Showbiz (I)
Aug. 13th, 2011 05:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mjartrodTitle: Showbiz
Fandoms: Muse/ Sherlock BBC
Summary: Muse frontman Matt Bellamy is being stalked. After receiving several threatening messages, they decide to contact a certain consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes...
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence; sexual situations; slash
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictional, even those based on real people and material (having been altered, added or left out for dramatic purposes). I do not own Muse; I do not own Sherlock Holmes nor the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and so fabulously reworked by Moffat and Gatiss .
Big thanks to my ever faithful beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOL
Any Sherlock BBC fans out there? :D Crossover is a new thing for me, but this one had to be done somehow..
I know I have yet to post the epilogue for ‘Eyes Wide Shut’, haven’t forgotten, and it’s silly because it’s pretty much finished, but I had to get this out of the way first LOL
CHAPTER ONE
London, February 2011
“This can’t go on, Matt.”
Matthew Bellamy didn’t reply to the soft-voiced concern of his drummer, Dominic Howard, who leaned against the wall next to the window of the bedroom with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
The Muse front man, singer, guitarist and pianist had been seated on the end of the bed for what felt like a century, staring unblinkingly at the neat handwritten note he held in his hands. He had received all kinds of long-winded letters from fans expressing their admiration and love for him, multiple bizarre gifts, been insulted in every language, taken his fair share of punches back in the day. This... this seemed different, as much as he didn't want to admit it.
Life had been kind to him in the past year. Too kind. His memory was usually unreliable but he truly couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever felt so relaxed and carefree. The band couldn’t be doing better - they had just won a Grammy the week before, for Christ’s sake. He had a lovely supportive girlfriend, a real partner; in a few months he was going to be a father for the first time.
But if there was one thing that had been ruthlessly drilled into him in the past, it was that life always found a way to balance things out.
Dr. John Watson arrived at 221b Baker Street soaked in sweat. Jogging was good, it was healthy. It had absolutely nothing to do, as his flatmate had implied, with the opposite sex (though he didn’t object to any incidental benefits it might bring in that particular area); he simply missed staying in shape after returning from Afghanistan and the rigours of life in military service.
Said flatmate, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, was sitting in the living room in the same exact same position he’d been in when John left the flat two hours prior. Holding his violin, slashing the air with the bow occasionally. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock hadn’t moved at all nor played a single note. He was well used to his eccentricities by now.
“Hey, I’m back.”
Picking up the newspaper left by the door, he plopped down in his armchair, flipping through the pages to take a look at the headlines. Corporate corruption, economic disaster in Europe, overpaid footballers... a body found in the Thames, just north of Richmond Bridge, too. Apparently no more than an unfortunate drunken drowning, but best not let Sherlock see that one, in case he took an interest. John wouldn't normally have a problem with such a thing but for now there were other cases that should be given priority.
“Any news on the case?”
“Case?” Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, slashing the bow once again.
“The one you were working on? The robbery?”
“Oh,” Sherlock said disinterestedly. “Solved it last night. Was the chef. Obviously.”
“Well.” John scratched his head. “That’s good then. So, uh... anything new?” Sherlock didn’t reply and John cleared his throat, aiming for casual. “What about that request that came through your website, the one from the rock band? When are you having a look?”
“The stalker one? Please, John. Self-absorbed celebrities frightened by dull people with tiresome obsessions, who are, statistically, mostly harmless. No, thank you.” He sighed in the most dramatic fashion. John thought that, ironically, there was no one he knew that could play a diva quite like Sherlock.
“Aren't you curious about it? Thought you’d agreed to talk to them.”
“I said no such thing.”
“Oh, come on, why not?” John tossed the newspaper aside.
“Boring.”
“But it's Muse!” John whined dejectedly. Sherlock hadn't had the faintest idea who they were before he got the e-mail and also didn't remotely care how famous they were the world over, but John liked their music and had been hit with a bout of sympathy at the thought of any of the band members being harassed. “And how can you find it boring if they didn't even elaborate on the type of threat? They just want to know if it’s something to be concerned over.”
“Celebrities, John, have fans. Of course it’s a stalker.” The violin was carefully placed on a chair. “I am not accepting a case just because you want an autograph.”
“What?! That is so not tru-” John stopped mid-sentence and stood, red faced.
“Is that why you're being purposely stubborn? Because I said I liked them? You're unbelievable!”
Sherlock gave him a genuinely puzzled look. “You find it surprising that I do not want to work on cases that elicit big emotional reactions from you? You're far more useful when you're not distracted by emotions.” He said the last word with mockingly widened eyes and a faint moue of distaste.
John gaped for a second before deciding to simply carry on and focus on what he wanted. “Sherlock, it's just a band.”
It was pointless, Sherlock's face stoically unmoved as he delicately rosined the violin bow. It was unlikely he'd change his mind. Unless John took measures.
“You know what, I'm going to have a shower. After that, I'm going to get my laptop,” John looked around, sure that Sherlock had nicked it since the last time its rightful owner had used it, leaving it somewhere obscure, “and write up that last case on my blog. The one that Lestrade nearly solved himself before you could because you didn't know that -”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Lowering the bow immediately Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his flatmate, as if he'd struck one below the belt.
“I will.”
There was a fleeting expression of what John presumed was panic across Sherlock's face at this act of shameless blackmail, though he couldn't be sure, as he didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock panic. But the prospect of everyone at Scotland Yard knowing that Detective Inspector Lestrade, who Sherlock had been assisting the week before, almost solved the case before he did because Sherlock didn't possess an embarrassingly basic piece of political knowledge ('unimportant trivia that cluttered the brain', he had deemed it) was not at all pleasant for the detective. John could almost picture Anderson laughing derisively in his face and, for once, it was something he was almost looking forward to.
“And by the way, you can make your own damn tea from now on, as well!”
Maybe this would make Sherlock understand how serious he was. He had only just stepped out the living room door when the weary response came.
“Oh, all right. All right!”
John couldn't help but grin to himself.
A meeting was set for late afternoon at the Connaught, the luxury hotel in Mayfair where the band were staying. Or at least two-thirds of the band, since bassist Chris Wolstenholme was back home. Muse had been on a break since December after the end of extensive touring for their most recent album, having only reunited in London a few days prior, Chris from Ireland and both Matt and Dom from Los Angeles, to attend the annual NME Awards.
Matt and Dom had no idea what the detectives looked like but they recognised them as soon as the pair entered the bar, mostly because of the distinctive appearance of one of them: tall and lean, dark hair falling over his forehead in loose curls which contrasted sharply with his pale skin; he wore a long, elegant winter coat with a scarf wrapped around his neck, and the two musicians sitting in the corner booth had the striking impression that the man's icy eyes x-rayed the other patrons as he walked by. They hadn’t imagined a man who didn’t seem much older than they were themselves, but there was no doubt - he had to be Sherlock Holmes.
