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Chapter Text

"Look what I got!" John came waltzing into the flat, grinning ear to ear.

Sherlock barely glanced up from the cluttered table, where six mugs of varying sizes sat in a row, each filled with something that hissed faintly. "A case?"

John faltered. "Not... quite. What are you doing?"

"Timing how long it takes for different acids to dissolve skin."

"...Right." John cleared his throat, peering at the nearest mug. "Just—make sure you clean them properly when you're done, yeah? And at least you left my Swindon mug alone this time."

Sherlock's eyes flicked toward the bin. He immediately changed the subject. "You said you had news?"

"Ah, yes." John held up two stiff slips of paper like trophies. "So I ran into Stammo—"

"I thought he was on his honeymoon?"

"They leave tomorrow. Anyway, apparently someone gave them theatre tickets, but neither he nor Nadia is a fan. He remembered you were, so..." John let the suspense hang for a beat.

"John," Sherlock urged, gesturing impatiently.

"So," John announced, "we're off to see The Phantom of the Opera at His Majesty's Theatre. Tonight.

Sherlock sat up straighter, a smile beginning to form on his lips, "Seriously?"

"Yeah, Royal Circle tickets too. Not bad"

Sherlock looked like he was about to start vibrating. That is, until they heard a crack coming from the kitchen table. One of the mugs had split under the acid's steady burn, spilling a mixture of fluid and pale sloughed-off skin across the table.

"Oh, for" John lunged forward, grabbing the nearest dish towel. Sherlock scrambled to lift the remaining mugs away from the spreading puddle.

"Quickly, before it stains!" John barked, mopping frantically. "If Mariana comes home and finds this on her table, we are dead men."

//////

"Damn, these are some nice seats," John muttered as he slid into place, setting his drink carefully by his feet. His eyes immediately went to the massive chandelier, shrouded in its white covering, resting at the centre of the stage.

Next to him, Sherlock was already buried in the programme, scanning each page; an excited glint lit his eyes. His long knees pressed awkwardly against the barrier in front of them; comfort clearly wasn't the priority.

John adjusted the tiny mic at his collar, making sure it was well hidden. He hadn't planned to bring it, but at the last minute, something made him tuck the smaller one into his pocket. If nothing happened, well, he'd just delete the whole recording later.

"You know, I've never actually seen this in person," John said, glancing around as the theatre filled with the soft hum of conversation and rustle of coats.

"I've seen it twice." Sherlock passed him the programme, apparently finished.

"Really?"

"Yes. I told you my parents weren't around much when I was younger. But when they were, they'd take me to the theatre."

John smiled at that, a genuine warmth softening his face. "That sounds nice."

"It was," Sherlock admitted with a faint, crooked smile. "Until My—" He broke off with an abrupt cough. "Sorry. Until I got older. Then my parents spent more time away than at home."

A flicker of something wistful crossed his face before he tipped his chin toward the stage, eager for distraction.

The house lights dimmed, sweeping the theatre in hush and shadow.

"It's about to begin," Sherlock murmured, eyes fixed on the stage, his whole posture leaning forward like a boy waiting for magic.

//////

The show was amazing. John leaned back in shock as the chandelier came crashing down onto the stage, plunging the whole theatre into darkness as the first act came to an end.

Applause broke out, and John joined in enthusiastically, fully immersed in the show.

"That was brilliant," he breathed, turning to Sherlock, only to notice the detective hadn't moved. Sherlock sat rigid, frowning.

"Is everything alright, mate?" John asked, taking a seat as the house lights came back on.

"Something's wrong"

"What? Was the violinist two bars off?"

Sherlock didn't even blink. "The chandelier hasn't been raised again."

"Okay?"

"So they're distracted backstage, something's happened."

Before John could argue, a smartly dressed man hurried out onto the stage. His hair was rumpled, his expression taut. He gestured to someone in the wings, and only then did the chandelier creak upward again, out of sight. The man took a mic, clearing his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice too tight, too forced. The audience stilled. "I'm terribly sorry, but tonight's performance has been cancelled. A portion of your tickets will be refunded, and we sincerely apologise for the inconvenience. If you could make your way to the exits. Thank you, and once again, our apologies."

He gave a brisk wave and vanished backstage.

"Come on, Watson", Sherlock shot out of his seat.

"Wh-what? Are we leaving?" John asked.

"Of course not", Sherlock bounded up the stairs, John struggling to keep up as the crowd began to leave "We're going to find out what's going on"

John muttered under his breath but followed, jostled by the exiting crowd.

They reached the stage door, only to be blocked by a wall of muscle in a security jacket. "Sorry, gents, you can't go in there"

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, already impatient. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my companion, Doctor John Watson. I'm the country's only consulting detective, and I have just witnessed a show get closed down without a reasonable explanation, and would very much like to know what's going on. If you don't believe me, feel free to contact Dame Gwen Lestrade, Head Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Doctor Watson has her number."

John just smiled as the security guy glanced over at him.

"If you wouldn't mind taking us to the manager of this theatre. That would be very much appreciated." Sherlock finished.

The guy looked far too tired; he just sighed and opened the door. "Follow me, gents."

He led them through a maze of wires, sets, props, and costumes, but surprisingly, no people.

"Where is everyone?" John asked.

"All the actors were sent back to the changing rooms. The stage crew are in the greenrooms. This is it."

The guy knocked on the door once before opening it. "Sir, these two gentlemen are from the Met. They want to speak to you."

"The Met?" The voice of the man from before asked in shock, "That was quick"

Sherlock swept in without hesitation. "Actually, we were in the audience. Sherlock Holmes. Doctor John Watson. Shall we stop wasting time? What's going on?"

The guard looked half ready to haul Sherlock out by the collar, but the manager held up a hand. "It's fine. Leave us."

Once the door shut, the manager gestured wearily to a pair of chairs. "Please. Sit."

Sherlock and John slowly sat down, watching as the manager viciously rubbed his face, looking exhausted. "I truly don't know where to begin, gentlemen."

"How about we start with your name?" John said gently.

"And then," Sherlock added smoothly, crossing one leg over the other, "You can describe the events of tonight in as much detail as possible."

The manager took a deep breath "My name is Charles Spencer, and I'm the House manager of His Majesty's Theatre. As you may be aware, this was the final night, Bella Carter was to play Christine Daae as her season had come to an end. And everything was going fine. The matinee performance this afternoon went just as well as it had for the past few months. And nothing seemed particularly wrong during the pre-show preparation, except some arguments amongst the orchestra."

Charles shook his head and ran a hand through his hair "It was all perfectly normal until we came near the end of the first act. As you know, a dummy is meant to be dropped from the rafters."

"Meant to be?" John echoed, unease tightening in his chest.

"Yes, tonight there was an accident..." Charles took a deep breath "It wasn't a dummy that was thrown over the edge, it was one of our stagehands...Cameron McLeary."

For a heartbeat, the room was silent except for the hum of backstage electrics.

John sat back heavily, colour draining from his face. "You're saying... the body that fell in the middle of the performance wasn't a prop at all. It was a man."

"That's exactly what he's saying," Sherlock muttered, his eyes scanning the man in front of him.

John felt sick, "Oh god."

Sherlock stood, John quickly following, "Thank you, Mr Spencer. Can we see the body?"

"Mr Holmes", Charles sighed, "It's late and everyone wants to go home."

"Then let's make it quick", Sherlock replied with an approximate smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Please, Mr Spencer," John added, leaning forward. "I'm a doctor. If it was an accident, we'll confirm it. If it wasn't, it's better to know now."

"You think this was murder?" Charles stood up "I can assure you, gentlemen, that none of my employees would dare do such a thing. This was purely an accident."

