Chapter 25 - All That is False and Specious

Violet was at the living room table sorting the mail that had come in on Friday. Sherlock was seated in his armchair, hands steepled to his chin and his eyes closed as if in meditation. Violet thought he was on his way down, mood-wise, because he couldn't progress the Silver Blaze case until they arrived in Tavistock tomorrow, so the rest of the day was a huge vacuum of inaction as far as he was concerned.

She would have preferred curling up in Sherlock's lap and enticing a better mood out of him that way, but she was still a little unsure what Sherlock was actually doing when he sat in his armchair with his eyes closed. Violet decided she ought to quietly attend to some small tasks until he came out of his reverie. She also wanted to ask him if he'd like to go to the theatre with her tonight, so she thought it best to give him some space first.

Her phone buzzed with a text message from a number she didn't recognise.

Hey Violet. I got your number from Mrs H. Sorry about my abrupt departure earlier. Sherlock told me you and he were now in a relationship and I may have appeared less than supportive. Sherlock is a complicated man when it comes to these things, so if you ever need a sympathetic ear, don't hesitate to get in touch. -John.

Almost immediately, a second message came in:

Save my number, but delete these messages. He's a nosy bastard! -JW

Violet sent a quick thanks to John, saved his number in her phone, then deleted the conversation from her messages. She smiled to herself at John's comment, Sherlock is a complicated man, and felt relieved that she had the support of someone who was now confirmed in her own mind as being one of Sherlock's closest friends.

Violet returned to her sorting when her phone rang. It was her friend Alice, reminding Violet about her play tonight. Violet chatted to her for a while, ending the call with promises to see her at the theatre tonight.

She rotated the phone in her hand while she contemplated whether or not to invite Sherlock along to the theatre tonight.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, without twisting around in his seat to look at her.

"What?" Violet asked, immediately feeling guilty.

"You've sighed three times in the last two minutes."

There is no hiding anything from this man, thought Violet. She made her way over to her comfy chair, deciding quickly. She sat down and hugged the cushion.

"I've planned to go to the theatre tonight," she began.

"So I heard."

"Well, a friend of mine, Alice, you know, the friend I went to the chair monologues with... well, she and I have always had this long-standing promise to go to each other's plays. She's in a play that's finishing it's run tonight. So..."

"So, you're going to the theatre," he finished, gesturing with his hands at the obvious conclusion.

"Um... well, I was planning to go with Mandi, another friend of mine... she's not in the theatre. She's a consultant for Cleo de Thebes, in Selfridges. I get loads of free samples, and..." Violet paused as Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in response to her getting sidetracked. "Um, anyway, she's bringing her new boyfriend. So..."

Sherlock shrugged instead of prompting Violet for more information.

"So," Violet continued, undeterred by Sherlock's non-responsiveness, "... I was wondering if you'd like to come too."

Sherlock's face remained expressionless. Violet couldn't read him at all.

"Do… do you want me to come with you?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," Violet answered, her heart swelling with excitement. "We could go out to dinner first!"

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They were standing outside an Italian restaurant in a small side-street in Waterloo, half a block from the Napoleon Theatre. Sherlock had almost experienced a meltdown, and had been pacing frantically, raking his hands through his hair while Violet finished a phone conversation with Mandi. Her friend was already at the theatre and was in a panic that Violet hadn't appeared yet. Violet assured her that she and Sherlock had just finished dinner around the corner and would be there in plenty of time for a pre-show glass of wine.

This snippet of information brought another round of angst to Sherlock's already delicate psyche and his face paled even more so than usual.

An evening out with friends.

Another milestone on the Things To Do With Girlfriends Chart of Horror.

They actually hadn't partaken in dinner with friends, but the evening out was rapidly devolving into something equally distasteful to his palate. Violet had assured Sherlock that dinner would be just the two of them, because Mandi and her boyfriend, Rhys, were having fish and chips along the south bank with a group of Rhys' friends. But over the meal, Sherlock had become more taciturn as the minutes ticked by. He barely ate the escalope of veal that Violet had ordered for him because he said he rarely ate dinner and didn't care what was delivered. He tried to keep both his mind occupied and Violet entertained by deducing the lives of the other patrons.

Violet had tried to keep his interest levels up by pointing out who the various celebrities were in the photographs dotted around the wall. As far as Sherlock was concerned, there wasn't a famous person among them. Where was Billy Kincaid, the Camden Garrotter, or Tonya Small, the Clarence House Cannibal?

