I woke up alone. All was quiet in James's home. I must have fallen asleep on the couch last night, as a blanket had been carefully placed over me. I ventured into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea, before switching on the TV for company and admiring the view from the window of outside.
The piano caught my eye from across the room. It had a thin layer of dust forming, inviting me to play. I sat myself down on the stool and pressed a few random keys. When I played, my fingers took control, moving seamlessly, creating music. I would often zone out and just let my fingers do all the work.
It's like I was in a trance. Unbreakable and powerful. All I could hear was the music I was making. But then I heard the words 'explosion' and 'Baker Street' and the trance was broken. I twisted to look at the TV, my mouth opening from shock. I clambered closer to the screen, falling to my knees in front of it.
"Sherlock..." I breathed heavily.
My phone. I needed my phone. It was still on the kitchen counter, buzzing with alerts. Dozens of missed calls from Mycroft that had stopped midmorning. Texts from friends asking if I was alright. It started ringing in my hand. John's name flashed up. He must have seen the news too.
I answered. "John?"
"Sam! Thank god you're alright. Where are you?"
I looked all around the room, biting my lip. "At a friend's. I didn't go home last night. Where are you?"
"Just leaving Sarah's. Have you heard from anyone? Sherlock?"
"No. Mycroft tried phoning me several times earlier but I missed his calls. He hasn't tried again for a while."
"Where about's are you? I'll come get you."
"No! It's fine, I'll make my own way. See you soon."
I hung up and hurried to collect my things. I made it to Baker Street at the same time as John. Both of us were startled by the scene. Rubble everywhere, police and fire crew. "Must have been a gas explosion," I said, looking at John. "Did you sleep on a sofa last night?"
"Yes, how did you... never mind."
We hurried into 221B, our hearts pounding. We needn't have been worried, for there was Sherlock and Mycroft, perfectly fine. The windows were shattered, but that appeared to be the only damage. All was well. I could have stayed at James's.
"And where were you last night?" asked Mycroft, after deducing as well that John had slept on the sofa.
"With a friend," I replied.
"A male friend?"
My eyes narrowed. "That's none of your concern."
Realising everything was ok, I retreated to my room and sent a text to James. I also texted Mark to say I would be late for rehearsals. He had heard about the explosion, and so said it was alright.
I listened from my room as Mycroft offered a case to Sherlock, who seemed very uninterested. I heard Mycroft leave, Sherlock play the violin, and then the sound of Sherlock and John leaving. "Heading out, Sam!" John called.
I changed clothes and prepared myself for practise. My phone suddenly ringing startled me. I assumed it was another well-wisher making sure I was alright, but the number was unknown. My heart skipped a beat. M...
I answered. "Hello?"
Silence on the other line.
"Hello?"
"H-hello, Artemis..." came the voice of a crying woman. "I j-just wanted t-t-to w-wish y-y-you luck."
Something was amiss. I played along, curious. "Oh? And why would I need luck?"
"B-because you're in t-the g-game now."
"What game?"
"S-Sherlock and I are g-going to have a l-l-little fun, but you can p-play too."
At the mention of my cousin's name, my heart sank. I thought about this mornings events, Sherlock and John rushing out suddenly. Something was wrong. "The explosion on Baker Street. That was you." It wasn't a question. I already knew.
"Y-yes."
I chewed my bottom lip. "So how do I play?"
"Y-you're already p-playing... Further instructions w-will come. Be prepared..."
"I was born ready."
The other person hung up. Leaving me speechless and slightly afraid. I continued to get ready, before leaving Baker Street and all the chaos that was happening there. I texted John, asking him to keep me in the loop.
Practise was pointless. I couldn't concentrate. I kept stumbling and missing steps. Mark told me I could take the day off but I was determined to see it through. It's my own fault really. I should have taken his advice. But I insisted, and I ended up hurting myself. Not badly, I refused to be taken to A&E. Instead, I limped to my dressing room and stared at my phone, willing for it to ring. I wanted John mostly, to give me an update about what he and Sherlock were up to. But another part of me, the thrill-seeker and daredevil, was patiently waiting for further instructions.