"That remains to be seen", Sherlock stated.

Charles just glared at the pair for a minute before seeming to relent, "Very well. Follow me."

//////

Charles led them through the maze of corridors until they reached the shadowed space behind the stage. A small group of people had gathered in a hushed semicircle, the body lying at its centre like a grim centrepiece. Among them was the security guard from earlier, arms folded across his chest.

"I thought everyone was supposed to be in the changing room or staff room?" John asked, brow furrowed.

Charles cleared his throat loudly, the sound echoing off the fly ropes. "Gentlemen, this is Olivia Emerson, one of our assistant stagehands. She discovered the body. And this is Dave Chadwick, our stage manager. You've already met Jacob, head of security. Olivia, Dave—this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson from the Met."

"It's good to meet you," John said, offering a nod.

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured distractedly, already striding closer. "Now, if everyone could kindly step back."

With a sharp flick, he produced two pairs of gloves from his pocket and tossed one to John. Then he crouched beside the body, long fingers ghosting over the dead man's jaw, neck, and throat.

Olivia shifted forward, face pale. "What is he doing?"

"Investigating," John replied firmly, pulling on his gloves and kneeling beside Sherlock. "What have you got?"

Sherlock's mouth curved. "Why don't you tell me, Doctor Watson?"

John swallowed, leaning closer to examine the young man. "Well... there's a severe ligature mark across his throat. Bruising consistent with strangulation. Looks like he struggled against the rope."

"But?" Sherlock prompted without looking up.

John pressed his fingertips to Cameron's face, then his hands. The skin was cool and stiff. "Rigour mortis is established in the smaller muscles—face and hands—but not fully in the larger groups. That suggests he's been dead for maybe an hour. Two at most." He frowned, checking again. "But his temperature... It's dropped too quickly. Much faster than it should have been in the thirty minutes since he fell."

Sherlock finally glanced up, eyes glittering.

John continued, voice grim. "Which means he was killed earlier and kept somewhere cold. Likely the rafters. He wasn't alive when he fell. He'd been dead at least an hour before."

He met Sherlock's eyes. "This was no accident."

A satisfied puff of pride escaped Sherlock. "Excellent, Watson. An astute deduction."

John couldn't help but smile. "Thank you." He peeled off his gloves and stood.

"What are you talking about?" Charles demanded, face drawn tight.

"I'm sorry, Mr Spencer," Sherlock said smoothly, rising to his full height, "but your stagehand was murdered. The ligature marks confirm strangulation, as Watson observed. The rapid cooling suggests he was left in a cold, high space long before the performance began. And notice-" he crouched briefly to tug at the torn sleeve of Cameron's shirt "These garments. Crude, poorly stitched, far below the standard of any clothing. Scarecrow clothes, stuffed over his uniform. There are straw fibres on the fabric too, from the dummy he was concealed within."

Jacob folded his arms. "You're saying someone stuffed him inside the dummy and threw him off?"

"Precisely." Sherlock straightened. "The plan was simple: a body disguised as a prop, scheduled to be thrown in full view of an audience. If discovered, it could be dismissed as a tragic accident. Rather clever."

Olivia's hands flew to her mouth. "W–Who would want to kill Caz?"

Sherlock's gaze fixed on her, sharp and unblinking. "That," he said, "is exactly what we're here to determine. And, Miss Emerson, we'd like to start with you."

//////

"Why do you want to speak to me?" Olivia asked, her voice tight. She sat stiffly on the wooden chair across from Sherlock and John, the cluttered prop room closing in around her.

"Because you're the one who found the body," Sherlock replied without preamble.

Her chin lifted. "His name was Caz. Cameron. And he was my best friend. We moved down from Scotland together, we met Matthew here, and the three of us became inseparable. I would never hurt him."

"Of course not," Sherlock said steadily. His eyes gleamed. "You were in love with him. Planning to end things with your boyfriend for the chance to be with him. Far more likely you'd want to harm his girlfriend than him."

Olivia froze. Her lips parted. "H–how could you possibly—?"

"I just know." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "What we need from you is not denial. We need his state of mind before tonight's performance."

Colour flushed her cheeks, and she shifted uncomfortably, as though his deduction had stripped her bare. "He was... down. He'd argued with Bella, his girlfriend, over what came next now that her season here was finished. Caz wanted to stay. She wanted to leave. He hated arguing with her, but it was happening more often." Her hands twisted in her lap. "Other than that, nothing was different. We said goodbye before the show and went to our stations. We don't usually meet again until the interval. By then... by then he was already gone."

John glanced at Sherlock, who was staring at her like a hawk, reading every shift of her body language. "Thank you, Olivia. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm him?"

"No," she said firmly. "Everyone liked Caz. He was the sort of person who made friends easily, never picked fights. He'd be the first to buy a round after a good show. Nobody hated him. Nobody."

Sherlock rose abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "Well, that's not true. But thank you, Miss Emerson. We'll be in touch."

John smiled reassuringly at Olivia before following Sherlock out into the hall. "So what do you think?"

Sherlock glanced at him "Not guilty. As I said, she was in love with the guy. She definitely wouldn't have killed him. Her boyfriend, on the other hand."

"So I'm guessing that's where we're going next," John replied, checking the time on his phone.

"Yes, and the Stage manager, he must have seen something."

"And why aren't we calling the police?"

"They'll get in the way."

John stopped "Sherlock, there is a dead body in this theatre. We have to call someone."

"And we will after we've questioned the suspects"

John still wasn't convinced, and it must have shown on his face because Sherlock placed his hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes, "John, I promise the police will be involved as soon as we've finished interviewing the suspects. Do you have your microphone?"

"Yeah", John sighed. "It's been on since the announcement."

"Good. We'll need it when we go home tonight."

He nodded, and they walked down the corridor to see their next suspects. As they made their way back to the stage, a thought occurred to John.

"How did you know Caz already had a girlfriend?"

"Simple, whilst examining the burns from the rope, there was a thin line that left indentations in his skin, suggesting he wore a chain of some kind under his clothing. But the mark wasn't thick, meaning it was more delicate, like those you put a pendant on and sure enough, there was a B at the base of his throat. It was a guess whether it was a girlfriend or a boyfriend." Sherlock replied.

"Brilliant", John muttered, causing Sherlock to flush "But there was no necklace."

Sherlock froze "What?"

"The necklace was missing when I checked the body"

"The necklace", Sherlock said in realisation, "Of course, the killer took the necklace." He turned to him with a glint in his eyes, "Excellent work, Watson. If we find that, we'll find out our murderer."

Sherlock began walking again, a skip in his step "Come. The game is afoot."

John spluttered, his face red as he chased after his companion.

Chapter Text

"Is Olivia okay?" Dave asked the minute they arrived back at the crime scene. Thankfully, Caz's body had been covered but not removed, probably because there was nowhere to put him. 

"She's fine." John reassured him, "She's just taking a moment." 

"We'd like to talk to you. Both of you", Sherlock interrupted before Dave or Charles could rush off. 

Dave pushed his hands into his pockets "What do you want to know?" 

"You're the stage manager. You must have known Caz's whereabouts before and during the performance." 

Dave shrugged, "I have a general idea of where he was supposed to be. I was aware he came in late and then went to his station up in the rafters. As far as I knew, he remained up there. At least until he was thrown from them" 

"Do you have any cameras?" Sherlock directed the question towards Charles. 

"Yes, many of them are in the public areas, but there are some backstage. If you'd like to follow me." Charles gestured for Sherlock to follow. 

"Stay here, John. I'll be back in a minute." 

