The Monday Matinee |(FINISHED)

[philosopher]

(More or less the ice-breaker thread for Sherlock. He needs to be meeting some people )


If the theatre was not heaven, it seemed very near it that evening. Holmes found himself suddenly in an atmosphere of peace and comfort of which his life had heretofore known nothing. The afternoon had fallen chill outside, but here all was warm and light and cheerful, and the warmth and cheer seemed to be embodied in the persons and actors who moved quickly to and fro across the stage, half in and half out of their costumes as they prepared for the act. Picturesque, if not convenient.

Holmes was finding the world delightful just now. His first winter in the city was probably the happiest time he ever had. He hardly missed London; and he certainly didn't miss her lack of attractive cases. His profession was to touch and handle the things he loved; the ignorant city criminals were just delightful. The things he brought for the New York bureau were beyond all words; the investigations he attended were revels of joy; it was all extremely entertaining. He was anyhow the genus comedian that readily endears himself.

The only drawback to Holme’s life was the personal effects of serial drug use that sprang at him out of the fogs and temporarily stopped work. He had just recovered from an attack of it on the day when he was having tea at the Hard Rock cafe, and he looked a washed-out rag, with sunken eyes smiling out of a very white face.

So things had been busying themselves in the theatre for a while, and Holmes took a seat. Resting his straight legs on the top of the seat infront of him and reclining at his leisure – not something the other several people in the theatre were doing, sitting prim and proper and quite reclusive. No sense there was in not getting comfortable, why bend the knee or sit straight when one could be reminded of his comfortable armchair waiting for him when he arrived home? Holmes leant his head back, watching the stage through his glasses that he had pushed back up to the bridge of his nose one of twice since entering the building. For Holmes his glance was indulgent. Holmes, being himself a reformer, an idealist, a lover of progress and even, according to himself, of liberty.

‘Be unstoppable, my fleeting friends.’ He uttered in an undertone to the hurrying actors, trying believing they could unconsciously hear him. ‘I’m waiting to be dazzled.’

[hamlet]

To be imprisoned by the self is a peculiar sensation.

For Chandler, it was a continuous state of being. A lingering shadow attached to his thoughts, his dreams, his soul. Even as he entered the pitch dark theater (the only light coming from the far away stage erupting with color, music and dance), he felt the imprisonment eating way at him. He came to see the running show from American Globe Productions as a way to escape. Not to watch the show, a show he knew had all of the spectacular qualities of a well produced piece of entertainment, a show he knew cost a hefty price in order to reach expectations...no, he was not interested in that. He came to think. To dream. To question within the darkness of this wide space of high ceilings and rows of plush theater seats.

After a moment of absent-mindedly watching the stage from the entrance, he forced himself to walk down the aisle. As he looked at the audience, he noticed the turn out was lower than anticipated. The seats were definitely far from being sold out.

He decided not to think of it now. The last thing he wanted to hear was the director's voice in his head telling him all of the things they could have and should have done. He had no desire to indulge in his profession, the meticulous and strategic placing of numbers and dollar signs in order to create a spectacle. No, he wanted to be the spectacle...and...at the same time, a slave to the spectacle. He wanted to be anything, do something. To force his brain into action.

He randomly chose a seat and slumped in it, leaning to the side with his elbow on the arm rest, his chin resting on a loose fist, pretending to already be enthralled by the show. He didn't even bother to take his coat off.

His grey eyes shifted from one end of the stage to the other as the dancers moved, an intense stare, as if every performer there did a personal wrong to him. It was then that he noticed the man sitting next to him. His glance went from his face down to his feet resting on the seat in front of him. Harry dismissed the impulse to tell him to be considerate of other audience members, considering that no one will probably be fighting over the seat occupied by this man's feet.

He noticed the man had muttered something, maybe to him, maybe to himself. Chandler wondered if this man knew what it meant to be imprisoned by internal thoughts of villainy. Thoughts, only thoughts. Yet there was no reason why Chandler made such a leap. Maybe it was comforting.

