The Monday Matinee |(FINISHED)

[cuervo]

On stage, the fiery passion of the main character, a male transvestite, shook the stage. She howled as she sang her ballad, a melancholic piece about her dignity being snatched from her in such a harsh instant and how alone she felt in the cold, isolated city. She had been a small town Russian boy, had escaped from her abusive household and she had travelled far to settle in America. But in Philadelphia, the scene of the stage, was struck with its own disaster.

The character reminded me dearly of my friend Angel, though in nature they were different because I was fairly certain Angel was too larger than life to ever go country. I smiled at the nostalgic thoughts of her that warmed my anxious core. I knew that she was there for me, for all of us, no matter the circumstance...but for how much longer? No one knew the answer to that. Therefore every moment in her strong presence was one to be cherised.

Back to Sherlock.

I studied the card he offered, and to my horror noted that he was in fact involved with the cops. But he was obviously much too down for that sort of thing...how could he apply himself to such a profession? Most of the cops I encountered were unjust and closed minded, not able to appreciate the balance between art and anarchy. In their eyes the bohemians were the scum of the earth, and they kicked those helpless people loitering on the streets. The cops has never been anything less than an enemy to me and my friends.

"Interesting" I replied simply, masking my uncertainty as best as I could. Of course I was a little nervous. I had a syringe on me right now. But honestly, what ever stopped me before? I could always get myself out of a sticky situation if need be, and the situation at hand wasn't even remotely sticky. Holmes was different, he must've been. He liked art. He liked theatre. He didn't seem like someone who'd kick a black puppy in the street because it was whimpering.

Harry felt it his turn to comment, and he looked genuinely cheerful at the idea of making a living off of ripping on people who poured their heart and soul into their music...that spoke a lot about his character, much more than I really needed to know. I decided to just ignore any bitter, sarcastic or demeaning thing he'd say from now on.

I glanced at Sherlock again. "Do you smoke?"

I didn't, not really. But I could tell an addict when I saw one, and I was certain he had a sweet little vice of some sort. I'm not an evasive person...but if there was something on him right now; ciggies, booze, drugs, anything at all that could fix my shivers later, I'd gladly accept it after the show. I detested that desolate feeling that crawled up from my gut and enveloped me as the dark hours crept up behind me, and I would do anything to escape them. Even something that could only lessen the pain the slightest I embraced with open arms.

[philosopher]

Still Holmes did not feel altogether comfortable. At the back of his mind was the vague thought that he ought to leave the theatre, for having only meant to stay a short while. He ought to march hisself home, tighten his tie, have a slurp of tea with Watson if he was in - serve his prepossessing desire to smoke at least a few cigarettres - and then teeter off to the office. He knawed harder on the wedge of gum, that cigarette was happening sooner or later - but he did so love to be entertained, or indeed to entertain himself. Bursts of voices and blinding stage lights, stories being told. He liked stories, almost as much as he liked to tel them. Holmes bit down, like making a final decision. His natural selfishness added to his influence, it kept him in his seat.

The spirit of adventure was not strong within him, all he cared for was a story. He folded his licence away into his pocket and glanced at Chandler, so engrossed in thought. His voice came quite cordial, as it did when someone happened to mention his works. 'Excitement, it pops up to say hello from time to time.'

But Holmes meant something broader. His home, in Britain in London, he had lived day to day and left alone with no-one belonging to him, free to get himself into whatever tangle his pleased. Well, he said that but Watson was always hovering behind his shoulder every time he stepped forth. His own mother couldn't stop him if he wanted to get himself into a good, difficult mess. Watson understood that, good as an angel as much as he would hold up his hands in reproof. The amount of scrapes he had gotten himself, and dear Johnny, into. The likes of thieves, kidnappers, blackmailers - Charlie was the worst the old dog, conspirators, fugitives, mobsters .. the list goes on. But there would always be the Professor standing out in Holme's experiences, truly a devil of the worst kind; and one day, Holmes had the gamble of chasing him - to Switzerland. That day was one for the books. How many men could cross over very dreadful seas, have a punch-up at the top of Reichenbach Falls and escape with just a few trifle bruises? It was .. exciting, as young mister Chandler put it.

It was a relief to hear a mention of smoking, and it woke him up from his thoughts instantly. In spite of his good resolutions, he dipped his hand back into that pocket - that single pocket where he kept whatever he should need on an outing - and drew out an impressivly sized pack of Lambert and Butler's. They weren't his. Holmes hadn't thought to stock up the night previous so took it upon himself to pinch a pack out of Watson's bedside drawer. He'd buy him them back on the way home tonight.

