Sherlock wanted to scream. He wanted the entire Opera House to hear his howl, to feel his pain at losing the one thing he valued the most; Christine. Sherlock had left his home behind in daylight to look for her and now that he was standing on the uppermost catwalk he realized what he was missing. His mask.

His mask was back in his home on his nightstand where he habitually placed it when he went to bed and now in his hasty action of finding Christine he had forgotten it.

" You there?" Sherlock ducked quickly at the sound of the man's voice. " What are you doing up here? You know the rules. No dancers in the ropes." Sherlock sighed; he knew the voice to be Buquet's and he just caught Sherlock.

" Yes sir. I am sorry I was just looking for someone that is all." He tried to used his charming voice, the one that had gotten him free many times and many times to get him into places also. But Buquet wasn't buying it.

" Who are you? I have never seen you before?" the creaking and swaying of the catwalk underneath Sherlock's feet told him that Buquet had jumped from the adjacent catwalk to his own to figure out who he was and Sherlock was internally panicking. No one besides Christine had seen him without his mask and the thought that the fat brainless man before him would see it disgusted him.

" I came in this morning. I am looking for the singer Christine. I have a letter for her." Sherlock nearly gagged on the oily laughter that poured from Buquet's throat.

" Oh, you have a note for our little songbird do you? Can I see it?"

" No sir, it is from someone dear to her. He refuses to let anyone, even me, read it contents before Christine does." The laughter echoed through the rafters again causing Sherlock to close his eyes so he didn't retch.

"Ah, Christine. It from Changy isn't it? You know he just like a bit of ass every now and again like his older brother poor soul. He died of the Swellins, if you get my meaning." Buquet pointed to his groin and Sherlock nodded, not wanting to go into detail at all about it.

" Yeah I had plans of do her up right a few nights ago. I bet she had a nice tight…" Buquet's words were cut off as Sherlock's fingers wrapped neatly around his flabby throat.

" SO that is what you want from her you bastard?" Sherlock smiled fiercely as Buquet's eyes widened with understanding at who he was. He tried to nod no but a firm shake from Sherlock kept him in place.

" Do not lie to me." He hissed and Buquet squealed slightly like a pig. Sherlock shook Buquet once more and begun to squeeze a little tighter. He saw the life slowly fade from Buquet's eyes, reveling in the experience when a horrible thought entered his mind. He would be blamed from Buquet's death which would send them looking and it wouldn't protect Christine either. Sherlock dropped the comatose Buquet and leaned back against the railing. He needed to think about this. He needed to protect Christine, but at the same time send a warning that he was dangerous and not to be messed with and since Buquet had already saw his face… Sherlock smiled.

The knife was sharp enough to cut the thick ropes around the theater, which meant it would be sharp enough to cut through human flesh easily. He never done this act before though he had read about it being done and the complications, which meant he had to work fast and cauterize the wound. Taking a lone lithium lamp, Sherlock set the knife in the flame receptacle and lit it. The blue flame leaped around the blade, giving the silver an almost heavenly glow and within in a few seconds the blade was hot enough to do some damage to skin and bone. A soft moan told Sherlock that his victim was waking up and reaching forward, Sherlock tore the seam of Buquet's pants wide open. There, running along the side of his leg was the femoral artery, adrenaline making it press against the skin in violet rivers.

" What are you doing?" The slurred speech made Sherlock wonder if the was the right thing to do.

"I am preventing you from harming Christine." He murmured and taking the knife, placed it against the delicate skin and with a wrenching motion, removed Buquet's prized possessions. The scream that echoed through the building was like nothing Sherlock had ever heard before or wanted to hear again. It was the scream of a man in true agony and Sherlock could have sworn his ears were bleeding from it. Buquet's flesh was still warm and Sherlock knew what he had to do to them. He had to get rid of the evidence. Leaving the screaming stagehand to recover from his wounds in peace, Sherlock went to grab his mask.

" This meal is quite exceptional my luve." The creeping notes of Carlotta's voice swam through the stuffy air and Sherlock bit his tongue. Tonight was the celebratory party for Carlotta's astounding achievement at the previous night's opera; the one slated to be Christine's yet taken so quickly from underneath her. Sherlock had come in through one his secret entrances and was currently sitting at the back of the room. His normal white mask had been changed for one that had the appearance of his skin and with a few dabs of makeup stolen from the brats above him; he made it appear as if he wasn't wearing one. Since he was the first one at the table, he saw the reaction he caused to everyone as they entered. This was too easy.

" Well here is the main course. I hope you all enjoy." Andre's cheerful voice was strained and Sherlock knew it was because of him. The meal was chicken and dumplings with a side of bread. Simple, yet with the other garnish Sherlock had put in it would make them never forget this night.

" I hope you're enjoying your meal my friend." Andre's voice broke through Sherlock's fog of indifference.

" Yes I am. Though I do not believe the meat is chicken." He held up his spoon and lifted towards Andre who was at the head of the table and with proud acceptance watched as Andre took some of the meat in the soup and placed it in his mouth and chewed. Sherlock felt laughter bubble in him and tamping down with his iron hard will, waited.

" You're right. I don't think this is chicken." Andre started to wave over a waiter when the door to the dining room was flung open, the door handle hitting the wall with a massive bang.

"We just found Buquet and you won't believe what happened to him." Everyone was up whether in indignation or curiosity, giving Sherlock time to slip to his exit route.

" Slowdown and tell us what happened."

" Buquet had his balls cut off and we can't find them." The stagehand's face was pale and feverish at the thought.

" And that is what you get when you disobey my orders." Sherlock's thunderous voice rained the words of realization and slipping through the crack in the wall vanished. As he retreated into his dark lair, he could hear the cries of outrage and disgust, while underneath the torrent of voices was the sound of someone's stomach being emptied in horror and revulsion.

Sherlock laughed.