing to poke me. My eyes blinked open.
The world was sideways.
I realized my head was actually lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder and quickly straightened up, turning the world right-side-up again.
"What did I miss?" I asked through a yawn.
"Only half the opera."
"So nothing exciting happened yet?"
"Well, the Marquis died, Don Carlo and Alvero joined the army, and Leonora is living the rest of her life as a hermit, but other than that…no," he said. "But I expect something will soon." The lights dimmed again. I groaned and muttered something about going back to sleep, but Sherlock gave me another stern look and I quit complaining.
I watched the first scene…sort of. Really I was half asleep and wasn't paying much attention to anything, so I jumped when I felt Sherlock's lips right next to my ear.
"I need to check a few things out," he whispered. "Stay here. I need someone keeping a lookout." I made to protest, but he had already left. Feeling very much like grumbling, I continued to watch the opera as the second scene opened.
Mortal wounds, letters of some sort, and more talk of avenging death later, the actor I was pretty sure was playing Don Carlo took center stage. He looked nervous, and I couldn't blame him, since he was about to sing a cursed song in a cursed opera. I remembered what Sherlock had said about staying alert in the third act, and sat on the edge of my seat.
The crowd was absolutely still as he opened his mouth.
"Morir, tremenda cosa!" he sang. Nothing. For a few seconds I thought all was well, but then…
Gunshots.
The baritone let out a strangled yell and fell over. Dead.
Screaming from the crowd. My heart raced. Something had happened. It had to be part of 'Joe Green's' plan, but without Sherlock beside me I was utterly lost and confused.
The spotlight that was originally fixed on Don Carlo started swaying back and forth as a man ran across the stage. It was Sherlock. Panicking, I sprang from my seat and leaned over the railing of the balcony as far as I could while three men pounced on him and dragged him off the stage.
"SHERLOCK!" I screamed.
Then everything went black.
End of Part I
Author's note: (Yeah, the end is a cheap knock-off from Study in Pink, but it fit, so what else can I say?)
I'm quite proud of myself for making it this far! It might be a week or two before I update again, so just be forewarned.
Thanks to all of my readers and reviewers! You have all lifted my spirits this past week. Feel free to let me know what you think—a PM or a review would be wonderful!
If you're dying to know what I'm up to writing/art-wise, or if 's just not your thing, you can follow me on twitter (Housuskowskinez). I post about music, art, writing, and also share some really great fan art!
Have a great week!
~Salty