Chapter 2 – Secretly Pleased to See You

Sherlock had woken early and had dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown so he could stoke the fire in the living room. He intended to have a cup of tea, then check his emails in solitude, before returning to the bedroom to have an early morning snuggle. He would let the actress sleep in a little bit first. It was Sunday wasn't it?

The detective had just taken his first sip, and was navigating his phone with his free hand when he heard a familiar tread on the stairs.

Surely not, he thought with furrowed brow, placing his tea down onto the side table and checking his watch. It was barely nine o'clock.

When his older sibling materialised through the door into the living room, Sherlock rose from his chair.

"It's a bit early for civil servants, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, as his brother cast a weary eye over the detective's attire. "And it's Sunday. You can't need me to accompany you to Lord Gorot's charity polo thing, surely."

Mycroft Holmes continued looking down upon his younger brother.

"You're still in pyjamas, yet you are clearly working," Mycroft mused through beady eyes.

"You've seen me in my pyjamas before."

"Yes, but usually it's due to a lack of cases, and under those circumstances, I would normally find you lolling about on your sofa," Mycroft replied, gesturing toward said sofa with the tip of his umbrella.

Sherlock narrowed his own eyes at his brother and took a step forward. "Right, if we're going to play deductions," he said, "it's my turn: your hair is slightly damp." He inhaled deeply and wrinkled his nose. "Chlorine. So you've taken up swimming again."

Mycroft's closed-mouth smile didn't extend to his eyes. He moved back toward the door, and swung it until it was halfway closed. Taking his own sniff of Sherlock's new coat that hung on the back of it, he declared, "Cigarette smoke. So you've taken your new coat out for a test drive. And as you're still in your sleepwear..."

Mycroft strode back around to the kitchen area as Sherlock followed him with his eyes. It was always amusing to watch the pompous arse work up a sweat. His brother glanced toward the passageway leading off the kitchen and said, "And your bedroom door is shut."

"This is all quite good," Sherlock said, his eyes glistening in amusement as he moved back toward his chair and took a seat. "Do continue." He crossed his legs and laced his fingers together.

The older Holmes raised his chin, and gazed thoughtfully about the room, before looking down upon his younger brother once more.

"There are traces of a not quite top-shelf female perfume, much too young to belong to your landlady. Cleo de Thebes, if I'm not mistaken. Re-establishing old habits, with a slight twist? You really have moved on. Saturday nights instead of Thursday, and you're bringing your conquests here, to Baker Street. How very vulgar."

Just at the moment, the door to Sherlock's bedroom flew inwards as the detective's latest 'conquest' stormed out, saying, "Why the fuck did you let me sleep in? I'm going to be la—" She stopped mid-sentence when she spied the older Holmes brother standing beside Sherlock's armchair with his back to her. "Oh crap." Violet's eyes widened, and with her free hand, she held her dressing gown together just that little bit tighter as Mycroft Holmes turned around. "Sorry," she said urgently to Sherlock as they locked eyes. "Didn't know you had a client. Don't mind me!"

Violet escaped through the kitchen door to the landing carrying her overnight bag.

"She's very forward, isn't she?" Mycroft remarked to Sherlock as Violet's hurried footsteps died away. "Are you really going to let your lady-friend leave only half-dressed?"

"She was heading upstairs, Mycroft, not downstairs. And what do you mean, 'lady-friend?'"

When Mycroft tilted his head in non-comprehension, a tiny smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth as realisation dawned. He said to his older brother, "You didn't recognise her."

Mycroft's brow furrowed in confusion. "Should I have?"

Sherlock's smile broadened, and his eyes glinted mischievously. He was starting to enjoy himself. Sherlock uncrossed his legs and abruptly stood up again, saying, "That was Violet."

The dignitary of the British Government gaped a little as he turned in the direction that Violet had left.

"You and Ms Hunter are..."

"Back together again, yes," Sherlock finished. "So that would explain my cheery disposition. I'm sure you were about to point that out on your next round of deductions."

