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Chapter Text

"Why do I have to be the one on stage?"  John protests, hanging back in the shadows.  "You're the one who likes to show off, likes to be the center of attention."

"Because every eye will be on you," Sherlock explains, with a shrug to show how obvious he thinks this is.  "Nobody watches the band's manager.  They'll see only you as I observe them.  Besides, your singing voice is tolerable."

" Go put these on," Sherlock continues.  "I had Molly make them -- I deduced your measurements; they should fit perfectly.  She'll be undercover as the seamstress for the band, by the way.  You'll need longer hair, too -- try this wig."

Minutes later: "I feel ridiculous."

Sherlock just stares at him for a long moment.

Finally: "Don't forget the shoes."

"What?!" John exclaims. "No.  Sherlock.  Just.  No.  This is --"

"All the nice girls like a music man.  Especially a tall one.  It's been proven empirically on three continents."

"I... Just this once, you hear me?"

"As long as it takes, John.  We must take down Glamiarty."

Chapter Text

"Really, Greg?"  Sally shakes her head.

"What?  What?!"

"That's your best songwriting effort?"

"I'm a detective, not a songwriter!" he protests.

"Not right now, you're not.  Right now you're a roadie, just like me -- except you're also writing songs.  So apparently, you fancy yourself a songwriter."

He gestures at her.  "Oi, and I suppose most roadies wear that get up and carry a gun?  Nice undercover work."

She puts up her gun and turns to face him.  "Well.  It's doesn't say 'police,' does it?  Anyway, don't change the subject."  

"What's wrong with my song, then?"

"Are you expecting to woo Ms. Hooper with it?"

He crosses his arms.  "I -- no!"

Sally rolls her eyes.  "Of course you are.  Right, let's have a look, then.  I get this first part:  Blue jean baby, London lady, seamstress for the band --"

"-- nothing out of the ordinary there.  Nothing interesting, even."

"Hey!"

"Well, you're just stating her cover story.  It's accurate, at least, I suppose.  Then comes the next line: Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand -- right, I'll grant you that one gown of hers does look a bit like a dancer's frock.  Sand, though?"

"When we were down on the Thames, looking at that corpse the other week.  She took some samples to analyze."

"She wasn't dancing then."

"Artistic license."

Sally sighs and holds up her hands in mock surrender.  "Fine.  Here's where you lose me, though: And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand.  What on earth?"

Silence.

"It rhymed."

"Is it sexual?  Is it hallucinatory?  Seriously, Greg -- what is this rubbish?"

Silence again.

"It's not done yet."

Chapter Text

"Hello, Gregory.  How is the soundcheck proceeding?"

"Well my heart went BOOM..."

"Gregory?  Are you singing along?"

Lestrade starts at a tap on his shoulder, and he takes off his headphones.  "I -- what -- hi?"  He turns around.

"Wow.  Mycroft.  Um.  You look --"

"Different?"

"Yeah."  

Mycroft runs a hand along his collar self-consciously.  "Well.  Someone needs to be up on stage to protect the star of the show.  We can't risk him getting kidnapped by a member of Glamiarty's band."

Lestrade nods.  "Where is our star, by the way?  Irene's doing the soundcheck without him."

"Over there, getting prepped by Sherlock."

"He looks like he's getting more comfortable in the role."

"Indeed."

"He also looks --" Lestrade hesitates, not sure what to say to Sherlock's brother.

"-- Mesmerized," Mycroft agrees.  "Sherlock never ceases to have that effect on him."

"Sherlock, though..."

"Looks like the world's most sullen band manager?"

That elicits a startle chuckle from Lestrade.  "Less happy, yeah.  At least when John's not watching."

Mycroft inclines his head. "Well.  John is about to have thousands of young ladies throwing their panties at him on stage."

"Ah.  So you know how he feels, then."  

"Of course I do, Gregory.  I'm a Holmes.  Though it hardly takes any great deduction.  I believe at this point, the whole of England is aware."

"Except John?"

"Except John."  Mycroft sighs.  "Well -- I'll let you get back to your sound check; I need to go see to my make up."

"Mycroft --"  Lestrade hesitates.

"Yes?"

"You look quite fetching."

"Thank you, Gregory."

Chapter Text

"Oh, Molly, hi!  Sorry, I wasn't expecting you here."

Molly doesn't look up.  "No, sorry -- it's fine.  Sorry.  I should be going."  She doesn't move.

John walks in -- it is his dressing room,after all, even if Sherlock insists on also using it as his library -- and peers over her shoulder at the photo in her hands.  "What's that you're -- oh!"

Molly says quietly, "I cant quite decide if she's smiling or not."

John scrubs his neck.  "Right.  So, erm.  You and Miss Adler...?"

Molly laughs in a way that says that his question is more absurd than his costume.  "No, I -- I wish.  But I can't even talk to her.  I just... Her singing voice is amazing, you know?"  John nods.  "And that brain, and those cheekbones..." She sighs wistfully.

"You seem to have a thing for brains and cheekbones," John observes with a gentle smile.  

Molly smiles wryly up at him.  "I'm not the only one," she comments.

John's stare is blank.

"Pardon?"

Molly sighs and shakes her head.  "Never mind.  Did you need your dressing room?"

"Oh -- no, not really.  I just came by to drop off this hat.  I tried it out earlier at rehearsal, but Sherlock said it didn't work.  Actually, he said I hadn't the fashion sense of a newt."

Molly struggles to keep a straight face as she imagines it.  "Finding the right sort of dramatic flair is difficult, I think," she says diplomatically. 