“John Watson.” His shorter, sandy-haired companion introduced himself with an affable smile, extending a hand towards them. “Pleasure to meet you.”
The foursome sat together after introductions were made, a waitress coming by to take their order. Dom ordered a beer, Matt shaking his head absently as he played with his empty teacup, John and Sherlock declining as well.
“You can start by telling me about these letters,” Sherlock told Matt directly.
Stalling for a moment, the singer glanced briefly towards Dom. When they'd contacted the detective, they had made no reference to who had been threatened or in what way.
“It is obvious that this is about you and that it was letters that you received,” Sherlock elaborated in a condescending manner. “Please, do go on.”
“Eh, right.” Matt cleared his throat, taken aback by the abruptness of the bright-eyed man in front of him as much as by the correct assumptions he'd already made. Though it probably wouldn't be that hard to guess for a detective experienced as he claimed to be. “Started about, er, three months ago, right, Dom?” He turned to his friend again, the blond drummer nodding in agreement before flashing a charming smile at the returned waitress, who smiled back with a gentle flush to her cheeks. “And yeah, it's letters. Not real letters, because they don't say much, so notes - it's just a sentence in each.”
The envelopes had been left for him at hotel receptions in London and delivered to their tour manager, who passed them on to Matt, the messages they contained handwritten and becoming progressively more threatening. They stayed at the same hotel more often than not but had intentionally chosen a different one this time as a precaution. But right on the first night of their stay yet another letter had made its way into Matt's hands. Fearful that someone on Muse's staff was handing out inside information, deliberately or otherwise, they wanted the matter to be handled as discreetly as possible. The only people who even knew about the letters were fellow band mate Chris, Tom Kirk, childhood friend and the band's media manager, and their tour manager, Dominic Anderson, who was currently in New York.
They had no idea who this person could be, what their motivation was and how resourceful or dangerous they were. But whoever they were, they seemed upset with Matt’s success, a success that they believed wasn’t backed up by his talent, a success and recognition that he didn’t deserve.
“So what do you think, is this something to worry about?” Matt finished. He had expected interruptions, questions, requests for clarification; but, despite his struggle at points to find the right words, Holmes had just sat there with his hands in his lap, staring at him as he talked, without even bothering to take notes.
“Well.” The detective stood, fixing his dark blue scarf around his neck. “I'll consider your situation. Drop me an e-mail with your number and I will let you know whether I'm willing to assist you.”
“Is that it? You don't need to know anything else and you don't have any questions?” Matt asked sceptically. “You didn't even tell us how much you charge.”
“Money is not an issue for me and we both know it's not for you, either.”
Matt lifted his chin defiantly. “You’ve got our e-mail, you don’t need my phone number.”
“I prefer to text,” Sherlock declared. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
“We'll be in contact soon. It was nice to meet you.” John rushed to shake their hands with a warm smile, a remarkable contrast in every way with his colleague, before speeding his step to catch up with Sherlock.
“What the fuck was that about?” Matt was furious as he twisted on the leather bench to face Dom, the normally cheerful blond sitting cross-legged in the booth next to his bandmate wearing a thoughtful expression. “Told you this was a fucking terrible idea! See how he didn't ask to see the letters or what was written word for word? I wouldn’t show them to him before knowing if he's to be trusted, but he should’ve asked. Christ, who recommended him to you?” Leaning against the back of the seat, Matt rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “For fuck's sake. And everyone thinks I'm the weird one.”
Dom shrugged. He'd been warned that Sherlock Holmes was a difficult man to deal with, but he had to admit he'd expected the meeting to be more productive. Not that he could share that thought with Matt, as it had been hard enough to convince him to agree to this in the first place. “Want me to give him your number, or will you do it?”
“Fuck that. We're not going any further with this, no chance.”
“What?”
“We could’ve exchanged numbers in person and he couldn’t be arsed. Obnoxious twat, completely taking the piss. He's obviously not interested in investigating this.”
“Oh, he’s interested all right...” Dom muttered. He’d spotted the detective taking an interest in something that he was sure would be motivation enough for him to take the case. “Shit out of luck he is, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” He turned to Matt. His band mate was fuming; Holmes had managed to provoke Matt's slumbering temper with only one short meeting. “Listen Matt, you’re not gonna change your mind now. We’ve gone through this a million times, we need to do something about this psycho.”
“No,” the singer glared at him, hissing under his breath before Dom could interrupt him. “This is ridiculous, it’s no big deal. It’s just a stupid prank and I shouldn't be giving it all this attention.” Then he stood and pointed a warning finger at Dom before leaving the table. “And don’t you dare try contacting him behind my back.”
Dom could only watch as Matt stalked away, rolling his eyes and sighing in frustration. To say the meeting hadn’t met expectations was an understatement.
“So, where are we going now?” John demanded as he trailed Sherlock across the luxurious hotel lobby, leaving their clients behind.
“To get the letters from Bellamy’s suite. As soon as they leave for dinner, of course.”
“What?” John frowned. “You could have asked Matthew to see them just now.”
“Waste of time. He obviously didn’t bring them with him, although it would be the natural thing to do, and he'd have found an excuse not to show them to me if I had requested it, anyway. Extremely unlikely that I would get a chance to see them another way, at any rate, as he has no intention of pursuing this matter. Possibly because he doesn’t want anyone prying. Most likely because he’s an idiot.”
John refrained from suggesting that Sherlock's manner might have put him off, more interested in hearing his observations. “You think they’re hiding something?”
“Not necessarily. Although they are sleeping together.”
John stopped for a moment, eyes bulging, before he caught up with Sherlock again as they went out the hotel's revolving doors and onto Carlos Place. “Wait, who? The two of them? Are you insane?” He laughed. “Dominic was making a pass at the waitress! And Matthew's girlfriend is pregnant. She's some famous Hollywood actress, I saw her on 'The Graham Norton Show' the other night promoting her latest film. I suppose that's part of why he said he doesn't want her around if there really is a stalker. He probably doesn't want her to worry or put her at risk.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. “Yes, how convenient, considering that he doesn't even believe he's in any danger himself.”
“You keep saying that. So why did they contact you?”
“They didn't - Howard did. He is the one who is worried, Bellamy only agreed to shut him up. He seems to be fidgety by nature, but Howard was the one who was unbearably tense when we arrived. You can tell by the way he sits that he's normally relaxed, but today he was stiff. Tired, too. Late nights, and not just because he's been out drinking. Something’s troubling him. This. He doesn't trust anyone they know with this issue, it's too important to him, which is why he sought the intervention of a professional.”
“They're friends, it makes sense he’s worried.”
