InsaneJournal

Who: Sam and Iris, then Christine, Alfred, and Sherlock (moreso than Elias)
What: Going through a door, finding fire (or at least smoke)
Where: Paris Operahouse
When: I'm going to say recently, just because I'm too lazy to find all the befores/afters.
Warnings/Rating: I don't think any?

Sam hadn’t bothered trying to stay away from the door this time. Even the knowledge that Raoul somehow had a key wasn’t enough to keep her away - if anything, it had made her worry enough to go right the fuck over without waiting. And, anyway, she was at a loss about how to deal with her new sister, and helping people realize they weren’t nuts wasn’t something she’d ever done. So, this seemed like an easy way to prove to Iris that she wasn’t the only person with a door and a fucked up person in their head, and it humored Christine too. The soubrette had been impossible to deal with since the party that had mimicked her home, and all the singing lessons in the world hadn’t helped her calm down. Sam had even tried to humor her by watching that stupid Phantom sequel, but that just made things worse. Sam envied all the people who had some separation between themselves and the person in their mind; she wasn’t that lucky.

The ride to Iris’ apartment complex was uneventful, and Sam wondered why everyone in her life had money now. She’d had to sell a dime bag for the fare to pick Iris up, and she hated working for Clarissa. Stealing was one thing, but Sam had always sucked as a dealer. Anyway, she tried to stay clean these days. She couldn’t afford to miss work thanks to a few days in jail like she’d been able to once upon a time. She texted Iris once the cab was outside, and she waited while the cab idled. She itched for a cigarette, and she tugged on the wifebeater she wore as she waited, pulling it past her navel. She suspected that Iris would look perfect, which would be a stark contrast to her own cargo pants and old boots, but Sam wasn’t going to change for someone else. Christine had been trying that shit for months, and the most she’d managed was to get rid of the black hair dye. Only a few minutes had passed since her conversation with Elias on the journals, and she was (admittedly) hoping to catch him as he went in the door.

Iris had still been writing to Damian and Bruce when her phone gave her the text alert, and she hadn’t quite had time to pull herself together as much as she usually did. Soft leggings and flat shoes, a sweater that was many sizes too large and tended to slip off her shoulder if she wasn’t careful, and hair that she pulled up into a messy, wavy tumble of a updo as she was running out the door. She shoved a pair of sunglasses on as she walked, her other glasses left safely at home. It left her dealing with a world that was softly blurred around the edges, but she was able to navigate well enough. After years of not even having that, it was easy for her to get by. She had more money than she likely needed for the cab ride tucked into the large pocket that was attached at the hip of her sweater.

She still couldn’t hear Alfred in the back of her mind, and now that she had decided to take this step in believing (once again) that the hotel and everything that happened because of it was real, his silence worried her. She wished for a way to clear the medication more quickly from her blood, but also knew the sort of havoc that would play with her own mind and body. It was a hard balance to strike, and the concern showed on her face as she slipped into the cab. “Hello,” she managed, accompanied by a small nod but no smile.

Sam considered telling Iris that she was worried about the state of her door world, but she was pretty sure her new-found, maybe-slightly-nuts sister would get out of the cab and run. And, anyway, Sam didn’t actually have any proof that anything was wrong. Raoul might have just sat down in his Paris estate to sulk, and she didn’t have any reason to think Erik was at the Opera House. Maybe she should have mentioned Elias, too, but Sherlock Holmes was a fucking douche, not a threat. So, when Iris settled, Sam only shot her the closest thing she had to a “welcoming smile” in her arsenal, and she shut her trap for the drive to Passages.

The hotel was starting to become an annoyingly welcome sight for Sam, who had way too much line-blur between her and Christine for anyone’s good these days, and she paid the cabbie and just made sure Iris was following before making the trek up to the fifth floor (Box 5). Now, it’s worth mentioning that Sam’s door was always the smooth, finished black of her Parisian rental, and it was never, ever the fucking Opera House door. Except for today, when it was, and that fact alone made her stare at the ornate, gold thing in worry. This was Neil’s door, not hers. She had no fucking idea what Aiden or Liam had for a door, and she didn’t really care right then. All she knew was that this was wrong and, the longer she stood there, the more obvious it became that something was wrong behind the door. Tendrils of smoke curled around the frame, and she cursed as she tugged the key from the chain that tethered it to her cargo pants.