Just in case the man was talking to him, Hamlet turned fully to him and said with a sarcastic grin, "Unstoppable? Looking at this audience, this might be their last show." He shook his head, an outward expression of self disapproval.

[philosopher]

Right there a female on stage begin to sing a little song, the first she had sung through all the long season. It seduced Holme's attention, efforting enough to lift his head and fold his arms over his chest where his tie lay. But what really attracted his eye was the person behind, playing the fiddle. Holmes, for many years a pupil, was a great violinist - were it not for his talents within crime his violin would be his life and soul. He did not care for the instrument played badly, and my, the young - what Holmes assumed to be a student - on stage was eager. Holmes observed that she would throw her head back with dramatic flair and play, and play till the chairs almost danced on their four legs. In some light, unforced song.

So things went on for a short while; and then came a change. There was a young gentleman sitting besides him, he now noticed - a man who looked to have restless longing and had that clear, bright whiteness of skin and eyes like a marble statue. He talked to Holmes, and he thought he might listen. Taking it in rather slowly, never moving his eyes away from the captivating fiddlesong and bowing his head ceremoniously at the closing word. 'Where that might be true, I find there is always something exceptional within the last of something.'

Holmes made movements with his hand as he spoke by conducting the wrist, like he were gently swatting a fly. 'Example, the last dinner. Now there is something everyone remembers. The last lunch I had at that Fatty Arbuckles' in Hertfordshire, I remember that. The best fry-up I'd had in months.' There was a keen grin on his face, whereas Mrs Hudson made a great breakfast, a good greasy spoon had Holme's heart kept.

'The last carries a distinct amoung others of a kind, we might just be surprised yet.' He took down his legs and crossed one over the other, making a last gesture with his long hands, like he were flinging reticence to the winds. There were returing tints of his complexion as he turned his head, the colour in his eyes turned black from the dimly-lighted theatre. 'And who are you today?'

[cuervo]

It was out of kindness that Mimi had drawn together the money to attend this particular production this afternoon. But it was likely that the young woman's striking features had influenced his generosity, as she often was allowed into clubs for free because of her darling reputation and her ability to never fail in her routines at the Cat Scratch.

Mimi felt a little out of place as she slowly made her way down the fancy aisle to her seat to sit down. The folk around her were dressed elegantly and many of the elderly people present seemed almost pretentious. She bit the bottom of her lip anxiously, knowing her outfit was rags compared to the beautiful get ups most of the audience members were dressed in. But had she ever been embarrassed about her appearance before?

...Absoloutely. As confident and sometimes even smug as the famous feline was, there were her moments of insecurity, just like with anyone else. Though this vulnerability, this state of frailty was something she would never admit to.

She happily allowed herself to be distracted as the show began, but the low voices of two men seated in front of her grated her nerves. The one man seemed bitter and jaded, his comment regarding the show unnecessarily critical. The damn thing had only just started.

The other man sat with his legs up, the only non-pristine character other than herself in the entire theatre. While she sought comfort in the fact that she was not alone, she couldn't help but feel a little irritated. Being a performer herself, she identified with and respected the other performers and thought it disrespectful if audience members weren't paying attention and were conversing instead when it was innappropriate.

But, the dancer couldn't help but stifle a chuckle. This strange man had an odd sense of humour.

Leaning forward in her seat, Mimi placed her head between the two men and said, "You might want to keep it down a little. Since the show is so stoppable, it'd be fair to at least have mercy and allow them to finish their final show in peace."

Mimi made sure to emphasise her sarcasm, but in a playful way. She wasn't genuinely bothered by these two...not yet, anyhow.

[hamlet]

The music started to build on the stage in the background of their conversation. The woman had started singing this song before he sat down, but he just now noticed it--he was so entranced in his own thoughts. It was a song he had heard during rehearsals, a song of subtle melancholy within its light tempo that spoke to his very being. At a time, he would analyse the artistry, this woman's voice matched with the instrumentation, and internally critique the acting. It wasn't passionate enough. There wasn't enough depth. I didn't believe that, didn't feel it. It wasn't as if he was trained in the arts, but the arts spoke to him. He had no choice in the matter. He had no choice in a lot of things in his life. Therefore, the art was now hollow to him.