He shook the pack, it made a dull shuffling sound that said there were a few missing. There was a grin on Holme's face that was contented to a fault; self-satisfied and unconcerned. 'Like a chimney ashtray, Miss Mimi.'

[hamlet]

When Sherlock put the license away, Harry fixed his gaze back on the stage, his eyes widened a bit, his mind racing. The scene changed to another group number as the music changed to a more suspenseful tone. Now at the plot's peak, suspense and tension blanketed the audience. The emotion was thick and for a moment, Harry actually saw worth in this particular performance.

But then again...it was probably just Harry's own emotions taking center stage. Was it just fate that Harry would sit right next to a detective? Was it his father on the otherside insuring his vengeance, knowing that Harry was unsure about what to do? Or was it his mind making something more out of nothing? Maybe this...Sherlock Holmes...would ultimately be of no use to him.

Think, Harry, think.

What detective would do what Chandler would require?...Harry would not settle for throwing his uncle in jail if, in fact, his suspicions were correct. Normal justice simply isn't adequate.

If...

....if....his uncle did kill his father... he deserved to suffer the worse fate imaginable. Prison simply didn't cut it.

But what if Holmes could assist him? What if he wasn't afraid to cross the line of personal justice.

Holmes and Mimi were talking about smoking and Harry was completely uninterested. His mind was one-tracked now. He turned to Holmes suddenly, grabbing his arm for his attention. "Wait--" He paused, removing his hand, his grey eyes almost desperate. "Wait...I'm sorry," he tried to compose himself, not exactly wanting them to think he was crazy along with ornery and unpleasant...at least...not yet...

"What I mean is--what is it exactly do you do? I mean...what kind of cases do you handle?" He stared at Holmes for an answer, wanting it to be the right one.

[philosopher]

A door from the side of the stage opened, and an actor came into the stagelight. He bounced in on the balls of his feet, clapped his hands together, and dry-washed them briskly. 'We're in!' he said, with businesslike triumph. 'Image, ladies and gentlemen! That's what does it - image!' Holmes leant forward, nudging his knuckle against his chin - observing the actor. He was a tall, rather bony-faced man in his early forties, and his manner was that of the self-satisfied businessman who is quite certain that he knows all of the answers and all of the questions. 'Create an image that the public goes for, and you're in!'

Holmes nodded his head as he sunk back into his seat, like he was in complete agreement with the actor. He wagged his finger at the stage, making motions in the air. 'Now there's a man who knows what people think,' He said. 'A properly projected image attracts the public - '

As it looked Mister Chandler wasn't letting Holmes the time to speak. Rude. The theatre was to blame for his relaxed state, and because of that he didn't think for a moment a grabbing hand would come at him with such fierce gesture - and when it did he almost jumped out of his chair. He paused a moment, glanced round, down at grabby-the-hand closed round his skinny arm, and then expectantly he looked at Mister Chandler. To interrupt Sherlock Holmes was to prod repeatedly at God on the Sabbath day and demand he tap dance - it just wasn't done. Holmes looked blankly at Chandler for a moment, then his expression slowly changed to one of grudging satisfaction.

'Perhaps you have heard of a Doctor John Watson,' Said the gallant Holmes. 'Real brow-twitcher, smart fella'. He publishes almost my every case, if you'd read an article at all you'd know that I deal with .. '

Silence fell for a moment. It evidently pleased Holmes to continue talking about his reputation, taking it all as one nice big compliment. It could all be summed up into one simplicity; he was far too autocratic within his brilliant mind and when need be he pulled decisions out of midair. Holmes finished, with a sort of smug satire in his tone. 'Anything .. and everything.'

[cuervo]

Bingo.

A smoker, a heavy one at that. Maybe it was his cigarettes, possibly laced with something, that gave him such an edge? Surely a proper inspector wouldn't allow himself to become tangled, entwined in that horroscape. I cringed inwardly - the sharp sting, a reminder, of how far I had fallen. How many times would I stand up - only to slip again? Is it a world of ice that I'm trapped in - my feet unable to maintain their grip, the wind engulfing me...the flame on the tip of the candle, blown out once more. Needing heat, needing fire, needing passion in my veins. I stray to close to the sun and I am burned.

My arms felt irresistably itchy out of the blue, my thighs too. I bit my tongue hard and ran my hands along them, hard, trying to cope with the discomfort discreetly. I forced a smile and lifted my head again, hoping neither Sherlock or Harry would notice. Certainly Harry wouldn't have, he switched into an acutely focused state, and was now intensely demanding Mr.Holmes to offer him a full details of his profession.

