Chapter 14 - If I Wanted to Look at Naked Women

Violet woke up then dozed again repeatedly over the course of the morning, a dull headache her only welcome whenever she dared open her eyes. She was determined not to wake fully, because that would mean all thoughts about the stark reality of last night would dominate her mind, and she would much rather stay in a half-sleep state having seedy dreams about her neighbour who lived downstairs and what he could do to her in the back of a taxi.

When she'd finally had enough of the throbbing inside her head, she sat up and gulped down the water she had placed by her bedside the night before.

Could've been worse, she thought. I might have had a full-on hangover if it wasn't for Sherlock and his insistence I keep drinking water.

There was also the added benefit of them starting their drinking session early, and therefore finishing at a reasonable hour, spending the rest of the evening around Shoreditch walking off Violet's intoxication.

But a wave of sadness enveloped her. She almost felt as if Sherlock had rejected her, but he hadn't, had he? It wasn't like that. It was practically a mutual agreement not to continue the hanky panky they'd started in the stairwell. But would they have stopped if Mrs Hudson hadn't interrupted them?

It was easy to feel anger directed at Sherlock and his morally-challenged ideas about sexual intimacy. It was easy to lust after him once she remembered all the making out in the pub, the taxi and the stairwell. It was easy to long for him when she remembered with fondness his charm and tenderness. But it wasn't easy to decide to carry on as per normal—to tidy up around him and process his emails, do his banking and make cups of tea. How could she act as if nothing had happened last night?

And how would he feel about her? Would he be annoyed, remembering her constant badgering about revealing his secret night life to her; her incredulity that he could attract and bed women so effortlessly? Would he think she was a tease? A drunk? Immature?

All of the above?

Violet's thoughts dissolved into a cloud of self-doubt and paranoia. She sat up and threw her pillow away from her as if it were the cause of her sorrow.

What am I going to do today? Filing? Fake aloofness towards Sherlock? Baking with Mrs Hudson? Prepare for tonight's rehearsal?

Oh fuck, the rehearsal!

It was a first read-through and she hadn't even prepared. She was going to sound like a dick. Violet leapt out of bed, disrobing as she made her way to her ensuite to shower, thoughts of a certain Consulting Detective pushed to the back of her mind for the time being.

#

"Big night, was it?" Molly asked, her tone light and casual.

"Big night for what?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his microscope.

"Last night. You look tired. Chasing criminals around Hackney? Or were you out clubbing?"

Sherlock blinked and looked up.

"Clubbing?"

"Nightclubs. It was a joke, Sherlock. I heard about the Carfax case. All solved then?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, relieved for once that Molly was only pulling his leg and she hadn't suddenly developed his ability for deducing people's secret nightlife. "It turned out to be completely dull and uninteresting," he intoned, looking up and shooting a glance at the pathologist. "Not an organ harvester unfortunately." Sherlock turned his attention back to the eyepiece of the microscope.

"It's been ages since we've suspected one of those," Molly said cheerfully.

Sherlock paused at hearing her words, looked up at her again, and smiled appreciatively. Not many people would share in his enthusiasm for organ harvesters. Molly Hooper was unique in that respect.

But back to feeling guilty again and staring, unseeing, into the microscope. It's not as if he felt completely guilty about his actions last night after all. Actions that almost involved having sex with his personal assistant.

Not a one-night stand.

It wouldn't have been. He would have made it so it was different for her, somehow. He wanted... something more, didn't he? But where to go from here?

Far better to hide out at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital than to face an awkward encounter back at the flat.

#

Violet lay on her stomach, her upper torso half hanging off the edge of her bed, the script open beside her. She rifled through her bag that was dumped on the floor underneath the bed, searching unsuccessfully for a pen. She sighed and her stomach grumbled, also reminding her that she hadn't had breakfast.

Well there's no avoiding it. I'm going to have to see him at some stage.

Sherlock had suggested the other day that she could have the use of his kitchen now that she worked for him, to save her having to climb two flights of stairs every time she needed something to eat or drink. That meant hurrying past his door on her way to Mrs Hudson's kitchen would seem a bit odd.

She brushed her hair, then ran her fingers through it a bit so it looked artfully tousled. What the fuck is that? Violet took in the mark on her neck via her reflection in the mirror and frowned. Good God. She rearranged her hair about her shoulders, took a deep breath and went downstairs.

She needn't have bothered. He wasn't there.

She surveyed the living room as she walked through, turning back to scan the wall above the couch that was still adorned with evidence from the Frances Carfax case.

Violet sighed at the cause of her woes when something caught her eye: the single coat on the back of the living room door. The horrible hated black coat. At least that's now what she thought of it. She wondered if she'd ever see him use it. Would she be sitting there, in her now favourite armchair hugging the Union Jack cushion, while he happily donned the coat, saying, "Well, goodnight Violet. I'm off to shag some poor unsuspecting slut in an alleyway."

Violet scowled and was immediately angry with Sherlock for being so insensitive in her imaginary scenario. With a huff, she turned back to the kitchen and searched all of the cupboards for cereal.

No weetabix, just cornflakes, which she didn't fancy.

She went to the fridge to check for her yoghurt. Of course it was missing. Anything she had put in there recently went missing. And she knew Sherlock wasn't eating it. He was experimenting with different homemade bait to try to catch the rats in her ceiling. She shuddered, remembering he had said something about rats liking raw meat, and he had fished the frozen human fingers out of the freezer. Souvenirs from the morgue.

Violet made her way downstairs. She felt like having some of Mrs Hudson's secret stash of fruit loops. Loud laughter and conversation flowed up the stairwell, emanating from the landlady's kitchen.

Damn! The neighbourhood charity bake-off! Violet remembered that was why Mrs Hudson had asked her if she wanted to help with baking today. It seemed she had all the help she needed.