Iris had watched out the taxi window for their entire ride, the passing scenery and time giving her a chance to try to clear her mind. While words were still missing, she felt that perhaps she could at least sense a sort of “Alfred-ness” lingering in the back of her mind, and she breathed out a slow exhale of relief. When they arrived at the hotel, as imposing as it had been when she’d left only recently, she reached forward and paid the driver, just as she said she would. Sam’s door was on a different floor, farther up than hers was, so she simply followed along as they climbed the stairs. She was nervous about the trial of following Sam inside, and still wasn’t entirely certain that her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her, but she was stubborn enough to try. It wasn’t difficult to miss the scent of the smoke as they walked up, the curls of it making their way down the hallway. “Sam,” she whispered, shaking her head and holding out a hand as the other woman fumbled for her key, “Sam, no. There’s something... I don’t know that we should go in...”

Sam ignored the words of caution, and she ignored the outstretched hand. Christine was screaming in the back of her mind, and it was hard to hear over it, and just then Sam wished she was one of those lucky bitches who didn’t hear the people they shared brain matter with. “You don’t understand,” she told Iris, and it was almost a snapped response. The people through the door weren’t just names on paper to Sam. She cared about Neil, and she liked Aiden, and even Liam - who she hated on all days of the week that ended in Y - she didn’t want dead. She shoved her key in the lock, and she turned it, opening the door to her old dressing room in the Opera House. The smoke was, very obviously, coming from the mirror Erik had used to lure Christine down to his lair, and Sam didn’t even think before crossing the threshold, leaving the door open as the cargo pants, wifebeater and mostly-blonde hair disappeared, replaced by a proper looking young woman in the height of Parisian fashion from the past, dark hair in upswept curls, and features marking her as not yet being out of her late teens.

Iris felt her stomach drop as Sam rushed through the door, but she had to take a moment of sheer surprise and wonder as she watched the quicksilver slide of Sam into Christine. It took her breath away, and she half wished that she did have her glasses so she could have seen it better. She only spent a single heartbeat on that thought before glancing up and down the hall, hoping for someone that might help, still wary of stepping through herself. Not quite close enough to call to, a figure approached up the hallway, but Iris couldn’t wait. A soft nudge of thought prompted her forward. Go. She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold herself.

Alfred had to take a minute to compose himself, acclimating not only to the different time period and the fact that he was in control of a body again, but also to the medication that ran heavy in his own blood. He had been able to manage with what Iris normally took, but the additional doses made him queasy and somewhat lightheaded. He attempted to shake it off, straightening his posture and striding forward, ready to face what he had to. He smoothed his hands down over the front of his suit jacket, setting himself to rights and taking the moment to orient himself better in the room, and then followed as quickly as he could manage after the girl that so obviously belonged here and knew what she was doing. “Miss Christine. While I realize you are concerned, perhaps a bit more discretion is in order?” He called after her, hoping to redirect her attention and keep her away from the disturbingly smoking mirror, the scent of which hung even heavier in the air now that they were through the door.

Elias, knowing when fighting was pointless and also as willing to assist discovering John’s attacker as anyone would be who had seen him bleeding on the kitchen, had given over control to Sherlock almost immediately. The expression on the artist’s face, therefore, was not suited to him. Having found the door to the Opera House ten minutes before thanks to traces of a goldgilt lead-based paint no longer in production that he remembered from the night previous, Sherlock had spent his maddening impatience scouring the hall for any help. So many people had been through this hall, however, and so many more had been transported directly away from the party after its conclusion, that an evidence trail that should exist in any normal scenario was not present.

Coming down the hall from around the first corner after he heard voices, Sherlock-as-Elias just caught sight of a small blonde moving through the smoking door, and that was enough. Without pausing, he strode right through, and soon Christine’s dressing room was holding a tall, shirtless man in an overcoat. He gave a quick look in each direction, dark curls tossing, and then he took Alfred by the lapel and glared at him. “Which way to the roof?” He ignored the mirror, Christine, anything that was not his goal, but a second later he let Alfred go and turned away before the man even had a chance to reply. “Nevermind. Single male, works indoors in a cool wooden area, recent suitcoat design, mechanical-grade shirt collar, you don’t belong here, you don’t know, you’re not even French.” His eyes seized on Christine. “You. Which way to the roof?” And then a split-second later he translated what he said into fluent Academy-grade circa 2010 French. “Magnon!”

Christine did not care about the roof, and she was not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner. She turned to look at the strange man, but she had her own worries, and they led her toward the mirror and the latch there, which let the secret door spring open to a world of flame and smoke, which quickly rushed into the dressing room. She backed up quickly, fingers gripping her changing room chair, and she whispered a frenetic, “non,” as she attempted to move forward, which was impossible given the flames. Somewhere in her mind, she knew that she should be paying attention to Alfred, or to the demands of the strange gentleman with the dark curls, but all she could think of was the possibility that someone was dead in the underground lair. “Monsieur, s’il vous plait, we must ensure he is not harmed,” she insisted, turning to the man with the long coat. “S’il vous plait,” she added, before continuing in their English. “Quickly, please, Messieurs.” It was, perhaps, too brave for Christine, and there was undoubtedly a fair amount of Sam behind the determination.

