A/N: This was going to be a modern adaptation of the Sherlock Holmes short story "The Solitary Cyclist", but the plot took on the life of its own. Now, the only thing that remains of the original story is the OC's name and basic background, and a couple of character names. While I am striving to keep this realistic, the plot will move more quickly than Easier With Eyes Closed. Rated M more for Magnussen being one creepy fucker than anything else. This chapter is mostly experimental, so if you want to see more please, please comment. And while I'll try to Brit Pick the obvious things, I'm sure there will be inconsistences, so please chalk it up to me being a clueless American and try to look past them. Thank you.

Disclaimer: I do not own the original Violet Smith, BBC's Sherlock, or any elements from the original story. This story is dedicated to the lovely (and immensely talented) elbafo, who is kindly letting me toy with her plot bunny. Check out her Sherlock/OC stories if you want beautifully written, well-characterized romance.

Chapter 1: Everything Starts in England

"'You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,' said he, as he dropped it. 'I nearly fell into the error of supposing you were typewriting.'"

-Sherlock Holmes, "The Solitary Cyclist"

The call came at 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday. Violet Smith had still been in the throes of a most pleasant dream in which she ran into famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes at a bookshop and he revealed he found her articles on his cases from an academic view point refreshing. There was no great love confession, only a quick yet pleasant (an obvious indicator it wasn't reality) chat, but Violet was more than pleased with the simple joy of meeting one of her idols face to face. Her dream self experienced a brief flash of annoyed confusion when the Chopin playing in the background merged into a high electronic stream of noise before Real Violet came to the realization the sound wasn't part of the illusion. She awoke with a groan, punching her alarm clock on instinct before realizing "Tubular Bells" had never been her alarm; it was her ringtone.

"Vi, if you don't turn that sodding phone off, I will personally make sure to bring Pool Boy home every night this week and we won't even try to be quiet," Carol's voice whined from the adjacent room. Violet snorted and sent a glower in the direction of her door, already predicting she would have to spend the rest of the morning tending to her hung-over roommate. And the reminder of Carol's newest escort of a sort, a nameless blonde with muscles everywhere except his head, certainly didn't help. Violet hadn't had a boyfriend since she'd secured (i.e. was forced into) her current job. She grabbed her phone from the dresser, intending on unleashing a few choice words on whoever was calling her at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday before she noticed the name on the screen. Her face drained of color.

"'Morning Violet," came a familiar Irish brogue on the other end when she picked up. Violet blinked.

"Janine?" she asked, clutching it like a lifeline. Janine knew never to call her on a weekend unless it was an emergency. And emergencies with her employer were stressful, messy, and long.

"Sorry to disturb you," said Janine, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Don't kill the messenger."

"What is it? What do you need?" Violet liked Janine. She was good fun, dressed nicely, and could paint the nails on her right hand as neatly as the ones on her left, an impressive skill to someone whose artistic abilities extended no further than accidentally ingesting a bottle of glitter in primary school. But none of that made up for the fact that Janine calling on a Saturday was the most sure-fire way to spoil Violet's weekend before it began.

"You're needed over here," Janine said shortly, "He doesn't want to see you himself, but he insisted I call and tell you first thing anyway. I can't argue with him, Vi."

"I know you can't," Violet sighed. "Tell him or anyone else in charge I don't work on Saturdays and refuse to make any exceptions. Good luck. I'm going back to bed. Carol had another wild night and I need all the rest I can get before I have to hold her hair back and make sure she doesn't vomit on anything important."

"He also insisted I tell you that if you aren't in the car he sent over in five minutes, he'll come there himself and deal with you personally," Janine said hesitantly. Violet closed her eyes and let loose a long-suffering sigh. She couldn't argue with that. Dreading what she was about to see, she pulled back her drapes and peered out the window, groaning when she saw the sleek black car against the curb.

"Fuck," she hissed, kneeling and sticking her head under the bed in an attempt to find a pair of shoes that weren't falling apart or stained with dubious substances. "Janine, I'm not even dressed. Does he expect me to waltz in there in my fucking underwear?"

