Moulin RougexSherlock(Johnlock) - 1

1900

There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far, very far over land and sea. A little shy and sad of eye but very wise was he... And then one day, one magic day, he passed my way and while we spoke of many things. Fools and kings. This he said to me... 'The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love...and be loved in return.'

John Watson sat against a wall in his small, dark, cluttered room, drowning in the bottle clutched loosely in his hand. His picked his head up from where it lay in his folded arms, leaning it back against the wall. His blue eyes were dark, swallowed by sorrow as he looked around his room. His short blonde hair was tousled and in need of a wash. Moonlight filtered through the filthy curtains and danced across his type writer. The doctor swallowed, eyeing the brightly painted machine.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to his feet. He stumbled over to the typewriter and sat down in front of it, running a hand tiredly over his face. Memories of life at the Moulin Rouge danced through his mind. He ran his fingers over its smooth, red surface, wiping away the cobwebs and cursing himself and the tears pressing at his eyes as he positioned his shaky fingers and began to type.

The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love... and be loved in return.

John took a deep breath, thoughts swirling around in his head, making him dizzy as he stared at the words. He closed his eyes and took one more deep breathe before continuing on, typing through the ache tearing at his heart.

The Moulin Rouge . . . a nightclub, the dance hall of the bordello. Ruled over by Mycroft Holmes. A kingdom of night-time pleasures. Where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. And the most beautiful of all these, was the man I loved, Sherlock Holmes, a courtesan. He sold his love to men and women. They called him the "Sparkling Diamond", and he was the star... of the Moulin Rouge.

John paused, leaning back and holding his head in his hands. He sniffed, his lips trembling and his heart ripping itself in two. He sat up straight, composing himself slightly, and placed his fingers back on the keys.

The man I loved is... dead.

He fell back against the chair and looked to the side, out of the window where the dilapidated remains of the Moulin Rouge stood. He didn’t fight the tear that slipped down his cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and leaning forward, ready to continue. He sighed and let the words come to him, ready to tell his story.

I first came to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge or the Holmes Brothers. The world had been swept up in the Bohemian revolution. And I travelled from London to be a part of it.

John’s thought were swept away by memories as he typed. His first look at Paris as he got off the train, walking down the beautiful, unfamiliar streets. Everything was crisp and so bright in his mind. He smiled faintly and continued.

On the hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. It was not as my father had said.

John sighed, remembering his father’s wild eyes and scraggly face as he yelled at him. “A village of sin!” he cried, waving his arms around. The man shook his head, shooing the distracting thoughts away.

It was the center of the Bohemian world with musicians, painters, writers. They were known as the "Children of the Revolution." Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. I’d left medical school to come to write about truth, beauty, freedom and that which I believe in above all things... love.

John let a small grin grace his shaking lips, remembering how excited and ready he had been when he’d first arrived. How he’d been so ready to write no matter what his father had to say about it. “Always this ridiculous obsession with love!” his father shouted in his head, hands defiantly on his hips.

There was only one problem, John typed quickly, I'd never been in love! Luckily, right at that moment an unconscious forensics specialist fell through my roof. He was quickly joined by a grey-haired inspector detective dressed as a nun.


John sat stumped, suddenly clueless as what to write. He jumped up and out of his seat a loud crash sounded from his ceiling and gapped at the man dangling through the hole that had been made. His door banged open and he blinked, turning to look at the intruder. The man looked annoyed and disgruntled as his gaze flicked between John and the unconscious forensics specialist.

“Hello there, the name’s Greg Lestrade. I’m so terribly sorry about this,” he said, gesturing to the unconscious man, “we were just trying to rehearse a play upstairs.” John’s eyebrows shot up in curiosity.

“What?!”

A play, John typed with some restored enthusiasm, something very modern called “Spectacular, Spectacular”.

Lestrade had to force a smile as he nodded to the floor above them. “And it’s set in Switzerland,” he informed him, only the slightest bit of sarcasm in his tone. “It’s bloody impossible to rehearse with Anderson like this.”

