Open to irene_adler (BBC's Sherlock)

[mmkaternater]

Whenever feasible, Sherlock Holmes preferred to travel Europe by train, rather than by aeroplane.

This predilection, to which Dr. John Watson was only enlightened as he attempted to squeeze two valise cases into the overhead compartment of a sleeper car (Holmes did none of the lifting), had several sources. Holmes was particularly sensitive to the idea of airline security in a post-9/11 society, where a man who could identify who you were sleeping with (just by looking at the cuffs on your sleeves) attracted a worrying amount of attention from border agents. (Holmes had once been stuck in a holding room in Lisbon's Portela Airport for thirty-six hours merely because the pilot's shoelaces had been of a particular interest.) Holmes also approved of the thrift of the railway system and, in spite the success of Watson's blog and the celebrity it attracted, preferred a private train car to a noisy, elbow-to-elbow aerorplane cabin.

They had taken a lightspeed rail from Charing Cross and reached the southern tip of France in just under three hours. After breakfasting in Céret, they had boarded another, hardier train for the one thousand mile journey north to the provincial town of Lille where they were to begin their latest investigation. Watson had settled down almost immediately, sinking into the plush seat like a winter bird fluffing its feathers. Holmes had gravitated toward the smoking car (itself in danger of becoming an anachronism in an increasingly anti-smoking society) which he found blissfully unoccupied. He spent most of the northward journey with his back to the window, watching the passengers as they traversed up and down the corridor. He did not smoke. He seemed merely content to be in a position to do so if he chose.

Their present commission had been set to them by a doctor named Roubaix, a noted physician and medical celebrity, whose latest research seemed to indicate that he had found a cure for all forms of malignant neoplasms -- cancer. He was mere weeks away from making a formal announcement when he discovered that his research notes had been stolen from a locked safety deposit box, itself protected by a two-foot-thick steel vault door in the city bank. The security cameras had recorded nothing of the incident; no alarms had been triggered and none of the employees had access to the safety deposit boxes, save the manager, who had been away on holiday in Nice.

"These papers are priceless, Mr. Holmes," Roubaix had pleaded, wringing his hands as he sat in the sitting room at Baker Street two days earlier, "the police launched a formal investigation but turned up rien, nothing. You must come to France. I do not want to be melodramatic, but the future of the human race may depend on it."

"Never let it be said that I did not do my part for humanity, Watson," Holmes said as they stepped onto the platform at Lille, the steam of the engine swirling around their ankles.

"Oh yes," Watson replied dryly, "Sherlock Holmes: our last great hope."

Holmes narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "You're irritated with me."

Watson dragged the last of the two cases down from the train and heaved them onto the platform, puffing for his effort. "No, no, not at all. I'll just get these heavy suitcases myself. What have you got in here, cement bricks?"

"Safecracking equipment." And he set off across the square at a brisk walk.

Comments

[irene_adler]

One of the first and most quintessential rules of not being found is to hide in plain sight. The middle of a crowd is the safest place to blend, alongside jostling elbows and pieces of quickly disregarded or forgotten conversation. With so many in a hurry to get to where they were going, it was the safest means to stay precisely in one place and let the world continue to turn on its way.

Either northern France had been a choice selected for its rumor of sensuality and air of finery (neither of which were unfavorable) or it had been the most convenient destination for her to run. And run she had, as soon as the word had been given, and disappeared into the black of night with no murmur as to where she might go. Terrorists held their name for a reason, one of which was not a metaphor, and in the interest of keeping her head firmly attached to her neck, the only option had been to disappear.

The means of her escape were still a mystery to her in part, but answers came with time and a price, and the former was not in her possession.

Now, a sweeping, spacious apartment was her home and the voice which had formerly hissed out commands to draw pleasure and pain was her means of existence. Irene Adler's previous career of choice was far too easy to use against her - not to instill compassion or emotion but rather to track her down - and so another path had to be chosen.

Lille's opera house was a marvelous attraction to behold, one that attracted audiences from across the world for its performances. Tonight was the closing night of Carmen, as was depicted in the the framed artwork and advertisements in the square.

