Treble Trouble with Sherlock Holmes (A Sherlock Holmes Fanfic)

Chapter 4: Mr. Dawson

I sit in the audition room for Lord knows how long in utter shock. A cellist of the London Symphony had been murdered, and I was replacing him. Is it safe for me to take the position? Am I putting myself in some sort of danger? Maybe I shouldn't take the job. No, Sophia, that's just ridiculous. This murder seems to be an isolated incident, it's not like multiple members of the orchestra are disappearing. This is the chance of a lifetime! Of course I'll take the job! But then again, the principal cellist didn't seem too thrilled to be bringing a new cellist on board, and he could really make my life miserable...

I go back and forth for awhile, debating with myself, but to no avail. I need to clear my head and stop thinking about this, so I do what I always do when I'm trying to forget something: I play. I perform all the music I know for memory, playing most of the concertos and solo music I'd ever learned. I'm not sure how long I played, but after finishing the second Bach suite, I look out the window and realize it is dark outside.

"The first rehearsal isn't until Monday," I think to myself. "I have some time to mull it over."

I stand with my cello, pick up my music, and return to the rehearsal room to pack up my things. As I leave the Barbican Centre, I notice that my stomach is growling, so I look around for a place to eat. I find a pub across the street, and as I enter, I survey the room, trying to find a place to sit. I see the principal cellist, Charles Dawson, sitting at a table with multiple empty glasses in the corner. He looks up at me, and we lock eyes.

"I should go speak with him, offer my condolences, and make nice," I think. As I start to walk towards him, he rises unsteadily. He holds on to the table to gain his balance, and once he is stable , he starts towards me, swaying in the process but never breaking eye contact. I become concerned that he's going to either fall over or run into me, but as soon as he reaches me, he looks over my shoulder at the door. He proceeds to walk right past me with an air of booze following him and exits the pub. I don't think I'll have another opportunity to talk with him before the rehearsal, so I decide to follow him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Dawson?" I shout after him. He is halfway down the block, but he turns around to face me, still shaky on his feet. "I'm very sorry for your loss. Ms. Stuart said you and the other cellist were close, and I can't imagine the pain you're going through. I know that I can in no way replace your friend, but I want you to know that I really appreciate the opportunity to play with you and with the London..."

"You don't know the pain," he yells, slurring his speech. "He was more than just a friend. Me, him, and Leonardo were like the three, umm, the three, umm..."

"Musketeers?" I finish.

"Yeah, the three mustekeers!" he exclaims. "We all met in the symphony and got close and now he's gone and it's all my fault!"

I place my hand on his arm in an effort to comfort him. "Don't say that; I'm sure it's not your fault."

"Of course it's my fault!" he shouts while clumsily shoving my hand away. "He tried to tell me, he told me they were coming! He came to my flat, the night before they killed him. I should have listened to him, he said we should leave. But I told him it was fine, and now he's dead!" Tears start streaming down his face as he reaches into his pocket. "And now I'm not safe, not anywhere!" he yells as he pulls out a black pistol. "I have to carry this around everywhere for when they come for me!"

I instinctively hold my hands out in front of me, as though they would actually stop a bullet. "Whoa, Mr. Dawson," I say with a trembling voice. "Why don't you put the gun away?" I feel the adrenaline pulse through my veins, and my heart starts to race.

He stares at me with a look of confusion, as though he doesn't understand what I'm saying. Then his gaze falls on the gun in his hand. His eyes widen, and he meets my eyes once again. "Oh my God, I can't believe I told you all that. You can't know all of that!" He lifts the gun and points it at my head, finger on the trigger.