“It's more than that. They're joined at the hip and probably always have been. Even when their band is on a break,” he continued as they walked side by side. “Their mannerisms, the way they sit mirroring each other, how they communicate through glances, finish each other's sentences,” Sherlock waved his hands as he spoke, as he always did when he felt he was stating the blind obvious. “Bellamy relies on Howard so much that he doesn't even wear a watch. On tour he always has someone to take care of his schedule and tell him the time, no matter where he is in the world. But even while on a break he doesn't wear one.”
“Maybe it was just today.”
“You would be able to see a tan line on his wrist if that were the case.” Sherlock shook his head. “Howard also relies on management for their schedule, but, unlike Bellamy, you can tell his watch never leaves his wrist. It's an older style and not something particularly fashionable for someone who follows trends like he does, so it clearly has a personal attachment. But it's adjusted to our time zone, even though he's been in Los Angeles, so it means he uses it.”
“Right. And they're sleeping together because...?” The idea was still incredibly far fetched to John.
“You said it yourself, you noticed it.” Sherlock looked expectantly at him, but he only shrugged. “He flirted with the waitress!”
“Ah. Ah!” John exclaimed sarcastically. “Dominic flirts with the waitress so of course he's having sex with the male front man of his band. I'd believe it more if you told me it's because he sat like a woman. Which he did.”
“That is of no relevance,” Sherlock waved him off. “He’s a very sexual person and flirts automatically but he wasn't paying any real attention to her, he was observing me. And Bellamy and him have been together in a rock band for years; with that lifestyle, it's practically impossible that they're so close and yet have never been involved sexually. If being sexual together were a problem, they wouldn't be so close today, there would be some level of friction. There isn't, on the contrary, so if it wasn't a problem once, then it's not at all, so that means they do it regularly.“ He paused. “And I was able to get confirmation of this right before we left.” John raised a sceptical eyebrow at that. “His extreme possessiveness when I blatantly gave Bellamy's bottom an appraising stare.”
“You what?!”
“It was when you were saying goodbye, nobody noticed but Howard, who hadn't taken his eyes off me from the moment we arrived. By now he’ll be thinking that I will take the case purely to try and seduce his band mate,” Sherlock scoffed. “But he's actually not completely useless. Bellamy clearly wouldn't be where he is without him. Fills the dreadful rock star cliché perfectly, that one. I'll be thankful to be done with this business and not need to deal with him any more. My brain aches from just sitting near the man and hearing his convoluted speech,” he griped, stopping to look across Grosvenor Square. “Let this be clear, John - I’m only doing this because of you. And by the way,” he consulted his watch, “you should perhaps call your - no doubt scintillating - date for this evening and cancel your dinner plans, as we will be going to Bellamy's hotel room in about an hour and a half.”
“What? I'm not cancelling anything!” And how did he even know?
“Then she will be, as there's no way you'll make it across town in time. You can eat at that restaurant,” he pointed across the street to a very elegant, expensive-looking place. “The food is very good. Owner owes me a favour, too.”
John sighed, defeated, and followed Sherlock without further complaint. He grudgingly supposed he should try and see the positive side to the situation: no date meant no Sherlock crashing said date, which was definitely less embarrassing.
“You coming or what?”
Matt ignored Dom's question and returned to his spot on the couch, leaving the door of his suite open so the drummer could let himself in.
“Come on, Matt, Andy's already there.”
“Not in the mood to go out.”
Dom licked his lips and put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. He'd arranged to meet his good mate Andy Burrows in Soho, so trust Matt to be a stubborn idiot.
“Stop being a wanker!” He shot out in frustration, but then his voice softened. “I'm serious, Matt. I don't want to leave you alone.”
“Because I'm afraid of the dark?”
“Because you're a paranoid little shit!”
Matt took a deep breath. “I'm not hungry and I want to work on some samples, I’ve got some new stuff right here.” He patted his laptop, Dom giving him a disbelieving look. “Oh, fuck off! Stop acting like you’re my bloody nanny, you're starting to piss me off! Go away, you annoying git!”
“Fine!” Dom threw his hands in the air. “But I'll come see you when I get back. Give me the spare keycard, where is it?” Matt ignored him completely once again and Dom spun on the spot, searching for it. He grabbed it off the coffee table and pocketed it. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Piss off.”
“You're welcome, you tosser.” Dom rolled his eyes and banged the door shut behind him.
Matt exhaled deeply as he was left alone and closed his eyes. Sometimes he positively loathed how Dom could read him like an open book. He shouldn't have agreed to see that detective, it'd unsettled Matt more than he would ever admit, even to himself; it unnerved him to even consider how this Holmes bloke may find that there was, indeed, reason for concern. Dom had been pestering him about the matter, very apprehensive, and the singer was so tired and confused after the last letter that he'd given in to Dom’s demands that they speak to a private detective. Or 'consulting detective', as this one pompously claimed he was on his website.
It was true that there was something very wrong with the letters, and Matt knew well that the border between passionate fan and deranged stalker could be easily crossed. But in the singer’s mind, as long as he wasn’t admitting to the existence of a problem, then there wasn’t one. Just another creep with too much time on their hands that would soon get bored and move on.
Stretching out on the couch with his Mac balanced on his thighs after switching off the lights, Matt took another deep, calming breath. His eyes fluttered open upon hearing a small noise than he couldn't identify, but after a few long seconds he realised it was only the TV in the bedroom, still on with the sound low. Then there was distant laughter from the street followed by the screech of a car’s tyres. Cocking an ear, he looked away from the laptop screen, trying to identify all the different things he could hear, listening out for other sounds. He was now regretting choosing this room; it was soundproofed and being almost surrounded by silence wasn’t as relaxing as he’d anticipated. On the contrary, not knowing what he wasn't hearing was making him anxious.
When he attempted to refocus on the Mac, a decorative candlestick on the ebony coffee table held his attention instead. Instinctively, Matt reached for it.
It was placed in handy reach beside his thigh.
“Sherlock, what if he's in there?”
“It's Friday night.”
Sherlock and John were walking down the chic hallway towards what the detective claimed was Matt’s suite. Cringing as Sherlock picked the lock like a practised burglar, John glanced furtively in both directions, hoping no one would spot them. The camera near the lift would have, but he was hoping no one would find it necessary to check the surveillance footage. In John’s humble opinion, if they were going to break into Matt’s hotel room, they could have at least made absolutely sure that both band members had left the building, but Sherlock had deemed it unimportant...
It took the detective no more than a few seconds to get the job done and he pushed the door open, stepping into the darkness and letting his eyes adjust to the difference in light. Furrowing his brow, he took a whiff of the air... and understood what he should have known from the moment he unlocked the door. Stupid. There was someone in the room, of course. But it was too late now.
A heavy object came down to crash into the side of his head and he slumped to the floor, no sound leaving his mouth, hearing John shout his name before he blacked out.
