Chapter 12 – Who Would She Bother Protecting?

Violet stepped out of the shower and towel-dried her hair, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She'd already assessed it quite a few times since returning home, and there was nothing she could do about the bruised cheek or the cut lip. Staring and obsessing over them several more times was an exercise in futility and worry.

Her mind would then drift to Sherlock, and whatever his reaction might be. Her insides were awash with guilt and regret, and part of her was glad he was going to stop in Birmingham on the way back from Manchester to investigate the cold case of Lauren Myrtle's murder. If he needed to be there for most of the week, that would be great, wouldn't it? Her mess of a face wouldn't be so raw then, and she may not have to explain anything to him. This was between her and Jake, as it always had been. There was only the message to deliver, wasn't there?

But the idea of Sherlock being away for a few more days made Violet's heart race. She needed him here, and now! More than ever. For what? She didn't know. Just to hold her. Just to be not like Jake Venucci. Just to not be Jake. To remind her that this is her life now.

Violet picked up her phone several times, in between dressing, making herself a cup of tea, cutting off her nail extensions, applying icepacks, and staring at the almost empty fridge wondering if she had an appetite for lunch yet. She also had to do something about her work. Should she call or email the studio and say she was sick? For how many days? Or could they cover up the bruising and split lip with make-up, if she could think up a plausible lie for how she got them?

She could lie to the studio—she had to lie to the studio—but she had promised herself never to keep things from Sherlock again. Look at how that had escalated last time.

In between thinking and dwelling, Violet managed to clean and tidy around her dad's flat—a rare occurrence for her, but she was trying to keep herself occupied. She was just loading the washing machine when her phone began to ring. The caller id she most wanted and most feared to see lit up the screen. Sherlock.

Violet squeezed her nose hard, to stop the build up of pressure that would have her sob out a greeting instead of answering calmly. She forced a smile to her lips as she swiped the screen to answer, giving her "hello," an almost pleasant ring to it. Sherlock's greeting held his usual warmth and affection for her, and Violet almost lost it for the second time.

"How's it going?" she managed to ask, keeping her tone light and conversational.

"Despite nearly everyone in Manchester asking me if I'm all right every five minutes, they're actually halfway to being competent," Sherlock replied, then he launched into a description of a couple of detective sergeants and their DCI who possessed a small amount of imagination, which was a crucial attribute to have in the business of solving crimes. Then he mentioned the half-wits at Scotland Yard, so it was a comparative verbal essay then, and Violet was grateful for the chance to compose herself before she was required to respond.

"But I'm just on my way to the station," he said, after his CID analysis, "So I'll be in Birmingham this afternoon. One of the detectives who originally worked on Lauren's case is retired, so I can visit her tonight. Then I'll spend most of the week with the West Midlands CID. Perhaps I'll still be there by the weekend if you want to join me. Do you have anything on?"

Violet heard a disembodied voice, small, feeble and kind of desperate, say, "Please come home."

Then she realised it was her own voice, and she hoped she hadn't said that out loud.

But Sherlock was silent for a moment or two, perhaps still waiting for her to answer about her plans for next weekend, until he spoke. His voice had dropped a notch.

"Why? Violet's what's wrong?"

Dammit! She had spoken her needy thoughts aloud.

"I'm…" she took a step backward, then about-faced and began to pace around the flat, hoping a clearer thought would come to her in a new location. "I'm just tired… and emotional. Don't worry." She increased her stride, perhaps to outmanoeuvre her irrational emotions. "And I've been doing housework. I don't know why. Dad still has a cleaner coming every Wednesday. I guess he knows how hopeless I am at tidying up. I really shouldn't bother with the cleaning aspect because—"

"Violet."

"—she's going to clean everything again anyway."

"What's happened?"

Violet came to an abrupt halt. What was she thinking? Her boyfriend was Sherlock Holmes. She'd never get away with fooling him.

"Just come home," she said in defeat. "I have to go."