[mmkaternater]

Pigeons and people scuttled about the main square. Holmes folded himself discreetly between them, purpose in his directionlessness, his attention elevated to all corners of the square. Here, a pair of elderly men with weathered elbows shared a chess board, the pieces long ago rubbed free of their enamel by intrepid moves and countermoves. A young woman balanced a baby on her hip while fishing for change for the cigarette machine; she had just come from a job interview at a temp agency, going by the state of her stockings and the pricey brand of cigarettes she shook out of the machine.

Watson reached him at a jog halfway through the square. "You know, you could tell me when you are going to set out like that," he said, making no effort to hide his irritability.

"There wouldn't be much point in running off then, would there?" his companion replied, unperturbed. He was watching the old men's game of chess with interest.

"So what now?" asked Watson, looking up and down the square. "Are you going to the bank to --?"

"You are going to the bank," Holmes replied, and off of Watson's churlish look, took his eyes off the chess game and continued: "I need someone to go in ahead and assess the security measures." A beat. "It will make breaking in later much easier."

"Wait a minute -- breaking in? Isn't that the opposite of what we're being paid to do?"

Holmes had started off at a good clip again, circling round the edge of the chess game. The two older men raised their eyes simultaneously, assessed the detective, and then turned their rheumy gazes back to the game. "The wounded animal is the most dangerous kind of quarry," Holmes replied. "Our bankers will have improved their security measures since the break-in. They are desperate to give off the appearance of normality." A muscle in his cheek twitched as a rook moved across the board. "If we are to know what class of criminal we are dealing with, we must imitate his methods."

"That makes no sense whatsoever."

But Holmes was not paying attention; he was watching the rook slide to the back row of the chess board, toppling the undefended queen. The loser let out a soft bah! of disappointment and Holmes quietly applauded the game.

Watson frowned. "So when is this, ah, great caper taking place?"

Holmes turned from the game, pushing his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. "This evening," he said. "After the opera."

"The opera?"

"Yes," the detective replied, glancing up at a nearby poster, "Carmen. It's my favorite."

"You never said anything about liking opera before. Hang on --" Watson screwed a thick eyebrow down over his eyes "-- you do know it's all singing, right?"

Holmes merely smiled.

[irene_adler]

Closing night performances drew heavy crowds, but with a certain degree of pull and persuasion, it isn't hard to secure comfortable box seats in the opera house. The best seats are always secured for the most generous patrons, but said patrons seldom attend every closing night performance, as such would overlap with cocktail parties and art gallery openings. So by utilizing the right methods of convincing and distracting just so if needed, perhaps two detectives could find themselves seated in one of the seats with the best vantage point in the opera house.

Or perhaps two tickets would be waiting for Misters Holmes and Watson all the while, and none would be the wiser of who the benefactor would be.

In her private dressing room, Irene slid pins into her hair to secure the cascade of curls and moved a red lipstick brush across her mouth in deft, decisive strokes. The color was scarlet, a stark contrast to the pale rise of her cheekbones. A sweep of blusher across her skin illuminated her features all the more, and beneath the dressing room lights, Irene Adler had vanished, leaving the gypsy Carmen in her place.

Of course, Irene Adler would not be listed in the starring role of tonight's opera. No, instead the name Katerina had taken its place as her alias for now.

At exactly eight p.m. the curtain was lifted and the house lights were dimmed down to darkness.

[mmkaternater]

Holmes did not have a tux to his name and even Watson had been forced to scrounge up a decent tie in the hotel gift shop (it had little windmills on it, much to Holmes' amusement), but the two men arrived at the opera house well in advance of the curtain. As they passed the marquee in the lobby, Watson stopped in his tracks --

"Tonight's performance sponsored by Tyche Laboratories. Hang on a minute, isn't that --"

"-- Dr. Roubaix's employer and primary research backer? Good. You're catching on. People have got it all wrong: there is not dark figure standing outside your house in the middle of the night, waiting until you fall asleep."

Watson's eyebrows went up. "You think this is an inside job? But why? Why would a company want to steal its own secrets?"

"That is what we are here to find out."

"So you don't like the opera, then," the doctor guessed, not sure whether he should be relieved or disappointed.

