The second half of the opera is dark and terrible; it challenges my mind with its complex duets and resolutions. In each recapitulation there is a slight tonal difference. I look at the people around me, John, Mary, the others, most have no idea of what Mozart has accomplished. There is one who would know. There is one who would hear the complexity of Mozart's Opera-Moriarty. He would know. He would hear. I look at John he is sound asleep on Mary's shoulder oblivious of the rape and murder that Don Giovanni reaps upon any who oppose him. I steeple my fingers together and rest them at the fulcrum point just underneath my nose. Don Giovanni is doomed. His time is short.
The statue of the murdered soldier knocks at the door for Don Giovanni. A D minor chord fills the theatre. It is a reckoning, an I.O.U. A summons for Don Giovanni's descent into hell. Mary watches me as a trickle of sweat rolls down my forehead onto my cheek. I feel the madness of Don Giovanni sink into my chest as his faithful servant and friend begs Don Giovanni to repent. And with one phrase Don Giovanni dooms himself, "No siento…" the statue informs Don Giovanni that his time has run out. Terror overcomes Don Giovanni as his servant and he are carried off to hell. After his demise everyone makes plans. Don Giovanni is dead or is he? This thought rattles around in my brain like an unresolved phrase. I jump when Mary addresses me.
"Sherlock, are you alright?"
You dearest John, look around and yawn. "Is it over?"
Mary smiles. "Yes, it's over. You've been a very good boy. You both deserve a treat tonight."
I look at you, you look back. Mary smiles and takes both of our hands. I entwine my fingers through yours and then hers. For a moment I grasp them tightly, unwilling to leave the safety of the Opera House-our sanctuary.
You jump up. "Come on let's see what Mary has in store for us," you say as we push our way through the dispersing crowds.
There is fresh fallen snow that covers the ground and as Mary reaches down into its powdery depths you throw a perfectly aimed snowball at her. She laughs as you take her around the waist. I stare and marvel at your ability to be happy again. She slips and you both fall to the ground laughing.
In spite of myself I smile at my two angels. "Come on Sherlock, join us." Mary shouts as she lays down in the snow and moves her arms back and forth to make circular wings. You lie next to her and do the same. For a moment the world seems magical-tranquil-peaceful like the domed fantasy atmosphere of a snow globe. Then you stand up and beckon to me.
I am just about to join you both when a hear a sharp ping and then the sound of impact. A red dot appears in the middle of Mary's forehead. A viscous river of blood runs down Mary's nose and then her cheek. Even before she hits the ground I know she is gone. People shriek and run for cover. I run towards you as bullets rip through the soft drifts of snow.
"John, stay down," I shout as you crawl towards Mary.
As you pull her into your arms, warm blood flows down her neck cooling as it drips into the freshly created snow angel's wing. My mind calculates that the warmth from her body is dissipating. Soon the ground underneath her will give way to the cold grip of winter.
Your face is white and for a moment I fear you have been shot too. Then you reach up to pull me down. Dearest John you are too late. A bullet nicks my collar bone, separating a section of my wool coat, flesh fills the once clothed area, blood sprays onto my neck as I sink to the ground. If an artery's hit, I will be dead in seconds. You cover my wound with your surgeon's hands. "Sherlock keep your eyes fixed on me, focus goddammit." You say. I smile at the irony of your command. 'Juxtaposition,' is the last word that goes through my mind.
