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Entry tags:
Fic: Showbiz (part II /?)
Title: 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
Sorry for taking so long to post the second part; holidays, Reading and life in general got in the way.
“Dull, dull, dull. All of it.” Sherlock was fully dressed, dark suit and light blue shirt, when John came downstairs the following morning. “Come, John, we need to meet Bellamy, I need more data.”
The wall in their sitting room behind the sofa was starting to fill with scraps of paper – Sherlock's notes, copies of the letters, a London map with pins at the locations where the messages had been received; John could also distinguish a calendar with both Matt’s and Muse’s schedule for the past few months. It was good to see that Sherlock was giving the case his full attention, as John had been a bit afraid he might grow bored and stray, considering how much Matt seemed to annoy him for no reason.
“Did you find anything new in the letters?”
“Nothing relevant. His right shoulder was injured in January, but it had healed by the time he sent the most recent letter; impossible to tell if it’s a recurring condition or if it was a one-off caused by a small accident. And the back of one of the letters had a very light stain of coffee, recent, spilled from a cup on the table where he wrote it, but it’s a brand you could get in any supermarket.” He paused to pin another note to the wall. “Difficult to discover more considering the treatment the letters received from your favourite musician, which erased all evidence we could have gathered from them. But, at any rate, the stalker was wily enough to avoid leaving anything blatant. The only pleasant surprise so far in this case.”
“Have you wondered if this may be an old piano or guitar teacher of Matthew's who, I don’t know, is upset at not being given enough credit?”
“Unlikely. Bellamy’s very obviously self-taught. The grudge our stalker holds might not even be connected to Bellamy’s musical ability, but simply exacerbated by his success.”
John furrowed his brow. “How do you know he’s self-taught? You didn’t listen to some of their songs while I wasn’t looking, did you?” He grinned.
Sherlock returned the grin, with a mocking edge. He hadn’t, nor did he intend to. “Did you notice his fingers?”
“Well...” John thought back to the previous day. “He’s got long, thin fingers, slender hands and wrists. I would definitely say he’s got the hands of a pianist. But I noticed when we shook hands that he also had ripped skin on one of his fingers, which I’d guess is from the guitar playing.”
“Well done,” Sherlock nodded, but John could tell by the slight smirk that his response had been lacking, as per usual.
“Don’t make fun of me. What about his fingers, then?”
“He positions them entirely wrong when he has his hands on a table. Appalling discipline. Not formally trained.”
Right. “Cup of tea before we go?”
Unable to reach Matt by phone, they opted for contacting Dom, who explained that he was at Abbey Road Studios and they could meet him there. Led through several long corridors upon their arrival by a lackey who had been informed of their visit by the drummer, Sherlock and John were left on their own in a control room while they went to the recording area to fetch Matt, who could be seen from their spot and heard through the speakers.
Playing the grand piano with a pair of large headphones on, Matt was completely oblivious to the outside world. And whatever he was playing, John liked it. The melody was beautiful, notes soaring as Matt's fingers danced across the keys, and he wondered whether it was an original composition or some classical piece, because it seemed slightly familiar to him. Perhaps something he'd heard at the flat, played on the violin. Sherlock would know.
“Is that -” He turned to ask, but didn't finish the question.
Sherlock was gazing at Matt with a look that the doctor could only describe as complete fascination. There was a softness to his angular features and a sparkle in his bright eyes that John couldn't recall ever seeing in the time he’d known Sherlock. It was awe and respect, with some surprise blended in, but there was something else. He seemed completely enchanted.
“You like it.” It made John smile.
“Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto no.2 in C Minor, Op. 18. Second movement, the Adagio Sostenuto. But not the original. An interpretation, I'd say.” Sherlock appeared slightly breathless.
It was a testament to Matt's incredible talent that even Sherlock was left amazed. John didn’t know more about music or bands than the average person in the street, but he was fairly sure that it was not very common to see a rock musician playing classical piano with such skill and soul, not to mention that, to his knowledge, Matt was also an acclaimed guitarist and singer. The music stopped abruptly as Matt lifted his head in the direction of the control room and saw them behind the glass. The spell was broken. Sherlock cleared his throat, rearranged his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat again.
When Matt joined them, closing the door behind him, the first thing John noticed were the dark bags under his bloodshot eyes.
“Bad night's sleep, Mr. Bellamy?”
“No, I just...” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Just came here last night after you left, wanted to try out some new chords and prefer to do it at the studio. And you can call me Matt, please. It’s John, right?”
“Yes, yes it is. That was lovely, by the way, what you were playing now.”
“Oh, you liked that?” Matt grinned, high cheekbones popping and whole face lighting up. John couldn’t help but notice his extraordinarily piercing blue eyes, the sort that made women swoon; as if being a rock star wasn’t helpful enough in that department. “That's not mine, but thank you, thank you very much.”
“You made it yours.”
John turned to Sherlock, as did Matt, stunned at the detective’s praise. And there he was again, John noted, looking at Matt with eyes soft with regard. Despite the shock, the musician took the compliment with a smile.
“Thanks, I was just...” His hands flailed self-consciously. “Just pissing around, really.”
“It was... very good.” And Sherlock smiled.
A genuine smile, John realised with the utmost surprise, not one of the fake ones he used to charm strangers when he wanted something from them. It suddenly dawned on him that an awkward silence had set in and Matt was looking between the two of them and waiting for someone to speak.
“So, is there something you wanted to tell me?” Matt crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Did you find anything?”
Sherlock began explaining in an uncharacteristically polite and patient manner how the letters had offered no more leads and that he wanted to follow up by investigating who might have access to his hotel reservations. Matt named Dominic Anderson, their tour manager and one of the select few who knew about the stalker, as the best person to contact for further information.
