Chapter 12 - Who the Hell Knows With Sherlock Holmes?
"Feeling a little sober then?" Sherlock asked as they sat inside the warmth of a cafe half an hour later. It opened late and Violet was delighted that it offered an American-style breakfast as a part of its all-day menu.
"A bit."
Violet hugged her arms, as Sherlock began tapping away on his phone. She regarded him for a moment, then leant back in her seat and aimlessly slid the bottle of water between outstretched fingers. Nothing was hazy. She recalled everything in vivid detail. She remembered snogging the man now seated across from her. She glanced at the hands rapidly manipulating his device. Those same elegant hands had cupped her face as he leant in to return her kiss.
All the excitement she felt over that kiss and the preceding conversation rippled through Violet, specifically the idea that Sherlock picks up women in bars to have sex with them.
So he just... goes out then, cruises the bars, makes up something clever, finds himself with his tongue down some poor unsuspecting woman's throat... then what?
The words were past her lips before she thought to reconsider her question.
"Do you take women back to Baker Street?"
Sherlock paused his typing and creases appeared in his brow.
"Sorry, what?"
Her skin prickled. Perhaps she shouldn't have asked this.
"W-women," she repeated. "The women you pick up. Do you end up in Baker Street... with... them?"
Sherlock's face remained unreadable.
"No," he replied and he returned his gaze back to his small screen.
"Where do you go then?"
Sherlock froze, but his eyes remained fixed intently on his phone.
"I guess it's not really any of my business," Violet quickly added.
"No, it's not."
He proceeded to type once more on his device.
"Sorry."
Violet directed her attention out of the window and watched the traffic go by. It had eased considerably. Taxis may be few and far between though, she mused, concluding they'd already reached their destinations and they'd possibly take a while to return to the pub district. They'd have to back track a fair bit.
"Do you think we can get a cab from around here?" she asked Sherlock.
"Cab or tube. The station's not too far. We'd be able to hail a cab eventually, I s'pose."
"What do you suggest then?"
"Either," Sherlock said, shrugging. "You choose."
He returned his attention to his phone once more and scoffed when it beeped at him.
"Lestrade," he muttered. He read for a few seconds before looking up at Violet. "Frances Carfax's parents have—"
"No, don't," Violet said fiercely. "I don't want to hear about them any more."
Frances and Phillip. For fuck's sake. Doomed lovers. Why do relationships have to be so hard?
Bloody hell. I'm not here to think about my fucked up life again. Better think about something else. Something fun!
"Let's play Rock, Scissors, Paper."
"What?" Sherlock asked, dragging his eyes from his screen to focus on Violet.
"To help us decide whether we should catch a cab or get the tube home. If you win—"
"You want to what?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his brow. "And besides, I don't care. You choose. You're the one who's complaining about walking."
"Come on. It'll be fun. If you win, we'll grab a taxi. If I win, we'll get the tube. Okay?"
"Win what?"
"Rock, Scissors, Paper. Best of three."
"I've no idea what you're rabbiting on about."
"The game. Rock..." Violet curled her hand into a fist, then extended her index and middle fingers as she next recited, "Scissors," then she held out all her fingers, palm flat, and said finally, "Paper."
Sherlock's eyes had widened a little.
"Are you insane? What are you doing? Some ancient fertility rite?"
"Oh, Sherlock," she said, laughing. "Don't tell me you haven't heard of Rock, Scissors, Paper."
Sherlock exhaled deeply.
"Probably," he said, waving a dismissive hand, "somewhere in my childhood where all memories have been deleted or incinerated or something."
"Really?"
"What is it?"
"Okay, well," Violet began, initially thrown by the fact that she was going to have to explain the game to someone of Sherlock's maturity. "We both randomly choose to make either a rock, a pair of scissors or a piece of paper." Again Violet formed each of the objects with her hand as she spoke. "At the exact same time."
"The exact same time?"
"Yes, and then—"
"And how do we manage that?" he challenged.
"H-how do we manage what?"
"The exact same time."
Violet frowned, because, really!
"We just count to three."
"Who counts to three?"
Violet didn't answer Sherlock straight away, instead she studied his face to gauge whether or not his question was serious or if he had echoed her words out of boredom.
"Well, both of us."