"Oh, of course," Mycroft replied, stifling an eyeroll. "The dyed hair. All for that ridiculous television show that our mother now watches religiously. Well," he added, attempting a smile, "Mummy will be pleased."

"Something to chat about during your next fortnightly phone-call, no doubt. Try not interfere this time, Mycroft." Sherlock brushed past his brother and made to exit through the kitchen door as well. Turning back, he said, "And it looks like Violet's in a mood, so I'll skip the introductions for now, if you don't mind. You're likely to lose a testicle otherwise." Sherlock made a show of looking thoughtful. "Do you even have any?"

Ignoring his brother's jibe, Mycroft remained composed. He raised a regal eyebrow to ask, "She has moods?"

"Of course she does. She isn't an umbrella." Sherlock stepped through the door, then, upon remembering that his brother was there, and uncharacteristically early for a Sunday morning, he ducked his head back around the open door and asked, "Why are you here?"

Mycroft Holmes prodded the floor with his umbrella to recompose himself as a Government official, and not a disapproving elder sibling.

"I hear you've been given the Sebastian Moran case."

"It's not the Sebastian Moran case," Sherlock countered, stepping back into the kitchen. "It's the Ronald Adair case."

"Ronald Adair, John Douglas," Mycroft remarked airily, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother's mention of the name of the murder victim from the unsolved Manchester case. "They both lead to Moran, or they will lead to Moran now that you're on the case."

"Well if you already know this then why haven't you solved it?"

"Not enough evidence, brother mine. And to obtain that, it may involve a bit of..." Mycroft grimaced at his next thought, "...leg work. And you know how much I abhor the climate up north. Not to mention the... inhabitants."

"So again, brother mine, why are you here?" Sherlock repeated.

"To let you know that I've asked SOCA to cooperate with you. They have been conducting surveillance on Sebastian Moran and his associates for quite some time now..." Mycroft's mouth split into a lizard's smile. "Well, you already know about that."

Thank you for putting that image of Violet having sex with Jacob Venucci back into my head, you bastard, thought Sherlock.

"Well, I'll let you know if I need them," the detective said, feigning disinterest. "I'm conducting my own research."

"As you wish," Mycroft replied imperially, repositioning the tip of his umbrella on the rug.

Sherlock abruptly turned and exited onto the landing, calling back, "Let yourself out."

He swiftly ascended the stairs, and then stopped suddenly outside Violet's door, though it wasn't officially Violet's door; she had moved out after all. She always did prefer her bathroom to Sherlock's though. Something about it having natural light, which she found lacking in his, he recalled.

But why had he felt the need to rush upstairs? Violet was clearly in a mood and not to be messed with. He'd done something wrong, or forgotten to do something, and now he was in her bad books again.

Sherlock drew in a calming breath before entering the sitting room. The door to the ensuite bathroom was open, but he couldn't hear water running in the shower. Violet's dressing gown lay in a crumpled heap on the threshold. He approached the open door, and found Violet applying makeup in the mirror above the sink. She was completely naked. Small beads of water dotted her skin here and there, so clearly she had already showered.

"Where are you going?" he asked tentatively.

"I can't speak," she snapped, before applying an almost invisible shade of lip gloss.

Sherlock watched her for a moment or two, fully appreciating the view before him. Violet finished applying her lipstick then rummaged around in her makeup bag. Without looking up, she muttered, "You keep me up all fucking night, then don't wake me in the morning."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, having no idea what he was supposed to have done wrong.

"What?" he asked.

Violet strode past him into the sitting room, perfume and deodorant trailing along behind her, and began frantically pulling clothes out of her sports bag that sat on the coffee table.

"Coffee and a cab," she ordered him while swiftly pulling on a lacy g-string. "Can you manage that?"

"Coffee?" he repeated, still in a daze as layer upon layer of clothing began to conceal those soft curves and smooth skin—the curves that he should have been navigating right about now, with well-practised skill and dexterity.

"Yes, Sherlock. And a cab."