"I like to know who I'm dealing with," replied Holmes, at once breaking away from his companion for an investigatory turn around the grand salon. Watson was left to secure their tickets. He was surprised -- and more than a little chuffed -- to find that two seats had been set aside for them already. Roubaix must have known we were coming. He slid the tickets into his pocket and went to collect Holmes. The taller man was conspicuously absent. When the lights flickered, Watson was forced to find his seat on his own. Holmes was still not in his seat when the lights dimmed and the orchestra began the first notes of the overture. On stage, Moralès and his band of soldiers smoked and hooted at the street traffic. The production value was quite high here, Watson was pleased to see, though he had no real comparison to anything else. To him, opera was one of those strange, distant occupations of people who had either too much or too little free time.

He perked up considerably when Camen slid onto the stage. A young, svelte woman dressed in beaded black and red, the voice that slid out of her body was equal parts lascivious and slippery. Watson found himself unable to look away from her as she took up the famous "Habanera," an aria that was about as feminist and forward-thinking as it got in Bizet's time.

Where the bloody hell was Sherlock?

[irene_adler]

The story of Carmen unfolded across lavish sets and tapestries of colour, swirling costumes, and one stunning soprano voice. It was no small task or feat to reach the high notes that could cause glass to shiver and hearts to flutter without breaking out into perspiration, but Irene - Katerina now, for the time being - had been in possession of that kind of voice for her entire life. The cultured moans that had sent Irene's clients shivering with desire and panting for more came from a throat capable of far richer and brighter sounds. Now those who had paid top dollar and beyond to take in Katerina's abilities would be riveted to theie stage for the acts to come.

The opera spread across four acts, encompassing Carmen's reach and her love, unattainable as she chose to make it. Don Jose who chased her blindly and with abandon, deserting the girl he had promised his love to for the sake of the gypsy who entrances him. And he is far from alone in his pursuits, for the bullfighter Escamillo professes his love to Carmen, followed close upon the heels by Officer Zuniga. It is as if no man can resist the gypsy and her voice, the things she promises and so quickly takes away, as she does her own affection for Don Jose.

One woman who drives them mad, whose attention they crave, and who will never offer forth her love in return unless she is to soon take it away.

By the end of the final act, when Carmen collapses to her death in the arms of her once-lover, euphoria has crested across Irene in great waves. Even when lying still in her co-star's arms, it was impossible for her to deny the elation that came as a result of ending a performance. She'd made a new place for herself here in Lille, in northern France, and while it couldn't last forever, she liked it for the time being.

Irene waited backstage for her curtain call, breathless and with a red flush at her cheeks as she crossed to center stage.

[mmkaternater]

By now the entire audience was on its feet, Watson included. Holmes's annoying vanishing act withstanding, he'd actually enjoyed the performance and offhandedly wondered if he could convince his flatmate to go along to more performances back in capital. Unlikely, he thought immediately afterward. Holmes rarely ventured out of the flat for anything less interesting than serial homicide.

Where was he? Watson leaned over the balcony rail and scanned the crowd below; maybe Holmes had wandered into another section; maybe he hadn't liked the seats provided by Tyche. But there was no sign of the tall detective anywhere in the crowd. Watson frowned.

On stage, the cast was taking its curtain call. The great company stood in the eaves of the theater, applauding their fellow performers, shouting adulations in French and Italian. Maybe they'll do a tour, thought Watson, then Sherlock will have a chance to --

His mind froze, mid-thought.

There, mixed in with the company of smugglers, was Sherlock Holmes. He wore the full costume of one of the Act II smugglers, complete with sash and a rapier in its scabbard. On his head sat an unruly wig of caramel curls, matching mustache and beard trimmed around his lips and chin. A clever disguise, yes, but it was definitely the great man himself. How on earth had he managed it? Had he been there throughout the whole performance? And why?

As Watson watched, Holmes continued to applaud the members of the company as they took their turns at the end of the stage. He applauded, but he did not smile. His eyes were singularly focused outward, toward the audience.

