Where we learn more about the talents of Mr. Holmes, his dear biographer
As well as London tastes in terms of opera.

The uneven pavement of the London streets revived even more my nausea. I had to put a handkerchief against my mouth and press it to my lips so as not to vomit everywhere. All the roads to the Royal Opera House were congested and this infernal transport seemed never to end. Holmes gave me a bored look and resumed his out loud criticism from the music chronicle of the Daily Telegraph.

"I told you to take that piece of bread in your handkerchief, Doctor." He said, ignoring my dismay.

I glared at him. I was in this cab, on the way to the Royal Opera House, with this individual who had deliberately intoxicated me. Or maybe not. I was still trying to convince myself that Mrs. Hudson had sat down at our table, with her tea full of sedatives complaining of something to her tenant, and that she had left the tea pot there. Mrs. Hudson loved to complain, a teapot in her hand and was quite whimsical for that sort of thing. But I could not quite believe it. What was I doing here? I did not know. Except that I was curious and that the notion of danger had awakened in me this tension and these butterflies that roamed my whole body. I felt at last alive.

I would have liked to take the paper out of his hands and confront him. A police inspector had just knocked at our door, a man had just lost his life, according to the same policeman and ... And Mr Holmes was reading Spriggs * report on Neruda's concert!

I lowered my handkerchief and looked again at my roommate.

"Should not you concentrate on what Inspector Lestrade has asked you to do instead of criticizing my diet and balk at Gaylord Spriggs?" I said. "A man is dead, Holmes. And I can not understand why the police is calling a man who have more interest in music than in human life.

''There is no energy to waste on a corpse that will remain in its place before arriving at the scene.'' He said, eyes still on his newspaper.

''Oh!" I replied. ''Unlike the Ricoletti case of your last column, you mean? This corpse found a few hours before and chained to the morgue that reappeared days later as a undead to kill his old enemy? A case that has never been resolved ... Except by you and your fabulous theories, of course. Don't you find your conclusions on this Masonic sect and all this staging with mirrors and superstitions a bit exagerated? I read this case, you know, and I prefer the twin theory issued by the Scotland Yard.''

''Twins?'' He almost spat the word with hate. ''It's never twins, Watson. Never. The very notion of twins in any criminal story is an act of incredible intellectual laziness and a most lamentable literary shortcut worthy of the Scotland Yard and Dupin. Stop wasting our time and ask me this question that burns your lips.''

He folded his paper and looked me casually in the eyes with an almost indulgent air. I bit my lip. He was right. Better sort this out right away and hear him unpack everything he knew about me before I found myself facing this corpse at the Royal Opera House.

''How did you know where I came from and about my references? How did you know I was in Afghanistan?''

''Your origins are easy enough to guess.'' He sighted. ''You speak French with a rare accent and your English, although flawless, is tinged with turns of subtle phrases that are only found in Montreal, a city where French and English settlers more or less cohabit together. Your mother tongue is French because you swear instinctively in this language. So your mother was probably a French Canadian. She died when you were very young and the rest of your education was done in English. Your complexion is slightly tanned, and you do not have the exact coquetry of a London lady, if I understood correctly Mrs Hudson complaints. You travelled quite easily, even for a woman, in the British colonies, so your surname, or at least the one that appeared on your passport, is a Britannic one.''

He glanced through the window with an impatient air. The carriage was no longer moving, and we were only half way. ''What a waste of time.'' He sighed again. ''We should have taken the Metropolitan, Watson. The station was just around the corner. But no, you refused, and you nearly justified Lestrade reluquance on your ability not to faint for the slightest foolishness. Let's go on, will you?''

He cracked the joints of his thin fingers and leaned closer to me.

''Given your thorough medical knowledge and the way you look at the instruments, I assume that your father was a doctor, even a surgeon. A doctor who travels a lot, so very likely, a military surgeon. Following the death of your mother, he decided to take you everywhere with him. If he had had a son worthy of him, he would have taught him everything. But no. Then he fell on you because you were gifted. You have travelled all the way to Egypt, as you are well aware of the effects of a scorpion's bite. By your tanned complexion and your rather abrupt manners, I deduce that you have accompanied your father in the army, as an assistant, in spite of your sex. Your father must surely was well enough respected to be allowed to have this sort of little whim, as to take his own daughter into a military campaign. Where has there been a recent war with the British Empire? In Afghanistan. And what better than a war to disguise a murder and hide a scandal or even create one? If your father had died like an ordinary soldier, with all the honours he deserved, you would not be in London alone, to hide yourself under a false name.