And she ended the call.

Violet dropped her hand to her side, and had only managed to draw in a calming breath when her phone began to ring again. She knew who it was without checking the screen. She answered anyway, but didn't have to speak.

Sherlock said immediately, "I'm going to catch the next train to London. Tell me what happened, and do it quickly before I lose service. And even if I do, I'll ring you back as soon as it returns."

"No," she said. "Just come home. I'm fine… going to be fine… now."

"Violet."

"Just come home, Sherlock. And we'll talk. I promise."

And she regretfully ended the call once more. She hoped Sherlock would rush to catch the train, with getting back here a bigger priority than trying to convince her to talk to him.

She hated this. She knew he was worried now. She stared at her phone screen again, both daring it to ring, and willing it not to ring.

Just catch the damn train, Sherlock.

She didn't want to tell him anything about Jake while Sherlock was still in Manchester. What if he decided to stay there and wait for Jake to return? Jake was already on his way north, so she had to get her boyfriend back here before she told him anything.

Her phone didn't ring again in spite of Violet keeping it in her hand instead of her pocket, just so she could glare at the screen now and again. She eventually pocketed it and got back to her household chores by pulling out the ironing board. She was going to iron all of her clothes for the coming week. How organised would that be!

She was just getting set up in the living room when the intercom for the entrance door downstairs buzzed. Violet froze. Surely it couldn't be Sherlock already! But two things told her that that was unlikely: it had only been half an hour since she spoke to him, and he had his own access card.

Violet thought she would just pretend she was out, and not answer. There was no way she could let anyway see her just yet, with her face looking like this. What if it was Mandi? The fuss she'd make!

But Violet found herself in front of the security panel anyway. She wanted to at least check the screen to see who it was in case she needed to lie about her whereabouts later. So many lies!

Violet pressed the button to turn on the camera feed that would show the entrance downstairs from a camera mounted above the door, rather than the one in front of the caller, which would turn on a light letting the caller know you were watching them. Violet was stunned to see John Watson standing there. She wondered why he would be here. Did he even know she'd moved? John and Mary had never visited her when she was living at her dad's last year, so she didn't even think they had the address.

Violet could see John was restlessly moving his feet, the way he did when he was agitated. And when he turned to glance at the door, she saw the phone he held up to his ear. The way he was moving his head told her that he was speaking, and he wasn't happy. It didn't take a Consulting Detective to deduce who he was speaking to.

No wonder Sherlock hadn't phoned her again. Obviously he'd got hold of his best friend and demanded he check up on Violet on his behalf. And keep me on the line, John, he would've ordered his friend, and tell me how she is. So he must be travelling on the part of the overground that enabled his phone to get a signal. Unless he was still in Manchester!

Violet clenched her fists, a hurried plan forming in her mind. She reached out and pressed the intercom.

"Hi John! Second floor, 7B. See you soon."

And she raced off to her dad's study.

-o-

"I'm sure she's fine," John said wearily for the umpteenth time since Sherlock had phoned him. "And I'm only on the first floor, hang on!"

John continued tromping up the stairs. His efforts to enlighten his best friend about the ways and wonders of women and their menstrual cycle had fallen on deaf ears, and the doctor found himself in a cab racing across London to appease the mind of the world's only Consulting Detective.

"Okay," he said, continuing in his running commentary on his current location. "Second floor. Now how does this numbering system work? Is there a 7A?"

"All the B's are on the second floor," Sherlock replied. "The A's are on the first floor. They're trying to be trendy or something."

John sighed and continued walking. "Five, six... okay seven."

"Press the buzzer by the side of the—"

"Yeah, I can see that," John replied irritably. It wasn't like he was about to defuse a bomb or anything. Or was he? Wasn't it enough that he had his own fiancée's moods to decipher? How had he found himself acting as the female mood interpreter for Sherlock Holmes?