John just nodded as Sherlock stalked after the manager. 

"So, where were you during the performance?" 

"Right here, doing my job. Ensuring everything was running smoothly, that the actors, lighting, sound, props, and other elements were all on time and in their designated places. I don't have time to keep tabs on every single person. They come to me at the start of their shift, sign in, and get their assignment for the night, then I don't see most of them again until the end of their shift, when we have a post-show meeting and we all go home." 

"So who would know about Caz's whereabouts?" 

"Probably Keith Sutherland, our chief stagehand. He's also the one responsible for throwing the dummy from the rafters as our phantom and Buquet exit the stage." 

John smiled, "Then let's go talk to him" 

"Shouldn't we wait for your companion?" Dave frowned. 

John glanced towards where Sherlock exited. "Nah, he'll be a while analysing every inch of the camera feed."

Dave just nodded before leading John further into the theatre. 

//////

"Keith!" Dave called the minute they stepped into one of the green rooms, causing the whole room to fall silent. John glanced around at the sheer number of people crammed into the relatively small space. 

"Yeah, what do you need?" A tall, muscled man stepped out of the crowd, crossing his arms, staring down at the pair. 

"This man wants to talk to you," Dave gestures to John with his head "He's from the Met." 

"Are you here about Caz?" a voice from the back shouted before John could introduce himself. 

"Uh, yeah. I'm John Watson," he squinted, "Who are you?"

The group parted to reveal another man, "Matthew Ripley. Caz was my mate." 

John perked up, "Yes, I know about you. I'll need to talk to you as well." he turned back to Dave, "Do you have any private rooms?" 

"There's a meeting room just down the hall to your right." 

John nodded before gesturing to the two men to follow him. He pushed the door open, trying to appear confident and hoped he wouldn't mess anything up for Sherlock's investigation. 

John took a breath, facing the two men as they sat down in the available chairs. 

"Okay, I'd like to start with you, Matthew. You said you were Caz's mate?" 

"Yeah, I met him and my girlfriend, Olivia, when they moved down from Scotland and started working here. We instantly clicked as a group and never looked back." 

"So you never harboured any resentment towards him?" 

Matthew frowned "No, why would I? Caz and I were solid." 

"Because your girlfriend was in love with the guy," John stated and watched as Matthew seemed to sink. 

"Yeah, I knew Liv had feelings for Caz, but he never reciprocated. He seemed pretty besotted with Bella. I don't blame the dude. And even if he and Liv struck up something, I would just break up the friendship; it would hurt for sure, but I'm not insane. I wouldn't throw him from the rafters for it." 

John nodded "So, where were you during tonight's performance?" 

"I was in charge of one of the follow spots during the entire performance. I was behind the audience and never went backstage. I didn't even know Caz was dead until Olivia told everyone, then we were sent to the green room."

"Thank you. You can go back now." John smiled. 

"I know you're investigating and such," Matthew stood with a hesitant look, "But do you have any idea when we're gonna get out of here?"

 John blew out a gust of air "Hopefully, before midnight, depending on whether we get all the statements from potential suspects and if Sherlock is satisfied." 

"Sherlock?" Keith questioned, bringing John's attention back to him. 

"Yes, my colleague. He's currently reviewing the CCTV footage." 

Matthew nodded and left, closing the door behind him. 

"Before you interrogate me. Can I ask you a question?" Keith asked, leaning back in his chair. 

"Shoot", John sighed. 

"Why do you have a microphone?" 

John silently cursed, "Uh, I host a podcast." 

"I thought you were with the Met?" 

"I - We are. I, just, also record the investigations." John stuttered, "Um, it helps though when reviewing suspect alibis." 

Keith shrugged, "What did you want to ask?" 

"How did you not realise you were throwing a body over the rafters and not the dummy?" 

Keith cracked his back, "You'd be surprised how close the weight of the dummy is to that of a human. I had been told we'd be using a new dummy for this performance, which was to be heavier and more realistic. I didn't pay much attention to the weight difference. I dropped the dummy, just as I did every night, then went back to setting up the next scene. I didn't have time to ponder the difference." 

John nodded. He wasn't sure what to believe and wished Sherlock were here to deduce whether these people were telling the truth. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a knock on the door. 

"Come in," he called. 

Dave opened the door "Sorry to interrupt, but your colleague is looking for you." 

"Thanks", John stood from his seat, stretching his stiff back. "I'll be in touch, Mr Sutherland, if we need to speak further." 

Keith gave a short nod.

John stepped into the hall, already bracing himself. Whatever Sherlock had found on the CCTV, it would matter.

He didn't even make it to the end of the corridor before Sherlock found him. 

"We can't go that way," Sherlock stated, striding up to John, staring at Dave until he left to go back to the Green room.

John blinked. "Uh—why not?" He glanced past him and caught the sound of boots and voices.

"The police have been called," Sherlock said flatly. His gaze flicked down the hall like it was something distasteful.

John perked up. "Oh, so you called them then?"

"No. Mr Spencer called them while we were questioning Olivia," Sherlock muttered. "I got through the CCTV just before they arrived. Left the moment the uniforms swarmed in."

John nodded "So, did you find anything?" 

"Only that Cameron and his girlfriend had an argument in the car park. He wandered around for an hour before heading up to the flies, never to be seen again." 

"So nothing we don't already know," John sighed. "Well, I managed to interview-" 

But before he could continue, he was interrupted by a shout from the end of the hall. "Sherlock!"

John turned to see DI Gregson striding down the hall, his face wearing a familiar expression of long-suffering exasperation.

"Gregson," Sherlock perked up, "Thank god we have one of the smartest detectives on the case." 

Gregson glanced up at Sherlock, "I can't tell if you're being serious or not," he shook his head, "Regardless, why am I being told you've been poking around an active crime scene for the past hour without alerting us?"

"We were investigating," Sherlock said. 

He closed his eyes in resignation, "You still should have called. How did you even get here before us?"

"We were in the audience," John chimed in, "We saw the whole thing happen." 

Gregson rubbed his forehead "I guess that's more understandable. Well, I've got officers interviewing every cast and crew member in the hopes we can get everyone out of here by midnight. Was there someone in particular you wished to talk to?" 

"The girlfriend, Bella Carter." 

"Yeah, I can do that." Gregson started back down the hall "Follow me, you two." 

//////

The area where the dressing room was located was a hive of activity. Officers bustled about the place, trying to get everyone's statement. However, as the three of them moved past the communal dressing room to the smaller, more private rooms. The sound thankfully faded away.

Gregson knocked on the door once before letting himself in. Inside the smallish room sat two young women in their twenties. One was in front of the mirror, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a comfortable hoodie; her wavy, chestnut hair hung loose around her slumped shoulders. John guessed she must have been Bella based on her red-rimmed eyes and her costume hanging on the rack further in the room. The other woman had straight black hair pulled into a half-up, half-down style. She was dressed in a slim black dress, her heels thrown next to the dressing table. 

"Bella Carter?" Gregson inquired, leading Sherlock and John into the room.

"Yes?" Bella asked softly. 

"I'm Detective Inspector Gregson; this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. We have a few questions for you." 

Bella's eyes filled with tears as she began to take deep breaths, her friend gently rubbing her arms. "This is about Caz, isn't it?" 

"Yes, it is," Sherlock stated before turning to Gregson. "Could you get us some tea?" 

"I'm not your butler," Gregson crossed his arms. "Get it yourself"

"There's not enough space in here for all five of us, and I prefer John here to you." 

"Just when I think we're getting along," Gregson muttered, "I can give you ten minutes." 

"Thanks," John said, whilst Sherlock nodded. Gregson trailed his eyes over the scene before leaving, closing the door behind him. 