He took his pipe to stuff it with tobacco, with meticulous gestures. The smell invaded me with as much force as the memories attached to it. Holmes was right. All along the line. And he continued, at my own dismay.

"The man who killed your father was just as dear to you as your father was. Otherwise, a smart girl like you would not have fallen into his trap trying to help him prove your father's innocence innocence, despite everything that was pointing at him. He has isolated you in a dark place, probably underground, considering the sweat you had on the forehead and your jerky breathing, at the morgue. And he fired. The first bullet hit you at the right shoulder. We can seeit by how you move your right arm. The impact dragged you down as you tried to climb back to the surface, and you probably had injured your leg while falling. Oh! You were lucky, because the second bullet was targerting your forehead, between the two eyes. But you lost balance, due to the first bullet impact and fall down; the second bullet tored your cheek instead. Your head bumped and lost consciousness, so he thought you were dead. I do not know how long you stayed in this dark place, until you were rescued by the indigenous but it still haunts you. Enough for you to scream, while having nightmares, when you have a little too much drunk. In the intimate way in which you pronounce his name in your dreams, I deduce that it was your fiancé or your lover and I can understand why you would like revenge of this-''

''ENOUGH!''

I screamed in the carriage with all my strength. He stopped his gesture and stood motionless, piercing me with his steel blue eyes. I was trembling and I knew it. After a good breath, it was my turn to lean towards him with my jaw clenched. I succeeded to say to say it as slowly as I could, word by word so Holmes would understand me.

"I told you, Holmes.'' I said. ''I am not anyone's fiancée and I do not intend to be to nobody. And the woman you're talking about, well, I let her die in this tomb. She no longer exists. The one you have in front of you is Jane Harriet Watson and the rest does not concern you. And stop calling me Doctor, for God's sake! I do not have a degree, and I don't need more attention than my face brings upon me. ''

He smiled at me. Probably the warmest smile he has given me since our first meeting.

"You must at least return to your interlocutor when he pronounces the name you have chosen." He said, calmly. ''It's a lot more natural and it will save you some trouble. Now, Watson, listen to me. Your name does not matter to me. I do not care about the woman you are or used to be. London is huge and you will not be able to find your man alone, anyway. But I need all your attention and all your abilities, whether you have the title or not, to elucidate this Royal Opera House little mystery. Help me and I'll see what I can do to find the one you're looking for. Deal?''

I held his gaze motionless. I could not decipher his expression, as if he was wearing a wax mask. I finally nodded my head for an answer. He gave me a polite, cold smile, as always.

''Good. Now arm yourself with courage.'' He gave me annoyed grin. ''They took all their time to discover the body and I see only one explanation. It is in the basement of the Opera.''

"Should I really come and held your hand, Watson?"

Holmes' cold voice reverberated on the stone walls and high ceilings of the third basement of the Opera House. The policeman who closed the march, a certain Peterson I guess, sneered at me. I leaned for the umpteenth time on the wall and tried to resume my breath and took out my flask to drink a sip. The alcohol burned my throat and I sighed in relief. The policeman came up to me and gave me a smirk and whispered almost to my ear.

"Would the little lady like me to carry 'er down in me arms? Gimme the rest o' that flask, Miss, an' I'll carry yer all the way up to bed. I wouldn't go following Mister 'Olmes if I was you. 'E likes that sort o' thing. 'E gets all excited. One o' these days it'll be 'im as puts the body there.''

I disengaged myself from the foul breath of the policeman, put away the flask and forced myself to continue, my head held high. I heard him utter a last sneer and he passed me to join the rest of the group. The pain irradiated my right leg now and every step forward was a torture. Lestrade and Holmes argued in a low voice, in the lantern's twilight, visibly about me. In three strides, Holmes was in front of me and overhung me with all his height.

"I am already struggling to convince Lestrade of your presence here, Doctor, and you do not help your case.'' He murmured. I could almost see a glipse of anger in his eyes. ''For what the saying of a stranger matter, I will never leave you underground without you being able to get out. And then it's the last basement. We can not go deeper in this opera, I promise you.''

He stretched out his arm to me, rolling his eyes and making a disgust grin when I took him. I saw Lestrade, farther in a halo of light from the lanterns, making us imploring gestures. We were almost there.