Matching bra, undershirt, t-shirt (one size too small) and now low-slung skinny jeans.

Sherlock stood, mesmerised. Zipper.

"Sherlock," Violet prompted him. "Cab, coffee. No, wait," she said, hastening over to the sofa. She sat down and grabbed at one of her boots. "Skip the coffee, just a cab. Why the fuck didn't you wake me?" she added, puffing lightly as she zipped up the first boot.

"I have no idea what's happening," Sherlock replied, suddenly finding his voice, and objecting just a little to being held responsible for this last minute panic. He could've deduced what was happening, but there was something so hypnotic and arousing in watching Violet dress that most of his critical systems had gone to sleep anyway.

"The thing," she said, grabbing at the second boot. "For the fucking... look, I told you about it yesterday." Violet's brow was furrowed as she struggled to pull on her boot.

Sherlock's database was unable to retrieve a single file on yesterday's conversation about the thing.

When he failed to make the right noises in response, such as an "Oh!" or "That's right, Violet!" his irate girlfriend added, "That's why I had to go shopping yesterday—for these... boots." She grunted a little as the zip finally moved to the top of the boot. Violet rose from the sofa then pulled a knitted top from her bag. "And this," she added, before pulling the garment over her head.

None of this seemed familiar to Sherlock. Obviously she had been speaking to him yesterday, and at the mention of 'shopping,' Sherlock had filtered, and quite brutally by the sound of it. He had retained none of her words.

"I'll get you a cab," Sherlock said as he moved toward the door, now under the assumption that he was at fault. "Where are you going?" he asked, for the purposes of informing the cabbie.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Violet cried, and she grabbed a smaller handbag from the sports bag, plus her coat, then she rushed past Sherlock, making for the stairs.

Sherlock wearily followed after her, and he only caught small snatches of information in amongst the "fucking crap" curse words that were sprinkled generously throughout her speech.

He discovered that Violet was attending a "meet the soap stars thing" at the newly opened Westfield Shopping Centre, a small event to promote some soap star charity football match that was happening in a month's time. Sherlock had a vague memory of reading something about that online, during one of his many 'Violet Hunter' Google searches. He recalled that he had wondered how on earth Violet would manage running and kicking a soccer ball at the same time, when the actress could barely coordinate walking and texting simultaneously. He had felt quite anxious on her behalf.

Sherlock expected Violet to stop at the entrance to give him a farewell kiss and shower him with promises to see him later. He received none of that. Violet was out the door and onto the street without a backward glance. He wondered if she had expected him to follow her. Surely not. Did she not notice that he was still wearing pyjamas? A public farewell with a pyjama-clad boyfriend in broad daylight on a busy street must surely be on the list of things to avoid doing when you're hiding your relationship from the press.

Sherlock waited three seconds before he turned at the bottom of the stairs and went back up to his flat. Approximately twelve seconds later, his phone began to ring from the table beside his armchair. It sat companionably next to his cold cup of tea.

"I'm so sorry!" came Violet's voice. "I must've sounded like a bitch! I really didn't mean to. I was going to be so late, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry! I know I mentioned the thing at the shopping centre, but I didn't tell you how early I had to be there..."

Sherlock let Violet's words wash over him. All he could hear was that he was off the hook. It wasn't his fault. The rest of her words were unnecessary, he felt, but Violet proceeded to tell him all of the details about the promotion, the soccer match, and the charity for whom the fundraiser was being organised as she travelled by cab across London.

"...and I get so nervous and anxious before these things because I don't know how to act. I mean, I'm supposed to be me, not Christa Barlow, but I can't really be me, can I?"

She didn't stop; the entire seventeen and a half minute journey from Baker Street to the shopping centre was practically a Violet Hunter monologue, with Sherlock saying, "Mmm," at key points along the way, while he made himself a cup of tea, grabbed his laptop from the living room table and settled into his armchair, ready to conduct research on Ronald Adair.