"And how do you coordinate the tempo of counting to three?"
"Sherlock! It's just one... two... three. Okay?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"Keep going," he said, waving his hand. "It's full of holes so far, but I'm intrigued."
"Okay," Violet responded, feeling less enthusiastic for her little game now. "Right. Now, we've both chosen one of those objects at random, and whoever wins that round is determined by whose object wins. For example, make a rock."
Violet reached out and grasped Sherlock's hand. Thankfully he complied. Violet curled Sherlock's fingers so that his hand formed a fist.
"Okay, say you have rock, and I have paper," she continued, placing her hand around Sherlock's fist. He remained curiously silent while she held onto his hand.
"So, paper wraps rock," she informed him, "therefore I win that one. And next is—"
"Paper does what?" Sherlock asked as Violet removed her hand.
"It wraps around rock," she said, covering Sherlock's hand briefly with her own once more. "So it wins..."
"Why does it?"
"Because it covers it."
Sherlock tilted his head and asked through narrow eyes, "But who does that?"
"Who does what?"
"Wraps up a rock using paper. Why would you do that?"
Violet forced a smile to her face.
"It's just the game," she said. "Don't think about it too much."
"No, do your paper thing again."
Violet reluctantly spread out her hand, watching as Sherlock gently pressed it to the table with his fist.
"Rock weighs down paper," he said triumphantly. "Rock wins."
"What?"
"Ever since paper was first invented, it was so lightweight it fluttered away in the wind. People placed rocks on top to prevent this from happening. Rocks. The first paperweights."
Violet gaped at Sherlock. She was almost used to him explaining his train of thought after knowing him for nearly three weeks, but this was... this was... rock, scissors, paper, for God's sake.
"No, that's wrong," she said.
"There is no reason to wrap a rock in paper," Sherlock retorted. "It's too thin, it would rip. And who does that anyway? At least my scenario is an actual practical example of the rock-paper relationship."
"No, Sherlock." Violet didn't want to enter into this discussion for a game that had worked perfectly well all over the world for centuries. "That's not how it goes. Paper wraps rock. Okay next is scissors." Her fingers formed into the cutting implement. She lifted up Sherlock's remains of a rock and lightly tapped her fingers to it. "Rock blunts scissors, so—"
"No."
"No?" She dropped Sherlock's hand. What now?
"Knives, swords, scissors, in fact any bladed instrument can be sharpened by stone. A rock. Therefore rock enhances scissors, making the scissors superior. Scissors beat rock."
He fixed Violet with a smug look of satisfaction.
Violet tried to remain unphased.
"No, Sherlock. You're mucking it up."
"Well, what do scissors beat?"
"Paper." Violet flattened Sherlock's fist, uncurling his fingers. "See? Scissors cut paper. Okay? Does that work in your rock-scissors-paper alternate universe?"
"That's acceptable."
"Right then," Violet said, huffing lightly. "Let's do this."
She curled her fingers into a fist, the conventional starting pose for the game, when Sherlock called out, "Wait!"
"What?"
"What if we both happen to produce the same object? Can happen you know... balance of probability."
Violet tried to swallow her sigh.
"It's a draw, okay? It's not counted and we go again. Best of three. Ready?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied, forming his own fist opposite Violet's.
"Right. One, two..."
"Wait!"
"What, Sherlock?"
Sherlock leant forward a tad and dropped his voice. "Just so you know, I'll be producing scissors only."
"You're not supposed to tell m... Why?"
"With the exception of a draw, scissors will win every time."
"No they don't!"
"Scissors cut paper, and scissors are sharpened by rock. We've already discussed this."
Violet sat back, leaning against the booth seat, folding her arms in front of her.
"No, it's not designed that way. Everything has to be beaten by one other thing."
"Then you've chosen inappropriate objects. You should think things through next time."
Violet's eyes became hooded.
"I didn't make it up."
"Oh, and here's a tip," Sherlock said, leaning forward once more. "Don't ever choose paper."
"Paper wraps rock."
"Rock weighs down paper, and scissors cut paper. You'd be mad to choose paper. It loses every time."
Violet continued to glare at Sherlock, totally bewildered by his ability to turn a childhood game into a complicated debate. She was thrown however, when a smirk grew from one corner of his mouth into a grin which then became a chuckle.