In the middle of the dark crypt, tied to a series of ropes and cogs, there was a series of sets, each one more grandiose than the others. Their gilding sparkled in the light of the lanterns, and for a moment I could hardly believe that a murder could take place in such a magical place.

Holmes immediately disengaged from my grasp and pointed his long thin finger at the straw-haired man who raised his lantern towards us in front of the setting of a golden throne room.

"Le roi de Lahore" A French opera played only once at the Royal Opera House, two years ago. Too romantic for the English public, even for a French opera. This scenery has not gone back to the surface since, and I doubt that it will go back before a long time, now. Oh. And here is Inspector Gregson, Lestrade's rival. The finest minds of Scotland Yard clash here. A real tragedy, you'll see. I leave you in good hands.

He winked at me and disappeared behind another scenery, in the shadows, to my own dismay. When I wanted to follow him, Gregson was already coming in my direction and addressed Lestrade with a condescending look.

"Lestrade, I'm asking you to bring us a decent doctor and you bring us this Baker Street freak and a woman." Gregson almost panted. ''A woman, Lestrade. You are really unable to do the right thing properly, do you? But what is she doing here? Where's that damn doctor?'' He turned to me, with a polite but condescending look. ''Miss, I beg you, it is not the place of a respectable lady. Sergeant Peterson can bring you back-''

But I was no longer listening to this Gregson. I had seen him there, sitting on the great throne of the scenery, like a dismembered puppet. An old paunchy man who looked at us with a hatred and nameless terror mask that would remain forever engraved in my memory. But this time, his agony had been much shorter. Another operatus modi. His throat had been cut off. His blood had spread all over this papier-mâché throne and formed a great dark spread all around him. Like the cloak of a fallen king, I thought. I walked around Inspector Gregson and knelt beside the body and opened his mouth, under the horrified glares of the inspectors who were already threatening to escort me out. No, the tongue was not black. It had nothing to do with Beckett's body. Whoever had done that didn't wanted to hide this man's death like Beckett's one; No, it was staged. The man, by his clothes, was wealthy; His gold watch was hanging beside him. I watched it swing slowly in the void, moved by an invisible hand. I look back to see Gregson and Lestrade arguing and not paying the slightlest attention to me. An object that was worth a small fortune. A gentleman, really. The body, according to its decomposition, had been there since the day before. Less than twenty-four hours, according on blood coagulation and stiffness of the body. The carotid artery, the jugular, and the trachea had been cut from right to left in one stroke, though somewhat erratic, probably because the man was struggling in the grip of his murderer. Something very sharp, like a razor or a scalpel. A professional and a left-handed. The only resemblances I saw with Beckett's body were the friction of a rope on the intact part of the neck.

I shuddered and turned back to Inspector Lestrade, who was watching me with an overwhelmed look and Inspector Gregson already laughing. Lestrade took a step towards me and made an effort to smile at me with compassion."So, Miss Watson'' Lestrade said. ''What is your diagnosis?"

I hesitated for a moment and Gregson's smile widened, showing his spoiled teeth; I ignored him.

''The carotid and the jugular are severed and the wound is deeper from the right.'' I replied. ''I presume, therefore, that an attempt was made to restrain this man by stifling him, that the victim struggled, and that the murderer was on his back when he carried the fatal blow. A priori, I do not see traces of poisoning but, it would be necessary to make an autopsy and-''

I frowned and turned to Lestrade.

''I confess that I find it strange ... two corpses and two methods ... I ... I'm not sure it is the same murderer and-''

Gregson laughed and slapped Lestrade's shoulder with a wicked smile.

'' Two dead and two methods '' He mimicked my voice, with a high discordant tone. ''A lovely little talk, Miss, really. Entertaining. Is it Holmes who asked you to learn this by heart? That would be his style. This is Mister Poles. Director of the Royal Opera House for over thirty years. I say director but ... It is not since yesterday night just when he officially ceded his rights for a ridiculous amount. So this man came here to kill himself by cutting his throat. Beckett hanged himself. Lestrade got a little excited, I think, with this theory of ... how did you call it, Gregory? Oh yes ... mass murders. Lestrade. Again, where is this doctor? Now, Miss, if you could back offand let my men work-''

"Your cleverness will never stop to impress me, Gregson.''

The voice of Holmes thundered and he reappeared just like that, through the pillars of the scenery, his hands behind his back, with a smile split from ear to ear.