"That would probably be perfectly agreeable, seeing as you're supposed to meet with Woodley," said Janine dryly. Violet scowled heartily at the very mention of his name. He wasn't quite as bad as Charles Augustus Magnussen himself, but he was just as lecherously vile and Violet had no desire to fend off his wandering eyes first thing on a Saturday morning. "Just grab a robe and go, Vi. Stop by my office on your way up and I'll lend you something for the trip home and try to get you a bite to eat. I'll have plenty of time. You're not the only one working ridiculous hours on the weekend."

She sounded miserable. Violet pursed her lips, feeling a bit guilty about the fuss she was making. Poor Janine had to cater to Magnussen's every whim every fucking day of the week. She had a remarkable amount of leeway in comparison, and often didn't even have to interact with the man. But somehow, it was still hard to count her blessings, especially remembering the deliciously lazy weekends she'd enjoyed before being shoved face first into his employment.

"Okay," she said, scanning her room for her favorite fluffy dressing gown and grabbing one of Carol's flimsy silk ones with a resigned sigh when she didn't see it. "I can't imagine why he'd need to arrange this now. Is he finally going to have Woodley fire me for refusing to churn out shoddily written rumors like the rest of his little sheep?"

"It's amazing he hasn't already," said Janine, "You know Magnussen never buys into academic writing unless it makes him money, and let's face it: It usually doesn't."

"Yeah, well, the satisfaction of respectability in a field where integrity is punished is enough for me," said Violet through gritted teeth. "It would a be a relief to be free of his tabloid shite. Working for his network is going to leave a stain on my reputation, no matter how objective and researched my own work is."

"Spare me the lecture, hun, I've heard it before," said Janine, disinterested as she always was when Violet showed signs of a budding rant on the gossip-hungry wolves content to publish anything under the sun if it made an extra buck with no concern whatsoever for the lives they were ruining. "Now get your pretty little arse down those stairs and into the car before he marches over there himself."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Violet said, cringing in remembrance of the last time Magnussen had decided to pay her a visit. "Who the fuck does a check-in inside someone's bedroom anyway? It's a complete violation of privacy."

She could practically hear Janine's shudder on the other end. Violet snatched a pair of Carol's leopard-print slippers, resigning herself to sporting the Essex housewife look the rest of the day. Her hair, unfortunately, was a lost cause. Not that she cared about impressing a creep like Woodley, but she looked a fright. Her bangs were standing on end and her normally manageable loose shoulder-length curls appeared to have doubled in size over night. Brushing them was going to hurt.

"You've got two minutes to get in the car," said Janine, "Good luck."

"Wait…" Even as she prepared to open the door and face the blinding (for a March morning in London) sunshine and men who would not allow her to speak on the phone, Violet didn't want Janine to hang up. She needed a friendly voice, someone who understood the very real fear involved with Magnussen's manipulation. "Do you want to do something after he's done with me? It seems like it's been ages since we talked outside of work."

Janine was silent for a dragging moment. Violet knew all her hang-ups; Magnussen was notorious for wanting to be the sole variable in people's lives, and when he didn't get his way, his revenge was terrible. Rachel Lesley had attempted a relationship with another journalist working in his network—The resultant articles on her former life as an adult film star had destroyed her career and caused her to move out of the city entirely. Violet didn't want to meet a similar fate, but she needed solidarity with someone who understood what that stress was like.

"Sure," Janine said finally, "But let's go somewhere out of the way, alright? We can do some shopping and get a real meal. I'll bet you could use something other than Indian on the go."

Violet smiled.

"No shopping. I know how long it takes with you on hand." She sighed, knowing she had to get into the car now if she didn't want her flat to suffer. "Okay, I'll see you soon. I miss you."

"I miss you too," Janine said. She sounded like she meant it. "You're the only one with any morals in this hellhole."

She hung up. The silence over the line was deafening. Violet attempted to swallow her nerves, the motion sending her whole stomach in a whirl of knots. She stepped outside.

The backdoor of the car swung open, tinted windows revealing nothing of who sat inside. She climbed in without thinking too hard on where she was headed, unsurprised when no one acknowledged her presence. The driver spared her petal pink robe a disdainful glance in the rearview mirror before speeding off, leaving Violet wondering if she was hurtling towards her doom or freedom. She wasn't sure which possibility scared her more.