The show was probably almost over - it had been at least one and a half hours by now. I reminded myself of this, and held on to that thought. It's all that I've got right now. I pressed my lips together and watched the show again, not having much of anything to say anymore now that the subject had abruptly changed. I'd have to ask Sherlock for a cigarette afterward - to smooth the edge. Anything to rid me of this pain I've gotten so used to concealing.

[hamlet]

"Anything and everything huh?" He paused, letting it settling in his head. What was he thinking really? That he could hire someone to spy on his uncle? How plausible was that? What that even work? Wouldn't he find out eventually? Would the press find out? Would his mother?

Harry sighed, catching Mimi acting a bit anxious her self. Shaking his head, he felt he was on wits end. He needed to get out of here. All of this plotting and scheming was driving him insane. His father was dead, and he will remain that way. No dream about him was real, no dream about him would bring him back. So it was simply illogical to blame his uncle...or to accuse his uncle about this.

But something moved him to do so anyway. He needed to make his father proud, right? Maybe keeping a close watch on his uncle wouldn't be such a bad idea. Maybe taking him out of the picture, out of Hamlet Enterprises...wouldn't hurt. But first, he would need a reason to do so.

"Listen...may I have your card, so I can contact you later? I might be in need of your services."

He paused and glanced at Mimi. "You okay?" He asked, only to prevent both of them from talking about exactly why he would need Holmes' services. He wasn't really itching to be candid.

[philosopher]

Before Holmes could voice his solutions to any misgivings to Chandler, he waited as they were suddenly surrounded by a circle of chattering people. They had faced the final curtain and the show had ended. While waiting for the room to clear, Holmes smirked unblinking at the boy. Looking into his level eyes and sitting statue still, not even to murmer a word about the performance. Imposing, very self controlled - that is until the last person left out the double doors. It was then Holmes plunged forward eagerly, with the same vigour with which he had attacked higher mathematics and gained a great confidence, already beginning to make way for important decisions. In fact, that cunning smirk on his face had just become a portion devious.

'Let me tell you a little story, Mr. Chandler,' He said with subtle spark, but nonetheless contented, 'Once upon a time there was a detective who spent a year in New Jersey - on a case, and while there he had to deal with a stubborn little lady who was with-holding information from him. Luckily, stubborn little lady had a bit of a thing for the detective. The detective managed to woo her and bobs-yer-uncle, they were engaged.'

No sooner had the restless man communicated in one thing did he move on to another, barely taking a breath between. 'The engagement was his ace in the whole, my friend. It opened up all sorts of closed doors - he had twenty four hour access to the lady and he was able to search her house. Eventually, the detective managed to get the information he needed from his unfortunate fiance. He had no intention of marrying her, of course, and yes yes - she did find that out. The detective, who might I add bruises like soft fruit, got his face slapped and his arse kicked, but the important thing was ... he returned to London with the information he needed to solve the case.'

There was really very little left for Holmes to say, so he said it; 'True story, that. If you did a tittle of digging you'd find that out.

As a matter of fact, Holmes had danced with many girls. Never normally by choice, and it was always, always at high-class social parties. True, he wished another famed detective could be left to do the duty, but still it had to be done. It wasn't that he felt distressing hesitation about placing his arm around the waist of lovely creatures years his junior, it was if he should ever have to dance with a girl that should happen to have a whiteness of skin, bright eyes or red lips. Bloody unlucky mate if he had to duty a girl who had all three. As luck would have it, Irene never found out about that little lady. Nor did Holmes ever see her again.

'If you should have any doubts about how far I am willing to go for the sake of my work, Mr. Chandler,' He held out a piece of notepad paper with his office number, titled Det H. 'Cast them aside. Tear them up. Do whatever, just as long as they no longer exist.'

[cuervo]

You okay?

Ugh...if there was one thing worse than feeling like shit in a public area, it was when the people surrounding you detected that there was something wrong, and confronted you about it. I hated to be the party pooper, or to dim the atmosphere anywhere I was - I held strong and usually fought to be a positive force in a group of friends. Unfortunately in this situation, I was around none of my friends, nor was Roger around to rub my tummy or carry me home. But perhaps it was easier to do this without him - him being a recovering junkie too, it'd only bring him down to have to relive his past through my own struggles. As much as I longed for his touch, I wanted to handle myself without a lot of outside help.

Besides, I had a feeling Harry didn't genuinely care. So this situation was less uncomforable as it was sickenning. Why bother to pretend anyway?

"I'm fine" I said simply, without looking at him.

I remained quiet as Sherlock told his story, a very intriguing one at that. I made sure to keep my body movements in check - no sudden jerky shuddering or scratching. So, the detective was skilled in the art of manipulation. I'd keep this in mind.