The man spoke back to him and Harry was slightly amused at his response. A small smirk graced his features and he returned his attention back to the stage. In the deep depths of grief for his father, the man's statement was profound. Slightly comforting...but unfortunately, of no use to him now. Optimism and nostolgia of his father's great deeds did him no good with Chandler's anxiety of what unforgivable acts might have happened to him. And this man, a stranger, could care less....just like Harry's mother.

He listened to the stranger while watching the stage as he talked about his lunch. When he concluded, stating there might be a surprise, Harry said flatly, "You think so? What happens when you've grown numb of surprises?" He said this mostly to his own conscience. "Everything must come to an end, right? Eventually surprises grow dull. And this show..." he shook his head. "...has ran out of tricks." Which is a shame.

The man, in a peculiar fashion, asked for a name. Harry opened his mouth to respond when a young woman interjected. Her face, framed by large crinkled hair, occupied the space between him and this stranger. From what he could see of her outfit, it was unfit to where in these kind of settings. Yet she was certainly bold to intervene, he had to give her credit.

To her comment, Harry laughed a bit. "Mercy." The word alone was a joke. He continued cheekily, "How do you know they're not just begging for someone to end it sooner moreso than later? Apparently the audience would rather sooner." He glanced around her, towards the stranger sitting next to him, now done interacting with the woman. "The name is Harry, by the way. Harry Chandler. And you?"

[philosopher]

Holmes was already writing his opinion of the fellow he had come to new terms with; and decided already he was a dark, sturdy youngish man with a melancholic element in his regard. This was interesting. Holmes himself liked to talk alot, and address all his guests and look at them hard when he came to his points. He was a decided and very much alive man, with his own direct regard. He talked a good deal, drank a good deal and for the last couple of months, ate very little. It didn't help his illnesses and Holmes knew it, but it was near impossible to wean himself off his ways - even Watson had tried and failed. Sometimes an anguish would seize him, and when the man saw how pale and thin he grew, he would send for a doctor if Watson was not there, and beg him to give him some 'stuff' that would make him rosy again; but the medico would shake his head, and say he needed nothing, only care and kindness - kindness, he would repeat with some emphasis, and good food.

The next time Holmes raised his chin off his chest, he was looking at what he thought was the back of a lions head and was a little frightened. Hark, the murmur of an erratic heartbeat again, not lost this time, but coming and going, brushing here and there, dark wings fanning, making it ever thinner, quicker. He winced, turned away a little and touched his hand under his coat against his chest. He hated it when that happened, the slightest thing got his cocaine-pumped heart thumping and when it did he had to take a moment or so. Gradually the veil lifted; things in the theatre stood out, black against black, then black against grey; and there was no lion. Just a woman with large hair.

'Cor Blimey,' Holmes uttered, in a single breath with tinted relief as he felt his ill heart relax and slow. A slight nervous contraction in his forehead fell and with one cough, he flew from the platform of curt, brisk manner and forgot the attack as quickly as it had come. As per usual.

He turned back, brow cocked and leaning right forward in his seat to look passed the woman, seeing done to the first conversation before continuing to a next. 'There's music in here,' Holmes was speaking quite quietly, which he hadn't realised. Like a flute in its lower notes. It was like he was unconsciously obeying the woman. Returning his voice to its usual notes, he continued, 'And the fella that tires of surprises is either drier than dust or hard to impress.'

A sudden passion of pity - he supposed it was pity - shook the man. Surprises were something Holmes enjoyed, nay - adored. Whenever he lay his hand on the clue, then came the surprise. They were useful in his competent work and give him an entirely unbumptious attainment, a good thrill. Holmes decided he was quite comfortable how he was sitting, so clamped his hands together over his knees and looked at them a skew over his arm. Finally he addressed the lion.

'I swear I muttered, you must have impeccable hearing. The both of you.' A whimsical charm came over his face, lifting his hands with those strange motions again as if basking. 'Ah, that lovely word again. Final, last, concluding, ultimate!'