“Though maybe you’ll want to talk to Tom, too, he’s in London now,” Matt added. “Tom Kirk, he’s a friend and been with us since the start. He does all the visuals, videos and all that website shi- oh, sorry for the language. I mean, he’s pretty involved with a lot of what goes on tour, too, you know, so maybe you’ll find it useful to have a chat with him. Just ask whatever you need, he’s great. I can call him right now, though he's probably still asleep. He’s a lazy bastard when we’re not touring.”
Matt had fallen into his typical high speed speech and Sherlock simply gazed at him in silence, saying nothing even after he'd finished. Another awkward moment set in.
“Uh, d’you want me to come, too?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and shifted his feet.
“No, absolutely not. Entirely unnecessary. We can talk to them unaided.” And he whooshed out wearing a peculiar little smile, leaving Matt and John staring at each other in confusion.
“Is he...” Matt scratched his head, intrigued. “Is he okay?”
“Perfectly fine,” said John.
“Ups and downs, is it?”
“Ups and downs.”
They stopped by Tom Kirk’s flat, the band's media manager proving good natured and resourceful, offering to provide them with everything they might need. He gave them the names of the people that would definitely have access to the band’s hotel reservations and promised to e-mail them with everything he could recall that might prove useful.
Tom also asked them if they were familiar with Muse’s music, and when John enthusiastically said he loved what he'd heard on the radio, Tom was quick to gift him with copies of all their albums and live DVDs. John had been thrilled, promising he’d listen to it all as soon as he had a chance.
The phone conversation with Dom Anderson had been shorter but more straightforward, the band's tour manager explaining in detail to Sherlock how the hotel reservations were handled and exactly who would have access to that information in the management office, in order to track down any possible leaks.
Despite it being Saturday, John left Sherlock working on his own at Baker Street and decided to head for the surgery to take on a pile of paperwork which had been begging for his attention for well over a week now.
When John arrived home, mind settling back on the case and also on Sherlock’s curious behaviour towards Matt that morning, his jaw dropped comically upon entering the living room.
His flatmate was stretched out on the leather couch, head propped against one arm, with a pair of headphones on. His eyes were closed and he was... it took John a moment to understand he was air drumming. He didn’t know whether to laugh, save the moment with his mobile for future blackmailing purposes or, for some silly, irrational reason, kick him in the shin. He strode over to him, but Sherlock’s eyes snapped open long before he reached him and the tall detective leapt to his feet, removing the headphones and frantically running his fingers through his dishevelled hair.
“John. You’re back.”
“Sherlock...” John squinted, trying to read the screen of the laptop in Sherlock’s hands without much success. Was that a Muse fan messageboard? “What’re you doing...?”
“It’s this, this song. ‘Citizen Erased’. It’s... and the piano coda... it’s...” Sherlock stammered. Sherlock never stammered. He straightened his back, his tone of voice changing completely.“I’m working on the case, obviously.” The laptop was snapped shut and the headphones tossed aside.
John eyed him carefully. He’d been listening to the albums Tom Kirk had given him, that much he could tell. Bit surprising, but there was no need to get defensive about it, so he didn’t understand his flatmate’s reaction. Sherlock was acting so very oddly since the recording studio earlier in the day... more specifically, since he'd heard Matt at the piano.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You know,” John started. “It’s okay to admit that you like their music.” His stomach knotted as another possibility entered his mind, one that he'd failed to consider before. “Or if, you know, if you like,“ he cleared his throat. “If you like...”
Could it be that Sherlock somehow fancied Matt..? Despite the man’s self-professed disinterest in matters of the heart or sexual activities in favour of brainwork, John had always assumed that he was more likely to find his flatmate with a boyfriend than with a girlfriend.
“Thank you, John.”
The tone was final, the conversation over. Sherlock whirled into the kitchen and, by the metallic sounds that followed, cupboard doors opening and closing, John concluded he was checking on his experiments.
At the Connaught Hotel, Matt, Dom and Tom finished dinner, chatting about the pair of detectives, among other things.
“Don’t know how the doctor puts up with that git,” Dom commented, taking a sip of his mojito. “Maybe he’s that good a shag.”
They all cackled and Tom stood, downing the rest of his drink. “It’s a question I ask myself on a regular basis: why the fuck do I put up with you two tossers, when there’s no sex involved? And while I know that you’d rather enjoy making it up to me tonight,” he continued to general groaning from his friends, ”I’m already taken. And off I go to a night of debauchery. Eleanor’s free.”
“Enjoy it, mate. Every night could be your last with that one,” Dom goaded.
“Still bitter that she didn’t fall for your charms?” Tom winked. “See you on Tuesday!”
He left as the others sniggered.
“You really think they’re fucking?” Matt asked. “I mean the detectives.”
“No clue, I was just taking the piss.” Dom sipped his drink again.
“Know who that Holmes bloke would like to get his hands on, though.”
“Who?” Matt grinned, amused by Dom’s new found deductive skills.
Dom gave him an incredulous look. “You, of course. Didn’t you see him checking you out yesterday when we met? Really fucking obvious he was, too.”
“Piss off, he’s been a wanker from the start!” Matt paused. “Well, he was okay this morning. That was surprising, actually.”
“Told you.”
“Jealous, Howard?” He lowered his voice suggestively.
“Ha. You wish,” Dom smiled smugly. “You couldn't find better elsewhere, you’re well served.”
“And how d’you know that? Don’t remember sharing any details of my sex life with you lately.” He smirked; Matt knew exactly where the conversation was going.
“You don’t have to. I know who gives you a good fuck whenever you need one.”
Matt’s fingers tightened around his glass at the tone of Dom’s voice and his mouth went dry, an urge he recognised all too well burning bright and sudden inside him. How long had it been since their last time? Hard to believe the Manchester stadium gig had been all those months ago.