"Is Woodley going to fire me?" she asked, inhaling a lungful of leather softener smell. Her words fell flat in the silence that followed, leaving Violet wishing Janine had gleaned a little more information as she obviously wasn't going to get any from the driver. "Thank you, that's real helpful. I'll just sit here without a single fucking clue about what's happening, yeah?"

Still nothing. Violet stared out the window glumly, feeling exposed and awkward in her fraying cotton knickers and thin silk wrap. When CAM Global Network came into view in all of its imposing, glass-sheathed glory, the knots in her stomach turned to an icy chip of panic that couldn't be cured. She couldn't waltz in there in fucking faux-fur slippers amongst all those neat-suited journalists and executives. The driver opened the door for her, leaving Violet with no choice but to stand on shaky legs and stare up at the sunlight bouncing off all those windows. The whole building always looked far too bright to be real.

"You head straight up," said the driver, unimpressed with the sight himself.

"I need to see Janine first," Violet frowned.

"You head straight up," he repeated. Violet scoffed. She was not going to see Woodley half-naked with a bush where her hair usually sat. She would look sleek and professional, even if she was walking to the end of her career. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding making her way through the throngs of judgmental journalists lurking just beyond the revolving glass doors. Violet kept her head bowed as she made her way inside even though she knew it was futile. She was rather well known, and frequently scoffed at. Most assumed there was no place for her brand of writing (decency) in a network as large as Magnussen's. Sure enough, the second she was inside, everyone she passed turned to glare at her, as if they found the ridiculous scuffling noises Carol's slippers were making against the marble floor highly offensive.

"Violet! Violet Smith!"

Fuck. Violet turned, plastering on a fake smile. The man coming towards her was bandy-legged and ruddy faced with a massive quivering ginger mustache that seemed to have a life of its own. A groan of dismay escaped her before she could stop herself.

"Mr. Woodley," she greeted politely, wishing he wouldn't use her first name. Woodley grinned, oblivious to her discomfort.

"Dressed for the occasion, I see," he said, eyeing her thin robe appreciatively. Violet barely repressed a shudder. "What luck to run into you here! I was just heading out to get myself a sandwich. But it can wait. Come up with me and we can have a nice chat."

"Well, I wasn't exactly given much warning," said Violet, "And I was under the impression you needed to see me about something important, not just 'chat'. I don't work on Saturdays." It was difficult to keep the venom out of her voice, but she was offended by his disregard for her personal life.

"Yes, terribly sorry about that," Woodley said unconcernedly, not sounding apologetic in the least. "But I couldn't tell Janine the details. She is only a PA, after all." He chuckled like he'd said something amusing. Violet regarded him coldly. Janine did more work than anybody else in the establishment, and this flippant dismissal of everything she put up with from a man who did little more than order around struggling journalists made Violet's blood boil.

"Well, why didn't you have someone worthy call and give me information?" she asked, voice dripping with sarcasm that went straight over Woodley's head.

"Mr. Magnussen thought you'd be more receptive to a call from her than someone with more authority," explained Woodley. Violet's eyes narrowed. It concerned her that Magnussen himself had personally arranged to have her come in, though it didn't seem like Woodley was on the brink of firing her (really, that would have been more of a relief than whatever mystery purpose Woodley had yet to reveal). "Both of you being pretty young ladies, right?"

Violet's face soured even more. She stayed silent.

"Right," said Woodley awkwardly, "Let's head on up."

Violet trailed him reluctantly, scowling when he held the door of his office open and made a grand sweeping motion. His fake concern made her feel sticky all over, a far worse feeling than the flashes of anger that accompanied the crude comments he fired at her when he wasn't performing Magnussen's dirty work. Woodley's office hadn't changed since she'd last been forced inside. The desk was still littered with messily scrawled notes, a calendar with smoky-eyed, pouting, lingerie clad women still hung next to the door (honestly, how he got away with hanging what was barely a step away from porn in his office Violet would never understand), and the overwhelming scent of some zealously masculine cologne still lingered in every corner. Violet sat in the thin chair already in place opposite Woodley's, watching him with narrow eyes.