"So what are you? Some kind of private detective?" the dark-haired woman asked. 

"Consulting detective" Sherlock corrected "Miss-?"

"Hawthorn. Vivienne Hawthorn," she replied. 

"Like the director?" Sherlock fixed his eyes on her. 

"Yes, he's my father. I play the flute in the orchestra." 

Sherlock hummed and moved his attention back to Bella "Miss Carter-"

"Bella, please," she interrupted. 

"Bella, can you talk me through your movements from tonight?" 

Bella took a deep breath, pulling her hoodie sleeves over her hands. "Well, I arrived a few hours before the show started. We had the matinee this afternoon, so Viv and I went out for dinner, then came back here to get ready. I ran into Caz, and we talked." 

"Sounded more like an argument from what others have been saying," John gently interrupted. 

Bella gave a sad smile, "Yeah, I want to audition for shows that take me around the country instead of remaining in London. I need to get out of here. Try something new. He wanted me to remain here where he is. I left in a bit of a huff; we'd had this argument many times before, but I guess this being my last show made it real to him. I came back here to do my hair and make-up. I did my pre-show warm-ups, then I was on stage." She sniffled, wiping her eyes "If I'd known what was going to happen, I'd never have had our last conversation be an argument." 

She broke into sobs, leaning into Vivianne's side. John glanced over at Sherlock to see him analysing the pair. 

"What's that around your neck?" 

Bella wiped her eyes and pulled out a necklace. It was a 'C' on a thin chain. "It's my good luck charm. I don't have it on during performances, obviously, but I never take it off otherwise. Caz has an identical one but with a 'B'." 

Sherlock hummed and resumed his critical stare. 

John glanced between the two before continuing with the questions, "So you didn't talk to anyone else before you went on stage?"

"Well, obviously, I talked to a girl from Hair and makeup when she brought me my wig." Bella sniffled, "And Alex came over about 20 minutes before the show started." 

Vivienne pulled back with a frown "Alex? Seriously?" 

"He's still my friend, Viv." 

"Who's Alex?" Sherlock finally spoke up. 

"Alexander Crawford. He was my best friend up until about 3 months ago. He admitted that he had feelings for me, but I didn't reciprocate them. We drifted apart but still kept in contact. I got with Caz a few weeks later." 

Vivienne scoffed, causing Bella to softly glare up at her before continuing, "I spoke to him about mine and Caz's argument. Then he left. I haven't seen him since." 

"Is he not an actor?" John asked. 

"Umm, no, he's the lead violinist in the orchestra." 

"So you work with him?" Sherlock stated, staring at Vivienne. 

Vivienne crossed her arms. "Yeah, I work with him." 

 Sherlock's gaze sharpened, fixing on Vivienne. "And what do you know about Alex, Miss Hawthorn?"

Vivienne opened her mouth, but the knock at the door cut her off.

"Time's up, gentlemen," Gregson called.

Sherlock stood abruptly, irritation flickering across his face before he smoothed it over. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

"Yeah, thanks," John smiled at the pair before following Sherlock out of the room. 

"Get everything you needed?" Gregson questioned as soon as John closed the door. 

"More or less," Sherlock stated. "Where are the orchestral members?" 

"In the green room closest to the right side of the stage, I do believe"

"Excellent. I need to talk to one of the members."

"Wha-? They'll have already been interviewed." Gregson protested. 

"A man named Alexander Crawford was brought up," John explained, "It won't take long, then we can all go home. Right, Sherlock?"

"Right," Sherlock set off down the hall, "Oh, and detective, we'll need a copy of everyone's statement by tomorrow morning." 

John gave a sympathetic smile, "Well, I guess we'll see you tomorrow morning." 

"I guess you will. I'd better start letting people go as long as they've been interviewed." Gregson rubbed his eyes. 

"John!"

John nodded to the detective and ran down the hall after his companion. 

//////

"Thank you for speaking with us, Mr Crawford," John said, adjusting his mic to ensure it was still recording.

"Alex, please. But I can't imagine what more you'd want from me." Alex settled into the uncomfortable chair, crossing his ankles and folding his gloved hands neatly in his lap.

"Your name came up in another interview," John explained. "We just want to clarify your whereabouts before and during the performance."

"I arrived about an hour early," Alex said easily. "Spent most of that time checking my violin, then I spoke to Bella, as we always do before a show. After that, I signed in with Dave and the conductor. Then, well, it was the performance. I was in the pit until Olivia came out with the announcement about Caz."

"What was the argument about in the orchestra?" Sherlock cut in abruptly, his eyes narrowing. John shot him a startled look; he'd almost forgotten about that detail.

Alex blinked, then gave a small laugh. "Oh, that. Viv turned up late. It ruffled feathers, sure, but nothing serious. We got over it quickly. We had a show to do. No one wanted the tension to last."

"Hmm." Sherlock stared at him, unblinking. His gaze flicked once, taking in the man's suit, sharp lines and bespoke tailoring that practically screamed Savile Row. The well-worn gloves spoke of a man ready to leave as soon as this was over. "That'll be all."

John looked up in surprise. "Seriously?"

"Of course." Sherlock extended his hand to Alex. "Thank you for your time."

"No problem," Alex said with a bright smile, shaking his hand. 

John got to his feet with a small groan. "I bet you're glad to get home. I know I am."

"Oh, absolutely," Alex smiled. 

"John. Let's go." Sherlock swept out of the room without another word.

///////

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted." John breathed in the fresh air as they finally stepped out of the theatre.

"Too much excitement for one night?" Sherlock asked lightly, already scanning for a cab whilst smelling his fingertips. 

"That, and Mariana is probably wondering if we got lost on the way back from the show." John let out a huff of laughter. "She's probably already writing up the paperwork to formally adopt Archie."

"Yes, she does seem to have an unusual attachment to a dog that isn't hers," Sherlock mused.

John scoffed. "Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same if given the opportunity."

Sherlock's mouth curved into a smirk.

"Besides," John added, quieter now, "I would do the same."

Sherlock turned sharply, eyes widening. "You would? You'd take care of Graham if I died?"

John met his gaze for a moment, steady. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I?" He looked away, "Like if you got into an accident or suddenly vanished or...kidnapped. You know?" He cleared his throat, "All purely hypothetical, of course. Who could ever take down the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"Who could ever?" Sherlock echoed, pulling himself back together just as a cab pulled up.

They climbed inside. John leaned back against the seat, finally relaxing, while Sherlock stared out the window, fingers absently rubbing his coat sleeve, savouring the faint sting against his skin.

"Everything okay?" John asked quietly.

But Sherlock didn't answer, too deep in his thoughts, his mind racing with fragments of deductions and unfinished threads.

The ride passed in silence, and soon they arrived at Baker Street. They slipped inside quietly, careful not to wake Mari.

Sherlock drifted to the couch, eyes fixed on the darkened fireplace. John lingered a moment, watching him.

He cleared his throat. "Well, I'm off to bed. Try not to stay up all night, we'll need all the energy we can get tomorrow."

Sherlock only hummed in response.

Shaking his head, John retreated to his room, changed quickly, and collapsed into bed. Sleep claimed him before his head hit the pillow.

//////

John woke slowly to the sound of plates clinking and the smell of bacon wafting under his door. 

He slowly padded out of his bedroom towards the kitchen, following the smell and faint laughter. His head felt heavy as though he hadn't had enough sleep, which, considering he and Sherlock didn't get back until way past midnight, is probably true.

"Morning," Mariana chimed as she plated up three bacon sandwiches. 