Sherlock was unimpressed by dramatic French heroine flailing. He reached out with a long white hand, perhaps looking a little wild with his wide blue eyes and deep scowl, and he got a vise-grip on Christine’s upper arm. He shook her like a cat might shake a mouse if they were as large with five fingers to do it. “If there’s anyone down there, you certainly wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.” The mirror led down, he could tell, and where he wanted to go was up. He turned and started dragging the girl with him toward the door to the dressing room. Once in the outer halls, he might be able to find his way to the roof with or without the stupid girl’s help. The smoke was starting to make his eyes sting.

Alfred took a foggy moment to question how he ended up in such situations, but as he always did, he took things in stride. Literally this time, as he smoothed down his suit where this new, demanding man had grabbed him, and crossed the room in a few sure steps. He wasn’t a detective, nor was he psychic, but in a twist of intelligence that had gotten him through many a difficult situation, he figured that this man had been upset by something regarding the Masquerade. “Miss Christine. Sir.” He directed his attention more toward the man as he placed himself (somehow unobtrusively) in a way that would easily allow him to move between them and both the door or the mirror. “Perhaps if you would let the young lady go, she could tell you how to get where you wish to go, and she could address the matter of the mirror, which obviously holds more of her concern.”

Christine was accustomed to being dragged here and there, and though she dug in her heels she expected no good to come of it. Her Angel of Music had not listened when she told him non on matters, and Raoul listened even less than the Opera Ghost did. It surprised her, therefore, when Alfred interfered. She was accustomed to Madame Giry, as well, who only pushed her in whatever direction Erik wished her to go. She did not have the strength to resist the tall, pale man’s drag, but the intervention of the older man made her bold enough to speak. “Messiers, you do not understand. The fire, it is in the underground lair, where Erik lives,” she added with an additional tug. “Please, Messiers, we must call for help,” but the fire was already encompassing the dressing room and, as Sherlock said, it was doubtful that anything or anyone below had survived, as the fires climbed she became more desperate, that realization setting in, and she used her weight to attempt to crowd Sherlock back, which had no effect but to result in him being burdened with a crying, screaming girl in his arms. The fires began to lick at them, and they threatened to engulf the entire dressing room in a moment. Somewhere beyond, an alarm was sounded.

Sherlock ignored Alfred with the same dramatic custom that he ignored all older British males that pretended to know what was he was about, passing him and his opinion over as if he was a piece of furniture. He did not allow Christine to overcome him, though he cursed the unnecessary emotional frailty of every other human being even as he attempted to exit the dressing room with the wailing girl in tow, ignoring her tearing at his coat. The fire, it appeared, had spread to this level as well. Not sacrificing his grip on Christine, Sherlock hauled her to one side, glanced back to make sure the piece of furniture wasn’t in the way of the backdraft, and kicked experimentally in an attempt to leave the dressing room without being roasted alive. New flames roared forth.

Coughing, Sherlock realized that the roof was useless, and despite himself he was unwilling to let the little chit die. He yanked her around and shoved her back through the door into the hotel, and trusting the furniture would follow, burst after her in a cloud of smoke. He didn’t have the breath to swear, but he was in a dirt-streaked red eyed rage that some fool had been careless enough to destroy his evidence.

Alfred may not have been in the direct line of the backdraft, but the smoke was thick and it blinded him for just a moment before he realized that the strange man had taken Christine back through the door to the hotel. A very wise choice, he thought, and followed as closely as he could, holding his breath as he hurried his steps.

Iris reeled when she passed back through the door, stumbling two steps as she began to cough, her breath stolen by the smoke. Even as tears sprung to her eyes, she turned quickly, reaching back in and snagging the ornate doorknob and pulling hard. The door slammed as she backed her way across the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall and hunching her shoulders forward as she continued to cough.

The no that rung through the hall of Passages was Sam, not Christine, and yet the reaction would have likely been the same for both of them. She glanced to make sure Iris was alright, that Elias was alright. It took only a second, and the door had turned into smooth, black wood once more, the ornate golds of the Opera House left behind as the foundation burned. Sam didn’t hesitate before crossing, pulling the door open, even as the smoke began to clear, and going back through it to Paris. The second the door closed, it became unimpressive, the shiny black gone, replaced by a nondescript hotel door.