Right now, I really just wanted this Harry to leave. He wasn't dreadful, but he wasn't encouraging, either. Being on the edge meant I could stand being around specific kinds of energy, his not fitting into that scope. As that thought passed in my head, the final scene of the play ended. There was a mixture of boos and clapping, but the approval was drowned out by dissatisfaction. I stood up from my seat and clapped as hard as I could, cheering and whistling encouragingly. I was the only person in the entire, mostly empty, theatre to do so.

The cast members came back after the curtain had repoened and bowed, staring mainly at me, their only enthusiast. They mouthed a few appreciative thank yous my way, for they knew their reception tonight had been less than favourable, and I was one of their few fans tonight.

The curtain closed a final time, and the houselights came up. The end of the show, and I was free to go. I turned to Sherlock.

"I could probably use one of those smokes soon, if you don't mind" I mumbled with a sheepish smile. I didn't make a habit out of cigarettes, but they sure came in handy at times.

[hamlet]

Harry didn't buy Mimi's "I'm fine" but he really didn't care enough to press it. He did, however, care about what Holmes had to say.Harry smiled through Holmes' whole story, his focus very slightly distracted by the end of the performance, as people prepared to leave. But the detective's story was engaging and because he talked so fast he had to pay attention. But Harry definitely got the point, however, he wasn't completely convinced he was up for the job he was thinking of though.

Harry took the paper and looked at it, satisfied with the information. "Well," he said with a smirk. "Let's just say you've made an impression." Suddenly Mimi stood up and started clapping wildly, which directed Harry's attention towards the stage. Now completely disinterested, he put away the paper Holmes gave him. Mimi started talking about smoking and that was Harry's cue to go.

"Pleasure meeting you," he said mostly to Sherlock. "Both of you." He gave a nod to Mimi as an after thought. He stood and said to Sherlock, "I'm sure we'll meet again, Mr. Holmes. Have a good one."

Harry made his exit, more preoccupations swirling in his mind coming out of the theater than when he came in. Could he really put Sherlock up to the job?And should he even do this at all?

When was the right time to act?

For Harry, the most unsettling thing was he had no clue about any of those answers as he exited the theater.

*Out*

[philosopher]

In justice to Holmes, it must be admitted, he had a good deal of seeming truth on his side. Chandler had, somehow, connected with him. Talk of private detectives and secret service. Do private detectives ever discover so much as the butlers and maids of a man's own household? Workers who were aware of the smallest trifles, who knew the name and position of every visitor that came and went, who easily learnt to recognize the handwriting on every letter that arrived, who laughed and talked in their kitchens over things that their credulous masters and mistresses imagined are unknown to all the world save themselves.

Of course they could, if their strength of will matched that of Sherlock Holmes. He was, after all, the perfect tool of persistence.

'World of farewell, Mr Chandler. Until next time,' He bid, standing well and preparing to leave himself. Yet then he remembered he was still not alone, he turned, and studied the Lioness before him as critically as he would have studied a picture.

'Not a bad show, I must sa - ' The lull of his face suddenly broke that moment as he felt something trembling in his breast pocket. That would be his mobile phone, that he had set to silent on entering the theatre. He looked down at Miss Mimi, ' .. A moment.'

Her request after a cigarette fell on deaf ears as he took out his phone, 'Yes? Ah, Johnny! How bloody topping you should ring me just .. pardon? Oh, don't worry about that he'll wake up soonish. Just testing a little soporific. What? This morning, why? No, I put it in his morning munch what do you think I am? Look I'll bet my next wages he'll be up and wagging by the time I get in. I've told you before, the dog doesn't mind. Alright alright, I'm on my way. Jesus.'

A trifling error of conduct, it seemed. Absorbed in triumphant reflections, he scarcely heard the enthusiastic praises of the cast. The experiment had been a complete success then if Gladstone had been out the whole day - marvellous. Resting his eyes with a sense of deep delight on the woman with the rebellious nut-brown locks, that rippled about her face, he advanced passed her with a graceful, even noble air.

'Excuse me, got to run.' Holmes said frankly, turning as he went in a way that made the tail of his coat twirl. 'The wife calls.'

A sarcastic little name for his domestic chum, his acquaintance did not know that and he did not stop to explain. Holmes hurried away at once, skillfully avoiding handing over one of his, well accurately they were Watson's, thinly rolled cigarettes. He hankered for his pipe, though. Something he could make as bitter or as strong as he liked, he hardly felt its mellow flavor on his own palate, though it was in truth delicious, and fit for a monarch. But, that was just what Holmes was. The monarch of fortitude and the lover of the lady named progress.

/exit Sherlock Holmes