John rubbed his head as he slumped into his chair at the table, catching sight of Sherlock obsessively shifting through a box of papers. 

"I see we've had a delivery. Thank you," John muttered as Mariana handed him his breakfast. 

"Yeah, he's been at it since Gregson dropped the box off," Mariana sat down with her own breakfast, "Sherlock. Put those down and have something to eat." 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and stood up to join the pair at the table, picking at the bread. 

"Everything good?" John questioned. 

Sherlock tilted his head "I've looked through nearly every statement, and not one person saw anything. How can a man be killed in a building full of people?"

"I don't know," John muttered. 

"Why would the killer expose the body in the middle of a performance, knowing there's a chance it'd be discovered and investigated?" 

"I don't know," John repeated, pointing at his plate, "Eat your breakfast." 

"And on the victim's girlfriend's last performance, conveniently after they'd fought. She'd naturally be the prime suspect if it weren't for the fact she's completely innocent." 

"She is?" Mariana chimed in, subtly pushing Sherlock's plate into his reach so he'd pick up his food whilst he was deducing. 

Sherlock came out of his musings, "Of course. I saw her on the camera; she was exactly where she claimed to be. The theatre has one pointing at the corridor outside her dressing room. Probably to keep an eye out for crazy fans. Then, when we met her, her face was wet and her cheeks still held subtle traces of mascara that had run when she cried. And the fact that it was still there indicates she continued to cry long after being taken away from the crime scene; she wasn't doing it for an audience. Grief like that can't be faked. No matter how good an actor you claim to be," 

Sherlock paused, "There's also the matter of the necklace that you keep forgetting, John. Why would Bella take back a necklace that she had gifted to Caz after she supposedly killed him?" 

John shrugged helplessly. 

Sherlock nodded decisively and picked up his sandwich and took a bite "What I can't figure out is why. Why do all this with us in the audience?" 

John let out a huff, "That's a bit of a reach, mate. Remember, we weren't even supposed to be there. Stammo and Nadia were. The fact that we happened to take their place was a complete coincidence."

Sherlock gave John a look "Coincidence? The universe is rarely ever so lazy," he stated, sounding as though he was reciting someone. 

"Right. Anyway, I have notes from Dave Chadwick, Keith Sutherland and Matthew Ripley." John switched topics. 

Sherlock perked up with interest "Tell me everything." 

Mariana shook her head and began clearing the table when a knock on the door drew her attention to the window. She glanced at the two men still engaged in their conversation, clearly missing the knock. 

She hurried down the steps and opened the door with a smile. The person on the other side of the door was a young woman with short bright red hair. She wore a cropped top, jeans, and an oversized jacket, her face conveying a nervous look. 

"Hello," Mariana said, "Can I help you?"

The woman shifted slightly "Hi, yes. My name is Melody Rhodes, and I need to speak to Sherlock Holmes. It's about my boyfriend, Alexander Crawford." 

Chapter Text

"So Mr Sutherland claimed not to realise he threw a body over the railings?" Sherlock questioned. 

"Yeah, apparently, there was meant to be a more realistic dummy to be used that night," John explained, taking over the washing up as Mariana had disappeared downstairs. "Guess that was more true than anyone realised. 

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured, letting silence descend. That is, until the door opened.

"Yeah, they're just through here," Mariana said, talking to a red-haired girl that she led into the living room. 

John and Sherlock stood to look at the girl who was now sitting on their couch, fidgeting with the sleeves of her jacket. Mariana smiled, "Sherlock, John, this is Melody Rhodes"

"Would you like a cup of tea?" John asked.

"Umm, actually, can I have a glass of water? I don't really like tea," she replied. 

"Of course. Mariana, tea?" 

"Ooh, yes, please," Mariana said, taking a seat next to Melody. 

"I'll have tea, as well," Sherlock stated, taking a seat on the coffee table, basically staring into her soul. 

"Yeah, I know," John called. 

A few minutes later, John reappeared with three cups of tea and a glass of water on a tray, which he placed next to Sherlock. "Here we go" 

"Thank you," Melody smiled tiredly, cradling the glass in her hands. 

"So why have you sought us out?" John asked, making himself comfortable in his chair after setting his mic on the tray.

"You have concerns," Sherlock interrupted before she could answer. 

Melody startled, "Uh, yeah" 

"About your boyfriend" 

"Yeah?" Melody glanced to the side, "Did Mariana tell you that?" 

"Nah, it's just something he does," John explained, taking a sip of his drink. 

"H-How did you know?" Melody questioned with an intrigued look on her face. 

"Oh, I couldn't possibly," Sherlock tried to say, but a small grin was making its way across his face. 

"Go on, Sherlock," Mari encouraged, "We all know you want to"

"Very well, your right thumbnail has been bitten down to the bed, but your others remain intact and carefully cut, probably because your job requires you to do so.  It's not a habit; you were worrying about something."

Sherlock paused as Melody glanced at her thumb. 

"Then there's the fact you haven't slept due to your huge eye shadows hidden under your makeup. Of course, last night was stressful for everyone at the theatre, but not enough to keep someone awake unless they had a personal stake in the case. You spent the night debating whether or not to come to us. So nothing related to you, but someone you know and are close to. That narrows it down to a family member or partner. I knew it was your boyfriend from the necklace you've been fiddling with since you entered the room. I caught sight of an A. The only A we've talked to about the case is Alexander Crawford. Am I correct?" Sherlock sat back, sipping from his mug. 

Melody closed her eyes in resignation, dropping her hand from her necklace, "Yeah, you're right. Alex is my boyfriend, and has been for a few months, but as soon as I found out it was Caz who was murdered. I've had this awful feeling." 

She glanced up, pain in her eyes, "I don't want to believe he did something, but...I don't know. I didn't want to go to the police. In case I was wrong."

"It's okay," John said calmly, "Why don't you explain what you've seen?" 

Melody took a big gulp of water before placing it on the coffee table "I'm sure you already know, but up until three months ago, Alex and Bella were best friends, thick as thieves. Apparently, they had gone to an Arts school together and stayed together as they booked performances. Then something happened." 

"What?" Mariana spoke up, placing a comforting hand on her back.

"I don't really know. I wasn't close to Alex or Bella during that time. All I know is that they were no longer speaking; it was the talk of the theatre for weeks. Especially when Bella began dating Caz a week later. Everything seemed fine until I started dating Alex, a month later. He was not over Bella; he was always talking about and comparing me to her. One night, I just blew up at him. We had a massive row, but he promised to move on, and he did and toned the longing down massively." Melody scoffed, "But that could be because he and Bella were talking again." 

"So you believe Alex killed Caz?" John asked outright, watching Melody's eyes go wide. 

"I hope not. As much as he liked Bella, I pray he didn't stoop that low" 

"Do you know anyone who would know about the original fight. Other than Bella or Alex?" Sherlock questioned. 

"Viv, I guess. Vivienne Hawthorn, she's Bella's best friend." 

"Yes, we met her last night," John said, pulling Sherlock's box of paper between his knees to begin to shuffle through them. 

"Uh, yeah, well, if anyone knows what happened, it'll be her." 

John hummed, still rooting through the box until he came across Alex's statement, which he handed to Sherlock, but he couldn't seem to find Vivienne's. 

"I'm sorry to ask this," Mariana said, "But where were you before and during the performance?"

"I spent the entire time before the show began in the dressing room with the rest of the dancers. I'm a part of the ballet and was actually on stage during...the scene." Melody began to fiddle with her necklace once again, "We didn't notice something had gone wrong until we were practically locked in the changing room. Then the police came, and we realised what had happened." 

"She's telling the truth," Sherlock chimed in, not looking up from Alex's paper. 

