Dawn is lifting its head before things settle down again. Rucastle, they've heard, is in intensive care. The dog's body has been removed from the property. Alice was less than amused by this. Alice, it seems, had her own plans for Carlo. The more she spoke, the longer she sat there, the clearer it became that it's going to take a lot of work to bring her back to the world. She claimed, for instance, that as it was her property and Carlo was a family pet, she ought to have certain rights and say-so over what was done with the corpse. She wanted it left to rot, she said, in the bunker that had held her, and only once the mutt was thoroughly putrefied was the hole to be filled in with concrete. She's had a lot of time to think about these things.
Sherlock won't begin to relate the things he heard her mutter about her father. He's pretending he never heard them at all. That way, if she acts on any of them, he never heard her talking and has no reason to suspect her and no evidence to give.
About an hour ago, two quietly respectful police came to the back door. Not like the city at all. They waited there, even when Alice ignored them.
"I think you should speak to them," John tried. She'd been asking him the details of cases, blithely and hungrily pursuing the goriest of details. He hadn't been comfortable for a long time.
But she wouldn't bite, take the distraction, "Why? They saw what's down there. They know what happened to me. Sherlock can explain. He knows it all. Can't you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock knew what to say. Exactly what would move her, get the job done. It stuck in his throat a little. Until it was out, he didn't know why. He said, "Do you want your father to go to prison?"
Alice nodded gravely. "Forever."
"Then let the police in and tell them everything."
It was cruel. That was made him hang low in his chair, that was why he couldn't meet her eye when he waved her limply toward the back door. John had been doing all that hard work, trying to keep her in the moment. He asked her about physical factors, about heat and cold and pins and needles, about tinnitus and nausea and headache, just to make her remember that she's real. And there he was, sending her right back.
But it did the trick. Alice got up, and went to the door with her head high and her shoulders back like a queen. She brought the officers in and brought them to the living room and there they've been ever since.
John knew it was cruel. He responded with a cruelty of his own. "You were going to stand and watch that man be attacked."
"I had no way of getting between them."
"The dog would have killed him."
"Yes."
"You know that's not really what Alice wants. She's been traumatised. They're fantasies, to help her cope. She doesn't really want to see him mauled to death." Well, Sherlock could have questioned that. Or he could have asked who mentioned what Alice wants in the first place? He'd thought they were talking about him.
The whole hour between has gone by in utter silence, except for the mumble of voices from the next room. Someone asks the wrong question, and Alice shouts an indistinct answer. After that, the quiet isn't quite the same.
"There ought to be a psychiatrist in there with her," John mutters.
"It's just a statement."
"That lantern she had, Sherlock, the only light down there. It winds up. It's not batteries or electric or anything, you have to wind it."
"Ah. The enhanced muscle definition on her right arm. Didn't like to guess what that was about."
"Oh, come on…" Sherlock shrugs. John is glaring. He's going to get told off now. He's too tired to figure out why and the ache is returning to his arm, strengthening throb by throb. He'll just wait. Ride it out. Hopefully it won't take too long. "I'm sorry."
"Hm, right. Yes, f…" This is not a bollocking. "Sorry, what?"
"That's where she was. She was in the dark already when we got here, wasn't she? And I didn't believe you. I didn't, Sherlock. I thought Violet had gotten to you. Whatever that means… Because you knew her or because of how you knew her and… And I couldn't just believe that she was clean. I'm sorry I doubted you and I don't know why I did."
"Violet's not clean. Not entirely. That first time we saw her I'm not sure she even knew it. I've got the feeling Rucastle's been keeping her quiet and compliant virtually since she arrived. Then, tonight, well… that was a panic dose. He could have killed her. How was she when you saw her?"
A nice, elegant change of subject, no? He's quite proud of that one.
But John's starting to get that furrowed look around the eyes. "She just met me on the road, I didn't stop. Why? What h-?"
He finishes what he's saying, but it's drowned in the scream from the living room. Both at once, they run to help.
Alice had been perched again, this time on the sideboard. She fell from there when she screamed, and is bundled now on the floor with one arm outstretched, pointing at something unseen outside the window. The police are following her line of sight and one of them swears.
Sherlock doesn't need to look. He leaves Alice in John's hands and goes to the front lawn.
Violet isn't screaming, and she didn't fall. But she can't move from the place where she was spotted. She is visibly trembling, swaying. He goes as close to her as he dares, quietly reminding her of her name. About a minute after he speaks she hears his voice and grabs out hard for his arm. "Sherlock. Sherlock, what did he give me? Sherlock, I was inside. I looked inside and I saw myself inside, but I'm out here. I'm freaking out. It's whatever he gave me, I'm freaking out." Quite suddenly, quite before he's ready for it she spins and flings both arms around him, hiding her face against his chest. His arms hang stiff by his side for just a few seconds before he enfolds her.
"You're fine," he whispers. "You're not freaking out. I'm sorry you've been alone all night. I thought the ambulance would have helped you. You're not freaking out."
"But I'm inside. And out here. But I'm inside."
"No. No, that girl inside is Alice. Her hair's growing out, she's thinner and paler than you, and she doesn't have this freckle-" He touches it so she'll know the one he means, "-behind her ear. You're not freaking out. Coming down, yes, but nothing nastier than that."
Her shaking slows, and finally ceases. He slowly lets go of her. Another minute, and she takes the hint. "What am I going to do?" she asks him. "I gave up my place in the city, and I didn't get paid, and I d-"
"Shh. Don't think about that now." Over her shoulder, he watches the front door swing. One of the officers comes out, followed by Alice with the other. "Look. I think you helped. Alice was refusing to leave the house until now."
"I don't want to look."
"You don't have to." Behind the rest of the pack, John follows with his coat. "Stand right there, don't turn round. I'll come straight back to you." He hurries to meet John halfway, muttering, "She's still a little dazed. Be kind."
With cool appraisal, "Check you out. Mr Compassion, all of a sudden."
Let him joke. Let him keep his sarcasm. Maybe another day, Sherlock will let him in on why.
He was here this time. No one had to die. He was here in time. Violet is alive. Alice is alive. Rucastle will be brought to justice. He was here. And he can't say that nobody got hurt, but nobody had to die. It's more than he dares to hope for, on a normal day. So let John keep his good humour, and Sherlock will keep his. Just this once, he'll keep his.