"It's another one."

The harsh whisper hit Sherlock's ear like a truck, running him over and filling his stomach with a deadly combination of excitement and icy dread. His breath hitched as he turned to face the speaker. "Another note, or another murder?"

Greg and Molly circled Sherlock like sharks circling their prey, their expressions grim and their hands holding papers. Molly slammed the file down on top of Sherlock's government notes that he had been pretending to study for the previous thirty minutes. "Another note," Greg intoned, glancing around the library. "They're keeping it under wraps since the notes led to the murder... we can't talk here."

The three trudged outside into the chilly, early December air and to the back of the building, away from the quiet clamour of the library. Sherlock pulled a pack of cigarettes and a cherry red lighter out of his pocket, twirling the cigarette in his fingers and leaning against the frozen brick. Seeing the wary glances he was receiving from the other two, he offered a cigarette to Greg. "Want one?"

"That's against school rules, Sherlock."

"Never stopped me before."

The air became thick with tension as a sharp click set the small white cigarette to smoulder. Greg watched uncomfortably as Sherlock leaned back, took a long drag from the cigarette, and stared at the sky as he blew a ring of smoke toward the clouds.

"...those'll kill you, you know," Greg tried, one last time, as Sherlock slowly turned his head toward him.

"Maybe," he started, intoning darkly and somewhat off-handedly, "That wouldn't be such a bad thing."

Greg's eyebrows shot up, and he took a cigarette.

Molly coughed indignantly from behind Greg, and marched over to Sherlock. "Those don't make you look cooler at all. You look quite a lot like a loser to me, throwing away your lives with--" She fumed as the boys puffed at the cigarettes. Sherlock offered her one, and she folded her arms and puffed up like a peacock in reply.

Trying to avoid Molly's icy glare, Greg cleared his throat and pulled out the file. "...Anyway, Sherlock, I know you've teamed up with the police team--"

"John and I have, yes."

"--Yes, and John," Greg corrected quickly, "to figure this whole thing out. We thought we'd come straight to you when we heard the news."

"News?"

Molly pulled out a yellow index card-- the same material as the other notes had been. "It's another notecard, in the same style, but no letter. There's something at the bottom, though."

Picture day! She's dead. Wednesday, 9:54 PM. Auditions required.

"Where did this come from?" Sherlock inspected the card closely, turning it carefully in his hands and running his fingers over the handwriting.

"It was found in the auditorium. We have to turn it into the police, or we'd be withholding evidence, but we thought you might want to see it first--"

Sherlock tore off toward the auditorium, tossing the butt of his cigarette into the snow (much to Molly's horror) and shoving pale hands into his thin pockets. The frost-smoke trickled out of his mouth with every breath, puffing and spinning its way into the atmosphere, until he finally arrived at the double doors and shoved them open.

Thirty-seven heads turned, and thirty-seven pairs of surprised eyes pierced him as he stood breathlessly at the back of the room.

"...And I suppose Mr. Holmes has finally taken my suggestion to audition for this year's play. He certainly doesn't seem to lack anything of the dramatic."

The laughter slapped Sherlock across the face, leaving two red handprints on his cheeks as he clumsily took a seat in the back and scanned the room for anyone he knew; any reason he would have to be here.

"Sherlock!" A lovely, familiar hand -- John's hand -- waved him down from the right side of the room. Sherlock exhaled the breath he hadn't known he was holding, and quietly walked over to John.

"John, I--"

"I know, I haven't talked about it, but Mary convinced me to audition for the musical. It's Grease, and you've just got to sing what they give you and read a few lines. I'm not really expecting to make it in, but it did seem like quite a bit of fun, so..."

"When have you been talking to Mary?"

Crimson crept into John's cheeks. "I've, erm, we've been text messaging, and we've gone to lunch a few times..."

"Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm not going to steal your roommate." Mary smiled at him so brightly that the frost that had clutched Sherlock's heart melted, and his mouth softened into a smile. "In fact, you ought to audition, too. I just went... it wasn't hard at all."

"I'm no actor, Mary."

John smiled and shook his head. "I've seen you lie your way out of situations. I think you'd be brilliant."

"I'll think of it as undercover work," Sherlock said in a low tone, slipping the note to John. "Moriarty's playing me. I don't understand what his motive is, or what he's even doing, but he wants me to be here."

"So you're just playing along?" John's eyes darkened with concern. "Sherlock, don't you think--"

"JOHN WATSON!" The director, Mr. Reid, bellowed from the front of the room. John paled slightly and stood. As he did, Sherlock pushed him forward slightly with slender fingers.

"Break a leg, John. That is, unless we're actually under a threat, in which case good luck would suffice," Sherlock smiled wryly, and John nodded nervously.