He withdrew from Chandler's question, leaving it to the woman and watching cleverly through his bright glasses. He was a conscious person. He lived in moments. 'Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.' With a passive nod of the head he had come to take for granted he put his chin ontop of his clenched hands and pretended to be watching the show again.

[hamlet]

Harry was beginning to like Mr. Holmes.

He was clearly under the influence of something, and that didn't bother Harry. Harry found that if not drugs, if not alcohol, everyone was under the influence. Perhaps hate, deceit, lust, maybe dishonesty. It gave him more license to find his own madness, to act, to play a role in a world that pretended to be sane.

Harry smiled at Holmes and said in just as whimsical of a tone, "Words, Mr. Holmes. Words. It's not impeccable hearing, it's..." He waved his hand around as if the motion would help him remember the word he was looking for. "...what do you call it? Well, more like impeccable communication. Our senses are sharp when in the presence of such overwhelmingly brilliant communicative material that is being preformed on that stage, wouldn't you agree?" Harry said with a grin to the woman in between them, a tinge of clear sarcasm in his voice.

He turned to Holmes again, "No , Mr. Holmes. Finality is never really final in this sorry excuse for a city, everything comes back to haunt you in some way."

[cuervo]

(OOC - I'm just trying out first person perspective to see how it goes...if it doesn't work I'll switch back to third person.)

Just my luck...I've chosen to intervene into a clearly doomed conversation. At least one of these men seems intriguing and is so far bearable. The other man, who just introduced himeslf as Harry Chandler, seemed downright bitter.

I maintained an easy disposition as I listened to him respond to me in a miserbly sarcastic tone of voice. Well, he did have a point. The turn out for this show tonight was less than favourable and most of the audience members looked either bored or offended. But in all honesty, I was enjoying the show. That was all that mattered to me in the end.

"Because I am a performer too. I understand what it's like to live on a stage and entertain a crowd, and the joy that comes in doing so" I replied simply. There was no point in trying to sway Harry's opinion anymore, and I certainly wasn't going to break my back trying. He'd find his way if he wanted to.

I directed my attention to the other man now. I noticed he had jumped when I leaned in closer, but Harry had distracted me from reacting. It was obvious that he was hopped up on something...but that didn't bother me. But there was no telling if it would irritate anyone else here.

"Sherlock Holmes...I think I've heard of you" I said quietly, thoughtfully trying to retrace the roots to that name. It was familiar...

Oh, crap, Harry's speaking again.

I rolled my eyes this time. "Look, we know you don't like Broadway musicals. We get it. If you can't have fun here, or anywhere else for that matter, than you might want to consider leaving and brooding at home."

But, if he was willing to have fun...I could help him with that.

[philosopher]

The little song passed. As it drew to a close, all sound, all motion on stage, died away; the darkness folded around as the curtains closed, like a mantle, for the next act; the moments silence pressed upon him like hands that held him down. Like a log Holmes lay back in his seat, and let flit in the voices. Chadler talking. Lion lady talking. Chirp, twitter, and again, and the next, and now from all the murmering audience, short triads, broken snatches and loud whispers - and at last the full chorus, choir answering to choir, the hymn of the assembly.

Again a moment of half-consciousness, and he was staring right back at Chandler, looking in with cloudy eyes of silence. The lull of his face suddenly broke after a moment or so, and Holmes then laughed outright, 'Oh-ho, my. You're a comic cut aren't you?'

Holmes was set speculating vaguely on Chandler's vivid idealism. To Holmes, ideas, the unseen pleasures of life were remote, neither questioned nor accepted, but simply in the background. In the foreground, for the moment, was a long platform stage with long red drapes running over a backdrop of little fortress cities cresting rocky hills. In these Holme believed; and he believed in many other things that he had seen and saw at this moment; he believed intensely, with a poignant vividness of delight, in all things visible. Astonishing how this Chandler gent found it so difficult.