"Now we can get started," said Woodley cheerfully, either oblivious to her hostility or ignoring it entirely. "To begin, Mr. Magnussen greatly enjoyed your articles on the Baskerville experiments and the recovery of that painting…what was it?"

"Falls of the Reichenbach," supplied Violet, knowing full well that Magnussen had only read her writing to get more information to trick her into doing whatever he wanted. Her style—concise, objective, and factual—was not what the majority of British citizens was interested in reading. She didn't know what she was being set up for, but she could smell trouble, and this feigned interest was most worrisome.

"Of course," said Woodley genially, leaning back to get a good look at her. "You are very interested in Sherlock Holmes, Violet."

"I'd prefer it if we kept things strictly professional," Violet said with as much politeness as she could muster. "'Ms. Smith' will do just fine. If you're going to continue parroting Magnussen's words back to me, don't even attempt to pass them as your own. It's quite obvious you aren't capable of his level of manipulation independently. And I have a purely academic interest in Sherlock Holmes. Nothing more."

"Now, now, let's not get touchy," said Woodley, cheeks turning puce. "Mr. Magnussen has a proposition for you. He has an interest in Sherlock Holmes himself. An academic one, like you." Violet scoffed. Woodley ignored her. "How would you like the chance to speak to Mr. Holmes? Uncover the man beneath the hat, so to speak."

"Sherlock Holmes' personal life is none of my business, and frankly, I would find discussing it with the man himself quite boring when there are so many better things to talk about. He's a genius. I'd rather hear about his work," Violet answered. She was not going to write about Sherlock Holmes' secret gay trysts or whatever else all those airheaded reporters were always on about. Not if Magnussen threatened to give the boot to her career and leave her starving on the streets. Well, in that case she would have to. But she'd be dragged into it kicking and screaming first.

"Good. Very Good. Mr. Magnussen predicted you might say something along those lines," Woodley said, eyeing her appraisingly. "Forgive my saying so, but you look quite lovely when passionate, Violet."

She barely repressed a shudder, unsurprised that he was deliberately ignoring her wishes but annoyed all the same.

"Mr. Magnussen has a special task for you. He's quite sure Sherlock Holmes would agree that his personal life is irrelevant to the remarkable work he does, and thinks you would be just the person to interview him about his unique profession."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't do interviews," said Violet. "He finds the whole thing despicable, and frankly, I don't blame him."

"And that is why we believe he would be more receptive to your particular brand of work. You are a young woman of notable integrity. I'm sure someone with Mr. Holmes' deductive skills will be able to see that. You can write up the piece however you choose, as long as you get him talking."

"You actually want something entirely academic published?" Violet asked incredulously. "Won't it stick out like a sore thumb amongst all the other poorly executed lies you call writing?"

"It already does, dear," said Woodley, unconcerned. "Don't forget, Violet, that you work here too. You can pretend to be morally superior to the rest of us, but in the end, your worth is defined by the company you keep."

"You actually think I work here by choice?" Violet snapped. She knew her rising temper could get her into serious trouble, but Woodley's nonchalance as he deliberately provoked her made her want to reach across the desk and smack the smug look straight off his face. "You think I was fantasizing about working with a network reliant on blackmail and petty threats to make a profit when I got my degree?"

"Of course not," grinned Woodley. "But here you are anyway. And that reminds me…Mr. Magnussen asked that I inquire about your mother's health, and ask if your income is enough to cover her care?"

Violet nearly vibrated with repressed rage. She couldn't believe his nerve. It was just like Magnussen to give Woodley the tools to provoke, expose, and humiliate her into doing his bidding. And it was working. Violet was furious with herself for giving him the reaction he craved.

"Fuck. You," she spat, beyond caring about the consequences. She stood before she could reach out and strike Woodley, fully intent on storming straight out and salvaging the rest of her day. Woodley just smirked, clearly enjoying watching her lose her temper.

"Now, now, there's no need for profanity. Surely you are aware of the consequences if you refuse this simple job?"