"Everything okay?" Mari asked. 

"No, Alexander told us last night, Vivienne turned up late to her seat but failed to mention he was also late," Sherlock murmured, seeming not to notice Melody faintly blush. "Why did you omit the truth, Mr Crawford?" 

Mariana shook her head, then frowned, seeing John with his head still in the box. "John? What are you looking for?" 

"Vivienne's statement. It's not here." 

Sherlock's head shot up, "What?" 

"The police must have assumed we'd interviewed her when we met with Bella, so they never took her statement." 

Instead of being disappointed, Sherlock seemed to light up, "I do love an in-person interview. Thank you for your information, Miss Rhodes. One piece of advice: throw away the necklace."

Melody blinked, startled. "Excuse me?"

"The chain and pendant," Sherlock said, his eyes briefly flicking to it again. "Identical design to the pair Caz and Bella exchanged. I recognised it the moment you walked in. Crawford clearly meant it for Bella. When that failed, he repurposed the gift for you. A recycled gesture, and a very telling one." He stood, coat swirling around him. "Do yourself a favour, discard the necklace. And him. You deserve better."

 Sherlock glanced over his shoulder before striding out, "Come, Watson." 

John grinned, balancing on one foot to pull his shoe on "Yeah, coming. Lovely to meet you, Melody." 

He followed Sherlock out without another word. 

A hush fell upon the flat as though all the energy went with Sherlock and John. Melody glanced at Mariana, who wore an affectionate smile, the kind of look that came from long familiarity and a certain fondness for their chaos.

"Are they always-?"

"Like that? Yeah, you get used to it." The mic on the coffee table caught her eye "John'll be back in a second" 

"How do you know that?" 

However, before Mariana could answer, John burst back through the flat door, almost tripping over his own feet to reach the coffee table, "Sorry, sorry. Forgot the mic" 

He picked it up and ran back out the door "Bye, Mariana" 

The two women sat in silence before bursting into a fit of giggles.

"Oh god, I swear he does that at least three times a week." Mariana took a few deep breaths "Fancy another drink before you head out? I have some chocolate biscuits that I've managed to keep hidden from the boys." 

Melody smiled, "I'd love to, thank you." 

//////

Vivienne peeked around her door, her brows furrowing as she saw John and Sherlock standing there. "Can I help you?"

"I do believe you can," Sherlock said smoothly. "May we come in?"

"Sure." Vivienne opened the door wider, letting them step inside. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, we won't be long."

She hesitated, then perched awkwardly on her sofa. Sherlock and John settled on the one opposite, two pairs of eyes fixed on her.

"I thought I was done with questions after yesterday," she said warily.

"So did we," John replied, "until we realised your statement was missing this morning."

"Yeah... the detective inspector said we could go. I guess he thought you'd interviewed us both."

"Alexander Crawford," Sherlock cut in.

Vivienne stiffened, the name landing like a stone.

"I think it's time you told us what you know," he pressed.

Vivienne slumped, wrapping her arms around herself. "I suppose it is. It started about a year ago when Bella joined the theatre. We hit it off immediately despite me being in the orchestra, and her on stage. The only problem was that wherever Bella went, Alex wasn't far behind. At first, it was harmless. We all spent time together during rehearsals. But when Bella and I had our own outings, he started... inserting himself. She always brushed it off, said he'd always been like that. Then he asked her out, and she turned him down. Bella had never thought of him in that way. You know she once told me she viewed him as an older brother."

Her voice dropped. "He didn't take it well. He started following her, hovering, especially after she grew close to Caz. Eventually, she'd had enough and cut him off completely. Then she started dating Caz, and honestly, I'd never seen her happier. Things seemed better when Alex moved on with Mel. He even patched things up with Bella. But then last night happened."

John nodded slowly, then frowned. "Alex mentioned you were late to your post, and that's what caused the argument."

Vivienne actually laughed. "Oh, he said that, did he? No, he was the one who caused it. He only arrived seconds before me and decided to nitpick my whereabouts. Typical. The rest of the orchestra had nothing to do with it."

"So where were you?" Sherlock asked.

Vivienne hesitated, then smiled faintly. "With someone. We were in the cupboard by the dressing room. Lost track of time, it's quite the trek to the pit. I got off lightly. Alex, on the other hand, got chewed out for wearing those ridiculous gloves. He's the lead violinist; you think he'd know better."

Sherlock murmured in agreement, fingertips steepled, eyes distant.

"Sorry, I couldn't be more helpful," Vivienne shifted, wincing when her ankles bumped the sofa.

"You've given us plenty," John said, then spotted her pain. "Are you alright?"

"Just blisters from my heels. I couldn't get a cab last night, so I walked home. Terrible idea."

"May I?" John leaned forward, shifting into doctor mode. At her nod, she rested her feet on the table. He examined the raw patches on her ankles. One blister had burst, the other swollen but intact.

"They're clean, no infection. Keep the intact one loosely wrapped to prevent friction. With the other, apply some antibacterial cream, then cover it with a bandage. That'll prevent any infection."

"Cream?" Sherlock suddenly snapped upright.

John glanced over his shoulder, baffled. "Yeah? I was just advising her to put cream on—"

Sherlock shot to his feet, eyes alight. "Watson, you're a genius!"

John blinked. "Uh... what?"

"Call Gregson. Have every suspect we've spoken to gathered at the theatre within the hour. I'll meet you there." Sherlock was already halfway to the door, coat tails flaring.

"Where are you going?" John called after him.

"I need to fetch something," came the reply, before the door slammed shut behind him.

John rubbed his face, then glanced at Vivienne, who was still sitting with her feet on the table.

"Well," she said wryly, "I suppose I should get these blisters bandaged."

"Yeah," John sighed, digging out his phone, "I have a call to make."

//////

An hour later, John and Gregson had managed to gather all nine suspects on the stage. Gregson had even cordoned off the theatre, with police stationed at every exit in case the murderer tried to make a run for it.

"What exactly are we doing here?" Dave demanded, arms crossed.

All eyes turned to John, who shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their stares. "Uh. Sherlock'll be here in a minute. He'll explain."

"And I shall," Sherlock announced grandly, striding out from backstage instead of the aisle. John blinked at him as he stopped beside him. "I just needed to grab this."

He reached into his coat and produced a small, elegant bottle.

Keith frowned. "Hand cream? All this for some fucking hand cream?"

"Yes, Mr Sutherland," Sherlock replied, voice like a blade. "All this for hand cream. Last night I caught the scent of this particular brand and only realised this morning where it came from."

He began pacing down the line of suspects, his gaze sharp, relentless. "Let's review. Cameron McLeary was murdered before the performance; strangled, hidden in the dummy, dropped in front of hundreds of witnesses. His necklace vanished. And the killer—" Sherlock raised the bottle between two fingers, "—owns this."

Gregson frowned. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Mr Chadwick," Sherlock snapped, making Dave jolt. "Do you recognise this?"

Dave squinted at the bottle. "Never seen it before."

"No, I wouldn't imagine you had. Chanel: La Crème Main. Fifty-four pounds for a tiny bottle."

Dave let out a low whistle. "Jesus Christ."

"Exactly, you'd never spend that much on hand cream. Could you stand with Detective Gregson? You as well, Mr Sutherland. While your job may require hand cream, you wouldn't spend that much on a single bottle. That goes for you as well, Miss Emmerson and Mr Ripley." 

The four people Sherlock mentioned stepped out of the line to stand by Gregson. He tucked the bottle back in his pocket.

"Sherlock," John interrupted, causing him to look over. "What are you doing?" 

"Deducing" 

"You've never dragged it out this long," John whispered. 