[irene_adler]

A bouquet of two dozen red roses was carried across the stage, cradled in the arms of the director and then transferred to Irene's surprised grasp. He kissed her lightly on each cheek, then stepped back to allow her the final curtain call she deserved. In the director's eyes and those of the stage company and cast, Katerina had been a devoted and beloved star, and her voice was the kind of treasure that didn't come along often. It didn't seem to much matter that not long before Carmen came into production, no one had known who she was. All that mattered was that she was striking in appearance, driven in personality, and gifted in performance. To the opera and theatre world, those things mattered more than a woman's past, or her last name.

Now Irene stood center stage and alone for a handful of moments, after the last company members took their bows. Her free hand extended upwards in a wave, and she called out in both French and Italian to thank the company and the audience for one of the most wonderful times of her life.

It was true, too. For the lies and deceit she could weave about, there was no reason to do so now. She had a wonderful time. Maybe a good enough one to want to stay.

The heavy curtain fell to conceal the company from view, and then there was a flurry of hugging and kissing between the performers.

"Beautiful! Katerina! Magnificent!" All called out to her in varying languages and rich tones. Irene stayed for a handful of moments to share in the revelry, then slipped from the stage and into the wings. The roses trailed a lush, fragrant scent that blossomed in front of her and lingered softly in her wake.

[mmkaternater]

Holmes had slipped back into the wings, peeling his mustache as he went, dodging panels of Spanish scenery and thick rope rigging. The cacophony of the audience paled in comparison to the backstage fracas, where bottles of cheap wine and cheaper champagne were already making the rounds. Carmen had been a clear success throughout its six-week run. In his one-night run in the role of a lothario, Holmes had learned that the managers of the theater had been ready to foreclose on the opera before Carmen had been on the bill -- Carmen and a generous donation from Tyche Laboratories, the executive board of which had been given free tickets for the evening's performance. A small number of them had trickled backstage. They were men in their mid- to late-50s, well-educated and established, bred from old money and in possession of young wives with whom to do further breeding.

Among them, Sherlock counted two serial adulterers, an internet porn addict with late-onset diabetes that he was managing (ineffectually) with a regimen of sports drinks, and a man who had recently returned from Spain with a small spaniel in his possession. None of them seemed particularly clever; certainly not clever enough to break into a sealed safety deposit box in a sealed bank vault and leave no trace of his crime.

The smell of roses was suddenly overwhelming.

[irene_adler]

Where there were men (and frequently, where there were women as well), Irene would never be far. Either she commanded their attention (likely) or desired theirs (possible), but regardless of the reason it was difficult for her to take more than a handful of steps backstage without being stopped. It didn't mean she was oppressed or stifled, just coveted and desired.

But what she coveted and desired was the opportunity to change from the thick skirts of her costume that swirled around her waist. The fabric was beautiful but cumbersome, and she wanted to change into something that was easier to move in. The easier it was to move, the more rewarding she could find the night to be.

If Irene knew who was within her immediate radius of space in the backstage area, she made no indication of it. Instead she shared a handful of laughs and compliments with the company members and stage crew she came in touch with, the roses cradled in her arms as if they were a precious cargo. Then she slipped a few steps backwards, calling out her temporary farewells, and stealing down the corridor towards her own private dressing room.

[mmkaternater]

Sherlock deposited his false mustache and beard on a backdrop painting. He kept his wig and costume. By now the crowd at the back of the theater had thinned; most of the cast and crew were gravitating toward the suite of dressing rooms in the back of the theater, where the principles would receive their adoring fans. The managers were sure to be pressing the flesh, too, which meant that Sherlock had approximately ten to fifteen minutes to toss their office before risking exposure.

The administrative part of the theater was reached through an annex in the rear of the theater. Startlingly modern in comparison to the rest of the neo-classical design, the modern wing of the theater was like an ugly appendage. Sherlock was unnoticed as he made his way through the dark hallways. He made sure to put a weave into his step, to stumble a bit, so that the security cameras would make nothing more of his presence than another drunk actor enjoying the evening's revelries.

The lock gave the typical amount of French resistance. Sherlock admitted himself into the managers' office and stood in the center of the carpet for a full minute, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He slipped behind the ornate desk and sat down (careful of the rapier), and in a few moments he had access to the company accounts.