The open threat snapped Violet back to her senses. She inhaled deeply, conjured up an image of her mother, and managed to sit. The reminder of her duties as a daughter was all she needed to calm herself enough to listen to the rest of Magnussen's mind fuckery.

"Excellent," Woodley muttered, a leer slithering into place just under that vile ginger mustache. "It really isn't that difficult of a job. You interview Mr. Holmes, write a piece of your choosing, and you're done."

"And how should I plan this interview?" asked Violet, hands writhing nervously in the bunches of pink silk cloaking her lap. "I'm positive lingering outside of Baker Street will only annoy him and decrease my chances of speaking to him."

"That isn't a problem. We've thought this through thoroughly, Violet, and this interview is important in ways you can't understand." His eyes darkened dangerously, sending a jolt of fear fizzing down her spine. "You've heard of the criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty?"

"Obviously," Violet muttered, keeping her eyes on her anxious hands. She wished he'd stop asking stupid questions and get to the damn point, but after her outburst she didn't want to risk speaking up again.

"Mr. Magnussen has it on good authority that Moriarty will resurface and go on trial in a matter of months. Arranging your attendance won't be a difficulty. Sherlock Holmes will definitely be there, giving you your chance to speak to him."

"How do you know all this?" asked Violet, a wave a gooseflesh breaking over her arms at this latest display of Magnussen's omniscience. "Does Moriarty come here for tea every Tuesday?"

Woodley chuckled in a way that made it clear he didn't find her feeble attempt at a joke amusing.

"Moriarty is something of a hotspot in our organization," he said, chilled eyes unrelenting. "That's all you need to know. I trust you can predict what will happen if you inform anyone of this knowledge."

The gooseflesh was edging onto her stomach. Violet still didn't look at him, feeling small, scared, and foolish.

"How am I supposed to convince him to give me an interview?" she asked in a weak voice. "Holmes hates the press. He's not going to make any exceptions. He'll probably cut me down with a deduction and go on his merry way." Imagining Sherlock Holmes dissecting her sent a hot shock of something that could have been excitement or terror through her. Violet shook it away.

"Be unrelenting. Use your charms," Woodley dismissed. "It doesn't matter, as long as he speaks with you."

"I don't understand why interviewing Holmes is so important," Violet said, praying someone would find her a way out of this impossible task. She was interested in Sherlock Holmes. She occasionally fantasized about meeting him in an ordinary situation, engaging in a brief yet scintillating discussion, and parting ways. But she was well aware they were only fantasies, and that Sherlock Holmes was regarded as a royal pain in the arse by nearly everyone who encountered him. She was being set up for failure.

"Your understanding isn't necessary to the situation," said Woodley, unconcerned. "I'll have Janine call you in again before the trial to take care of last minute preparations. Now off with you. Have a good morning."

"Too late," Violet muttered mutinously. She rose and left the office without further ado, the humiliation blooming in her stomach refusing to dissipate. There were more judgmental stares, but they were thankfully easier to ignore as she made her way up the hall. But she couldn't stop the rattling of her breath, and knew that if she didn't make it to Janine in three minutes she'd be in the middle of a full blown panic attack. Violet inhaled shakily and braced herself against the wall, ignoring the whispers of the people around her and withdrawing her phone. Janine thankfully picked up immediately.

"Violet? What's wrong? What did Woodley want with you?"

"Can you take a lunch break right now?" Violet said, casting a wary glance in the direction of Woodley's office. "It's pretty urgent, but I don't want to talk about it here."

"Actually, I can," said Janine, "Magnussen has a meeting with John Garvie and won't be back until seven at the earliest. He won't need me. I'll meet you outside, yeah? We'll get a bite and you can tell me all about it."

She hung up, leaving Violet marginally calmer and supremely grateful she had at least one real friend in the snake pit. She had first bumped into Janine after being taken in by Woodley to be "interviewed" for a writing job. The "interview" turned out to be an hour of intimidation tactics used to ensure her cooperation, including the not-so-subtle discussion of everything she had ever tried to hide. There was nothing that could land her in jail—but her career was important, as was maintaining the firm morals she'd nurtured her entire life. But she'd had to pay for school somehow without financial aid from any of her family members, and she hadn't made the smartest decisions in her desperation to scrape her way out of uni without drowning in student loans. And any job in journalism at all had seemed like a golden opportunity at the time. She hadn't realized until it was too late that CAM Global News was utterly toxic. But Janine had been one good thing to come out of it. She wasn't more than a work friend, but she was always willing to help whenever Violet was feeling particularly terrorized, and did manage to make the time to go out for coffee with her and make fun of Woodley and his ridiculous mustache.