"This whole thing has been very performative. It doesn't sit right with me." 

"So you're giving them a final act instead of getting Caz justice," John demanded, getting more riled up. 

"You must trust me on this," Sherlock stared into his eyes, "There's something more going on here." 

John exhaled, resigned, "Okay, but you still have five suspects to whittle down to one." 

Sherlock smiled and turned back to the line, "Next point, Miss Rhodes, you have a solid alibi, spending most of your time in the dressing room until you met with a special someone. I would recommend not using that cupboard again, as there is a camera pointed down that hallway."

Melody flushed a bright red and went to stand with Gregson without making eye contact, missing Alex's huff and eye roll. 

"Miss Carter. Your interview was very illuminating, and your grief could not be faked. I am truly sorry for your loss, and I hope my conclusion will not hurt you further."

Bella looked up at the man, determination in her eyes, "The only thing I care about is justice for Caz. He deserves that much." 

"That he does," Sherlock gestured to the growing group with Gregson, then turned to the remaining people. "And then there were three." 

Sherlock pulled out the bottle once again, turning it in his hand "Once again, we come back to the cream. It's fragranced and full of preservatives, not suited for someone with eczema." 

"What's eczema got to do with this?" Alex finally spoke up, a baffled look on his face. 

"Mr Spencer, you suffer from eczema on your hands." 

Charles shifted in surprise "Yes, I do. How did you figure that out?" 

"The flakes of skin line the edges of your suit jacket sleeves from where it rubs your hands when you put your jacket on. Tell me, do you use hand cream?" 

Charles gave a small smile, "Not that kind. I use a pharmaceutical cream when it gets bad in the winter." 

"Thank you, Mr Spencer. You can stand over there." Sherlock moved on from Charles to stand in front of Vivienne and Alex. 

"The final suspects," Sherlock intoned, voice dropping. "The two whose positions in the orchestra demand constant care of their hands, and who would not flinch at the price." 

Sherlock's eyes trailed over them before jumping over to John, then to Gregson "You asked, Inspector, how I knew this belonged to the killer. Rope burn."

He started pacing again, "Tell me, Dr Watson," Sherlock called, ignoring John's exasperated look, "Should hand cream be used on rope burn?" 

"No, it shouldn't. It doesn't help." 

"It doesn't help," Sherlock echoed with a smirk, "So our murderer will still have severe rope burn on his hands from strangling Caz as he fought for his life despite their attempt to heal the burn." 

He stopped dead, "Show me your hands."

//////

There was silence until Vivienne let out a huff and held out her hands, "Here" 

 Sherlock smiled at her before running his fingers across her palm. He noticed she had calluses across the palm where her flute sits and, smaller ones, on all the fingers she used. But most importantly, she had no rope burn. Vivienne's hands were perfectly normal. 

 "Sherlock?" John interrupted.

 "You're good" 

 Vivienne looked relieved for a second before her face fell, turning her head to Alex, "You didn't?"

"Miss Hawthorn," Sherlock called. He raised his eyebrows, and Vivienne hurriedly moved across the room. 

Sherlock turned to Alex and looked the man in the eye. Whilst he was examining Vivienne, Alex had gained an ugly look on his face as though he knew he was caught, he was just being stubborn. 

"Mr Crawford," Sherlock said, holding out his hand. 

Alex sneered and pulled his gloves off. He thrusts his hands out, letting everyone see his palms. They were covered in red streaks and shallow blisters that had healed poorly due to his application of the fragranced hand cream. 

"You!" Bella's voice snarled, drawing everyone's attention to her. She tried to move forward but was stopped by Vivienne's hand on her arm, "It was you? You killed Caz? WHY?!" 

Alex didn't answer, just moved his eyes to the floor, no remorse on his face. 

"I'll tell you why," Sherlock stated, "Mr Crawford has always been obsessed with you. Always following behind you, could never seem to leave you alone since the moment you met. He even tried to push out Vivienne until he realised that would only send you away. So he waited on the sidelines, hoped you'd see "sense" and abandon Caz. That is, until your argument..." 

"My argument?" Bella frowned, "With Caz?" 

"Yes. Alexander couldn't bear the thought that you were hurt. He thought you could do better. So he approached Caz as he was in the rafters just before the performance and strangled him to death. He stuffed him in the dummy and rushed down to the pit to start the show, picking a fight with Vivienne to take the heat off his own back. But you couldn't hide the rope burn. Thankfully, you were seated at the front of the pit, so no one saw your hands. Then of course there's this..."

Sherlock stepped forward and pulled out a necklace from under Alex's jacket to reveal a 'B'. "Couldn't bear the thought of leaving it behind?" 

Alex let out a laugh and stepped out of Sherlock's reach "You think you're sooooo smart. The great Sherlock Holmes." He smirked nastily, "Yeah, I killed Caz, I've wanted to kill him for months. It wasn't some random act after an argument. That's just pathetic." 

"Why did you do it last night then? What was so different?" John questioned. 

Alex grinned, "Unfortunately, Doctor Watson. Neither of you will be around to find out." He slid a hand into his jacket. The glint of metal, stilling the theatre in an instant, every breath held as he pointed the barrel straight at Sherlock's head.

//////

John immediately stepped forward, only to find the gun pointed towards him. He quickly stopped and held up his hands. 

 "Stay where you are, or he gets it," Alex returned the gun to Sherlock's head once he saw no one was moving towards him. "I wonder if a genius's brain looks different when it's scattered across the floor."

"Now hang on, maybe we should all calm down," Gregson raised his hands. 

"Shut up," Alex snarled. "I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to let me go, and everyone lives. How simple is that?" 

"I can't let you do that," Sherlock stated. 

"Sherlock," John warned. 

Alex tilted his head "Well, that is a shame." 

He fired upward toward the chandelier. The crack of the gunshot echoed through the theatre as glass rained down, glittering in the flickering light while the fixture swayed dangerously overhead. Everyone ducked, shielding their heads. By the time they looked up, Alex was already sprinting for the wings.

John was the first to recover. He lunged after him.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted, then set after the pair.

//////

John didn't hear Sherlock shouting; all his focus was on Alex as the man slipped through a tangle of ropes and hanging costumes, flinging sequined jackets and feather boas into John's face to slow him down.

They burst out near the stairs to the fly loft. Instead of heading further backstage, Alex bounded upward two steps at a time. John thudded after him, snagging his jacket on a splintered piece of wood. He ripped free, unaware the mic still clung to the collar, and hurled himself up the stairwell after their murderer.

"Shit, John," Sherlock muttered as he reached the landing seconds later. The jacket with the mic hung from a nail; he snatched it and clipped it to his own coat. If he didn't record this, John wouldn't forgive him for a long time.

A cut-off exclamation echoed from above. "JOHN?!"

No answer.

Sherlock sprinted up, the metal stairs rattling beneath his boots. He emerged onto a narrow gangway high in the rigging and froze. John knelt at the edge, a coarse stage rope looped tight around his neck. Alex stood behind him, both fists on the rope, a sickening grin carved across his face.

"John..." Sherlock whispered, instinctively stepping forward. John choked as the rope tightened; he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Ah-ah-ah," Alex tutted. "Stay right where you are, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock raised his hands, palms out, eyes fixed on John's mottling throat.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John rasped.

"Shut up," Alex snarled. "Your input is not needed, Doctor Watson."

"Let him go," Sherlock said, voice low, dragging Alex's attention back to him.

"And why would I do that?" His hands tightened on the rope, pulling it slightly, "After all, he was right. Doctor Watson is the perfect bait for you" 

"He?" 