"What?" she asked.
Sherlock's eyes glinted mischievously.
"I had you there for a minute," he laughed.
"What? You don't make jokes."
"Of course I've heard of Rock, Scissors, Paper. Nonsensical game of trite, used whenever two people lack the ability to negotiate options. No, I just wanted to hear you describe it and again offer my argument as to why the pairing of these objects since the game's origin is void of all logic and reason."
"What do you mean, 'again offer your argument'?"
"When I was seven I outlined the finer points to a boy in my class and suggested that my scissors would beat everything he could throw at me."
"And what did he say?"
"He slammed his rock into my face."
It was Violet's turn to laugh.
"Oh my God. You poor thing! At the age of seven?"
"Yes, well, had I known that incident was the first in a long history of being punched in the face for displaying my extraordinary powers of logic and reason I would've stored the memory in a more sentimental place."
"You frequently get punched?"
"Not as much anymore. These days I have more success at blocking the attempts, but the desire is there all the same."
"Oh Sherlock." She grasped his hand as it lay curled on the table in a loose fist, wrapping her paper around his rock once more, and said, "Why would anyone want to punch you in the face?"
She continued holding Sherlock's hand and was surprised when he turned his hand over and captured Violet's fingers in his. Her heart thundered at such a simple gesture and the warmth and affection she felt radiating from him. Surely he didn't mean anything by it? He was Sherlock Holmes.
They held hands for what seemed an eternity, when in all it would have been no longer than three seconds, before their brief moment of intimacy was interrupted by the arrival of their order. They both pulled their hands away as their coffees and the pancakes Violet had ordered were placed on the table.
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Violet had consumed two thirds of her pancakes before she started to play with her cutlery and jiggle in her seat. Good God, Sherlock thought, the woman was now on a sugar high. He steeled himself for the inevitable onslaught.
"How often do you go to bars?" she asked him.
Sherlock's stomach dropped just a little, but he kept his focus on his phone.
"Now and then," he murmured.
"So… that corresponds directly with how often you want to get laid."
Sherlock finally made eye contact with Violet. She was taking a sip of coffee with her teaspoon, her eyes bright, her mouth quirking into a smile.
For Christ's sake!
"Why do you care?" he asked. "What about you? You don't do casual sex, so the last time you indulged it would've been in your last relationship that ended three months ago. You've been without for longer than I have, so why aren't you playing the game?"
He raised his eyebrows in a challenging glare, to which Violet responded with another sly grin.
"I can take care of myself."
"What does that even mean?"
Violet's smiled broadened as she slowly stirred her coffee again. "I take care of myself," she repeated slowly, then sipped her coffee from her teaspoon again, quirking an eyebrow at Sherlock.
Sherlock furrowed his brow until it dawned on him what Violet meant by taking care of herself. His eyes widened as Violet's glistened in amusement, so Sherlock turned his attention to the window and the traffic outside, trying quite unsuccessfully not to imagine Violet taking care of herself.
"So, how often do you go out?" Violet asked again, clearly undeterred by Sherlock's redirection earlier.
"Why are you so interested in this?"
Violet's expression remained casual as she explained her fascination for Sherlock having another interest apart from solving cases, because it wasn't as if he went bowling or to the movies or theatre, was it? And again she suggested she was going to comp Sherlock a ticket to her next show now that she had won a role in a play.
Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes before taking a sip of his coffee.
"Maybe I'll get you two tickets," Violet added. "You could take your next date. A bit of the dramatic arts may impress her."
"Impress whom?"
Violet shrugged and began pushing the remaining third of the pancake stack around on her plate.
"Whoever you end up with on one of those nights you go out. And when you want to call them for a follow up date you'll have somewhere to take them."
"A follow up date," Sherlock intoned, enunciating each word as if they were foreign to his tongue.
"Don't you call them afterwards for a date?"
"No."
"You don't exchange phone numbers?"
"Some give me theirs. If I'm feeling particularly creative I'll give out Ander... the number of a guy I know." Sherlock smiled internally at the number of times he'd given out that weasel Anderson's phone number so that he could be abused by random women he had never bedded.
Violet's smile had disappeared.
"You never call them?" she asked.
"Never."