"Yeah, well.  Glad you're able to sew and could join us on the tour; you've been a life saver with costumes so far."

"Thanks." Molly dimples when she smiles.  It's nice.  Then she pulls a face.  "Good thing I'm excellent with needles and corpses -- not together, I mean; separately -- because I'm rubbish with lyrics."

"Oh?" John's eyebrows shoot up.  "Trying your hand at songwriting?"

She nods.  "Because she's a singer.  I, I thought I might impress her with a song."

John tilts his head, remembering. "This what you've been working on all week?"

Molly shrugs. "Yeah."

"Here, let me see."  John holds out his hand.  "What's it about, then?"

"It was supposed to be about the band, and about this tour."  She grimaces.  "But it got a bit muddled."

"'Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters?'"  John reads.  "Miss Adler, she's Mona Lisa?" He nods toward the picture.

"Yeah.  And the mad hatter is --"

"Anderson?"

She nods, and they share a giggle.  Such a shame that Anderson's the only one of them who can play drums.  They're stuck with him.

"Hey, some of this isn't bad -- 'And I thank the Lord for the people I have found,'" John says.  He hesitates, then admits, "I feel that way sometimes.  Out on the road with all of you."

She ducks her head.  "Yeah."

"You should show her.  Or at least talk to her."

She smiles.  "Maybe."

Chapter Text

“Maura.” A voice comes from outside the dressing room.

“Yes?” She doesn't look away from the mirror.

“The clocks waits so patiently on your song."

She rolls her eyes.  He doesn't believe in making sense. (“Aren't ordinary words booooring?” he asks, frequently.)

“Are you trying to tell me I'm missing rehearsal?” she asks.

“Yes, I --” he rounds the corner and stops dramatically.  (He believes anything worth doing is worth doing dramatically.)

"Maura Sebastian! Are you wearing a dress?”

She doesn't answer. Instead, she frowns at the mirror, then slips out of the red dress and tries on another.

Glamiarty flings up his arms and begins giggling madly. “Darling! Are you taking a turn for the femme? Turn and face the strange!”

After a long silence, he says, “Well, at least it's good to see your hair back to normal. Approximately. And in the dresses you're a total blam-blam, without being too flashy. I approve.” 

She says nothing, but he seems to enjoy monologuing. “I swear, for a few shows there, you were trying to upstage me. You got your head all tangled up, and forgot that nobody outglams Glamiarty.”

“Well.” Her voice is even. “You were the one who invited me to try things on in your dressing room.”

“Well, yes,” Glamiarty admits with a smirk. “ButI only did so because your first few experiments were so … darling.”

“I got better.”

He smirks. “Don't let the milk float ride your mind.”

She frowns. “I don't think even you know what you're saying half the time.” Glamiarty giggles.

“And then you made me wear that bag,” she continues.

He heaves a dramatic sigh and doesn't respond directly. “Remember, dearest, back at the beginning? When you were just a backup singer? When you would tell me, 'I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you'?”

“I don't believe I ever used those words.”

And then you changed your tune, your hair, your style – you glammed up, and you would squawk like a pink monkey bird and attract all the attention.”

“If you say so.”

“It would be lovely to go back to those days, wouldn't it. To have you remember that I'm the alligator. I'm the mama-papa. Know what I mean?”

“Certainly not,” she sniffs.

He ignores her. “And if you want to wear a dress this time, that's fine. Just fine.”

“It's not for you,” she says finally.

“Oho?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Do you have a new paramour?” He snaps his fingers and skips forward excitedly. “Lay the real thing on me! Tell Daddy all the details!”

“Nobody new. I'm going to see The Woman. She was always particularly fond of me in a dress.”

“Ah, The Woman. She's touring with that horrifically dressed fellow – John something? Something John? -- now, isn't she? One look at him and all the knives seem to lacerate my brain.”

He tsks, then sobers and strikes a final pose to emphasize his next words.

“I have a mission for you, then...”

Chapter Text

"John, what are you doing?"

John doesn't glance up. "What's it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks a bit like you’re painstakingly pecking away at a computer keyboard, actually." She smiles, taking the sting out of it. He looks up in time to catch it.

"What? I’m obviously not typing! I’m trying to learn the piano. That’s why I’m sitting here. At this piano. Trying to remember where Middle C is."

She raises an eyebrow. "I thought you were a clarinetist."

"Well, I can’t very well play the clarinet onstage, can I?"

"No, I suppose that would be a bit out of place at your shows. But you don’t have to play anything, do you? You have a very nice singing voice, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. But most of the songs call for piano, don’t you think? I just -- I really think it would be more impressive, if I could play."

"Mmm-hmm… And who are you trying to impress?"

"It’s about lunch time, don’t you think?"

Mrs. Hudson tsks. "Not your caterer, dear. But just this once, maybe I’ll fix you something. Oh! But before that, I wanted to show you something."

"Oh?"

"I had an idea for a costume, actually. For up on stage, where you’re always so showy."

John hesitates. "I don’t know, Sherlock’s very picky about my wardrobe… In fact, he wouldn’t like to see me this dressed down, but it’s laundry day. The only alternative would be to go around starkers."

"Ooh, you might want to give that a try sometime. Might be more effective than learning piano."

"Afraid I don’t follow."

"Anyhow, come have a look at these photos, would you?" Mrs. Hudson pats the seat beside her. "I used to be a dancer, you know, back in the day. And I think this old headdress of mine might look quite fetching on you."

"What do you think, hm? Shall I take it out of storage?"

John reaches for his jacket. "Right… definitely time for lunch."