Unfortunately, the unconscious forensics specialist, who I learned was called Anderson, suffered from a sickness called Narcolepsy.


“We can’t even tell when it’s about to happen. He’s perfectly fine one minute and then,” he shrugged, pointing to Anderson, “unconscious the next.” John raised an eyebrow, both worried and a little intrigued.

“How is he?” John nearly jumped out of his skin as a voice spoke from above them. A young woman with a long brown ponytail had her head poking out to look at them. Then another much grumpier looking face appeared next to the girl’s. It was covered in a thick layer of makeup and looked thoroughly displeased.

“How absolutely lovely that Anderson is now unconscious, and therefore the scenario will not be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow,” she cried, throwing papers and looking extremely flustered. Another, John hoped it was the last; face peeked over the edge of the opening.

“Hurry Lestrade, I still need to finish up writing the music,” he said, swallowing nervously and adjusting his glasses. Greg sighed and rubbed his forehead, looking up at the trio above them.

“We’ll just have to find someone to read the part Sarah,” he said, trying to appease the angry looking lady. Sarah huffed and threw her hands in the air.

“And where in heaven’s name are we going to find someone to read the role of the young, sensitive Swiss poet goat herder?” she asked a bit nastily. Greg grinned and turned to look at John, clapping him on the back. The young man smiled weakly as all the heads turned to look at him.

Before I knew it, I was upstairs standing in for the unconscious Anderson.

John stood on a wobbly ladder in front a makeshift mountain, now decked in a pair of lederhosen. He was in front of a painted Swiss Alps backdrop and was watching the Bohemians as Greg stood below him, singing rather off key.

“The hills are animated with,” he paused, and John watched as Molly made some powder flash in a little dish, “the euphonious symphony of descant...” Mike sat at his Absinthesizer, a rather elaborate form of piano, trying to work on the music, when Sarah began yelling.

“Oh stop, stop, stop, stop that insufferable droning!” she said, stalking over and glaring at him, “it’s drowning out my words. Can we please just stick to a little decorative piano?” she asked, looking between them all. John watched the whole scene, biting his lip as he saw the tension growing.

There seem to be artistic differences over Sarah’s lyrics to Mike's songs.


Molly had climbed off the ladder she was balancing on and moved to discuss with the group. “I really don't think a nun would say that about a hill,” she said shyly, shrugging slightly as she looked at them. “What if he sings ‘The hills are vital intoning the descant’?” Mike asked, looking up excitedly from his Absinthesizer. Sarah looked at him like he was crazy.

“The hills quake and shake,” Greg offered, not really caring if it worked, just thinking it sounded good as he took a sip of the drink in his hand. Molly shook her head, scrunching her nose in thought. “No, no, no, the hills are… ” Anderson suddenly sat up from his spot on the bed, wide awake. “The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies.” His eyes crossed and he passed out again, flopping back onto the bed. They all shook their heads and began talking over one another.

“The…the hills-” John tried to speak up but was quickly drowned out. Molly and Mike continued spitting out options while Sarah stood off to the side, arms crossed over her chest. “The hills are chanting . . .” “The hill . . .” John sighed, biting his lip and waving his hands, trying to get their attention. He rolled his eyes and just sang.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music!” Everybody froze, their heads turning and staring at the doctor in awe. John’s eyes widened as Anderson jumped off the bed and rushed forward.

“‘The hills are alive with the sound of music!’ I love it!” he said, grinning brightly. Greg raised an eyebrow, looking at the man as if he’d lost it. “The hills are alive with the sound of music," Mike sang softly, playing along on his piano, “it fits perfectly!” He beamed at John while Sarah glared at the lot of them. The blonde smiled and sang another line. “With songs they have sung for a thousand years!” He grinned, stepping down a few steps as the Bohemians gasped in delight. Greg looked absolutely awestruck.

“That was brilliant!” he said, looking between him and Sarah. “Sarah,” he started, swinging the cane he’d grabbed between them and gaining the woman’s attention, “you two should write the show together.” Sarah’s eyebrows raised and she leaned forward as if she had heard wrong. “Excuse me?”