Matt’s heart beat wildly in his chest as he realised who was trying to break in, someone calling out the person’s name as he slumped to the floor from the blow Matt had just administered with the candlestick. A shorter figure followed Holmes inside, the light from the hallway falling over his features and revealing John Watson with closed fists, ready to attack whomever had hit his colleague. His eyes widened as soon as he recognised Matt, though, and he turned on the light switch next to the door before dropping to his knees to check on his partner, shaking him lightly by the shoulders.
“Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?”
The only reply was a pained groan, the tall figure rolling on the floor with a hand to his temple.
“No, stay still, I need to check if you have a concussion. Or worse.” John looked up at Matt, who was clutching the candlestick with a white-knuckled grip. He seemed to be trembling slightly. “Do you have any idea the damage you can cause with a an object like that, especially to the head?”
“As much damage as possible, I was hoping! The fuck do you think you're doing?” His voice was croaky but his eyes were flashing blue slits. John didn't know what to say in their defence, so he focused on Sherlock instead, making sure he was all right. Although his partner was making it difficult, as per usual.
“You broke in my hotel room, what the fuck?!” Matt snarled.
“Broke, you idiot,” Sherlock hissed, getting gracefully to his knees and batting John's concerned hands away. “It's broke, not bwoke. Learn how to speak properly!”
Matt's eyes snapped with fury. “You can’t be fucking serious!” Was this wanker pointing out his speech impediment at a moment like this? He was brandishing the candlestick at him the next second. “Out. Out of my fucking room! Now!”
“Wait. Please.” Standing with his hands raised, trying to calm Matt down, John sent a sharp look in Sherlock’s direction before addressing the singer again. This was all going horribly wrong. “Please, if only you’ll let me explain.”
“What in the bloody hell were you trying to do?!”
“I am so sorry, Matthew, we apologise. Can I call you Matthew?” John flinched, realising they weren’t exactly on a first name basis. “We are very sorry. This wasn't the most legal thing to do, we should have just asked, but...” He pointed towards a sulking Sherlock, who was now standing up with the wall's support. “He wanted to see the letters and, well, seeing as you didn’t have them with you earlier -“
Matt’s disbelief was written all over his face.
“We are already working on your case, Mr. Bellamy. We just... Well, we just hadn't told you that yet. We were expecting to have more to tell you when we spoke again. Right, Sherlock?” John prodded, his colleague's mighty pout telling him he wouldn’t be getting much support from that quarter. He’d have to convince Sherlock to let him check his head again later, but he had a feeling the injury to his ego had been far worse than the one to his skull.
Observing them quietly, from the doctor’s embarrassment to the haughty attitude of his partner, Matt wasn’t sure what to make of them. “Piss poor excuse, if I’ve ever heard one. Why’d you go sneaking around behind my back?”
“I know we started off on the wrong foot, but please believe me, we genuinely want to help,” John said appealingly, arms loose at his sides in an effort to look as non-threatening as possible. “Will you let us do that?”
Silent for a few seconds more, Matt eventually put the candlestick down and started rummaging through a small case on the floor. There was an antique grand piano near a window in the expansive sitting room and John understood this was how Sherlock had known which was Matt’s suite. Finally the singer produced a small folder that he eyed for a moment, before tentatively offering it to John. It contained the letters.
“There’s three of them, it’s all I have. I binned the first letter, I didn't think to keep it at the time,” he explained as John passed the folder to a slightly more interested Sherlock, so they could read the messages together. “But I remember what it said if you wanna write it down.”
You have been discovered.
Stop while you still can. Or I will do it for.
Justice will be done. Say your prayers.
“The first one,” Matt continued, “said, You are a farce.”
Showing no sign of his recent injury, Sherlock held the letters carefully and bent next to one of the lamps, just as Matt’s phone went off.
“Do you mind? It’s just I really need to take this call.”
John nodded, returning his attention to Sherlock who was now analysing each letter in the light, turning the paper over in his gloved hands.
“All evidence obliterated by now, as expected.”
John heard a soft, almost girly giggle and turned to see Matt standing next to the window with his phone at his ear. He couldn't decipher a word, but by the soft tone of his voice and the light smile on his lips he figured he could only be talking to his girlfriend.
It was funny how someone he had seen on TV playing guitar and singing to massive, roaring crowds in stadiums like he was born to it could be so diminutive and, well, so not intimidating in person. Short and slightly built, with an unassuming presence and slightly awkward way of holding himself, it was difficult to imagine him commanding an audience like the ones John knew Muse attracted. Wearing a white t-shirt and some black jogging trousers with a stripe running down each leg, his brown hair was dishevelled, his face unshaven, and, oddly, he didn’t seem to be able to grow facial hair beyond his chin. In John’s opinion, Matt couldn't look less like a rock star if he tried.
He ended the call just then and returned to their side. “Sorry about that.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Bellamy.”
Matt turned to Sherlock, taking in the detective's wry, twisted expression, that could almost be classed as a smile. “What for?”
“You’ve got yourself a stalker.”
Fandoms: Muse/ Sherlock BBC
Summary: Muse frontman Matt Bellamy is being stalked. After receiving several threatening messages, they decide to contact a certain consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes...
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence; sexual situations; slash
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictional, even those based on real people and material (having been altered, added or left out for dramatic purposes). I do not own Muse; I do not own Sherlock Holmes nor the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and so fabulously reworked by Moffat and Gatiss .
Big thanks to my ever faithful beta
deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOLAny Sherlock BBC fans out there? :D Crossover is a new thing for me, but this one had to be done somehow..
I know I have yet to post the epilogue for ‘Eyes Wide Shut’, haven’t forgotten, and it’s silly because it’s pretty much finished, but I had to get this out of the way first LOL
CHAPTER ONE
London, February 2011
“This can’t go on, Matt.”
Matthew Bellamy didn’t reply to the soft-voiced concern of his drummer, Dominic Howard, who leaned against the wall next to the window of the bedroom with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
The Muse front man, singer, guitarist and pianist had been seated on the end of the bed for what felt like a century, staring unblinkingly at the neat handwritten note he held in his hands. He had received all kinds of long-winded letters from fans expressing their admiration and love for him, multiple bizarre gifts, been insulted in every language, taken his fair share of punches back in the day. This... this seemed different, as much as he didn't want to admit it.
Life had been kind to him in the past year. Too kind. His memory was usually unreliable but he truly couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever felt so relaxed and carefree. The band couldn’t be doing better - they had just won a Grammy the week before, for Christ’s sake. He had a lovely supportive girlfriend, a real partner; in a few months he was going to be a father for the first time.
But if there was one thing that had been ruthlessly drilled into him in the past, it was that life always found a way to balance things out.