"So you're one of those guys," she muttered.
"If by one of those guys you mean the type of person who goes out for the express purpose of having no strings attached sex, then yes. But I'm not unusual in that respect. There are a lot of people that have the same attitude."
"So you only hook up with those sorts of women."
"I didn't say that."
"Then.. you're just an arsehole."
Sherlock tried to ignore the look of disapproval he found on Violet's face. Did he really care? Ah, nope. Maybe.
He cleared his throat and said, "Precisely. It's not like I haven't been called that one or two hundred times over the last decade."
"But what if you meet someone who's interesting? Don't you get her number at least? How do you... do you ever... I mean, when was the last time you were in a relationship?"
Sherlock stopped fiddling with his phone long enough to intone rapidly, "I don't have relationships. I don't have girlfriends. Dating is not an area in which I'm particularly interested in wasting my time."
Violet dropped her gaze and prodded a few pieces of pancake again, soaking them into the puddles of maple syrup.
"So… you've never..." she began.
"Never is probably too strong a word. I may have given the impression of being in a relationship at one stage or another. Mostly during my time at university. It seemed the socially acceptable thing to do; everyone was pairing off or doing something with someone. I was big on social experimentation in those days."
"Social experimentation?"
"Trying to fit in. Doing what was expected. I actually excelled at getting out of relationships, finding ever increasing ways to repulse whomever I was labelled with dating at the time." He leant forward and said, almost conspiratorially, "You know, the quickest and most efficient way to get a girl to dump you is to fuck her best friend, or someone in her inner circle if she doesn't have a specific BFF. Works every time. But sometimes you run out of op—"
The stunned looked on Violet's face suddenly reminded Sherlock just who he was talking to. It wasn't John Watson this time—although the facial expression mirrored his former flatmate's, at least initially. John had sat stunned in his armchair by the fire, after confronting Sherlock about why he continually made such derogatory remarks about the doctor's attempts at dating and subsequently finding out what a monumental prick Sherlock had been at uni.
The look Violet was giving Sherlock at the present moment prompted him to shut the fuck up immediately before he launched into a couple of particularly detailed anecdotes he didn't feel the need to censor for Doctor Watson's benefit.
"Anyway, the method I've perfected now seems to work well," he concluded swiftly, hoping to close off that particular avenue of discussion. "No awkward phone calls, lunches, mind-numbingly boring conversations or getting slapped in the face. Just sex."
Violet suddenly stood up. Her face had become a ghostly shade of pale.
"I-I think I ate too much," she said. "Back in a minute."
She left Sherlock for the public toilets at the back of the cafe.
Sherlock deduced that now Violet was going to vomit. The pancakes had done the trick. He used his own index finger to sample some of the maple syrup from her plate and screwed up his face after inserting his syrup-laden finger into his mouth. Ugh. One hundred percent sugar. Disgusting. No wonder Violet feels sick.
He prodded the remaining third of Violet's pancakes, curiously studying the previous top layer as it soaked up the maple syrup now that he had tipped the stack upside down. He wondered what the chef would think if he/she knew that Violet was vomiting two thirds of the pancakes into the toilet.
Probably a good thing that she had interrupted his revelations with needing a trip to the bathroom. He wasn't sure how she was actually taking the...
Hang on a minute.
Wait.
Sherlock blinked a couple of times, then ceased prodding the pancake stack. He straightened up and dropped the fork.
Oh Christ.
She wasn't sick at all.
Well done, came John Watson's voice. It seems the figment of Sherlock's imagination, his social compass, had emerged from underneath his own drunken stupor at last. You do understand what's happened here don't you?
Of course he bloody does, came his brother's voice. Look at the facts, Sherlock. She's attracted to you...
She doesn't indulge in casual sex, John volunteered.
She's confessed to being a romantic, sneered Mycroft.
And she's upset at your attitude toward relationships.
Upset, Sherlock repeated.
She doesn't just want to sleep with you; she wants a relationship with you, mate, John concluded for him. She's now upset after learning that her feelings will never be reciprocated. So, well done.
Good, added Mycroft. Grab a cab home to Baker Street and everything will be back to normal in the morning. Just add tonight's little incident to your list of social encounters to avoid in the future.
No, wait, Sherlock thought in a panic.
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