Violet backed away from her landlady's kitchen. Looks like it was going to be cornflakes after all.

#

"Molly, you go out on dates, don't you?" Sherlock asked, as he wound his scarf around his neck in preparation for leaving the pathology lab.

Molly looked up from her paperwork, her brow furrowed. "Er..."

"So, how do they approach you?" Sherlock pressed on. "The potential dates, I mean."

Sherlock had been debating his next step for the past two hours and he couldn't see any way round it. He had to have sex with Violet, and for that, he needed to conduct further research.

And Molly was a woman.

"Um... they... they talk to me in the canteen," Molly began, still frowning. ".. or over a um... pathology request... Why?"

Sherlock sighed. All not applicable to his situation. And besides, he and Violet already had an established connection. A couple, in fact. They both lodged with Mrs Hudson, and now Violet worked for him. It was the next step he needed to know about.

"So, how soon do you have sex with your dates?"

Molly's mouth opened but nothing came out. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"An approximate estimate," he added. "Or an average. Whatever information you have to hand."

"Um... why Sherlock? Are you going on a date?" Molly's smile indicated she was being facetious again, but Sherlock's stomach kept churning because her light-hearted remarks and jokes were getting too close to the truth.

"It's... for a case," he replied. "Someone's alibi depends on it."

He would prove to Violet he wasn't going to be an arsehole to her. He had to show her that he wouldn't discard her the morning after, and for that, he needed the night before to occur first. Perfectly logical.

Molly took a deep breath.

"Well... um... it depends on the guy. If there's already a physical attraction then it wouldn't be long. But if there isn't, I may need a few more dates." Her eyes suddenly sparkled. "Or loads of alcohol," she added, laughing.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. They'd already had loads of alcohol, and he didn't want to revisit that again. Ever.

"So, if there's already a physical attraction?" he probed.

Molly's mouth curved into a smile, her eyes glistening with mischief.

"I'd bonk him straight away."

Sherlock widened his eyes at Molly's frankness, but he quickly tried to recompose himself.

"And how do you get from talking over pathology reports to... bonking?" he asked, his lips struggling to form the unfamiliar colloquialism.

Molly gave Sherlock a perplexing look.

"By... going out on a date?"

"Oh. Right. We've come back to that."

Sherlock sighed. He was getting nowhere. He had to find out from someone else. He left the pathology lab and a thoroughly confused pathologist, not having achieved a whole lot. On his way through the corridors of St Bart's, he phoned his favourite Detective Inspector. Gavin Lestrade was a man after all. And good at it.

"Ah, Sherlock," came the D.I.'s voice as he answered his phone almost immediately. "The press conference is about to start. Are you on your way?"

"No, Detective Inspector," Sherlock replied, stepping out onto the street. "I'm skipping media attention, remember? No, I'm after some information."

"About what?"

Sherlock paused momentarily before the lies came tumbling out. "Just for a client... a new case that's come in."

"Fire away."

"Let's just say you wanted to have sex with someone in your office. A woman, probably, but anyone's fine really..."

There was a pause before the Scotland Yard detective remarked, "Say again?"

"Maybe Sally?" Sherlock offered enthusiastically. "Or not Sally. I dunno. Someone."

"What?"

Sherlock really had no idea what he was supposed to be asking. "How do you get from her fetching your coffee to lying naked in your bedroom?"

"Sorry, what? Sherlock you're not making any sense." Silence ensued once more, before the D.I. spoke in a low voice. "Are you and your brother having me followed?"

"What? No. No!" Sherlock said hurriedly. "This is a hypothetical situation." The Consulting Detective quirked an eyebrow however and made a mental note to have Lestrade followed.

"What's your question exactly?"

"H-how do you get from the woman fetching you coffee, to having sex with her?"

"Are we talking about my life, or a pornographic film? Because that's the only place I see something like that happening in so short a period. Look, Sherlock, gotta go. Press pack's here. Call me back in an hour if you have any more questions. Specific questions."

Sherlock sighed and was just about to end the call when Lestrade said, "Oh, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Just wanted to advise you, for next time you're out on a case for us..."

"Yes?"

"Might be wise not to bring Miss Hunter along. Yeah? Just if she's, y'know... I mean, she's not exactly John Watson. She doesn't have any medical qualifications or anything does she?"

"No."

"Yeah, so it's probably best if you leave her at home. Don't want to upset her... delicate sensibilities again. May prove to be disruptive to the investigation."

"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock responded wearily. He wasn't in the mood for pointing out that it was Violet who had extracted a confession out of the man Scotland Yard hadn't even identified as a suspect in the disappearance of Frances Carfax. But deep down, Sherlock knew the senior detective was right—Violet was far too sensitive to accompany him on cases in the future.

Lestrade ended the call and Sherlock hailed a cab from outside Bart's and reflected on the D.I's advice to him. He wondered if he should use John's Watson credit card details again to watch pornography on his laptop. Would that help him at all?

He dismissed the notion of asking John before the idea was even half-formed in Sherlock's mind. No, John was the last person from whom he'd want to receive dating advice. John would flirt with and chat up women anywhere in the hope that someone would eventually say yes. Even one of Mycroft's minions who had just aided and abetted in the man's own kidnapping hadn't been spared. But when there was someone the doctor was genuinely interested in, he moved at the pace of a stalagmite. It was months before he and Mary went out on a date following the resolution of her case, and even then it was she who'd asked him. And then it took them another month before they'd even had sex. Sherlock knew about that milestone because of the stupid grin John could not remove from his face the next day.

Plus they were rather noisy upstairs that particular evening.

In conclusion, Sherlock decided he'd have to solve this particular puzzle himself.

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