It was as if the mysterious M had read my mind, for a text popped up from an unknown number.
Ready to play, black swan? M.
My heart skipped a beat. My fingers shook as I typed back a reply. Adrenaline pumping through my veins.
Always. A.
Perfect. M.
Perfect...
*
My phone was safely tucked in my pocket, recording every sound around me. My instructions were clear, get the other killer to confess. But the catch was, that I had to figure out who the other killer was. I had my suspicions, Amanda was high amongst them, but I knew it wasn't her. It would never have been her. M had given me 12 hours to solve it. John had also called to tell me a bomber had been in touch with them, giving them 12 hours to solve a case too. I didn't tell him about mine.
I wasn't like Sherlock. I didn't have a mind palace. A place to go to where information was all stored. I was, however, very good at recalling past conversations and I remembered a few details that may solve my case. I was about to be bold and reckless, going off on a hunch, but what else did I have? My case-solving abilities relied on luck and random outbursts of cleverness. But this, right now, was pure foolishness. I hadn't even thought it through properly.
I'd sent a text, asking to meet-up high atop the theatre, where the lighting was maintained. Only the crew came up here, never dancers. But she came anyway. I thought she might, after my: 'I know what you did' text.
"Sam," she greeted, much colder than usual.
"Anne-Marie."
"What's this about?" she asked.
"I think you know."
"Maybe. But I want to know what you know or at least, what you think."
I took a deep breath, hoping the voice recording would work properly and was live streaming straight to M. I'd been given 12 hours and already I'd lost half that time, firstly by panicking, then by trying to be clever and then doing some digging. There were 5 hours still on the clock, but if I was wrong, that time was wasted.
"I always thought the case was solved, believe me, I did. But someone knew something, someone knew that it wasn't entirely Carrie's fault."
"Bullshit," said Anne-Marie. "Well, go on."
"So that got me thinking, and I remembered a few things. The main issue with this case-" Anne-Marie rolled her eyes at that word. "-was that it all relied on Carrie getting the water bottles mixed up, but what if she didn't? What if she did pick out Amanda's bottle? But someone else, someone close to Amanda, noticed this and made the switch. Someone like you, Anne-Marie."
"Bullshit. That's bullshit and you know it!"
"Is it? You said it yourself, Amanda's bottle has a blue cap, just like Clara's."
"So? I knew the coloured cap of my friend's water bottle, that doesn't prove anything."
"Come on, Anne-Marie. It's just you and me up here, you can be honest with me. You saw what Carrie was trying to do, so you switched the water bottles and you upped the dosage."
"Bullshit! How would I-"
"Get your hands on drugs? You admitted to having weed in your locker when the police were searching them. I saw Clara's autopsy report, there were two different types of sleeping pills found in her system. The ones Carrie put in and the ones that you did."
"Why would I-"
"Do you remember, years ago when we were all like, what, 14/15, we used to have sleepovers all the time at each other's houses? One night before we went to sleep we all caught you swallowing pills and Amanda accused you of taking drugs in her house. She was so mad, she was worried her mum would find out. But then you said-"
"They're just sleeping pills... for my insomnia." Anne-Marie looked defeated. "Well remembered, Holmes. But that doesn't prove much."
"How did you know it was sleeping pills Carrie put in the water?" I was trying a tactic I learned from Sherlock. Killer's love to gloat. They love to talk.
The corner of her lip curled into a smirk. "I sat and watch her do it. Crushed them up into dust and put them in Amanda's water. She was right, there was only a few in there, only enough to make her drowsy, not enough to kill. I'd only gotten my latest prescription that morning, so I decided to put a few more in and switch it to Clara. No one really liked her that much anyway. She was too quiet, she didn't deserve the lead role."
"But she didn't deserve to die."