"Quite a fair bit of red, Messieurs," he murmured. He read several Excel files, unblinking, and then closed his eyes as if he were downloading gigabytes of information at once. There were several desk drawers. Locked? He tried two. No. A handsome leather-bound checkbook, a few expired condoms, and the sticky half-moon imprint from the bottom of a bottle. Sherlock's brain recorded all of this information like a camera snapping.

He let himself out of the office.

[irene_adler]

Several dresses and outfit combinations were kept in her dressing room for these kinds of events after the curtain came down. The theatre and performing companies deserved their own chances to enjoy themselves, to relax and unwind and stroke each others' egos (among other things) in the privacy of the rooms backstage. There was a public to greet outside the doors, of course, but for now there was nothing but the vibrant energy and rejoicing of a show's run done well. The company had every right to be very happy with the way things turned out.

In her euphoric state, Irene had chosen to - literally and figuratively - let her hair down. Now removed from its pinned up do and devoid of the extensions that had been strategically placed by the stylists, there were loose and soft curls flowing across her shoulders and the middle of her back. The dress she'd chosen for tonight was akin to things she might have worn in the past - black with sweeping panels of lace - but in a classier style than anything her past clients would have appreciated. It was remarkable what people wanted when they were addressing their most carnal desires and the want to be dominated by a woman who knew things about their bodies even they didn't expect.

A glass of champagne was cradled in her hand, and for the moment Irene was engaged in laughing conversation with two of the company members. For her, right now, there was no reason to feel anything but accomplishment.

[mmkaternater]

By the time Sherlock returned to the theater proper, the wine had been flowing in earnest for nearly half an hour. Factory girls hung off the laps of smugglers; one of the Tyche businessmen had loosened his tie and was attempting to plink something out on the player piano, much to the delight of the ballet corps. Sherlock was able to procure his security card when he leaned in over the man's shoulder to correct the first three bars of "Minnie the Moocher" for him. The man laughed and Sherlock produced a prodigious burp, which provoked further amusement from the rabble.

The card slipped, unnoticed, into the scabbard at his waist.

Time to go, he thought.

[irene_adler]

"Katerina! Won't you sing for us?"

"Yes! Just once? Please, one song!"

Again another occurrence that wasn't quite uncommon, for Irene to be asked to sing something off stage. Sometimes she would agree, and others she laughed and entertained them in other ways. There was never a complaint from those who wanted her attentions, either. Tonight, though, Irene saw no reason to deny them what they wanted. She was still experiencing the rich sensations of being wrapped in euphoria of the stage, and her voice didn't mind the opportunity to be heard again.

"Tonight is your lucky night, gentlemen. Will someone play an accompaniment for me? Let's say, on the player piano?"

The request sent a surge of delight through the troupe, and it wasn't long before the group of company members began to spill out into the theater itself. Those who lingered might be in for a surprise, for it wasn't often that this many performers chose to stay behind. Most wanted to rest before the following day's productions. But tonight was a different and special occasion all in itself.

"Excuse us! Good sir, if you would please, we need that piano! Katerina is going to sing for us!"

[mmkaternater]

The businessman's head came up; he was halfway to drunk, toeing the line between appropriate post-performance behavior and something that would get him remanded to a cubicle in Siberia. He rolled off the bench -- half grasping the bodice of a chorus girl for support -- and gestured grandly to the player piano.

Sherlock shrank backward through the crowd. John would be waiting, and they still had the business at the bank. He was pleased with the information he'd gathered tonight. The ID would come in handy when Tyche eventually declined to be forthcoming with information, and he had deduced that the opera's acquirement of its newest prima donna had been specifically arranged by Tyche -- and by parties outside of France. He did not recognize the name of her financiers (it was likely a shell corporation anyway), but they had paid handsomely.

It seemed that they were getting their money's worth, observed Sherlock, as the woman herself was preparing to give an encore. He saw her from behind at first; she was a trim silhouette in black. (Something familiar about that shape.) She had taken off her wig and her costume; her arms were bare, white. (A freckle beneath the descending curve of the scapula.) Her hair was loose and coiled down the small of her back, so dark that it almost seemed to be made out of negative space. He saw the barest shadow of a singular profile. (Oh.)