'Hmm, wouldn't surprise me love.' He said briefly to the woman. Holmes was not a symbolist; he had no love of hints of fame and mist-veiled gluttony. If Watson wanted to document, he would let him. If Watson wanted to publish, Holmes would move his head sagely left and right and return to the cigars he liked to smoke at home. Possibilities were she had read about him in some article or other.

Holmes was a serial smoker, and he wished now he had never thought of his little collection of cigars now. He began to crave them. This woman, who he only knew as Lion Lady, was refreshing too with some complex loveliness. Who took the moment by the reins to put Chandler right in his place. 'Now, now. Let us not. I think Mr. Chandler might fancy himself abit of an analyst,' A analyst that lacked positive or contructive features at that. 'But let us give him a chance, perhaps his senses of joie de vivre might sharpen just enough to surpass his senses of hearing, hmm?'

'Surely you can't be as woebegone a fella as your making out to be, Mr. Chandler?' Holmes was grinning though, some kind of subtle jolly grin. He liked to challenge people, new aquaintances or old friends. To Holmes, Chandler's idealism would have seemed to be impossibly remote. Things, as things, had a delightful concrete reality that was its own justification. Holmes briefly indicated the stage with his hand, then let it fall over his knee. 'There must be something about the show that you like.'

[cuervo]

The wonderful lights, sounds and powers of the stage had been halted - but only for a moment. The curtains closed to mark the end of the first act. I clapped my hands together and cheered, one of the very few people in the audiences to do so. It sickenned me some...it was that support that these entertainers, these actors used as fuel. In the beginning, and it certainly only was the beginning for this bunch, the pay was low. It was difficult to make ends meet. I knew how that felt. And I knew it was the spirit that pushed them forward. It always encouraged me on the stage at the Cat Scratch, and since my first night I had always pushed my limit and brought them bigger, sexier and far more provoking performances from then on. I had beared my soul raw to the audience on more than one occasion.

To Sherlock, I nodded and decided to tease the notion of our names and how famous they were in this city. "I'll let you in on my name, and though it might challenge yours, it still doesn't have the same amount of fame." I paused, grinning.

"They call me Mimi."

I wondered how either one of the boys would react to my harsh words to Harry. I hadn't meant to sound like a raving bitch, but I felt that in my heart he'd have to be told sometime before he ran into problems because of his attitude down the road. It wasn't fair that he had to disintegrate the atmosphere in the glorious theatre into a negative one, at the expense of who? It wasn't difficult to just turn away from the production and leave instead of bother those trying to enjoy the show.

Holmes did reply to me, sure enough. I giggled lightly. The way he constructed his sentences, the manner in which he spoke...so dignified yet tongue in cheek...was fresh and hilarious. I had never encountered a single person, in my two years of living in New York and my seventeen years of living in Ohio, a man or woman who spoke that way. He was an individual, a true original. I could just tell.

"All right, Mr.Holmes, I'll do my best to contain myself for the sake of this sad sap" I turned to glance at Harry, wondering how he'd react to Sherlock's comments.

Just then, the curtains opened again. The start of the second act.

[hamlet]

Harry laughed with Holmes when he did, before he and the woman engaged in conversation. Conversation about names and fame. He had no desire of announcing his connection to the multimillion dollar company who's name is on the lips of many in Wall Street, so he kept silent.

He smiled and laughed a bit at the jabs flying at him. He was quite used to it actually. Ever since he came back from his studies, those in his household and those at Hamlet Enterprises made it a habit to discuss his demeanor. They commented on his mood, his dark choices of dress, and his bitterness. And the funny thing was, they thought Harry was somehow unaware. Still, he felt his demeanor was justified and unlike everyone else in his life, with the exception of Ophelia, he wouldn't mask his melancholy. But for these strangers that did not know him, he was content to humor their comments.

