Howlynn
Chapter 15 / 38
Song of ashes
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
-The Fiddler Of Dooney by William Butler Yeats
John sat in the third row, feeling vulnerable and wishing he was not a bundle of nerves. Sherrinford had briefed him a little more about the evening's events, but his low isle seat didn't afford him much in the way of safe look-out position. There were thousands of people milling about and he would have rather taken position back stage in the catwalks above the orchestra.
The lights dimmed and the curtains rose. There were welcome speeches given in French, German, and English then many dull introductions. Finally, the music began and it was apparent the beginning was some sort of competition, but John could not understand all that was going on. Various conductors and musicians took the stage and an excerpt would play.
When Sherlock took the stage under the guise of Maestro Du Bay, John's heart filled with clashing emotions before his former flat mate bowed and took the microphone. Granted, he looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes, but John would know him anywhere. His face was cool and aloof and his actions graceful and formal. He spoke in French first then repeated his short introduction to the piece in English.
"My composition is entitled Army Doctor in A, and I would like to apologize in advance on behalf of the players who only had one twenty minute practice due to a mix-up in travel arrangements, they are remarkable and any flaw you find must rest entirely upon my shoulders," Sherlock said genteelly.
John's breath caught at the title and his head tilted slightly as the number began with random battle drums sounding like thunder in the distance. Violas began a marching sound as snare drums tapped out gunfire. Violins cried of fallen soldiers and cellos moaned of pain. Then the strings all began to take on a whap-whap sound as if helicopters grew nearer. The drums picked up the sound and soon oboes began to cavort amongst the gunfire.
Sherlock lifted his violin and began a slow wailing sorrowful tune as the orchestra quieted to the sound of an arrhythmic heartbeat. The violin seemed to shout orders and other heartbeats joined, each distinct as if the doctor were calming them, taming them each into steady slow rhythm. Slowly, the battle sounds again crashed and the violin became frantic before a gunshot and it screamed and fell down the scale before joining the heart beats out of rhythm with the main undertone. The heartbeat abruptly stopped and a silence filled the hall for a moment before the violins mourned the soul of the army doctor and dissipated as if carried by fluttering wings and a weeping solitude of a fallen hero.
When Sherlock began to play, for John, time stopped. He could see what Sherlock had said as clearly as if he had watched the scene. When the piece was over he had to remind himself to breath. Tears made his vision swim as Sherlock bowed to massive applause.
The woman sitting next to him looked over to John and smiled as she whispered, "He is quite good." She assumed the music alone had moved him to tears. John just nodded. He could not take his thirsty eyes off the stage. Sherlock bowed again and waved his hand toward the orchestra in gratitude and for a moment his eyes met John's before sweeping on without recognition.
Sherrinford entered the stage without introduction, his violin screaming a high clear note before sweeping down into an Irish jig that made a few smile and giggle. He burst onto stage as if he were born to be there and the announcer gave him a friendly familiar introduction as Bernard Morgenstern, composer of a piece called Fairytide, and somehow Rat looked as though he had no idea that anything other than his violin and his music existed. The melody was lively and had a folk dance feel, breaking the somber mood Sherlock's piece had rendered. The orchestra followed his playful complex feats and many were actually smiling with the pleasure of the bright yet challenging harmonies. The audience adored him and he played with them as if he could flirt with each individual and coveted their attention.
John's attention was again riveted to the stage and Rat's demeanor compared to Sherlock's gave the impression that Rat was a radical teen rebel whose hair happened to be dyed grey whilst Sherlock was old, stodgy and full of himself.
John noticed Sherlock watching his father with cool boredom as he let his violin sing the new tune with precision, yet he rarely glanced at his part. He couldn't help but wonder exactly what Sherlock was deducing about the maniac with the violin. He certainly was not making deductions of paternal ties to himself with that expression of disdainful tedium he was wearing. The turn-ups on his tux must have fooled Sherlock. John pulled out his camera phone and took several pictures, in case he ever needed proof that the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know all things at all times.
It was a relief to see Sherlock in all honesty, though it did not escape John's notice that Sherlock seemed to be dealing with John's death far better than had been true in the reverse. Sherlock was thinner than he'd been during their Baker Street days, but he had been thinner when they had had their little talk back in London. He looked pretty healthy considering his best friend had jumped off a bridge after he left him to rot.