“So, if you want someone to drop by your room later...” Dom left the offer hanging, taking another swig of his drink while staring intently at his friend over it.
Matt swallowed thickly but when he met the drummer's charged gaze, reality set in and he let go of the memories and other undisclosed desires, finding himself chuckling at Dom’s slyness. It would take more than that for him to be swayed by him these days, he had other priorities now. “Go get yourself a bloody woman, can’t believe I need to tell you that,” Matt snorted, throwing his head back and stretching languidly in his seat. “You can come by for a bit of telly if you want, though.”
“Nothing more had crossed my mind, mate,” Dom grinned sheepishly.
Matt brushed his teeth as the tub filled, then stripped his clothes and dropped them to the floor in a heap. A warm bath before bed did wonders. He reckoned Dom had been right about one thing - he definitely needed to alleviate the tension a bit, he’d been a nervous wreck since the previous day. Discovering he had a stalker, someone who could potentially become very dangerous, and desperately trying to keep the fact from his pregnant girlfriend while constantly looking over his shoulder... How much longer would she believe he remained in London on Muse business? And he couldn’t go back to Los Angeles now, he couldn’t possibly risk the threat following him.
He let his whole body dip under the water, holding his breath for long seconds before coming up for air, resting his head on the rim of the tub. If he shut his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the steam fill his lungs, he could almost pretend he was on tour and the butterflies fluttering in his stomach were only the usual pre-gig nerves. He could pretend that, in a couple of hours, he would be on stage playing for thousands, a sea of arms in front of him, clapping hands and pumping fists, and the adrenalin running through his body kept him so alive and he could feel the music pounding inside him -
He sat up abruptly, splashing water everywhere. A loud noise had jolted him out of his daydream, something that had come from the sitting room, as if a small but heavy object had tumbled to the floor. After a long, unbearably apprehensive pause, he sighed. It had to be Dom retrieving his mobile, which Matt had noticed he'd forgotten, and dropping something in the process, the clumsy git.
“Don’t be so fucking noisy, Dom,” he called out. “I’m in the bath. Your phone’s on the coffee table.”
Allowing his eyelids to droop closed once more, Matt glided down and resumed his previous position. But his body was soon tensing up again when no reply came from the drummer. It was eerily silent. Matt couldn’t help himself, there were alarm bells ringing in his head. So he slid out of the tub quietly, water trickling down his body to the floor as he grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist. He thought better and pulled his trousers on instead, stepping out of the bathroom stealthily, the material dampening in contact with his wet skin.
“Dom?”
The air outside the bathroom cooled his still exposed skin and he felt goose bumps forming. Reaching the suite’s sitting room, Matt scanned the area; there was no one there and only a small lamp lit, just as he'd expected. The window, though, was closed and blocking all sound from outside... when he'd left it ajar the entire evening. He’d been wrong - there was someone else in the hotel room. Heart hammering in his chest, he realised he ought to get out of there as fast as possible.
Before he could move, however, his eyes fell on the reflection the window offered – there was a dark clad figure slithering in from the bedroom area, something in his hand. It was a gun.
Matt’s mind went blank, his body switching to instinct mode. He dived for the protection offered by the high back of the couch just in time, miraculously escaping a hastily-fired shot. The muffled sound coming from the gun had the singer convinced the attacker was using a silencer, the idea confirmed when the man shot again, the bullet burying itself in the couch. The assailant walked steadily towards Matt, who rolled off the couch and crouched low, narrowly avoiding two more shots as he clumsily crawled around the coffee table, snatching up a small decorative pot that was tipped over on the carpet.
"Help! Somebody help me!"
He screamed bloody murder, knowing at the same time it was useless in the soundproofed room. The masked attacker was suddenly face to face with him and Matt flung the pot hard, hitting him square on the head. There was another shot that missed him by miles, a shout of pain from the other man and the sound of something thudding to the floor.
"Dom! Dom, help me! Help! Somebody HELP ME!"
He lunged for the gun that had slipped from the criminal’s hands, but the weapon slid from his sweaty fingers as the man also made a grab for it. Realising the attacker’s balaclava had slid out of place, Matt reached out and pulled the fabric off entirely to be able to look at his face. They stared at each other before a muffled voice broke the moment.
"Matt!"
Both men swung their heads towards the sound. It was coming from the connecting door to Dom’s room.
"Matt, what's going on? I can’t get in, let me in!"
It was Dom, he’d heard him! The drummer was banging on the door between their rooms, Matt realising that both that door and the main one had been blocked with chairs under the handles, and the moment of distraction was all it took for the attacker to grapple back the gun and gain the upper hand, Matt falling back at his feet. He swallowed, helpless as the man pointed the gun at him from above, finger on the trigger. There was nowhere to hide. But the man hesitated and was glancing nervously to where Dom had just stopped loudly thumping. In a fit of rage, he kicked Matt harshly, the singer grunting in pain and curling in on himself, only to receive another blow to his lower back that made his eyes water.
Bracing himself for the worst, Matt gritted his teeth, determined not to go down without a fight, but instead of another kick or a gunshot, the sound that followed was that of his opponent stepping quickly away. The main door opened, Dom’s shouting suddenly loud and clear, and there was a quick struggle with some pushing and shoving before Matt understood the man was gone.
Dom hesitated between following the thug, who was running down the corridor towards the lift and stairs, and checking on Matt. But when he glanced inside the room and saw his band mate lying on the floor, the answer was obvious. Breathing hard and sick with worry and fear, Dom sank to his knees next to Matt, who had his elbows covering his face, fingers twisted in his wet hair. His upper body was moving rapidly as he breathed and it was with a pang of relief that Dom discerned there was no blood anywhere. There were more voices outside the room now, of people gathering in the hallway.
"Matt."