If recognition occurred, it was outwardly imperceptible; at most, the twitch of his upper lip. Perhaps an itch of the spirit gum that had held his mustache in place.

[irene_adler]

There was a fine line between knowledge and assumption, something that became singularly dangerous and wholly enticing depending on the player who chose to put it into effect. Irene had been good, remarkably so, at pretending she knew things and concealing that she knew others, at deception and all of the interludes and endings that came along with it. She had made a life out of analysis, out of knowing things and seeing more where others saw nothing at all.

And now whether she saw Sherlock Holmes within a radius of a few feet from her, Irene made no indication of it whatsoever. She was instead moving towards the center of the room, her fingers trailing a caress across the piano's top octave of keys. They sang in quiet response to her touch.

"And what shall I sing? Are there any requests tonight, gentlemen? Anything your ears might find most pleasing to hear?"

[mmkaternater]

Had he had any suspicions? Holmes took himself back over the course of the evening. The dressing rooms, just before the start of the performance; all of the company had been extolling (and sometimes jealously cursing) the new prima donna, arrived from abroad, set to save the L'Opéra de Lille from financial ruination. And then there was the accent. Vocal performance distorted it somewhat, but there was no trace of Kholmsk, Abkhazia, or any of the former Soviet republics. Perhaps she'd had a dialogue coach. Unlikely. There was a familiarity with the Queen's English that bespoke a long, intimate relationship with the Empire.

"Intimate" and "Irene Adler" were synonymous. Her usual MO -- blackmail -- demanded it.

"Caro nome, principessa!" came the request from the crowd, followed by several coos of agreement. From Verdi's Rigoletto, "Caro nome" was notoriously difficult to perform. Sherlock knew enough about opera to know that it would be a superior test of the soprano's mettle.

[irene_adler]

Rigoletto had been something she'd listened to for years, quietly and when no one she was currently partaking in the company of could possibly observe. Irene's tastes in anything aside from the sensual and dominating were ones she concealed deliberately. Anyone knowing anything about her could potentially lead to her own blackmail, and that wasn't a place she wanted to find herself in. So her love of opera, the arts, anything that was beautiful, that was concealed and tucked away in a private place of her heart.

But she knew the piece, knew that the teenage character of Gilda played an innocent kind of emotion into the song. Love undying, or so she might think at that part of her life. And the innocence, the beauty, was what needed to be captured.

Never mind that she never failed to rise to a challenge.

"Then 'Caro nome' you will hear," she declared, a lift of her champagne glass in recognition to the crowd and her agreement of the song. The pleased sounds from the crowd increased and continued as she exchanged the champagne for a flute of water (extravagant, perhaps, but the night did call for it in a way) and a sweep of her dark hair across her shoulder.

"An accompaniment to the piano, if one of you gentlemen would be so kind?"

[mmkaternater]

At least three young gentlemen of the company clamored to do the deed, but it eventually fell to the junior conductor to take up the responsibility. Sherlock's instrument was the violin and, while he had a passing knowledge of Verdi's chord structure, he would not sacrifice the high ground for a chance to make a dramatic gesture.

Not yet, anyway.

A persistent voice in the back of his head told him that this would be an excellent opportunity to make good his exit. He had already achieved his objectives and there was still further work to be done at the bank. But Irene Adler's presence -- and her clear involvement with the patrons of the theater -- vibrated the strings of Sherlock's instrument. He was disquieted. Disquiet was the closest approximation to "nervous" that he experienced. He kept his place toward the back of the crowd, sure to keep half of the blond wig in his eyes.

[irene_adler]

Did she know? Had she known all along might have been the better question. Would it have been possible for this entire night to be cultivated and created by the hand of the woman herself? Was her hand tucked into the pocket of Tyche so comfortably that no one would know the difference from one to the other? It might or might not be possible, might or might not be expected, and might or might not be true. When it came to Miss Adler, there was no reason to assume and nothing to be sure of.

The junior conductor took up his place at the piano while Irene took another brief, cleansing drink of water. Bubbles in champagne were all well and good to have fun with, but they would not serve well in the throat of someone attempting to reach high soprano octaves. Add in the challenging nature of the piece, and it was understood that a singer would want to be as well prepared as possible.