"Friends, friends," He said, shaking his head as if they were completely clueless. "You've got me all wrong." He turned to the woman. "....Mimi, was it? I do, in fact like Broadway. Actually I make a living off of Broadway. The show you see here, before it dissipated into its current embarrassing state, I've financed from the ground up." He sighed heavily. "Not that it matters, but the point is...I'd be glad to join the jubilee, Mimi, if the show wasn't an unmistakable, irrefutable disappointment to theater itself." He gave a toothless, yet wide grin towards her that he quickly dropped to further show his blaring sarcastic demeanor.

He turned to Holmes. "Anyway, as far as being an analyst, you've got a keen eye there. Though this..." he nodded towards the stage with a bit of a laugh, "...doesn't take much analysis."

He sat back in his chair and pretended to "watch" the action on stage. "But, enough about me, right?" He spoke to both of them generally. "Lets talk about you. You guys come to a lot of shows then?" One detail of the conversation caught Harry's attention and he said, more pointedly towards Mimi. "You did say you were some kind of performer right? What shows have you done?" Harry prevented himself from listing all the shows with roles he thought she'd fit in.

[philosopher]

The theatre was fit for Holmes; everything from the very hall to the seat he sat in. There, evidently, every piece of furniture had its invariable place, every object its nice, and only nice, quality. All around were evidences, not exactly of poverty, at least of small means of the artifices of a respectable economy. Cleanliness was carried to its utmost limits: everything shone. Not a detail betrayed the industrious hand of the playhouse keepers, who Holmes imagined were struggling to defend their furniture against the ravages of time. The velvet on the chairs was darned at the angles. Stitches of new worsted showed through the faded designs on the hearth-rugs. The curtains had been turned so as to display their least worn side. Holmes liked it though, picking out small, less-pristine qualities such as. He supposed that was why his ticket hadn't cost an arm and a leg.

Holmes enumerated. He was enjoying the surroundings. Lioness was enjoying the show. Chandler was enjoying nothing.

With a blinking glance, he made a rapid estimate of how many newspapers had published his name. Dammit Watson. Then, without even condescending to touch his hat, with his quick hand tightly fitted into a fawn glove, he fiddled for his inner pocket and in a brief tone, 'Very cordial of you, Miss Mimi. I'm sure Mr. Chandler will appreciate.'

With a coolness quite remarkable he brought out a half-gone packet of chewing gum. When one could not smoke, one had to make do. He answered Chandler with his head down, 'No. Can't say I do.'

And, having dug his thumb into the packet he withdrew a white pellet. Holme's modest title covered the most of his time, the most important perhaps, of magistracies. Quite known to the lower classes for putting away thugs, drug dealers and people who liked to sleep with guns. An enormous power, and an influence so decisive that he could not afford the time to visit the threatre often. He liked to hear music, he liked to play music. When, where and who did not matter.

There was a devious little grin on his face as he began to knaw at the gum bullet, 'Yes, Miss Mimi. Do tell tell tell. Perhaps Simon Cowell here will open fire on your next show.

No sooner was the gum in his mouth did he straighten his arm and offer the pack out. Whether or not they were serial smokers too didn't matter much, he just wanted to get rid of the pack. It was mint, and he didn't care much for mint chewing gum. Strawberry hubba-bubba was much better.

[cuervo]

The rich burgundy curtains hung at the far sides of left and right stage once again and the house lights all ready illuminating the stage. Two rowdy characters, tipsy young females, hobbled across the stage to greet the doorman with laughter and slightly slurred words. The scene somehow resurfaced old memories I had of one of the hot parties I attempted to sneak into when I was seventeen, back when I was still relatively new to the city. Those memories seemed light years away, as now the times have changed - it's easy for me to get inside any club or party I want to, thanks to the reputation I've earned. I don't have to falter or beg any bouncer or door man for entrance anymore. All I need is a wink.

I turned to Harry as he referred to us as "friends." He seemed very...distinguished or something, like Holmes and I were people he could condescend to because he was blessed by a higher stature in life. And he said it was so - that he managed theatrics and plays, and that he would have been glad to manage this one if it weren't so...not to his liking, I suppose. Yeah, right.

I pursed my shapely lips skeptically and redirected my attention to Sherlock - that would be enough of a deadpan reaction to shut him up. But before I could even hope for the eccentric man to speak, Harry continued - charging his conversation to be more personal this time around.