John trotted to the front of the auditorium, onto the stage, and slipped behind the curtain where the auditions were taking place. Sherlock could hear his muffled voice, but didn't know what was happening.

Mary leaned to Sherlock, blonde bob framing her face as her lips twisted into an amused smile. "He's a funny one, isn't he? I like him."

"Yes, I suppose so," Sherlock replied shortly, unsure of what exactly Mary wanted him to say. "He's been a good friend to me, although I haven't known him for a very long time. And, admittedly, I can be a bit of an arse." He smiled.

"So I've heard. You know Sally Donovan?"

Sherlock groaned loudly, causing heads to turn and stare at him a second time. "Too well."

"I told her I had been talking to John, and she said that he's a bit dull, but I should really watch out for you." She laughed softly. "She seemed to be under the impression that you're a royal prick."

"Sally can screw off."

"That's what I said," Mary replied, her voice flat but her eyes twinkling, and Sherlock laughed.

He didn't notice that John had finished his audition until the boy was pushing past him to get to his seat between the two of them. John leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "That could've gone worse."

"Your palms are sweating and you keep tugging at your jumper, which you only do when you're nervous. Was it bad?"

"Horrid. I thought my lines were alright, and my singing was a little flat, but Mr. Reid was giving me this judging look and I know he didn't like my bit... hey, what time is it?"

Sherlock pulled out his cell phone and checked the time quickly. "9:17. Why?"

"What was the time on the note?"

"9:54."

"Any clue what that means?"

"Not the faintest."

The three of them sat there, time ticking by slowly, and Sherlock became more and more agitated. Whether it was out of nervousness for the audition or the case, he couldn't quite tell.

He barely registered when his name was called, until John pushed him out of his chair and he found himself walking toward the stage. Breathe in, breathe out.

Suddenly, he was standing in front of the director, reading from a script in his hand. No, not quite reading... performing. Sherlock hadn't ever thought to try acting before, but the rush of being someone else who wasn't a sociopath and didn't have a father who left him and wasn't a former drug addict who now got off by solving petty crimes around the school thrilled him. He could be anyone he wanted... and that intoxicated him.

He finished the selection he had been reading, and proceeded to sing the song that had been given to him. His voice was a bit shaky, and as a general rule Sherlock avoided singing for people, but he managed to sing the song without completely humiliating himself. The director smiled at him, shook Sherlock's hand, and sent him on his way.

Sherlock strutted back to his seat, feeling as though his audition hadn't gone half-bad- especially considering that he'd discovered that he was auditioning an hour earlier. He returned to his seat, and rambled something about hoping that he made it in (and if he didn't, that the director had no taste). John gave him an amused smile.

"What?"

"I just never thought-- you, the bloody brilliant Sherlock Holmes, excited about an audition for Grease."

"Purely for the case." The crimson returned to his cheeks, and John laughed quietly.

"Where did Mary go?" Sherlock questioned, noticing the absence of the currently target of John's affection. "I was just starting to enjoy her company."

"She has an exam tomorrow that she had to prepare for. She was just being nice by waiting for us to have our audition. Hey Sherlock, what time is it now?"

Sherlock looked at his phone for a second time, and his gut twisted in uncertainty as he read the time: "Nine fifty-three."

"One minute," John muttered softly. "What are we going to do? What is even going to happen?"

They sat in nervous anticipation, Sherlock tapping at the side of the seat with his fingers, and John habitually tugging at the neck of his sweater. "It has to be nine fifty-four by now, I'm sure that it's been--"

The lights shut off suddenly, and the projector in the back of the auditorium turned on like a beacon, illuminating the dust and shining a single message onto the curtain. John stared in horror, but Sherlock didn't take time to look before he tore off toward the tech booth, determined to catch whoever was behind this.

No one. Sherlock cried out in bitter frustration, and a girl emitted a high pitched scream from the front of the room.

He finally looked up, drinking in what the projection said. The flickering display showed a picture of the girl who had been murdered, smiling and holding roses after the previous year's production of Hairspray. Below the picture was a message typed in bold:

YOU'D LET THE SHOW GO ON WITHOUT HER?

O

Sherlock flipped the lights back on, and John hurried over, his face a picture of concern. "What kind of sick person would do this?"

"It was him. It had to be. But the question is... why?" The dark haired boy shook his head, and suddenly his eyes lit up in a way that John didn't exactly understand. "But... we've got another letter."

A/N:
long time no see!
I've been writing this chapter for like
Four months
because I lost the writing vibe for a while.
I still know what I want to do with this story... it's just seeming to take a little more work. But in the meantime, I've hit 1.4k reads, which is INCREDIBLE!!! Thank you so much!

Also Greaserlock yes yes yes

peace out :)