Anne-Marie sucked her teeth. "Suppose. It was an accident, I guess. I figured maybe she'd collapse, Mark would phone an ambulance and she'd get her stomach pumped or whatever. I didn't think she'd be up on that stupid cliff practising her fall. But shit happens. You should be thanking me, anyway. Whatever the outcome, it made you the lead. You're the queen bee now, Sam."
"I didn't want it."
"Then maybe you should give it to someone that does." She took a step towards me, but despite my growing fear, I didn't take a step back. M could be watching. M should be listening. "You think you're so clever, Sam. Figuring it all out. But so what? Carrie's still in trouble for her part, she put the idea in my head. Oh and that reminds me, she did try to frame Amanda, but I saw her stash the pills so I switched them."
"You were the one that tried to frame me?" So, not a mix up then. I was targeted.
She held her hands up jokingly. "Guilty. It's nothing personal, Sam. But it was easier to try and frame you instead of trying to explain how Carrie had unwillingly killed her friend. It made more sense. You see that, don't you?"
"You're a cold-hearted bitch, you know that, Anne-Marie?"
"Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?"
I was waiting, for a miracle mostly. What was I going to do about it?
"It's over, Anne-Marie."
It happened so quickly. One minute she was over there, and the next she was on me, going berserk. Years of dancing had made me quick, but so was she. Her movements were more clumsy, whilst mine was full of restraint and force. We were fighting on a metal railing, suspended high above the stage. It swayed slightly from our movement.
"Let it be over, Anne-Marie!" I yelled, through the slaps and hair pulls. "I've already told the police everything I know!" A lie, but it made her stop. She was startled enough that I had the opportunity to run past her and down the steps. I didn't breathe again until I was safely back on stage, surrounded by people I knew.
"She did it!" I cried, "Anne-Marie killed Clara. And I have proof." I produced my phone for everyone to see, still recording.
"What the fuck, Sam?" asked Amanda, gazing in horror at my now scruffy appearance.
"She saw what Carrie was trying to do to you, so she switched the bottles and added her own pills. Anne-Marie killed Clara."
Then, unexpectedly, Anne-Marie killed herself.
*
We had all been standing there, they crowded around me as I threw around accusations. I guess Anne-Marie lost her will to fight, to prove me wrong. Instead of following me down those stairs, she climbed the railings and threw herself down onto the stage. It was my fault, I realised that. I drove her to it. I was responsible that another life had been cut short.
"It's not your fault, Sam," said Mark, pulling me into a hug. The police were here, taking statements. Not Lestrade and his team, they were probably busy with whatever Sherlock was caught up in. I gave them my phone so they had a copy of the recording, Anne-Marie's confession.
I had won, I think. The other killer had confessed. But she was dead. Did M know? I hadn't expected her to die. My mind was racing. I had to get home, I wanted to go home. Mycroft sent a car to take me home, I was glad to be alone where I could cry silent tears. The greeting I received back at 221B was cold. They didn't know. They were too busy fussing over a pair of trainers.
"A girl from the theatre died today," I announced, sitting myself down on the couch with a cup of tea. My hands had finally stopped trembling.
"What?" exclaimed John.
"Anne-Marie. I accused her of murder and she killed herself."
"Did you at least record her confession?" asked Sherlock, engrossed in his experiments at the kitchen table.
"Yes, the police have it."
"Good."
"Jesus Christ," said John. "Jesus! Are you alright?"
"Fine. A few bruises from where she attacked me, but overall I'm fine. I solved the case, once and for all." So let it be done with. Let it be finished.
Sherlock solved his own case. He was explaining it to John, but I wasn't listening. I was too busy thinking about Anne-Marie. I couldn't believe that she was dead. And it was my fault.
I didn't sleep easy that night. Tossing and turning constantly in my small single bed. I got up twice; once to pee and once to look out the window. I couldn't shake off that feeling of being watched. It was a relief not to have my phone, surprisingly, only so that I couldn't see if I got any more texts from M.