"Yes, Sherlock," he had said to the detective-genius in the cab on the way over. "We all know that when a woman says she's fine it means the exact opposite."

John heard footsteps approaching the door. Should he commentate on everything? Violet would think he was a dickhead.

"Okay," he said into the phone, gearing himself up for describing Violet's mood in intricate detail.

The door opened a little and a note was thrust out and held in front of him.

"I'm..." John began, before narrowing his eyes and scanning the rather large words scrawled in uppercase on the notepaper.

DON'T SAY
ANYTHING
TO
SHERLOCK!

"Ah... here's..."

The notepaper was turned over, and the writing was a tad smaller.

HE HAS TO
COME BACK
TO LONDON!
If you tell him
what you see
he will stay up
north!

The door opened wider, and John saw Violet's face.

"...Violet. Okay, better go say hello, otherwise she'll think I'm a rude bastard."

"John."

John quickly ended the call before Sherlock could get another word out. Violet opened the door wider and ushered him in.

"Jesus Christ," he said.

"It looks worse than it is."

"It looks fucking bad, Violet. Excuse my language."

John's phone began to ring again.

"I'm sorry, John," Violet said, closing the door behind him.

"Ah, yeah," John said, rejecting the call then pocketing his phone. "He's going to be pissed if I keep doing that. Do you want me to have a look?"

"I think I'm okay."

"Just your face?" John asked, fearing much, much worse.

Violet nodded. "Really, I'm okay."

"Just let me check."

John followed Violet to the living room sofa, glad that she had acquiesced. He sat on the coffee table in front of her to examine her facial injuries. He was fairly satisfied she had done all the right things, such as applying ice and making sure the cut on her lip stayed cleaned. He verified that she wasn't experiencing any numbness about the face, or double or blurred vision, and she could close her mouth properly. He had kept all conversation strictly to her injuries, pausing only once to turn his phone off when Sherlock called again.

But now delicate questions needed to be asked.

"Why would Sherlock not want to come home if he knew you were... injured?"

"Because of how it happened."

John emitted a discreet sigh. Was Violet going to be cagey about the cause of her injury?

"John, I'm sorry," Violet continued. "You deserve to hear the truth after helping me lie to Sherlock."

"Look, if you need a bit of time—"

"No. It's fine. It was... a bit of an... accident. An argument that got out of hand… a little."

"With… who?"

"My ex-boyfriend. The one from Manchester. Well, he was heading back, and I didn't want Sherlock to stay up there, waiting for him."

"Oh. Ah… Jacob... Venucci, was it?"

"Yes."

John cleared his throat, but it was really in an effort to clear his mind of the memory of the photo he had seen of Violet and Venucci having sex, courtesy of Mycroft's file. He really, really would like to forget that image.

"So..." John began. "You had an argument?"

"Yes, and I got upset, and hit him a couple of times. Head-butted him, actually. And then he shoved me and I fell face-first onto a coffee table. I know, it sounds stupid, but that's what happened."

John raked his eyes over Violet's face once more. "Right," he said. "Sherlock would probably..."

"He'd get upset and blame Jake. Or something. I don't know. He once head-butted another ex-boyfriend of mine because he said something derogatory about me. Or us. I can't remember."

John's eyebrows shot up. This was news to him. He thought Sherlock was fairly immune to name-calling. Although, John guessed, if the insult wasn't directed at the Consulting Detective but the woman he loved, well that was a whole other thing.

Violet offered to make John a cup of tea, but had to renege when she discovered she was out of milk. John offered to go to the shops for her and pick up a few other items if she liked. Violet had said she would be fine without the other things, as Sherlock would be back in the city soon and he could take care of the shopping, but John insisted that he at least go pick up milk and something for afternoon tea.

He left the Brassworks in two minds as to whether he should turn his phone back on or not, or incur the Consulting Detective's wrath later. Perhaps he'd take his chances on Sherlock's wrath much later, he finally decided.

-oOo-