Janine was indeed waiting outside, looking lovely as always in a goldenrod sheath dress she managed to pull off with a frustrating lack of effort. Violet looked sickly in yellow, far too pale to pull off any of the bright colors Janine did. She trotted towards her with a forced smile, desperate to get as far away from CAM Global News as possible.

"You aren't going to believe what Magnussen's forcing me to do," she said immediately, seizing Janine's elbow and dragging her in the direction of the sidewalk. "Let's walk, okay? I can tell you about it on the way to Café Luce."

"Wait up, these shoes are far too uncomfortable to walk quickly in," Janine whined, giving Violet's kitten heels an envious glance. "I never thought I'd say this, but maybe the practical approach does hold some merit."

"I've been telling you this for a long time," said Violet with an eye roll. They made it past the block and Violet stopped, glancing anxiously behind her. "Okay, we're good. You know about Sherlock Holmes, right Janine?"

Janine raised an eyebrow.

"Vi, you mention him on a daily basis, not to mention every article you've ever written features him in some way. It's pretty obvious you're obsessed."

"Hardly a difficult deduction," said Violet in her best baritone, though her Sherlock Holmes voice turned out more like an excellent impression of what Marilyn Monroe and Darth Vader's love child might sound like. "And I'm not obsessed. I find what he does extremely interesting, just like most of the population would if they'd stop drooling over him and John Watson together for two damned seconds."

"Interesting, sure," Janine snorted. "You think he's hot. Smart really is your type, huh?"

"With that bone structure, can you blame me?" Violet murmured, thinking of Sherlock's Holmes perfect cheekbones and feeling a bit guilty about the flush that spread through her. She was hardly going to have a chance of successfully speaking to him if she was drooling the entire time. Not that she'd have a chance anyway. "Believe it or not, nice takes precedence over smart, and I hear Sherlock Holmes is a real arse."

"Yes, well, that wouldn't matter for one shag, would it?" shrugged Janine.

"He's also asexual," Violet commented mildly before catching herself. "Not that I want to shag him in the first place. Dammit, Janine! Do you want to hear or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Janine, "But let me get my coffee first, yeah? I'm a better listener when caffeinated."

By the time they were settled in, Violet had already launched into a vivid retelling of what had occurred in Woodley's office (leaving out the bits about Moriarty and the trial. Woodley's threat was still hanging over her), only to find that Janine didn't see anything to be horrified about.

"I don't get what the problem is," she said when Violet was finished and looking at her expectantly for sympathy. "The man is practically your celebrity crush. What's so terrible about interviewing him?"

Violet gaped at her, completely incredulous.

"Uh, maybe the fact that Sherlock Holmes is not about to speak to any journalists, let alone one from CAM Global News. People know Magnussen and they hate him and his employees."

"So don't tell him you work for Magnussen," said Janine, now attempting eye contact with an attractive body builder type sitting at the corner table.

"He'll be able to tell I'm withholding information in a second," Violet replied, shaking her head. "I'm a terrible liar, especially when I'm feeling guilty."

"What do you even have to be guilty about?" asked Janine. "Magnussen's giving you free reign to write what you want. And you've never published anything dishonest in your life. You're one of the most wholesome people I know."

"He makes a living out of hurting people," Violet said, pursing her lips. "He'll find a way to twist my words. And I doubt Sherlock Holmes will have read anything else I've written. He's a busy man."

"I don't know. You do come off as intelligent," Janine said thoughtfully. "Maybe he'll surprise you. Just smile prettily and play it by ear. You'll be fine."