Laying a warm hand on his friend’s bare shoulder, firm but gentle, Dom prompted him to turn and face him.
"It’s me, it’s okay now.” He’d removed Matt’s arms from over his face but he still had his eyes tightly closed.
“He's gone."
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 LOLSorry for taking so long to post the second part; holidays, Reading and life in general got in the way.
CHAPTER TWO
For a moment Matt found himself speechless. He ruffled his already messy hair up at the back and swallowed, staring at the two men in front of him.
“You mean...?”
No answer was supplied and he set to pacing the suite’s sitting room, rubbing his face vigorously and becoming more agitated and distressed as he spoke. “Fuck, it can’t be... I... I always thought... are you sure?” Spinning around, he faced them, only to immediately resume pacing, habitually touching his nose and flailing his hands as he spoke. “No, no, no. I mean... Dom thinks that...” He stopped again. “What am I supposed to do now? And how can you tell?”
“We are talking about a male, around sixty years of age, residing in London but has lived in Devon in the past, which is where he met you twenty years ago when you were a child,” Sherlock recited in a monotone as he carefully placed the letters back in the folder. “I need to take the letters with me to analyse them further, despite the fact that you’ve carelessly destroyed most of the evidence that could be taken from them. I also need to know exactly when you got each of these envelopes and at what hotels.”
By this point, all signs of distress Matt had previously displayed had been replaced by doubt and suspicion. “Did you just make that up?”
Sherlock’s face clearly expressed that he believed Matt’s question to be so dim it wasn’t even worth answering; the singer turned to John instead.
“Did he just -“
“No,” John assured, quickly realising that Matt was growing irritated, perhaps thinking Sherlock was mocking him. “No, he’s not -“ He stopped himself, as he saw Matt’s lips pursing into a tight line. “Sherlock, please take us through it.”
“I don’t know why I expected any of you to understand.” Sherlock’s exasperation was directed at both of them this time. “Letters, John! They say older and traditional. The threats could have been made by e-mail or through a social networking site, but this was the way he chose to ensure that the message would be seen while the author remained undetected. Most likely he doesn’t have much contact with technology and does not feel comfortable with it.
“It’s confirmed by the handwriting, look at the style, it’s very distinctive.” He gestured towards the neat script on the one letter he still held. “Smooth, uniform, evenly spaced... Who can write like that effortlessly today? Someone who learnt calligraphy, perhaps, or someone who was taught hand writing in England, no later than the fifties. If this person had learnt calligraphy they would want to show off, but no, the style is simple, the lettering isn’t perfect and he didn’t use a calligraphic pen, so an older person it is.” Sherlock paused to make sure at least John was following; Matt only stared in astonishment. “No sign of romantic feeling in the messages, so this person isn’t trying to force a relationship and nothing suggests a possible attack of a sexual nature... clearly this is a ‘Resentful Stalker’, perpetuating an act of retaliation for something he perceives the victim has or hasn’t done. Combined with the absence of use of a phone or any other electronic device as a means of contact, plus the fact that most stalkers are male, statistically this pretty much rules out a female being responsible. It must be someone the victim knows, or once knew, as well, because, in most cases, the motivation is personal.
Now, the stationery,” he flourished the letter in his hand. “All written on the same paper, it’s plain to see. By the fading of the colour and the texture I would say it is twenty years old. Perfectly ordinary paper, though, so why is he using it, why would he choose it? It holds some significance to him. Can only be from when you met. Conclusion, he knows you from your youth.”
Matt watched as Sherlock folded the letter after his explanation, digesting the information just thrown at him. He was torn between expressing his wonder at Sherlock’s ability to gather so much from so little and claiming it was all wild speculation with no basis in solid fact; he wasn’t even making his deductions based on graphology, which Matt had previously wondered might be a way to find out more about the author of the notes.
What had become painfully clear to the singer, though, was that the messages were, sadly, not part of an elaborate prank – they constituted a very real threat. He flopped onto the couch, shoulders sagging as he held his head between his hands. John couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. On the other hand, with Sherlock on the case, he knew the stalker would be caught in a matter of days.
“What now?” Matt asked. “Should I call the police? Or d'you think you can find out who this bloke is...? I have no idea who he might be.”
“I hate to repeat myself,” Sherlock sighed. “As I’ve said, I need to take the letters with me for a more thorough analysis. As for the police, I wouldn’t bother. They will offer you the worst advice available and do little to nothing of actual use. But I'll leave the decision in your very capable hands.”
The sarcasm wasn't dripping so much as pouring. Matt didn’t care how clever this Sherlock might be, he was getting tired of being insulted every time he was addressed by him. Still, he'd had enough of arguing for one day. This revelation had been like a punch to the gut, leaving him terribly confused and exhausted.
“Fine, take them, do whatever you need with them. As long as -”
“I promise we’ll catch this person,” John offered with a comforting smile.
Matt nodded at the polite doctor and then reached for his mobile so he could check what the dates he’d received each letter were. He briefly filled them in with all he could remember and hadn’t mentioned at their first meeting at the bar, hoping he wouldn’t regret his decision to trust them. Matt still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Sherlock Holmes, except that he was absolutely insufferable. John Watson appeared to be a decent bloke, though.
They parted ways with the promise of being in contact soon and Sherlock and John nearly bumped into Dom in the lift, the drummer its only occupant when the doors opened at the musician’s floor.
The blond had a few drinks in him, but he sobered up when he recognised the two men.
“What’re you doing here?”
“We went for a stroll and decided to pop in for a little chat.” Sherlock stepped inside the lift, pulling John with him – the doctor’s attention had been helplessly diverted by the outrageous black and white leopard print shirt Dom wore underneath his leather jacket. “Do try not to keep Mr. Bellamy up the whole night,” Sherlock leaned confidentially towards the drummer, “we might be back early in the morning.”