He knew what she was doing; it was obvious. She had wanted Sherlock's companionship, just to know he was there, as she travelled to the promotion; she needed a hand to hold. Sherlock felt warmed by her need for his support. He had read about a couple of these unrelated-to-TV events in the magazines he occasionally had purchased, where Violet and her co-stars had made a public appearance somewhere. Violet had always looked completely natural and at ease, he thought. So she was faking it. Good for her.

Violet rang off with a very sweet, "I love you," when her cab drew nearer to her destination, and a promise to return to Baker Street afterwards. But first, she advised Sherlock, she would stop by her flat to retrieve her script. Sherlock had felt a tiny bit guilty that Violet had 'misplaced' her script, but he thought she would easily find it where he had hastily stowed it underneath her bed.

Mrs Hudson cautiously peered through the doorway several minutes later to complain to Sherlock about one of his clients swearing and carrying on while stomping up and down the stairs above her rooms.

A warm smile spread across Sherlock's face before he replied, "That was no client, Mrs Hudson..."

-o-

The landlady was humming as she brought in the plates of nibbles and set them down on the small tables she had scattered around her living room. A Sunday afternoon gathering was in order in celebration of two of her favourite lodgers being reunited.

Sherlock had insisted she only invite John and Mary around, having eventually convinced the older woman that Violet had a hectic schedule these days and she didn't have time for a lot of fuss.

After Violet had finished her charity football match promotion, she had phoned Sherlock from Crouch End to ask if he wanted to hang out with her there because she was going to have to tidy up her entire bedroom after not having found her script. She needed to finish learning her lines for Monday, and she was getting quite desperate. Naturally Sherlock found the idea of lolling about his girlfriend's tiny, frigid bedroom, while her flatmates raucously carried on downstairs, an unattractive prospect. So he suggested, ever so casually, that perhaps her script had dropped to the floor, and while they were in the throes of passion the other night, it may have been kicked somewhere else, like underneath the bed, for example.

"Well, how would it get so far away from the chair," Violet had said over the phone, emitting a grunt that told Sherlock she had dropped to the floor and was now peering under her bed. "My clothes are here, blocking it from sliding anywhere else... Oh! Now how did that get all the way over there?"

A self-satisfied grin appeared on Sherlock's face when he concluded that Violet had located her script. He said, "So I'll see you soon?"

Violet was silent for a moment, and Sherlock could tell that she was now clambering over the bed to the other side.

"Um... yes," she said distractedly. Sherlock could hear the sound of paper being rustled. "Sherlock Holmes," Violet said underneath her breath.

Sherlock froze, suddenly suspecting that he had been found out. He remained silent, and in hindsight, he realised that that was probably the action, or non-action, of a guilty person.

"I know you think I'm stupid," Violet began.

"No, not at all..." Sherlock responded automatically.

He could hear Violet exhaling deeply.

"When I snatched the script back from you the other night, I closed it up and put it on my chair. But now I find it all the way over to the wall, underneath my bed, on the side where you were sitting, and turned to the scene where Christa is having a conversation with her mother about not being able to cope with looking after her baby. Can you explain all that?"

"I have no idea why Christa isn't coping with looking after her own child."

"Sherlock."

"Are you coming over now? Because Mrs Hudson knows you and I are back together, and she's fussing about and humming. We're having a thing, apparently, here in Baker Street, and you're the special guest. So you should come over quite soon, otherwise you're going to disappoint a well-meaning, kindly old landlady. There's nibbly things with toothpicks sticking out of them, like some poorly made molecular model, and—"

Violet had started laughing, her light, melodic laugh that played in harmony with Sherlock's heart-strings.

"I'll see you soon," she said, and Sherlock knew he was let off the hook once more. This was starting to become a regular occurrence. Sherlock wondered how long it would last.

Violet found herself the recipient of several hugs, and affectionate pats on the hand by the landlady. Mrs Hudson even drew Violet aside at one stage, to ask if Sherlock was all right about Violet kissing another man in a club just the other night—it was on the internet, Mrs Turner had said. At first, Violet was confused, until she realised that not everyone was as sharp as Mary Morstan. When Violet reassured the older woman that Sherlock was, in fact, the man she had been kissing, Mrs Hudson threw Sherlock a disapproving look.