But Lestrade’s suggestion that Sarah and I write the show together was not what Sarah wanted to hear.

Sarah yanked the door open and sneered at them as she stalked out. “Good-bye!” The door slammed and all of them jumped a bit. Greg shrugged it off, grabbing a glass of green liquid and toasting John.

“You’re first job in Paris! I’m sure you’ll be brilliant,” the inspector detective said, downing the drink in one go. Mike leaned forward, beginning to whisper to Greg but John looked at him curiously.

“No offense,” the man said nervously, “but have you ever written anything like this before?” John swallowed and shook his head, looking at the Bohemians.

“No…” he replied. Anderson stepped forward and moved to the man’s side. “Ah he has talent! I like him!” He threw his hands to the side and accidently touched John’s fly. Greg nearly spit out his drink and Molly looked extremely uncomfortable as John’s eyes went wide. Anderson jumped and yanked his hand away. “Nothing funny, I just like talent,” he reiterated. Greg grinned and tugged on Mike’s shirt, pulling the group into a huddle.

“‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’,” he breathed, “see Mike, with John we can write the truly Bohemian Revolutionary show that we've always dreamt of.” He was looking at Mike hopefully with Anderson and Molly nodding eagerly. Mike sighed and looked at him.

“But how will we convince Mycroft?” he asked worriedly. Greg smirked and looked back at John.

“Sherlock, of course.”

Lestrade had a plan already worked out in his head. They would dress me in the best suit Mike owned and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Sherlock heard my modern poetry, he would be, hopefully, the least bit impressed and tell Mycroft, his older brother, that I should write "Spectacular, Spectacular." The only problem was I kept hearing my father's voice in my head . . .

The old man was staring at him with his beady eyes and frowning disapprovingly. “You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!” he shouted. John’s eyes widened and he shook his head, moving off the ladder. “No! I can't write the show for the Moulin Rouge!” he cried as he tried climbing down the ladder leading back to his room through the hole in the floor slash ceiling. The Bohemians followed after, and Greg leaned down over him.

“Why not?” he asked. John looked up at them and sighed. “I-I don't even know if I am a true Bohemian Revolutionary,” he replied quietly. The Bohemians gasped, looking stricken. “Do you believe in beauty?” the inspector asked. John nodded. “Yes.” “Freedom?” Anderson inquired. John’s eyes scrunched together. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Truth?” Mike questioned. “Yes!” “Love?” Molly asked. John looked up, eyes wide as he took the four of them in.

“Love? Love, above all things I believe in love. Love is like oxygen,” he told them passionately, “love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!” The Bohemians grinned and laughed, nodding to each other and John. Greg beamed at him and reached down to grab his arm.

“See, you can't fool us!” he said excitedly, “you're the voice of the Children of the Revolution! You will write of the world's first Bohemian Revolution show!” John shouted as he was lifted out of the hole by them. He laughed and felt his heart racing as he imagined what his life was going to be like from now on. He was going to be a true Bohemian writer!

It was a perfect plan. I was to audition for Sherlock and I would taste my first glass of… Absinthe.

Molly fixed the drink, pouring alcohol over the small flames resting above the small cups and into the glasses. John grabbed his and toasted, downing the green beverage in one gulp with the rest of them. He knew something was working on his mind when he saw the little fairy from the bottle of Absinthe fly off and whirl around them.

“I'm the Green Fairy.” She waved. John looked around and saw the rest of them waving back. At least he wasn’t the only one. They began singing, laughing and tripping over themselves as they got ready to go to the Moulin Rouge. "The hills are alive with the sound of music.” They stepped onto the balcony, singing to their hearts content, not really quite sober yet. “FREEDOM! BEAUTY! TRUTH AND LOVE!” “The hills are alive with the sound of music! Children of the revolution, of the revolution. The revolution, of the revolution,” the fairy sang, finally beginning to putter out of their imaginations as they made their way to the Moulin Rouge.

We were off to the Moulin Rouge, and I was to perform my poetry for Sherlock.