***
Dr. John Watson arrived at 221b Baker Street soaked in sweat. Jogging was good, it was healthy. It had absolutely nothing to do, as his flatmate had implied, with the opposite sex (though he didn’t object to any incidental benefits it might bring in that particular area); he simply missed staying in shape after returning from Afghanistan and the rigours of life in military service.
Said flatmate, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, was sitting in the living room in the same exact same position he’d been in when John left the flat two hours prior. Holding his violin, slashing the air with the bow occasionally. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock hadn’t moved at all nor played a single note. He was well used to his eccentricities by now.
“Hey, I’m back.”
Picking up the newspaper left by the door, he plopped down in his armchair, flipping through the pages to take a look at the headlines. Corporate corruption, economic disaster in Europe, overpaid footballers... a body found in the Thames, just north of Richmond Bridge, too. Apparently no more than an unfortunate drunken drowning, but best not let Sherlock see that one, in case he took an interest. John wouldn't normally have a problem with such a thing but for now there were other cases that should be given priority.
“Any news on the case?”
“Case?” Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, slashing the bow once again.
“The one you were working on? The robbery?”
“Oh,” Sherlock said disinterestedly. “Solved it last night. Was the chef. Obviously.”
“Well.” John scratched his head. “That’s good then. So, uh... anything new?” Sherlock didn’t reply and John cleared his throat, aiming for casual. “What about that request that came through your website, the one from the rock band? When are you having a look?”
“The stalker one? Please, John. Self-absorbed celebrities frightened by dull people with tiresome obsessions, who are, statistically, mostly harmless. No, thank you.” He sighed in the most dramatic fashion. John thought that, ironically, there was no one he knew that could play a diva quite like Sherlock.
“Aren't you curious about it? Thought you’d agreed to talk to them.”
“I said no such thing.”
“Oh, come on, why not?” John tossed the newspaper aside.
“Boring.”
“But it's Muse!” John whined dejectedly. Sherlock hadn't had the faintest idea who they were before he got the e-mail and also didn't remotely care how famous they were the world over, but John liked their music and had been hit with a bout of sympathy at the thought of any of the band members being harassed. “And how can you find it boring if they didn't even elaborate on the type of threat? They just want to know if it’s something to be concerned over.”
“Celebrities, John, have fans. Of course it’s a stalker.” The violin was carefully placed on a chair. “I am not accepting a case just because you want an autograph.”
“What?! That is so not tru-” John stopped mid-sentence and stood, red faced.
“Is that why you're being purposely stubborn? Because I said I liked them? You're unbelievable!”
Sherlock gave him a genuinely puzzled look. “You find it surprising that I do not want to work on cases that elicit big emotional reactions from you? You're far more useful when you're not distracted by emotions.” He said the last word with mockingly widened eyes and a faint moue of distaste.
John gaped for a second before deciding to simply carry on and focus on what he wanted. “Sherlock, it's just a band.”
It was pointless, Sherlock's face stoically unmoved as he delicately rosined the violin bow. It was unlikely he'd change his mind. Unless John took measures.
“You know what, I'm going to have a shower. After that, I'm going to get my laptop,” John looked around, sure that Sherlock had nicked it since the last time its rightful owner had used it, leaving it somewhere obscure, “and write up that last case on my blog. The one that Lestrade nearly solved himself before you could because you didn't know that -”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Lowering the bow immediately Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his flatmate, as if he'd struck one below the belt.
“I will.”
There was a fleeting expression of what John presumed was panic across Sherlock's face at this act of shameless blackmail, though he couldn't be sure, as he didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock panic. But the prospect of everyone at Scotland Yard knowing that Detective Inspector Lestrade, who Sherlock had been assisting the week before, almost solved the case before he did because Sherlock didn't possess an embarrassingly basic piece of political knowledge ('unimportant trivia that cluttered the brain', he had deemed it) was not at all pleasant for the detective. John could almost picture Anderson laughing derisively in his face and, for once, it was something he was almost looking forward to.
“And by the way, you can make your own damn tea from now on, as well!”
Maybe this would make Sherlock understand how serious he was. He had only just stepped out the living room door when the weary response came.
“Oh, all right. All right!”
John couldn't help but grin to himself.
A meeting was set for late afternoon at the Connaught, the luxury hotel in Mayfair where the band were staying. Or at least two-thirds of the band, since bassist Chris Wolstenholme was back home. Muse had been on a break since December after the end of extensive touring for their most recent album, having only reunited in London a few days prior, Chris from Ireland and both Matt and Dom from Los Angeles, to attend the annual NME Awards.
Matt and Dom had no idea what the detectives looked like but they recognised them as soon as the pair entered the bar, mostly because of the distinctive appearance of one of them: tall and lean, dark hair falling over his forehead in loose curls which contrasted sharply with his pale skin; he wore a long, elegant winter coat with a scarf wrapped around his neck, and the two musicians sitting in the corner booth had the striking impression that the man's icy eyes x-rayed the other patrons as he walked by. They hadn’t imagined a man who didn’t seem much older than they were themselves, but there was no doubt - he had to be Sherlock Holmes.
“John Watson.” His shorter, sandy-haired companion introduced himself with an affable smile, extending a hand towards them. “Pleasure to meet you.”
The foursome sat together after introductions were made, a waitress coming by to take their order. Dom ordered a beer, Matt shaking his head absently as he played with his empty teacup, John and Sherlock declining as well.
“You can start by telling me about these letters,” Sherlock told Matt directly.
Stalling for a moment, the singer glanced briefly towards Dom. When they'd contacted the detective, they had made no reference to who had been threatened or in what way.
“It is obvious that this is about you and that it was letters that you received,” Sherlock elaborated in a condescending manner. “Please, do go on.”
“Eh, right.” Matt cleared his throat, taken aback by the abruptness of the bright-eyed man in front of him as much as by the correct assumptions he'd already made. Though it probably wouldn't be that hard to guess for a detective experienced as he claimed to be. “Started about, er, three months ago, right, Dom?” He turned to his friend again, the blond drummer nodding in agreement before flashing a charming smile at the returned waitress, who smiled back with a gentle flush to her cheeks. “And yeah, it's letters. Not real letters, because they don't say much, so notes - it's just a sentence in each.”
The envelopes had been left for him at hotel receptions in London and delivered to their tour manager, who passed them on to Matt, the messages they contained handwritten and becoming progressively more threatening. They stayed at the same hotel more often than not but had intentionally chosen a different one this time as a precaution. But right on the first night of their stay yet another letter had made its way into Matt's hands. Fearful that someone on Muse's staff was handing out inside information, deliberately or otherwise, they wanted the matter to be handled as discreetly as possible. The only people who even knew about the letters were fellow band mate Chris, Tom Kirk, childhood friend and the band's media manager, and their tour manager, Dominic Anderson, who was currently in New York.