"Sherlock Holmes. If you've been hanging about nightclubs again, trying to pick up women..."

John and Mary had laughed, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was up to Violet, again, to reassure the landlady that Sherlock was meeting her that night. It seemed far too complicated to explain the whole mutual stalking aspect, and her desire to escape the attention of the seedy studio executive, Stuart Jire, on the night in question.

The conversation moved on to the landlady relaying Mrs Turner's theories about all things relating to Regency Road, while Sherlock scoffed and tutted, before offering his own theory that perhaps the young teenage Christa would find child-rearing all too difficult and she may just leave the baby with her mother. Violet thumped him for his information sharing.

Of course, Mrs Hudson was very upset when Violet informed her that she only had a three month contract with the show, so her character wasn't expected to stay living in Regency Road for much longer.

"But we will see you at the TELSAs, won't we?" Mary asked Violet, and by the half-smile that had formed on her face, Violet knew Mary was thinking about Sherlock Holmes in a tux.

Predictably, John Watson began to chuckle as well. Violet guessed that this was something the couple had been discussing just recently. Sherlock feigned disinterest, but it was obvious to him that he was somehow out of the loop.

"Will the great git accompany you," John asked before Violet could respond, "Or are you two going to remain a secret forever?"

"I don't know," Violet said, reaching for Sherlock's hand as they sat together on Mrs Hudson's settee. She glanced in his direction, then turned back to John. "I suppose by the time the awards come around my nightclub snog will be long forgotten. I hope. Maybe the TELSAs will be the perfect night to reveal that I've got a boyfriend."

Sherlock wanted to retreat into his Mind Palace. All this talk about their relationship in front of a captive audience was threatening to suffocate him. He also need to quickly scan his database for anything relating to this unknown TELSA thing. It sounded vaguely familiar. He concluded that he must've read about it in one of his gossip magazines.

Yes! he thought gleefully, as he found a match swept under his carpet of irrelevant facts. The TELSAs—The Television Soap Awards. A pointless night of glamour and industry self-congratulation. And he was somehow supposed to accompany Violet to this... event?

"Just stay out of the way when they're interviewing Violet," John was saying to Sherlock, when the detective returned to the here and now. Apparently John had been giving Sherlock a rundown of the evening, loaded with advice for the detective-genius. Sherlock had missed most of it.

"I don't think they'll bother interviewing me," Violet said. Sherlock noticed that she looked as embarrassed and uncomfortable as he felt.

"At the very least, they always ask who you're wearing, don't they?" Mary replied.

"I guess," Violet replied, shrugging.

Now that was a cause for alarm, Sherlock thought.

"Wait," he said, creases appearing in his brow. "How is that even appropriate?"

All eyes fixed on the Consulting Detective. Just what did he know about red carpet celebrity interviews, they were all thinking.

"They always ask that question," Violet replied.

"But you won't know," Sherlock said. "You didn't even want to find out."

Violet was perplexed. She couldn't ever recall discussing designer gowns to wear at red carpet events with Sherlock.

"I'll know by then. In fact the studio—"

"And how do you propose to do that? DNA testing is only successful if there is a match already in the database, and you're talking a possibility of world-wide distribution of—"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"And, besides," he said, reaching out and letting a strand of Violet's hair run through his fingers, "These samples are unlikely to possess a hair follicle, so with the absence of a cell nucleus and therefore genetic material—"

At that point, Violet burst into laughter. Everyone else looked as perplexed as Sherlock about Violet's reaction. The actress managed to stifle her laughter eventually.

"Sherlock," she said, her eyes still a little moist, "we're talking about whose designer gown I'll be wearing, not who donated hair for my extensions!"

As laughter rang out all around him, Sherlock scowled. He was going to hate this entire world of entertainment in which he had found himself, he just knew it.

-oOo-