After Violet, the lull picked up where it left off. Luckily, she had passed time on that most sensitive of days. By the time she was out of his head it was almost over. But the rest remained. The flat has a sort of echo these days. Sherlock can't remember if it was there before he left or not. He keeps the curtains drawn across the windows when he can, softening the room, but it doesn't do much to help.

The only difference between the silence before Violet Hunter and the silence after is that now, when the boredom is worst and threatens to overwhelm him there is some small mystery to think of. He thinks of why she came here.

On the surface, the reason is obvious. She told him the reason. The reason was the simple act of coming here. But he keeps going back to that first noise. The way she knocked, the noise that barely was, undiscernible even as a knock. He always returns to her hesitation.

From time to time he has replayed the entire encounter in his mind. Really, he wasn't very clever. He let her first admission get to him. Obvious the memories, the stories, everything she brought with her, they were bloody difficult to ignore, but he should have tried harder. Now, when he watches it over again, he maintains some semblance of cool remove. And every time, the recording skips. It sticks on one spot, shuddering, repeating itself, forcing him to listen more carefully.

When she told him about her new job. Taking care of a house, she said. You'll never guess whose. There was something on her voice. A little twitter. You'll never guess whose. Was she laughing at the both of them, at the twist of fate that had brought her to an old enemy? You'll never guess whose. Or is that nervous laughter? And if it is nervous laughter, then it hadn't been there before. Violet had lost her nerves before she even sat down, and they were gone a moment later, so why, what was it about You'll never guess whose? She'd been so calm, so level. From his more sentimental impressions, he recalls that she had a remarkable stillness, like deep water.

You'll never guess whose.

From the depths of great tedium, and the pocket of his dressing gown, Sherlock fishes out his phone.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade. Not busy are you?" There's a moment's stunned silence on the far end of the line. "No, I'm not just being courteous. By the way, you're staring and your mouth is hanging open." A rustle while the officer corrects himself. "I'd rather speak to you when you have a minute because there's no pressing urgency and I would appreciate it if you would properly think about this."

"It was more me resenting the idea that I wouldn't be busy, Sherlock."

"Are you?"

"…I am having a well-deserved break."

"Forgive me, I'm a bit rusty; is that a sort of sausage roll, or something sweet?"

Another pause. Then, grumbling through a mouthful of one or the other, "What do you want?"

"Do you remember Jethro Rucastle?"

"Remember him? He only retired six months ago, why wouldn't I- Wait. Don't you remember him?"

"I'm looking for an unbiased opinion. Actually, no – I'm looking to have a biased one confirmed first. Did he ever talk about-" He's been lying here too long; his throat is dry and sticks. "-About addicts?" he croaks eventually.

"After the job he got stuck with? Yeah. Yeah, he talked about them. And yeah, thinking of you and your biased opinion, you're actually probably right on that one."

"He hates them."

Lestrade's definite, affirming nod is almost audible. "With a passion." And as Sherlock recalls, with just a touch of concern, he never had much belief in rehabilitation.

"Tell me about him."

"Um… yeah," begins the thoughtless answer. Sherlock shuts his eyes, ready to ride this part out and wait for the actual information. "He was an alright bloke. Grumpy old codger, but then they all are, forty years in the job. Can't blame him for that. Tell you what, he was a laugh at parties. Can't half drink, I'll tell you that."

No. No, he can't ride this out, it's crushing. Sherlock will have to walk Lestrade through this one. "Family?"

He learns, by careful mining of truth from uncertainty and uselessness and the endless um-ing and ah-ing, that Rucastle is a widower. His daughter, Alice, is somewhere in her twenties and Lestrade believes she still lives at home. He doesn't think she's ever had a job either. Seems to think that's important, but Sherlock balances it against a general undercurrent of working-class outrage and dismisses it.

"He's kind to her, then? He must be, if she's still at home."

"…'Kind'? Sherlock, are you sure you're feeling alright?" It is on his lips to plead. To say something that will make Lestrade understand, this is important. But then again, he doesn't know whether it is or not. It is on his lips to just beg the question answered, but ultimately he says nothing. He hesitates and Lestrade sighs, "He never used to shut up about his Alice. 'My Alice this' and 'my Alice that'. More than kind, alright?"

Yes. Alright.

"And it was Berkshire he moved to, wasn't it?" Honestly, Sherlock has no idea. Violet never mentioned anything to that effect.

But very quickly, without a speck of suspicion, Lestrade corrects him, "Hampshire. Nice place, actually. Big old house with a bit of woodland. The Copper's Beeches, he called it. Thought he was dead clever for that one." In the moment it takes Sherlock to process that information, Lestrade realizes what he's just done. Says, in a tone of restrained concern, "You're not thinking of going visiting, are you?"

No. Really, he's not the sort to 'go visiting'. But should a situation arise that he has to go and investigate, at least now he knows where he's going

He tries to reassure Lestrade, but is interrupted. "I mean, really, he didn't do anything to you he wasn't supposed to, if that's what you're-"

"It's not. It's got nothing to do with me. If I never see Rucastle again it'll be too soon."

"Then what is it about?"

Sherlock should tell him. Lestrade might know something more about Violet. He'd have her arrest record, certainly. There'd be a story there, a telling outline of the events of her life. Picked up for trespassing, squatting, possession, theft, shoplifting. Then, of course, all the nights she was just picked up and released again. But really, what will that give him? Sherlock knows that story, and far too well. But there might some mention of her parents, of where she came from and… And it's prying. He hangs up instead.

You'll never guess whose. She was laughing at them both. Must have been. Two rescued strays, and her about to go and work for the man who would have had them put down years ago. He told them as much, in as many words. On those same back stairs where Violet nearly had a razor run from eye to chin on either side.

These are memories he had thought long since deleted. It seems they were burned in deeper than he knew.

She was laughing. That's all. She had the smile of a Hindu statue; maybe philosophy has something to do with it. Maybe if Sherlock had some capacity to forgive – or more accurately the desire to use it – he would have been able to laugh too.

[Kerlyssa – James said I could come do this one. It's recon, as long as I take my time and do character work and don't let anyone off too lightly. (As if I'd do a silly thing like that!)]