Irene set down the glass and crossed to the side of the conductor, who was plucking out a few keys in preparation for their show. Her smile was for all the crowd at once and none in specific at the same time, and her eyes drifted to rest towards the back of the room, where they stayed.

"Do consider this a brief show of my gratitude to the Tyche Laboratories, whose kindnesses brought me to Carmen." Never let it be said that she did not know her own social graces, and how best to use them.

The conductor brought a few notes into being with his touch across the keys, and after a brief moment of piano alone, Irene began to sing.

[mmkaternater]

What was this -- an acknowledgement? Recognition? Or a heel beginning to press down on the windpipe? It was clear to him in a moment that she had seen through his disguise and that this showcase of her talents was as much for him as it was her own satisfaction. Look what I can do.

Sherlock's head came up and he met her eyes, the ruse of the inebriated cast mate discarded like an old hat. As she began her aria, Sherlock inclined his head to the diva and then made his way to the edge of the stage, descending into the audience.

[irene_adler]

It was all of the above, and possibly a prelude of greater things to come. But Irene was incapable of missing out on the chance to show just what she was capable of doing. Times past that had involved acts best kept to the bedroom, but now her talent was her voice, and it was one she was showcasing without hesitation tonight. Around her the crowd of performers was an intent audience, focusing with rapt attention upon their prima donna. She had captivated them tonight as she had before, either with or without intent.

Leaving so soon, Mr. Holmes?

Irene's standing position changed from one to a lean against the piano, as if she might be making to perch across the top of the exquisite instrument. For now her attention was to her song, her eyes drifting away from the back of the room to close, losing herself in the song.

[mmkaternater]

The aria followed him to the back of the theater, acoustics crowded in here under the balcony, and out into the foyer. Watson met him on the carpet, indignation written into the pucker above his brow.

"You performed?"

"I filled a role."

Watson eyed his costume. "In tights."

Sherlock pulled the wig from his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Useless trying to do reconnaissance from a box seat. The only way to ever know anything about the theater is to go backstage." He produced the stolen key card. Watson raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Method actor."

"I'm certain now that there is a connection between the cancer doctor's missing notes and the restoration of the opera's finances."

"Wait -- how the bloody hell do you know that?"

Sherlock smiled. "The diva."

"The diva?"

"The woman."

[irene_adler]

Either she was truly oblivious to his departure or the woman herself had lost all presence of her surroundings in favor of the song. Caro nome was as beautiful as it was complex, and now Irene poured her efforts forth into the song. A girl's song to her beloved, the one who made her pulse quicken. Perhaps it was nothing more than the role which spurred the emotion in the song.

Perhaps.

Cheers of delight and principessa! echoed from the stage, mingled with Irene's crystal clear soprano.

The woman, indeed.

[mmkaternater]

Watson turned to look in the direction of the noise. "That woman?" he asked, breaking into a trot in pursuit of Holmes, who was shedding pieces of his costume on his way to the dressing rooms.

"Singularly," the detective replied, pushing open a janitor's closet and retrieving his own trousers, shirt and greatcoat.

"You know this whole 'mysterious single-word' act of yours is really quite confusing," said Watson, turning around to give his companion some privacy while he dressed. "Why can't you just tell me what's going on using nice, full sentences with subjects and verbs?"

Watson heard the clop of two shoes hitting the floor. "You haven't complained about my methods before," Holmes replied, sounding a little churlish. "That's usually because I'm neck-deep in them before I realize what's going on," said Watson.

Sherlock clapped a hand to his friend's shoulder and stepped past him into the hall.

[irene_adler]

The evening was beginning to break up. Company performers were gathering the last of their belongings and slipping into the night while audience members lingered by the bar for one final post-performance drink, maybe with the hopes of rubbing elbows with a performer or producer or two. The aria was drawing to its gentle close, and the soprano had managed to stay on perfect pitch the entire way. She had talent, there was no one who would deny that now or at any other time.

When her performance (rather, her encore) had finished, Irene bid her farewells to the company and slipped back into the corridors of the wings.

She was gone as quickly as she had arrived.