"Gentlemen, Doctor Watson, if you could follow me, please." Sergeant Peterson, your lantern, I beg of you. Make sure to illuminate the floor, especially. And pay attention to these spots on the floor. You see?

I rolled my eyes and lowered my head, mortified with shame. I saw the policemen staring at me, under the name '' doctor''. What I hbelieved to be the end of the sectioned artery spread formed a track that disappeared between two pillars of the scenery and disappeared in the shadows made by the other gargantuan sets.

We followed Holmes and walked round the immense set, lit up by the policeman's lantern. The dark drops, from here and there, followed a distinct course towards the rear of the throne. Then Holmes took the lantern from policeman's hand and raise it to the wall in front of us. I had to raise my head to read. Two large misshapen letters, now brown and dark, had been written on the wood with the fresh blood of the victim, it seemed.

O.G.

I closed my eyes for a moment. The O was incomplete but we could guess it. A hand imprint, spread out on the wall, completed the picture.

I opened my eyes and felt Holmes's gaze on my neck; I glared at him as he addressed the inspectors.

"Doctor Watson, how long does it take for a man like Poles to die of such an injury?" He asked.

I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment. He called me '' Doctor '' again. I could see exactly where he was going, and Lestrade, too, as I could figure. He was already looking at his rival with a triumphant air. A man had been bled out on a papier-mâché throne in the depths of the London Opera, these two men were throwing insults at each others and the man with whom I lived resembled a child about to unpack a Christmas gift. Another shiver ran through my spine. But before Peterson sneered again, I looked up and answered firmly.

"Two to five minutes.'' I said. ''With a wound like that, he could not have circled the set to write these letters himself. He lost consciousness less than a minute later, due to the loss of blood pressure. With the heap of blood there, that's where the wound was inflicted, not here. The blood coagulated just a little because the person who wrote this had difficulty to make this inscription. But it is definitely not the victim who made it. At the very least, someone else decided to observe the scene, to draw these letters and not to notify the competent authorities. These gentlemen will be able to tell you themselves, Holmes.

I put all possible emphasis I could on '' competent '' and I saw Holmes sketch a smile. Then he walked up and down before the inscription and finally pointed it out with his bony hand.

"So we are talking about a man who would have witnessed the death of Mr. Poles, who would have taken the blood of the victim to write these very two letters and disappeared without warning anyone." He grinned. ''I would say that in view of the spacing between the drops of blood and the height at which these letters were inscribed and of the imprint on the wall ... we are looking for a man fairly lean, about 6 feet and 2 inches and left-handed . See how the first letter is scrambled. A left-handed man.

Peterson chuckled.

"Look like's 'Olmes describe 'imself!''

There was a uneasy silence for a moment. Holmes had pointed these letters with his left hand. And he was about at least six feet himself. I thought back to this Peterson had said and massaged my aching forehead. I did not know my roommate at all. But I bearly imagined him killing an opera director. Perhaps this Gaylord Spriggs from the Daily Telegraph, whom he seemed to hate the prose from with all his heart, but not an opera director. Lestrade, to my great gratitude, broke the uneasiness and set his dark little eyes on him. ''Al' right, Holmes, We have a witness to find. Now, what do we do?''

Holmes made a disdainful look and rolled his eyes, for the umpteenth time.

''You interrogate the Opera staff, of course. The killer is among them. ''

I was going to join the officers to the surface – finally! - when Holmes held me by the sleeve.

"Can I borrow your handkerchief, Watson, since you have not took that toast with you?''

I was about to protest when he quickly took my hand and placed a small cold object on it.

''Too bad, then. Hide this with Mr. Poles' watch that you hid in this precious handkerchief of yours and do not throw up on it, will you? They will believe you more than I, in the presence of such belonging. I do not want Lestrade and Gregson to sabotage our little investigation.

And he walked towards the surface with his hands in his back. I kept my fist clenched, the sweat on my forehead, in fear someone else had saw what I did until we arrived in the lobby of the Opera. When I opened the palm of my hand, a small golden shimmer shone beneath the luxurious chandeliers.

An engagement golden ring.

A.N: *Since, in the plot, I had encountered many anachronisms - especially from 1906! - I decided all together - to bring Gaylord Spriggss from the Phantom of Manhattan as a cultural chroniqueur. I bet he could be still in London in 1881 and move to New York afterwards... you never know.

I seek a beta-reader for that story by the way! To improve the english and get rid of these little incoherences and plot holes, along the way!