"Fine? You know what Magnussen does to people who fail him. You know what he does for entertainment. I'm not famous. But I will lose every single reader I have if he reveals the thing with Carruthers. Why do you think I have to work for him? I certainly didn't work for my degree thinking I was going to spend all my time and effort writing for a bunch of idiots who don't give a damn about anything other than gossip and money."

"So you had an affair with a married man," Janine shrugged. Violet shushed her, glancing around nervously, and Janine rolled her eyes. "Calm down, no one here will recognize you. But seriously, lots of people fuck older men. It's a thing. No one's going to burn you at the stake, sweetie."

"It's more complicated than that, Janine," Violet said miserably. "I tutored his daughter while he was paying me to sleep with him. Even if it doesn't destroy my career, do you know what people will say about me? Do you know what my mum will think? It would break her heart."

"How the hell did she think you were making that much money?" Janine hissed. "A lemonade stand? Look, Vi, sex isn't a crime. Yeah, it'll look a bit shady since he was married and respectable and all, and people might call you a whore for a while. But it'll blow over. Maybe you can write something about life as a sugar baby." She smirked.

"Not helping," Violet snapped. "I don't have any problem with sex. It's impossible to be a prude and live with Caroline. But I work so hard to come out on top in this job and it wouldn't be fucking fair if I lost it all because Sherlock Holmes is an utter cock. Not to mention that he'll probably be able to tell everything in a matter of seconds and announce it in the most embarrassing way possible."

She glowered at the table, an image of Sherlock Holmes proclaiming to the entire jury and assigned reporters that she was practically a former prostitute coming to mind. After which he went on to reveal she had sucked her thumb until the age of eleven, danced around like a loon to bad 80's music when no one was home, and had a secret belly button piercing. The miserable shudder that went through her at this terrible fantasy was violent enough to induce a frown from Janine.

"Are you alright? You look like you just caught a chill."

"Sorry, just got lost in the stress of my imminent doom for a second there," Violet said gloomily.

"God, you're way too pessimistic," Janine scoffed with an eye roll. "Look, Vi, with this sort of attitude, you're setting yourself up for failure. If you believe, you succeed. Now, look at me." Violet caught her eyes reluctantly. "You're one of the most clever people I know. If anyone can work up a way to talk to Sherlock Holmes, it's you. What are you going to have to do to ensure he's receptive?"

Violet contemplated the question for a moment. Sherlock Holmes would see through any masks she put up in seconds. Honesty was important, then. She'd have to be her true self, even if her true self was a former thumb sucking overly pessimistic journalist working for a master blackmailer. And by all accounts, Sherlock Holmes was exceedingly arrogant and interested in little other than his own brain. Granted, his brain was unusually fascinating. So playing to his ego would probably be to her advantage.

"I can't lie. I have to be upfront, but not annoyingly insistent. And I have to keep his personal life out of it. Not that I even care about it in the least. This has to be about his work and nothing frivolous if I'm to stand a chance," Violet said, inhaling deeply. Janine smiled in satisfaction.

"There you go. And make sure you wear something pretty. You underestimate the power of a nice smile and decent fashion choices," she said wisely. It was Violet's turn to roll her eyes.

"And you underestimate just how much Sherlock Holmes won't give a fuck," she grinned. Janine's phone beeped, initiating a groan and panicked expletive when she checked the screen.

"Shit. Magnussen needs me to call Garvie. Sorry Vi, but I've got to go. Keep your hopes up, yeah? It's not as bad as you make it out to be."

"Nope, I feel a lot better now," Violet said with her most convincing carefree smile. "Thanks. You really are a lifesaver, you know."

"I do know," said Janine, "But it is a shame Magnussen doesn't see it. I'll call you later."

Violet watched her leave. The second the welcome bell rang and the door slammed shut, the smiled melted, leaving a mask of pure terror. Violet buried her face in her hands and groaned loud enough to cause an older woman enjoying a mug of tea to shoot her a concerned look.

She was so completely fucked.

A/N: If you want to see more, please review. I do want to know what you all think of Violet Smith! If people are interested in me continuing, I have some excellent ideas for a twisty, juicy plot that will turn you on your head and back again. And fyi, the POV will switch between Violet and Sherlock. I want to get into both their heads. Thank you!