When sleep finally came, I didn't wake until 11 the next day. Sherlock and John were gone again, so I had the flat to myself. At half 12 a police officer called round with my phone. He was young, my age, charming and handsome. He introduced himself as Paul Smith. He smiled when he spoke, and accepted my offer of a cup of tea.
The battery was low on my phone, so I took it to my room to charge it, before returning to the mess that is our kitchen and boiling the kettle.
"What's it like living with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.
"It's never dull," I replied, "Our lives are full of adventure and excitement, but sometimes it would be nice to be normal."
"No one wants to be normal."
I asked him about his life, and we engaged in conversation until his radio went off and he had to attend a call out. "I better go, thanks for the tea, Sam."
"No problem, see you around."
I watched him leave, hop into his squad car and speed off, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing. I made a mental note of him in my 'mind palace'. I'm not sure why. I guess I felt a connection to him. That's a real thing, right? We connect with certain people we meet for no reason whatsoever, other than that we just do.
Paul Smith, aged 22 (like me), dark hair (like mine), dark blue eyes (like mine). He was abandoned as a baby and grew up in foster care, before finally being adopted aged 15. I had a soft spot for abandoned kids and orphans, being that I was one myself. He's nice, and he loves his job.
My phone had switched itself on when the power built up, and already it was going off with alerts. Many shocked texts about Anne-Marie, missed calls and chaos. Swan Lake had been postponed yet again. I wasn't sure how I would cope with dancing on that stage where both Clara and Anne-Marie had died. It was madness.
By midday, there was another text from M. My heart skipped a beat but my adrenalin started pumping.
Clever girl, figuring it out. You're smarter than you look. Sherlock is on another case, but I haven't forgotten about you. Keep practising your black swan, someone will be in touch. M.
I didn't reply. Instead, I deleted the message. I refused to sit around the flat idly waiting for another text or to wait for Sherlock and John. I showered and changed and got a taxi to the opera. There was a matinee performance of Carmen on. So I treated myself at Mycroft's expense to a balcony seat and indulged in the show.
I often did things alone, I found that my own company was better than having someone else tag along. John would only ask questions, and none of my friends were opera fans. And yet, even here I couldn't shake off that feeling of being watched. It was overwhelming and profound, intensely gripping me, like a cold hand on my shoulder. My fear got the better of me and I scoured the crowd with my tiny binoculars.
Up here, it would be very obvious if someone was staring. Alas, no one down below was. I looked across at the other balconies. Two were empty, but the one directly opposite mine was occupied by a single being. A man, dressed in a smart black suit, fair hair and defined features. He was handsome, too. I would have left him be and return my attention to the singer performing Habanera, had I not caught him staring at me at the same time that I was staring at him.
I placed my binoculars down and watched the stage, my gaze constantly flickering across the room. He was always watching, putting me on edge. I kept my eye on him, just in case. It was stupid, I knew that. He was probably only wondering who the young girl was, dressed in casual attire, attending the opera casually at an afternoon matinee. Sitting at a balcony seat all by myself.
I was tempted to wave but thought better of it. Let him wonder. Let him stare. I was all the way over here.
Habanera ended, and the whole audience was up on their feet applauding, myself among them. I cast a curious glance across the room, but the man was gone from his balcony. Now I felt on edge. He could be anywhere in the theatre. Fear made me check behind me. Of course, no one was there.
He's gone to pee. He's had to leave for a family emergency. He's out to get you... He's here, near you, creeping up on you...
I looked around again. Still nothing. The worst thing about being on your own is that you only have yourself for company, and when you're afraid, you only have yourself to calm you.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, fear made me check it, inhaling deeply.
Ready to play again, swan queen? M.
I bit my lip nervously. My fingers hovering over the screen, wanting to reply but unsure what to say. 'I'm at the opera' or 'I'm a little busy' felt rude, and this was not someone I wanted to be rude to. He might kill me for it, or worse, he might hurt John or Sherlock.
Born to play. A.