He winked at a stunned Dom just as the doors slid closed.
For a moment Matt found himself speechless. He ruffled his already messy hair up at the back and swallowed, staring at the two men in front of him.
“You mean...?”
No answer was supplied and he set to pacing the suite’s sitting room, rubbing his face vigorously and becoming more agitated and distressed as he spoke. “Fuck, it can’t be... I... I always thought... are you sure?” Spinning around, he faced them, only to immediately resume pacing, habitually touching his nose and flailing his hands as he spoke. “No, no, no. I mean... Dom thinks that...” He stopped again. “What am I supposed to do now? And how can you tell?”
“We are talking about a male, around sixty years of age, residing in London but has lived in Devon in the past, which is where he met you twenty years ago when you were a child,” Sherlock recited in a monotone as he carefully placed the letters back in the folder. “I need to take the letters with me to analyse them further, despite the fact that you’ve carelessly destroyed most of the evidence that could be taken from them. I also need to know exactly when you got each of these envelopes and at what hotels.”
By this point, all signs of distress Matt had previously displayed had been replaced by doubt and suspicion. “Did you just make that up?”
Sherlock’s face clearly expressed that he believed Matt’s question to be so dim it wasn’t even worth answering; the singer turned to John instead.
“Did he just -“
“No,” John assured, quickly realising that Matt was growing irritated, perhaps thinking Sherlock was mocking him. “No, he’s not -“ He stopped himself, as he saw Matt’s lips pursing into a tight line. “Sherlock, please take us through it.”
“I don’t know why I expected any of you to understand.” Sherlock’s exasperation was directed at both of them this time. “Letters, John! They say older and traditional. The threats could have been made by e-mail or through a social networking site, but this was the way he chose to ensure that the message would be seen while the author remained undetected. Most likely he doesn’t have much contact with technology and does not feel comfortable with it.
“It’s confirmed by the handwriting, look at the style, it’s very distinctive.” He gestured towards the neat script on the one letter he still held. “Smooth, uniform, evenly spaced... Who can write like that effortlessly today? Someone who learnt calligraphy, perhaps, or someone who was taught hand writing in England, no later than the fifties. If this person had learnt calligraphy they would want to show off, but no, the style is simple, the lettering isn’t perfect and he didn’t use a calligraphic pen, so an older person it is.” Sherlock paused to make sure at least John was following; Matt only stared in astonishment. “No sign of romantic feeling in the messages, so this person isn’t trying to force a relationship and nothing suggests a possible attack of a sexual nature... clearly this is a ‘Resentful Stalker’, perpetuating an act of retaliation for something he perceives the victim has or hasn’t done. Combined with the absence of use of a phone or any other electronic device as a means of contact, plus the fact that most stalkers are male, statistically this pretty much rules out a female being responsible. It must be someone the victim knows, or once knew, as well, because, in most cases, the motivation is personal.
Now, the stationery,” he flourished the letter in his hand. “All written on the same paper, it’s plain to see. By the fading of the colour and the texture I would say it is twenty years old. Perfectly ordinary paper, though, so why is he using it, why would he choose it? It holds some significance to him. Can only be from when you met. Conclusion, he knows you from your youth.”
Matt watched as Sherlock folded the letter after his explanation, digesting the information just thrown at him. He was torn between expressing his wonder at Sherlock’s ability to gather so much from so little and claiming it was all wild speculation with no basis in solid fact; he wasn’t even making his deductions based on graphology, which Matt had previously wondered might be a way to find out more about the author of the notes.
What had become painfully clear to the singer, though, was that the messages were, sadly, not part of an elaborate prank – they constituted a very real threat. He flopped onto the couch, shoulders sagging as he held his head between his hands. John couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. On the other hand, with Sherlock on the case, he knew the stalker would be caught in a matter of days.
“What now?” Matt asked. “Should I call the police? Or d'you think you can find out who this bloke is...? I have no idea who he might be.”
“I hate to repeat myself,” Sherlock sighed. “As I’ve said, I need to take the letters with me for a more thorough analysis. As for the police, I wouldn’t bother. They will offer you the worst advice available and do little to nothing of actual use. But I'll leave the decision in your very capable hands.”
The sarcasm wasn't dripping so much as pouring. Matt didn’t care how clever this Sherlock might be, he was getting tired of being insulted every time he was addressed by him. Still, he'd had enough of arguing for one day. This revelation had been like a punch to the gut, leaving him terribly confused and exhausted.
“Fine, take them, do whatever you need with them. As long as -”
“I promise we’ll catch this person,” John offered with a comforting smile.
Matt nodded at the polite doctor and then reached for his mobile so he could check what the dates he’d received each letter were. He briefly filled them in with all he could remember and hadn’t mentioned at their first meeting at the bar, hoping he wouldn’t regret his decision to trust them. Matt still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Sherlock Holmes, except that he was absolutely insufferable. John Watson appeared to be a decent bloke, though.
They parted ways with the promise of being in contact soon and Sherlock and John nearly bumped into Dom in the lift, the drummer its only occupant when the doors opened at the musician’s floor.
The blond had a few drinks in him, but he sobered up when he recognised the two men.
“What’re you doing here?”
“We went for a stroll and decided to pop in for a little chat.” Sherlock stepped inside the lift, pulling John with him – the doctor’s attention had been helplessly diverted by the outrageous black and white leopard print shirt Dom wore underneath his leather jacket. “Do try not to keep Mr. Bellamy up the whole night,” Sherlock leaned confidentially towards the drummer, “we might be back early in the morning.”
He winked at a stunned Dom just as the doors slid closed.
***
“Dull, dull, dull. All of it.” Sherlock was fully dressed, dark suit and light blue shirt, when John came downstairs the following morning. “Come, John, we need to meet Bellamy, I need more data.”