They had no idea who this person could be, what their motivation was and how resourceful or dangerous they were. But whoever they were, they seemed upset with Matt’s success, a success that they believed wasn’t backed up by his talent, a success and recognition that he didn’t deserve.
“So what do you think, is this something to worry about?” Matt finished. He had expected interruptions, questions, requests for clarification; but, despite his struggle at points to find the right words, Holmes had just sat there with his hands in his lap, staring at him as he talked, without even bothering to take notes.
“Well.” The detective stood, fixing his dark blue scarf around his neck. “I'll consider your situation. Drop me an e-mail with your number and I will let you know whether I'm willing to assist you.”
“Is that it? You don't need to know anything else and you don't have any questions?” Matt asked sceptically. “You didn't even tell us how much you charge.”
“Money is not an issue for me and we both know it's not for you, either.”
Matt lifted his chin defiantly. “You’ve got our e-mail, you don’t need my phone number.”
“I prefer to text,” Sherlock declared. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
“We'll be in contact soon. It was nice to meet you.” John rushed to shake their hands with a warm smile, a remarkable contrast in every way with his colleague, before speeding his step to catch up with Sherlock.
“What the fuck was that about?” Matt was furious as he twisted on the leather bench to face Dom, the normally cheerful blond sitting cross-legged in the booth next to his bandmate wearing a thoughtful expression. “Told you this was a fucking terrible idea! See how he didn't ask to see the letters or what was written word for word? I wouldn’t show them to him before knowing if he's to be trusted, but he should’ve asked. Christ, who recommended him to you?” Leaning against the back of the seat, Matt rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “For fuck's sake. And everyone thinks I'm the weird one.”
Dom shrugged. He'd been warned that Sherlock Holmes was a difficult man to deal with, but he had to admit he'd expected the meeting to be more productive. Not that he could share that thought with Matt, as it had been hard enough to convince him to agree to this in the first place. “Want me to give him your number, or will you do it?”
“Fuck that. We're not going any further with this, no chance.”
“What?”
“We could’ve exchanged numbers in person and he couldn’t be arsed. Obnoxious twat, completely taking the piss. He's obviously not interested in investigating this.”
“Oh, he’s interested all right...” Dom muttered. He’d spotted the detective taking an interest in something that he was sure would be motivation enough for him to take the case. “Shit out of luck he is, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” He turned to Matt. His band mate was fuming; Holmes had managed to provoke Matt's slumbering temper with only one short meeting. “Listen Matt, you’re not gonna change your mind now. We’ve gone through this a million times, we need to do something about this psycho.”
“No,” the singer glared at him, hissing under his breath before Dom could interrupt him. “This is ridiculous, it’s no big deal. It’s just a stupid prank and I shouldn't be giving it all this attention.” Then he stood and pointed a warning finger at Dom before leaving the table. “And don’t you dare try contacting him behind my back.”
Dom could only watch as Matt stalked away, rolling his eyes and sighing in frustration. To say the meeting hadn’t met expectations was an understatement.
***
“So, where are we going now?” John demanded as he trailed Sherlock across the luxurious hotel lobby, leaving their clients behind.
“To get the letters from Bellamy’s suite. As soon as they leave for dinner, of course.”
“What?” John frowned. “You could have asked Matthew to see them just now.”
“Waste of time. He obviously didn’t bring them with him, although it would be the natural thing to do, and he'd have found an excuse not to show them to me if I had requested it, anyway. Extremely unlikely that I would get a chance to see them another way, at any rate, as he has no intention of pursuing this matter. Possibly because he doesn’t want anyone prying. Most likely because he’s an idiot.”
John refrained from suggesting that Sherlock's manner might have put him off, more interested in hearing his observations. “You think they’re hiding something?”
“Not necessarily. Although they are sleeping together.”
John stopped for a moment, eyes bulging, before he caught up with Sherlock again as they went out the hotel's revolving doors and onto Carlos Place. “Wait, who? The two of them? Are you insane?” He laughed. “Dominic was making a pass at the waitress! And Matthew's girlfriend is pregnant. She's some famous Hollywood actress, I saw her on 'The Graham Norton Show' the other night promoting her latest film. I suppose that's part of why he said he doesn't want her around if there really is a stalker. He probably doesn't want her to worry or put her at risk.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. “Yes, how convenient, considering that he doesn't even believe he's in any danger himself.”
“You keep saying that. So why did they contact you?”
“They didn't - Howard did. He is the one who is worried, Bellamy only agreed to shut him up. He seems to be fidgety by nature, but Howard was the one who was unbearably tense when we arrived. You can tell by the way he sits that he's normally relaxed, but today he was stiff. Tired, too. Late nights, and not just because he's been out drinking. Something’s troubling him. This. He doesn't trust anyone they know with this issue, it's too important to him, which is why he sought the intervention of a professional.”
“They're friends, it makes sense he’s worried.”
“It's more than that. They're joined at the hip and probably always have been. Even when their band is on a break,” he continued as they walked side by side. “Their mannerisms, the way they sit mirroring each other, how they communicate through glances, finish each other's sentences,” Sherlock waved his hands as he spoke, as he always did when he felt he was stating the blind obvious. “Bellamy relies on Howard so much that he doesn't even wear a watch. On tour he always has someone to take care of his schedule and tell him the time, no matter where he is in the world. But even while on a break he doesn't wear one.”
“Maybe it was just today.”
“You would be able to see a tan line on his wrist if that were the case.” Sherlock shook his head. “Howard also relies on management for their schedule, but, unlike Bellamy, you can tell his watch never leaves his wrist. It's an older style and not something particularly fashionable for someone who follows trends like he does, so it clearly has a personal attachment. But it's adjusted to our time zone, even though he's been in Los Angeles, so it means he uses it.”
“Right. And they're sleeping together because...?” The idea was still incredibly far fetched to John.
“You said it yourself, you noticed it.” Sherlock looked expectantly at him, but he only shrugged. “He flirted with the waitress!”
“Ah. Ah!” John exclaimed sarcastically. “Dominic flirts with the waitress so of course he's having sex with the male front man of his band. I'd believe it more if you told me it's because he sat like a woman. Which he did.”
“That is of no relevance,” Sherlock waved him off. “He’s a very sexual person and flirts automatically but he wasn't paying any real attention to her, he was observing me. And Bellamy and him have been together in a rock band for years; with that lifestyle, it's practically impossible that they're so close and yet have never been involved sexually. If being sexual together were a problem, they wouldn't be so close today, there would be some level of friction. There isn't, on the contrary, so if it wasn't a problem once, then it's not at all, so that means they do it regularly.“ He paused. “And I was able to get confirmation of this right before we left.” John raised a sceptical eyebrow at that. “His extreme possessiveness when I blatantly gave Bellamy's bottom an appraising stare.”