Alex bared his teeth as his smile widened "Have you not figured it out yet, he said You were smarter than this." Alex leaned forward, "You know he helped me plan this whole thing. Kill the lead actress's boyfriend just after they'd argued. Perfect crime."

"I thought you loved her. Why would you set her up for murder?" 

Alex paused, "I do. She should have been with me. It was supposed to look like an accident, but I'd rather she go down than me." 

"What a great start to a relationship" 

"I know, right?" Alex shifted his grip on the rope, making Sherlock's eyes flick back to him, but instead of being panicked, John looked determined. 

He caught Sherlock's eyes and mouthed 'distract him'. 

"Probably for the best," Sherlock said, "It's not like she would ever be with you" 

"What did you say?" Alex snapped, his eyes wild.

"She spent ten years with you as friends. If she wanted anything more, she would have said it before now. Instead, she got with another guy and was extremely happy with him. And you went and killed him." 

Alex snarled, "Why you little shi-" 

John's heel hooked behind Alex's ankle, dragging the man off balance. Alex lurched but recovered fast, yanking the rope tight again. The breath caught in his throat, causing him to scratch at his throat instinctively. Sherlock surged forward, his fist connecting sharply with the side of Alex's head. The rope slackened, and John sagged free as Sherlock pulled him clear and out of reach.

Alex's hand scrabbled for the gun at his belt. Sherlock caught his wrist and slammed it into the iron railing. The pistol clattered to the stage below. Sherlock's other hand shot to Alex's throat, squeezing until the man gagged.

"You don't get to hurt my best friend." He snarled.

"Sherlock," John croaked, gripping his arm, "Let him go. It's okay, you can let him go." 

He blinked and quickly let go of Alex, leaving him to slump to the floor. 

John pressed a hand to his neck, coughed. "Gregson... we need Gregson..."

Sherlock spun around, placing his hands gently on John's bruised neck "Try not to speak." 

He just nodded and began to walk back along the gangway. Sherlock went to follow when Alex started to laugh behind him. The pair turned around to see the man pulling himself to his feet.

"You think it's so easy. That I'll just be thrown in prison and that'll be the end of it?" 

"Yeah, pretty much," John spat, ignoring Sherlock's look.

"You're idiots." Alex laughed, "Both of you. He'll never let me live, not now that I've been caught. Once you're entangled in his web, you can never leave." His smile dropped, a frown coming across his face "I want to go out on my own terms." 

Sherlock's eyes widened as he realised too late what was going to happen. He rushed forward, but Alex tipped over the edge like a marionette with its strings cut and vanished into the darkness below.

"SHIT!" John swore, sprinting down to the stage. Sherlock followed, his mind racing at all the events in the past few minutes. 

He halted at the edge of the stage, seeing John walking back over, his face pale and his hands trembling. "He died as soon as he hit the ground, snapped neck." 

Sherlock pulled him close, a hand cradling the back of his head. John's shaking hands came up behind him, gripping Sherlock's coat with all his strength. "It's okay. It's over now." 

//////

 John was humming under his breath, toothbrush in hand.

"Don't go chasing waterfalls. Please stick to the—argh—"

He almost swallowed the foam as Sherlock burst into the bathroom without knocking. John spat the excess toothpaste into the sink and glared at him.

"Jesus Christ, mate, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Stammo," Sherlock said curtly.

John frowned. "He's still on his honeymoon."

"Sherlock? John?" Mariana's voice drifted through the flat before her head appeared round the door. "Oh, there you are. I've got a few cases, if you want to look through them, Sherlock?"

"We can't; this case isn't closed yet." His eyes lingered on the yellowed bruises on John's neck "We need to call Stammo." 

Sherlock brushed past Mariana as John washed his face with a sigh. 

"How are you feeling?" 

John shrugged, "I'm doing fine. My voice has returned to almost normal, and these bruises should be gone within a week. I'm more worried about Sherlock; it's been a week, and he still hasn't let it go. He seems to be hung up on the thing Alex said." 

Mariana smiled, "Maybe he's so hung up on it because you got hurt, John." 

He made a face, but Mari held up a finger, "No, John, you got seriously hurt, you could have died, and Sherlock knows that. And if someone was pulling the strings the whole time, and is still out there. Of course, Sherlock doesn't want to move on." 

"But what if he can't be found. Alex made it sound like they were pretty well connected. I don't want either of you to get hurt." 

"I know," Mariana softened, "But the same goes for you." 

John took in a deep breath, "We'd better go call Stammo, then" 

"We?" 

John gave her a playful look, "Well, you're joining us, aren't you?" 

Mariana let out a laugh, "Yes, of course. This is way more interesting than sitting in the office." 

John joined in the laughter as the pair wandered into the living room, where Sherlock sat waiting. 

"What's so funny?" Sherlock questioned, pulling John's laptop towards him. 

John shook his head, "Why do you need to talk to Stammo?" 

He and Mariana took their seats on the couch with John in the middle. John brushed Sherlock's fingers off his laptop to log in. 

"It's where this whole case started. You got tickets from Stammo that sent us to the theatre." 

His fingers paused on the laptop "You want me to call Stammo based on a coincidence?" 

"Trust me, John." Sherlock's gaze held his — earnest, pleading.

John felt his throat tighten, coughed, and looked away. Mariana smirked faintly at the exchange.

He pulled up WhatsApp and hit the call button. "You know, there's a chance he won't pick up, right?"

"I think he will," Sherlock murmured.

The laptop chimed as the call connected. "Looks like you were right," Mariana said as Mike's tanned face filled the screen.

"John? I wasn't expecting a call from you," Mike said, then he saw the other two people sitting next to him, "Nor Mariana or Sherlock" 

"Yeah, neither was I." John muttered, "How's the honeymoon?" 

"Good. Really good. Goa is nice" 

"Yeah, I bet it is. Look Stammo-" 

"What the hell happened to your neck?" Mike leaned in closer, horror overtaking his face. "Hey, Nadia!"

John covered his face with a groan. Sherlock patted his shoulder, awkward but steady.

"Hey, everyone," Nadia waved, taking a seat next to Stammo. "What did you want?" 

"John has bruises on his neck," Mike explained. 

He took his hands away from his face, exposing his neck.

Nadia's eyes widened, "Oh my god. Are you okay? How did that even happen?" 

"A fight with a murderer," John stated flatly.

"Can we get back on track?" Sherlock interjected. 

"As long as John is okay," Mike stared intently at John, who nodded reassuringly "What did you need?"

"Last week, you gave John tickets to go to the theatre." Sherlock said, "Do you remember who gave you them?" 

Stammo frowned, "No, I just remember them being on the table with all the rest of the gifts. I thought it was an odd gift, considering neither of us particularly likes the theatre. But I brushed it off, thinking it was one of Nadia's distant relatives." 

Nadia scoffed with a smile, "Oh, thank you" 

"What?" 

"Anyways," Nadia took over, "I didn't think much of it, but I did take a photo because it didn't even have a name on it. Only a letter. Look, I'll send it to you."

Sherlock took out his phone. Mariana and Stammo drifted into honeymoon chat while John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder.

It was a picture of a nondescript card; the background was striped with a blank section in the middle. Normally, cards like this would have writing, a personal touch, but this one just had a printed message. 

Enjoy the show. 

And underneath was a single letter: –M.

John inhaled sharply as Sherlock went rigid beside him. The light from the screen cast his face in sharp relief.

"Sherlock? John? Is everything alright?" Mariana asked.

"W-what does this mean?" John whispered. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at the phone for a long moment, then looked up at him. For once, there was pain, and something like fear, in his eyes.

"I don't know, John," he said quietly. "I don't know."