I glanced at him evenly. "That's right - I dance...ever heard of the Cat Scratch Club? That's where I work. I haven't been in any stage shows recently."

Sherlock intervened with a jesting comment, and I cracked a smile. Yes, what a perfect fitting name for the man on my left.

"Oh, do bring it on on on" I teased, making a point to echo Holmes's manner of speaky. I couldn't really resist. I noticed him offer up his half-empty package of gum and I couldn't help but grab a stick and pop it in my mouth. The cravings had started to seize my core again, and I knew I'd probably be having a rough night ahead of me if I couldn't secure a fix after this show. I wonder...would Sherlock be able to help me out? No...surely a reputable gentleman such as himself would not stand for junk...but there was something a little off about him anyhow...

Maybe I'd find out.

"Sherlock Holmes...what is it you do?" I asked in a nonchalant tone of voice. I was curious, but I didn't want to seem imposing. For whatever reason, he had seemed slightly shifty earlier when I mentioned I had heard of him, as if he didn't like the idea of being famous. It was possible I had just imagined that, though.

(For whatever reason, I envisioned Harry on her left. Hope that's ok.)

[philosopher]

The sober and thrifty part of Holmes thought steadily about Miss Mimi's question. He was by no means a hero. There was a great deal of good in his nature, but there were coarse elements which affected him strongly. If Doctor Watson had not appeared, it is possible, that he would have not remained true to his ambitions, and probably would have declined in the social scale. He was practically a genius, and possessed a large degree of what the English liked to called gumption. On the other hand he was the child of his surroundings and of his order. The coarse life of the town had gripped him, and his own influences had not helped him toward the ideal which Watson had helped him to strive after. God bless you, John.

'What do I do?' He echoed, like he had not heard it before. Holmes knew his job meant big money, but chose to spend it very differently to how he used to. Very careless he had been. The thriftless should not be trusted with money, they were none the better for the prosperity which abounded. Big wages had only meant increased drunkenness, increased drug abuse and increased misery. On more than one occasion he was seen leaving the local pub at closing time with staggering footsteps; it never caused him to lose any work, however. All the good trade continued and Holmes still got plenty of work.

Holmes passed his hand into the breast pocket of his faded, well-worn coat and took out his wallet. With compressed lips, he flipped through the billfold, his money - indeed in many respects it might have been better for Holmes if he had had less money - and his many and various coupons until a tail section flapped out. Lamenated into division was his private detective's license. With a neatly bent elbow, he held the license next to his face, with comic immitating the same expression of the legitimate photo. Something in the same scent as blank, with as much personality as a cardboard box. Really the only expression one was granted. 'Abit of this.'

The license read;

Detective Sherlock Holmes,
22lb Baker Street, London.
Department of Law & Public Safety
Metropolitan Bureau of Investigation.

[hamlet]

Harry grinned at Sherlock's comment, a grin which turned into a smile after Mimi answered his question. First he addressed Holmes. "Huh. If I could make a living doing what Simon Cowell does, life would be just...amazing." A tinge of sarcasm still lingered in his voice. But fortunately, and maybe unfortunately, his parents never would have settled for such a career choice for him. After all, he was a prodigy...a 'prince'.

To Mimi, he just nodded in acknowledgement with a grin. He never went to Cat Scratch Club, but he heard much about it. It wasn't really a place he would go, even if he was looking for that kind of thing. But Harry did use his imagination about what kind of 'performer' this woman was and, honestly there was no wonder she couldn't see absolute crap within a theater even if it was staring her in the face.

It was Holmes that caught his attention however, when he pulled out his license. He leaned over and got a look at the word "detective." Immediately, ideas started churning in Harry's mind. How good of a detective was he, exactly?

"Oh, a detective. Very nice. Probably have seen a lot of excitement in your practice, right?" He asked, wanting to know what kind of detective work he does exactly. Was he prone to take risks?

Because if he pursues the ideas churning in his head, he needed to find someone willing to push boundaries.