“You what?!”
“It was when you were saying goodbye, nobody noticed but Howard, who hadn't taken his eyes off me from the moment we arrived. By now he’ll be thinking that I will take the case purely to try and seduce his band mate,” Sherlock scoffed. “But he's actually not completely useless. Bellamy clearly wouldn't be where he is without him. Fills the dreadful rock star cliché perfectly, that one. I'll be thankful to be done with this business and not need to deal with him any more. My brain aches from just sitting near the man and hearing his convoluted speech,” he griped, stopping to look across Grosvenor Square. “Let this be clear, John - I’m only doing this because of you. And by the way,” he consulted his watch, “you should perhaps call your - no doubt scintillating - date for this evening and cancel your dinner plans, as we will be going to Bellamy's hotel room in about an hour and a half.”
“What? I'm not cancelling anything!” And how did he even know?
“Then she will be, as there's no way you'll make it across town in time. You can eat at that restaurant,” he pointed across the street to a very elegant, expensive-looking place. “The food is very good. Owner owes me a favour, too.”
John sighed, defeated, and followed Sherlock without further complaint. He grudgingly supposed he should try and see the positive side to the situation: no date meant no Sherlock crashing said date, which was definitely less embarrassing.
***
“You coming or what?”
Matt ignored Dom's question and returned to his spot on the couch, leaving the door of his suite open so the drummer could let himself in.
“Come on, Matt, Andy's already there.”
“Not in the mood to go out.”
Dom licked his lips and put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. He'd arranged to meet his good mate Andy Burrows in Soho, so trust Matt to be a stubborn idiot.
“Stop being a wanker!” He shot out in frustration, but then his voice softened. “I'm serious, Matt. I don't want to leave you alone.”
“Because I'm afraid of the dark?”
“Because you're a paranoid little shit!”
Matt took a deep breath. “I'm not hungry and I want to work on some samples, I’ve got some new stuff right here.” He patted his laptop, Dom giving him a disbelieving look. “Oh, fuck off! Stop acting like you’re my bloody nanny, you're starting to piss me off! Go away, you annoying git!”
“Fine!” Dom threw his hands in the air. “But I'll come see you when I get back. Give me the spare keycard, where is it?” Matt ignored him completely once again and Dom spun on the spot, searching for it. He grabbed it off the coffee table and pocketed it. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Piss off.”
“You're welcome, you tosser.” Dom rolled his eyes and banged the door shut behind him.
Matt exhaled deeply as he was left alone and closed his eyes. Sometimes he positively loathed how Dom could read him like an open book. He shouldn't have agreed to see that detective, it'd unsettled Matt more than he would ever admit, even to himself; it unnerved him to even consider how this Holmes bloke may find that there was, indeed, reason for concern. Dom had been pestering him about the matter, very apprehensive, and the singer was so tired and confused after the last letter that he'd given in to Dom’s demands that they speak to a private detective. Or 'consulting detective', as this one pompously claimed he was on his website.
It was true that there was something very wrong with the letters, and Matt knew well that the border between passionate fan and deranged stalker could be easily crossed. But in the singer’s mind, as long as he wasn’t admitting to the existence of a problem, then there wasn’t one. Just another creep with too much time on their hands that would soon get bored and move on.
Stretching out on the couch with his Mac balanced on his thighs after switching off the lights, Matt took another deep, calming breath. His eyes fluttered open upon hearing a small noise than he couldn't identify, but after a few long seconds he realised it was only the TV in the bedroom, still on with the sound low. Then there was distant laughter from the street followed by the screech of a car’s tyres. Cocking an ear, he looked away from the laptop screen, trying to identify all the different things he could hear, listening out for other sounds. He was now regretting choosing this room; it was soundproofed and being almost surrounded by silence wasn’t as relaxing as he’d anticipated. On the contrary, not knowing what he wasn't hearing was making him anxious.
When he attempted to refocus on the Mac, a decorative candlestick on the ebony coffee table held his attention instead. Instinctively, Matt reached for it.
It was placed in handy reach beside his thigh.
***
“Sherlock, what if he's in there?”
“It's Friday night.”
Sherlock and John were walking down the chic hallway towards what the detective claimed was Matt’s suite. Cringing as Sherlock picked the lock like a practised burglar, John glanced furtively in both directions, hoping no one would spot them. The camera near the lift would have, but he was hoping no one would find it necessary to check the surveillance footage. In John’s humble opinion, if they were going to break into Matt’s hotel room, they could have at least made absolutely sure that both band members had left the building, but Sherlock had deemed it unimportant...
It took the detective no more than a few seconds to get the job done and he pushed the door open, stepping into the darkness and letting his eyes adjust to the difference in light. Furrowing his brow, he took a whiff of the air... and understood what he should have known from the moment he unlocked the door. Stupid. There was someone in the room, of course. But it was too late now.
A heavy object came down to crash into the side of his head and he slumped to the floor, no sound leaving his mouth, hearing John shout his name before he blacked out.
Matt’s heart beat wildly in his chest as he realised who was trying to break in, someone calling out the person’s name as he slumped to the floor from the blow Matt had just administered with the candlestick. A shorter figure followed Holmes inside, the light from the hallway falling over his features and revealing John Watson with closed fists, ready to attack whomever had hit his colleague. His eyes widened as soon as he recognised Matt, though, and he turned on the light switch next to the door before dropping to his knees to check on his partner, shaking him lightly by the shoulders.
“Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?”
The only reply was a pained groan, the tall figure rolling on the floor with a hand to his temple.
“No, stay still, I need to check if you have a concussion. Or worse.” John looked up at Matt, who was clutching the candlestick with a white-knuckled grip. He seemed to be trembling slightly. “Do you have any idea the damage you can cause with a an object like that, especially to the head?”
“As much damage as possible, I was hoping! The fuck do you think you're doing?” His voice was croaky but his eyes were flashing blue slits. John didn't know what to say in their defence, so he focused on Sherlock instead, making sure he was all right. Although his partner was making it difficult, as per usual.
“You broke in my hotel room, what the fuck?!” Matt snarled.
“Broke, you idiot,” Sherlock hissed, getting gracefully to his knees and batting John's concerned hands away. “It's broke, not bwoke. Learn how to speak properly!”
Matt's eyes snapped with fury. “You can’t be fucking serious!” Was this wanker pointing out his speech impediment at a moment like this? He was brandishing the candlestick at him the next second. “Out. Out of my fucking room! Now!”
“Wait. Please.” Standing with his hands raised, trying to calm Matt down, John sent a sharp look in Sherlock’s direction before addressing the singer again. This was all going horribly wrong. “Please, if only you’ll let me explain.”
“What in the bloody hell were you trying to do?!”