John kept secretly hoping that Sherlock would happen to catch his eye again and tried to imagine what Sherlock's reaction would be, no matter how terrible that would turn out, John still longed to see something on his mad detective's face even if it were rage, duplicity and shocked arrogance.
There were other solos and quartets and finally, the hall filled with applause as the conductor finally made his appearance, explaining that he wanted people to truly appreciate the depth of talent on the stage behind him. When he finally turned and lifted his arms, the hall filled with power and the graceful sounds were overwhelming.
The music filled the great building as if a storm rolled from the sea and John watched father and son play together with only one aware of the privilege. Their movements were synchronized so precisely it was mesmerizing. John had to force himself to look away and cast a quick glance around to look for danger. There seemed to be no threat and yet a few moments later, John's focus on the stage lost the wonder and his hackles began to rise.
He glanced around again, ears beginning to buzz with adrenaline fueled fear as his instincts told him of imminent danger a split second before the peaceful symphony darkened into pure smoking hell and chaos.
A concussive wave filled with debris knocked him forward and his ears went silent with pain as a warm hand of heated air slammed him forward and lifted him before discarding him like a rag into a rubbish pile of crippled bodies and crumpled theater seating damned by the stage itself. More blasts seemed to roll over him like thunder, and he tucked his head and closed his eyes and wondered if Sherlock and Rat were some of the muffled voices he could hear screaming.
The breath had been knocked out of him and his lower legs were sending throbbing shrieks to his brain, while he tried to disentangle himself and draw a choking breath in the darkness. He could hear metal chairs clanking and footsteps before the sounds began to crescendo into wails of pain and fear and confusion.
The darkness was broken with several great beams of white and all the wounded terrified people nearby naturally began reaching out to the only authority in this darkened hell. That was when the shots began to drum wild staccato and the tide of mournful shadows reversed as they realized their mistake. But they didn't have time to save themselves because those of the light, swept their retching sticks at the mass of human turmoil and the victims danced pirouettes and the rhythms of disjointed butchers song.
John knew he'd taken a blow to the head, from someone else's head, and he hovered near consciousness for a few seconds mind warping into nonsense of how beautiful the airborne drops of blood looked in the smoky light and how lucky he was to see this grand world of war again. He finally got his lungs to fill with the smell of battle, feces, perfume, the distinct metal tang of human liver, champagne still wafting from the lips of a man wide eyed with death and the expensive leather and peppermint of the ownerless purse contents scattered by his face. John's face broke into a smile as if he had just come home as his body slowly came back on line and he could see the single flaw in the killer's efficient plan.
He rolled left, retrieving his main weapon from under his shirt tail and used the torso of a dead bald man as cover.
John sighted down and just behind the beams of light and dispatched six of them before the others realized they were no longer butchering sheep. There was a sheepdog still in the herd. Before they could react, John heard Rat scramble off stage and join him. There were others now shooting wild and random and John shouted, "Where is the Maestro?"
Rat shook his head, "Took a music stand to the face, bled out. Operation Fubar. We need to poof!"
"Sherlock?" John asked at once.
Rat shook his head, "Wounded but already in the wind. Pop or drop?" Rat demanded to know if John was in a condition to move or would he have to stay and play wounded innocent.
John saw his chance and pulled the trigger twice, two targets fell. "You always spoil my fun." He said as he reloaded. "I'm fine."
"Then quit playing with your toys and get to your chores, son." Rat said in a Mayberry American imitation.
They scrambled low across the stage. John noted the many musicians who quietly lay huddled in terror shielding instruments in their terror. He followed Rat up the ladder to the catwalks above and more climbing brought them out on a narrow roof passageway. They had only traveled a short distance when shots barely missed them.
"Who now?" John kept moving trying to pin down who was making them a target.
"We are not the only ones who want out of this clean." Rat said softly.
"Your cello player? Did we leave him behind?" John asked suddenly.
"Probably compromised. He never showed. Or. Warned. This was a set up. I can smell it. I didn't know the maestro personally, but I would bet you a million pounds that that was not him." Rat said as he let his head bob around and eyes scan the surroundings. "So, other than the bombs and the terrorist attack, what did you think?" Rat asked as he duck walked to the end of a plumbing ventilation bank.
John followed without comment. "About what? The whole thing blew up in our face, we have no idea what happened and we are now getting shot at for no apparent reason, typical day at the office?"
"Not that. The music, John. What did you think of that?"