The wall in their sitting room behind the sofa was starting to fill with scraps of paper – Sherlock's notes, copies of the letters, a London map with pins at the locations where the messages had been received; John could also distinguish a calendar with both Matt’s and Muse’s schedule for the past few months. It was good to see that Sherlock was giving the case his full attention, as John had been a bit afraid he might grow bored and stray, considering how much Matt seemed to annoy him for no reason.
“Did you find anything new in the letters?”
“Nothing relevant. His right shoulder was injured in January, but it had healed by the time he sent the most recent letter; impossible to tell if it’s a recurring condition or if it was a one-off caused by a small accident. And the back of one of the letters had a very light stain of coffee, recent, spilled from a cup on the table where he wrote it, but it’s a brand you could get in any supermarket.” He paused to pin another note to the wall. “Difficult to discover more considering the treatment the letters received from your favourite musician, which erased all evidence we could have gathered from them. But, at any rate, the stalker was wily enough to avoid leaving anything blatant. The only pleasant surprise so far in this case.”
“Have you wondered if this may be an old piano or guitar teacher of Matthew's who, I don’t know, is upset at not being given enough credit?”
“Unlikely. Bellamy’s very obviously self-taught. The grudge our stalker holds might not even be connected to Bellamy’s musical ability, but simply exacerbated by his success.”
John furrowed his brow. “How do you know he’s self-taught? You didn’t listen to some of their songs while I wasn’t looking, did you?” He grinned.
Sherlock returned the grin, with a mocking edge. He hadn’t, nor did he intend to. “Did you notice his fingers?”
“Well...” John thought back to the previous day. “He’s got long, thin fingers, slender hands and wrists. I would definitely say he’s got the hands of a pianist. But I noticed when we shook hands that he also had ripped skin on one of his fingers, which I’d guess is from the guitar playing.”
“Well done,” Sherlock nodded, but John could tell by the slight smirk that his response had been lacking, as per usual.
“Don’t make fun of me. What about his fingers, then?”
“He positions them entirely wrong when he has his hands on a table. Appalling discipline. Not formally trained.”
Right. “Cup of tea before we go?”
Unable to reach Matt by phone, they opted for contacting Dom, who explained that he was at Abbey Road Studios and they could meet him there. Led through several long corridors upon their arrival by a lackey who had been informed of their visit by the drummer, Sherlock and John were left on their own in a control room while they went to the recording area to fetch Matt, who could be seen from their spot and heard through the speakers.
Playing the grand piano with a pair of large headphones on, Matt was completely oblivious to the outside world. And whatever he was playing, John liked it. The melody was beautiful, notes soaring as Matt's fingers danced across the keys, and he wondered whether it was an original composition or some classical piece, because it seemed slightly familiar to him. Perhaps something he'd heard at the flat, played on the violin. Sherlock would know.
“Is that -” He turned to ask, but didn't finish the question.
Sherlock was gazing at Matt with a look that the doctor could only describe as complete fascination. There was a softness to his angular features and a sparkle in his bright eyes that John couldn't recall ever seeing in the time he’d known Sherlock. It was awe and respect, with some surprise blended in, but there was something else. He seemed completely enchanted.
“You like it.” It made John smile.
“Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto no.2 in C Minor, Op. 18. Second movement, the Adagio Sostenuto. But not the original. An interpretation, I'd say.” Sherlock appeared slightly breathless.
It was a testament to Matt's incredible talent that even Sherlock was left amazed. John didn’t know more about music or bands than the average person in the street, but he was fairly sure that it was not very common to see a rock musician playing classical piano with such skill and soul, not to mention that, to his knowledge, Matt was also an acclaimed guitarist and singer. The music stopped abruptly as Matt lifted his head in the direction of the control room and saw them behind the glass. The spell was broken. Sherlock cleared his throat, rearranged his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat again.
When Matt joined them, closing the door behind him, the first thing John noticed were the dark bags under his bloodshot eyes.
“Bad night's sleep, Mr. Bellamy?”
“No, I just...” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Just came here last night after you left, wanted to try out some new chords and prefer to do it at the studio. And you can call me Matt, please. It’s John, right?”
“Yes, yes it is. That was lovely, by the way, what you were playing now.”
“Oh, you liked that?” Matt grinned, high cheekbones popping and whole face lighting up. John couldn’t help but notice his extraordinarily piercing blue eyes, the sort that made women swoon; as if being a rock star wasn’t helpful enough in that department. “That's not mine, but thank you, thank you very much.”
“You made it yours.”
John turned to Sherlock, as did Matt, stunned at the detective’s praise. And there he was again, John noted, looking at Matt with eyes soft with regard. Despite the shock, the musician took the compliment with a smile.
“Thanks, I was just...” His hands flailed self-consciously. “Just pissing around, really.”
“It was... very good.” And Sherlock smiled.
A genuine smile, John realised with the utmost surprise, not one of the fake ones he used to charm strangers when he wanted something from them. It suddenly dawned on him that an awkward silence had set in and Matt was looking between the two of them and waiting for someone to speak.
“So, is there something you wanted to tell me?” Matt crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Did you find anything?”
Sherlock began explaining in an uncharacteristically polite and patient manner how the letters had offered no more leads and that he wanted to follow up by investigating who might have access to his hotel reservations. Matt named Dominic Anderson, their tour manager and one of the select few who knew about the stalker, as the best person to contact for further information.
“Though maybe you’ll want to talk to Tom, too, he’s in London now,” Matt added. “Tom Kirk, he’s a friend and been with us since the start. He does all the visuals, videos and all that website shi- oh, sorry for the language. I mean, he’s pretty involved with a lot of what goes on tour, too, you know, so maybe you’ll find it useful to have a chat with him. Just ask whatever you need, he’s great. I can call him right now, though he's probably still asleep. He’s a lazy bastard when we’re not touring.”