“I am so sorry, Matthew, we apologise. Can I call you Matthew?” John flinched, realising they weren’t exactly on a first name basis. “We are very sorry. This wasn't the most legal thing to do, we should have just asked, but...” He pointed towards a sulking Sherlock, who was now standing up with the wall's support. “He wanted to see the letters and, well, seeing as you didn’t have them with you earlier -“
Matt’s disbelief was written all over his face.
“We are already working on your case, Mr. Bellamy. We just... Well, we just hadn't told you that yet. We were expecting to have more to tell you when we spoke again. Right, Sherlock?” John prodded, his colleague's mighty pout telling him he wouldn’t be getting much support from that quarter. He’d have to convince Sherlock to let him check his head again later, but he had a feeling the injury to his ego had been far worse than the one to his skull.
Observing them quietly, from the doctor’s embarrassment to the haughty attitude of his partner, Matt wasn’t sure what to make of them. “Piss poor excuse, if I’ve ever heard one. Why’d you go sneaking around behind my back?”
“I know we started off on the wrong foot, but please believe me, we genuinely want to help,” John said appealingly, arms loose at his sides in an effort to look as non-threatening as possible. “Will you let us do that?”
Silent for a few seconds more, Matt eventually put the candlestick down and started rummaging through a small case on the floor. There was an antique grand piano near a window in the expansive sitting room and John understood this was how Sherlock had known which was Matt’s suite. Finally the singer produced a small folder that he eyed for a moment, before tentatively offering it to John. It contained the letters.
“There’s three of them, it’s all I have. I binned the first letter, I didn't think to keep it at the time,” he explained as John passed the folder to a slightly more interested Sherlock, so they could read the messages together. “But I remember what it said if you wanna write it down.”
You have been discovered.
Stop while you still can. Or I will do it for.
Justice will be done. Say your prayers.
“The first one,” Matt continued, “said, You are a farce.”
Showing no sign of his recent injury, Sherlock held the letters carefully and bent next to one of the lamps, just as Matt’s phone went off.
“Do you mind? It’s just I really need to take this call.”
John nodded, returning his attention to Sherlock who was now analysing each letter in the light, turning the paper over in his gloved hands.
“All evidence obliterated by now, as expected.”
John heard a soft, almost girly giggle and turned to see Matt standing next to the window with his phone at his ear. He couldn't decipher a word, but by the soft tone of his voice and the light smile on his lips he figured he could only be talking to his girlfriend.
It was funny how someone he had seen on TV playing guitar and singing to massive, roaring crowds in stadiums like he was born to it could be so diminutive and, well, so not intimidating in person. Short and slightly built, with an unassuming presence and slightly awkward way of holding himself, it was difficult to imagine him commanding an audience like the ones John knew Muse attracted. Wearing a white t-shirt and some black jogging trousers with a stripe running down each leg, his brown hair was dishevelled, his face unshaven, and, oddly, he didn’t seem to be able to grow facial hair beyond his chin. In John’s opinion, Matt couldn't look less like a rock star if he tried.
He ended the call just then and returned to their side. “Sorry about that.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Bellamy.”
Matt turned to Sherlock, taking in the detective's wry, twisted expression, that could almost be classed as a smile. “What for?”
“You’ve got yourself a stalker.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 10:57 am (UTC)Reminds me of the article I read once, Matt woke up to find a girl sitting at the bottom of his bed.
Can't wait for more.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-18 10:39 pm (UTC)hope you'll enjoy the rest!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-21 02:56 pm (UTC)*snuggs*
no subject
Date: 2011-10-08 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-08 09:28 pm (UTC)thank you! glad you liked it :-) chapter 2 is already posted as well, btw, and chapter 3 has been shipped to beta, so it shouldnt take too long now for another update.
agreed bbc's 'sherlock' is absolutely brilliant, cant wait for season 2!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-23 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-25 10:47 pm (UTC)glad you're enjoying it :-)
no subject
Date: 2012-02-11 08:11 pm (UTC)I am finally on this again after months of stalling, and why did I stall!? This is so bloody perfect!
It's the first time I started re-reading after actually seeing Sherlock, and this just climbed the scale on awesome. I can hear John's and Sherlock's voices now next to Matt's and Dom's when they are talking, I can see their movements and gestures crystal-clear and some jokes that went by me at first are having their brilliant full-blown impact on me right now.
Why is this not being lauded as it should be?? Everyone should be made aware of the geniality of Sherlock and Muse combined!
“Ah. Ah!” John exclaimed sarcastically. “Dominic flirts with the waitress so of course he's having sex with the male front man of his band. I'd believe it more if you told me it's because he sat like a woman. Which he did.”
Many passages made me laugh out loud, but this had me rolling on the floor, Oh John. :D
I can't believe how well you managed to capture their characters, this could clearly be an episode, Moffat should immediately hire you two! Your fantastic mind combined with Anya's excellent play with words is just a killer team.
Then there was distant laughter from the street followed by the screech of a car’s tyres. Cocking an ear, he looked away from the laptop screen, trying to identify all the different things he could hear, listening out for other sounds.
I can so well imagine Matt's famous paranoia. The way he shoved Dom's concern off, trying to act tough, and then indeed be all afraid of the dark. He's being exactly as stubborn as we imagine him to be, and the interactions between him and Dom are just so realistic.
“Broke, you idiot,” Sherlock hissed, getting gracefully to his knees and batting John's concerned hands away. “It's broke, not bwoke. Learn how to speak properly!”
Poor, poor Matt. Hahaha!
Next! :D
*huggles*
no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 07:01 pm (UTC)i made a conscious effort when i was writing to sort of introduce the characters and try to explain certain things so that people who read this and werent a fan of sherlock or muse could follow the story relatively well (at the time my plan was to post this on museslash but also at a sherlock LJ - turned out they dont allow RPS there..).
so i was glad to see some people reading this without being fans but i suppose that it is much easier to understand if you are lol
working with moffat? i'd die the moment i'd hear him saying my name :p
no subject
Date: 2016-10-22 05:49 pm (UTC)And wow, I am very impressed with this one. Must have been hard to use real life people and fictional characters in one story. You captured all their characters so well!
Am very eager to read the other chapters.
no subject
Date: 2016-10-23 01:23 pm (UTC)It was one heck of a challenge, I'll have you know! But it was immensely fun too and i certainly had the drive as who else would post something like this, which i seriously would like to read anyway? haha
I can't remember if Showbiz is complete here on my lj so if you don't find it all, check out museslash or AO3 as at those two pages I know it's complete :)
no subject
Date: 2016-10-22 06:20 pm (UTC)And wow, I am very impressed with this one. Must have been hard to use real life people and fictional characters in one story. You captured all their characters so well!
Am very eager to read the other chapters.