John snickered, and then tried to clear his throat to cover. "Seriously? You want me to give you a fan girl review while we are trying to be invisible from people shooting at us while you are in a purple tuxedo and your main concern is, did your performance on stage impress me?" John said as they darted around a corner, somewhat out of breath. He leaned over to look back the way they came and tucked back just in time for a slug to give the old plaster above his head a reason to slough off spectacularly in huge chunks.
"Christ. Stop that you bloody sod! Why are you even shooting at us? " John hollered.
A few seconds later a familiar accent rang across the rooftop. "Your frekin who again?"
Rat's eyes narrowed and he stood up like he'd lost his senses, "Grady Pauly, you never could shoot a wee cock with a great canon!"
There was silence for a moment. "A Rat Bastard. Left me here to die." The man said with good cheer.
"Lucky for you another came along to keep that from happening, provided you don't accidently hit something." Rat approached the spot the shots had come from. He ignored John signaling for him to get down and walked slowly across the roof in his crumpled tux like a man searching for a wayward kitten. His gun came up as he approached the target, but the smile on his face was genuine. "Before you ask, you are not dead."
John scrambled to a new position, much less trusting of his companions luck. Rat tucked his weapon away and squatted down next to the old man who was clearly wounded and not going anywhere, before he gently relieved him of the micro-machine-gun and laid it to the side. "Well, don't tell me, all this frekin time that you were a traitor after all."
John stepped up behind Rat and reacted at once to the blood, "I'm a doctor and I am going to help you, alright?"
"Oh jeaa-zuuz in his mercy. You're dead too!" Now the man seems to be panicking.
"No. I am not dead and you need to calm down…"
"The bloody hell I do…I know your face. Seen it every day for months. He lost his bloody mind over it…over you. Talks to you all the time, just like your frekin in the room. Thinks we don't know. Your John bloody Watson and this is Sir Sherri Holmes, dead and gone more 'n twenty years. That bastard killed me and took…he took…" The man's eyes rolled back in his head and he said no more.
"Is he?"
John shook his head, "Not yet, going into shock. Needs a hospital. He's been shot at least twice and at his age…"
"Watch it, junior." Rat said pulling out his phone and punching buttons. John made do with what he had at hand and managed to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing he could do to pull the man out of shock.
Ten minutes later, a military Swiss chopper hovered at the rooftop and three men helped John move the man onto a stretcher. The three of them evacuated the scene of chaos below and Rat stared out of the window without further explanation. They landed at the Honorary Consulate of the United Kingdom in Lugano. Within moments of landing, John was shown a small room set up as a clinic and though it was tight quarters he found what he needed to get the man stable. There was even a small blood bank and chemists facilities. John had things well in hand by the time the actual Swiss physician breezed in looking put out and grouchy.
He didn't take kindly to John having invaded his territory and despite the obvious care the man had just received; he belligerently demanded that this was not a place for amateur medics. John backed off rather than make a scene. He had no idea how Rat had arranged this rescue and the crisis was over and as always, John's adrenaline began to crash alarmingly. He collapsed in a chair in the hallway and was sound asleep when Rat touched his arm.
"John, we have accommodations for you to rest. It isn't far." Rat said weary and obviously shaken.
"How's your friend?" John asked with a slurred voice, as his eyes tried to focus and he stretched a crick in his neck, which exacerbated his throbbing head.
"He'll do. On his way back to Merry England and mad as hell at me. You know your head is still bleeding, I can get him to take a look."
John's hand came away from his hair covered in blood and he nodded that that would be a good idea. He Looked at Rat and it dawned on him that he was not as relieved as John. He paced and fidgeted and sighed.
"You're not telling me something. Out?" John demanded.
"Sherlock. He's not in the wind. He. He was taken. Along with two others. Grady was wounded and got left behind. He thinks Sherlock was shot and collapsed or he was drugged. Grady woke up and was alone. He suspects it was planned by the group they had been covertly operating a guerilla sabotage sting for my wife against. Mycroft is aware of our cover identities and he intends to be here to debrief us in a few hours. We are screwed, John. And we lost Sherlock."
"Oh, God no." John's face goes white. "Tiger? You think it's him?"
Rat's jaw tightens and he nods solemnly, unable to hide the pure terror welling in his eyes.
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With 'Here is the fiddler of Dooney!'
And dance like a wave of the sea.
-The Fiddler Of Dooney by William Butler Yeats