Matt had fallen into his typical high speed speech and Sherlock simply gazed at him in silence, saying nothing even after he'd finished. Another awkward moment set in.
“Uh, d’you want me to come, too?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and shifted his feet.
“No, absolutely not. Entirely unnecessary. We can talk to them unaided.” And he whooshed out wearing a peculiar little smile, leaving Matt and John staring at each other in confusion.
“Is he...” Matt scratched his head, intrigued. “Is he okay?”
“Perfectly fine,” said John.
“Ups and downs, is it?”
“Ups and downs.”
***
They stopped by Tom Kirk’s flat, the band's media manager proving good natured and resourceful, offering to provide them with everything they might need. He gave them the names of the people that would definitely have access to the band’s hotel reservations and promised to e-mail them with everything he could recall that might prove useful.
Tom also asked them if they were familiar with Muse’s music, and when John enthusiastically said he loved what he'd heard on the radio, Tom was quick to gift him with copies of all their albums and live DVDs. John had been thrilled, promising he’d listen to it all as soon as he had a chance.
The phone conversation with Dom Anderson had been shorter but more straightforward, the band's tour manager explaining in detail to Sherlock how the hotel reservations were handled and exactly who would have access to that information in the management office, in order to track down any possible leaks.
Despite it being Saturday, John left Sherlock working on his own at Baker Street and decided to head for the surgery to take on a pile of paperwork which had been begging for his attention for well over a week now.
When John arrived home, mind settling back on the case and also on Sherlock’s curious behaviour towards Matt that morning, his jaw dropped comically upon entering the living room.
His flatmate was stretched out on the leather couch, head propped against one arm, with a pair of headphones on. His eyes were closed and he was... it took John a moment to understand he was air drumming. He didn’t know whether to laugh, save the moment with his mobile for future blackmailing purposes or, for some silly, irrational reason, kick him in the shin. He strode over to him, but Sherlock’s eyes snapped open long before he reached him and the tall detective leapt to his feet, removing the headphones and frantically running his fingers through his dishevelled hair.
“John. You’re back.”
“Sherlock...” John squinted, trying to read the screen of the laptop in Sherlock’s hands without much success. Was that a Muse fan messageboard? “What’re you doing...?”
“It’s this, this song. ‘Citizen Erased’. It’s... and the piano coda... it’s...” Sherlock stammered. Sherlock never stammered. He straightened his back, his tone of voice changing completely.“I’m working on the case, obviously.” The laptop was snapped shut and the headphones tossed aside.
John eyed him carefully. He’d been listening to the albums Tom Kirk had given him, that much he could tell. Bit surprising, but there was no need to get defensive about it, so he didn’t understand his flatmate’s reaction. Sherlock was acting so very oddly since the recording studio earlier in the day... more specifically, since he'd heard Matt at the piano.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You know,” John started. “It’s okay to admit that you like their music.” His stomach knotted as another possibility entered his mind, one that he'd failed to consider before. “Or if, you know, if you like,“ he cleared his throat. “If you like...”
Could it be that Sherlock somehow fancied Matt..? Despite the man’s self-professed disinterest in matters of the heart or sexual activities in favour of brainwork, John had always assumed that he was more likely to find his flatmate with a boyfriend than with a girlfriend.
“Thank you, John.”
The tone was final, the conversation over. Sherlock whirled into the kitchen and, by the metallic sounds that followed, cupboard doors opening and closing, John concluded he was checking on his experiments.
***
At the Connaught Hotel, Matt, Dom and Tom finished dinner, chatting about the pair of detectives, among other things.
“Don’t know how the doctor puts up with that git,” Dom commented, taking a sip of his mojito. “Maybe he’s that good a shag.”
They all cackled and Tom stood, downing the rest of his drink. “It’s a question I ask myself on a regular basis: why the fuck do I put up with you two tossers, when there’s no sex involved? And while I know that you’d rather enjoy making it up to me tonight,” he continued to general groaning from his friends, ”I’m already taken. And off I go to a night of debauchery. Eleanor’s free.”
“Enjoy it, mate. Every night could be your last with that one,” Dom goaded.
“Still bitter that she didn’t fall for your charms?” Tom winked. “See you on Tuesday!”
He left as the others sniggered.
“You really think they’re fucking?” Matt asked. “I mean the detectives.”
“No clue, I was just taking the piss.” Dom sipped his drink again.
“Know who that Holmes bloke would like to get his hands on, though.”
“Who?” Matt grinned, amused by Dom’s new found deductive skills.
Dom gave him an incredulous look. “You, of course. Didn’t you see him checking you out yesterday when we met? Really fucking obvious he was, too.”
“Piss off, he’s been a wanker from the start!” Matt paused. “Well, he was okay this morning. That was surprising, actually.”
“Told you.”
“Jealous, Howard?” He lowered his voice suggestively.
“Ha. You wish,” Dom smiled smugly. “You couldn't find better elsewhere, you’re well served.”
“And how d’you know that? Don’t remember sharing any details of my sex life with you lately.” He smirked; Matt knew exactly where the conversation was going.
“You don’t have to. I know who gives you a good fuck whenever you need one.”
Matt’s fingers tightened around his glass at the tone of Dom’s voice and his mouth went dry, an urge he recognised all too well burning bright and sudden inside him. How long had it been since their last time? Hard to believe the Manchester stadium gig had been all those months ago.
“So, if you want someone to drop by your room later...” Dom left the offer hanging, taking another swig of his drink while staring intently at his friend over it.
Matt swallowed thickly but when he met the drummer's charged gaze, reality set in and he let go of the memories and other undisclosed desires, finding himself chuckling at Dom’s slyness. It would take more than that for him to be swayed by him these days, he had other priorities now. “Go get yourself a bloody woman, can’t believe I need to tell you that,” Matt snorted, throwing his head back and stretching languidly in his seat. “You can come by for a bit of telly if you want, though.”
“Nothing more had crossed my mind, mate,” Dom grinned sheepishly.
***
Matt brushed his teeth as the tub filled, then stripped his clothes and dropped them to the floor in a heap. A warm bath before bed did wonders. He reckoned Dom had been right about one thing - he definitely needed to alleviate the tension a bit, he’d been a nervous wreck since the previous day. Discovering he had a stalker, someone who could potentially become very dangerous, and desperately trying to keep the fact from his pregnant girlfriend while constantly looking over his shoulder... How much longer would she believe he remained in London on Muse business? And he couldn’t go back to Los Angeles now, he couldn’t possibly risk the threat following him.
He let his whole body dip under the water, holding his breath for long seconds before coming up for air, resting his head on the rim of the tub. If he shut his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the steam fill his lungs, he could almost pretend he was on tour and the butterflies fluttering in his stomach were only the usual pre-gig nerves. He could pretend that, in a couple of hours, he would be on stage playing for thousands, a sea of arms in front of him, clapping hands and pumping fists, and the adrenalin running through his body kept him so alive and he could feel the music pounding inside him -
He sat up abruptly, splashing water everywhere. A loud noise had jolted him out of his daydream, something that had come from the sitting room, as if a small but heavy object had tumbled to the floor. After a long, unbearably apprehensive pause, he sighed. It had to be Dom retrieving his mobile, which Matt had noticed he'd forgotten, and dropping something in the process, the clumsy git.
“Don’t be so fucking noisy, Dom,” he called out. “I’m in the bath. Your phone’s on the coffee table.”
Allowing his eyelids to droop closed once more, Matt glided down and resumed his previous position. But his body was soon tensing up again when no reply came from the drummer. It was eerily silent. Matt couldn’t help himself, there were alarm bells ringing in his head. So he slid out of the tub quietly, water trickling down his body to the floor as he grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist. He thought better and pulled his trousers on instead, stepping out of the bathroom stealthily, the material dampening in contact with his wet skin.
“Dom?”
The air outside the bathroom cooled his still exposed skin and he felt goose bumps forming. Reaching the suite’s sitting room, Matt scanned the area; there was no one there and only a small lamp lit, just as he'd expected. The window, though, was closed and blocking all sound from outside... when he'd left it ajar the entire evening. He’d been wrong - there was someone else in the hotel room. Heart hammering in his chest, he realised he ought to get out of there as fast as possible.
Before he could move, however, his eyes fell on the reflection the window offered – there was a dark clad figure slithering in from the bedroom area, something in his hand. It was a gun.
Matt’s mind went blank, his body switching to instinct mode. He dived for the protection offered by the high back of the couch just in time, miraculously escaping a hastily-fired shot. The muffled sound coming from the gun had the singer convinced the attacker was using a silencer, the idea confirmed when the man shot again, the bullet burying itself in the couch. The assailant walked steadily towards Matt, who rolled off the couch and crouched low, narrowly avoiding two more shots as he clumsily crawled around the coffee table, snatching up a small decorative pot that was tipped over on the carpet.
"Help! Somebody help me!"
He screamed bloody murder, knowing at the same time it was useless in the soundproofed room. The masked attacker was suddenly face to face with him and Matt flung the pot hard, hitting him square on the head. There was another shot that missed him by miles, a shout of pain from the other man and the sound of something thudding to the floor.
"Dom! Dom, help me! Help! Somebody HELP ME!"
He lunged for the gun that had slipped from the criminal’s hands, but the weapon slid from his sweaty fingers as the man also made a grab for it. Realising the attacker’s balaclava had slid out of place, Matt reached out and pulled the fabric off entirely to be able to look at his face. They stared at each other before a muffled voice broke the moment.
"Matt!"
Both men swung their heads towards the sound. It was coming from the connecting door to Dom’s room.
"Matt, what's going on? I can’t get in, let me in!"
It was Dom, he’d heard him! The drummer was banging on the door between their rooms, Matt realising that both that door and the main one had been blocked with chairs under the handles, and the moment of distraction was all it took for the attacker to grapple back the gun and gain the upper hand, Matt falling back at his feet. He swallowed, helpless as the man pointed the gun at him from above, finger on the trigger. There was nowhere to hide. But the man hesitated and was glancing nervously to where Dom had just stopped loudly thumping. In a fit of rage, he kicked Matt harshly, the singer grunting in pain and curling in on himself, only to receive another blow to his lower back that made his eyes water.
Bracing himself for the worst, Matt gritted his teeth, determined not to go down without a fight, but instead of another kick or a gunshot, the sound that followed was that of his opponent stepping quickly away. The main door opened, Dom’s shouting suddenly loud and clear, and there was a quick struggle with some pushing and shoving before Matt understood the man was gone.
Dom hesitated between following the thug, who was running down the corridor towards the lift and stairs, and checking on Matt. But when he glanced inside the room and saw his band mate lying on the floor, the answer was obvious. Breathing hard and sick with worry and fear, Dom sank to his knees next to Matt, who had his elbows covering his face, fingers twisted in his wet hair. His upper body was moving rapidly as he breathed and it was with a pang of relief that Dom discerned there was no blood anywhere. There were more voices outside the room now, of people gathering in the hallway.
"Matt."
Laying a warm hand on his friend’s bare shoulder, firm but gentle, Dom prompted him to turn and face him.
"It’s me, it’s okay now.” He’d removed Matt’s arms from over his face but he still had his eyes tightly closed.
“He's gone."