When Violet glanced at the time on her phone and said that they'd better get going, Sherlock could hear the clangs of the Executioner's Bell. He'd listened to Violet's conversation with Mandi on the phone outside, and the clanging in his head was reaching the end of its obligatory twelve peals. He was going to be marched to the gallows now.

"Are you okay?" Violet asked, grabbing his hand as they began the death march toward the theatre.

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly and longed to tune out when Violet began informing him of the history of the Napoleon Theatre—that it had been a disused railway arch, and the owner had appeared in music videos in the eighties. The theatre also didn't receive any funding, so tonight was a 'pay what you can' night. There was no reserve seating and Violet hadn't booked because they didn't expect a full house.

Sherlock's thoughts had turned to the torturous experience he was about to have, and strategised over how he was going to cope with it. His theatre experiences in the past were few and far between. His last such encounter had them attending a Chinese circus, and admittedly, that had been disguised as a date - for John and Sarah at least, because Sherlock was working a case.

The time before that was also for a case - The Navel Treatment, as named by John in his blog. Sherlock had preferred to call it The Bellybutton Murders.

The theatre scene for Sherlock housed one contradiction after another. The aim may be to take the audience on a journey, or unravel a mystery, but to Sherlock the words and actions of the cast were always at odds. Did they not know this? Were they not taught this? If your entire career was built around the ability to fool audiences into thinking you were somebody else then wouldn't you make sure you had actually mastered that skill before you even took to the stage? Uttering the words of a script out loud with a few random gestures thrown in does not make an actor, in Sherlock's opinion, and it should be a crime against humanity to even slap the label 'entertainment' on what they did.

And don't get him started on the sets and costumes. What a huge disappointment they were. People's histories, occupations and what they'd got up to in the last five minutes when they thought they were alone were contained within both garments and residences. Theatres sets and costumes were devoid of all such things, unless they were important to the plot, in which case they were quite obvious and made the plot predictable.

Boring.

Dull.

Entirely predictable.

The most interesting element that Sherlock could find in a theatrical experience was in the audience. But it wasn't socially acceptable to turn around and glare at the man coughing behind you to scold him for trying to pretend he hadn't smoked an entire packet of cigarettes the day before and had been trying to hide the fact from his... wife? No. Mistress. Oh, she's you're wife, sir? he'd asked the man sitting on the other side. But she's clearly been having sex with Mr. Emphysema here.

Not socially acceptable. Could get you kicked out of the show.

In fact he had been.

Didn't matter. He was tired of having sex with the girl he'd accompanied to that particular show that evening. He was only trying to impress her best friend—line her up for next time.

But tonight he had someone important not to impress specifically, but someone he must not upset. It was her industry after all. What was he going to do? Not fiddle, twitch, moan or cradle his head in his hands because the horror of it all overloaded his senses?

They were at the theatre now, and Sherlock swallowed hard. His first experience wasn't as painful as he thought it was going to be: meeting Violet's friend. Violet had an inkling about what could possibly happen and devised a scheme beforehand. They'd keep holding hands when Sherlock was introduced to Mandi and her boyfriend, Rhys, and if Sherlock even hinted that he was going to launch into an inappropriate observation, then Violet would squeeze his hand.

Mandi was an excitable redhead originally from Manchester, and she squealed when she caught sight of Violet's new hair colour. Mandi greeted Sherlock superficially and introduced both Sherlock and Violet to Rhys, but then proceeded to ignore both men as if they were accessories. Sherlock offered to purchase his and Violet's tickets so he could escape for just a moment. When he returned, the conversation still appeared shallow and uninteresting, even when Violet was speaking, so Sherlock moved it to the background of his thoughts. He sighed and looked down.

Shoes.

Shoes everywhere.

Now shoes are interesting. You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes. For example, that man is clearly gay.

Sherlock's eyes navigated the legs that the shoes belonged to and ended up on Rhys' face. Sherlock stared at the man, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. Then with a bored shrug, he turned away again and thought, Oh well. Whatever.

When Rhys left to go to the men's room, and Mandi had found someone else to squeal at, Sherlock leant toward Violet and whispered, "I thought he was her boyfriend."

"He is," Violet answered with a puzzled look on her face.

"But he's gay," Sherlock stated.

"What?"

"Or... bi," Sherlock hastened to add, lest he upset Violet, "Or... in the closet. Did you say we were going to have drinks beforehand?"

Violet's brow furrowed, clearly at Sherlock's attempt at backtracking and changing the subject.

"No," she said. "We're just about to go in. There isn't time."

"Pity," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Alcohol was his last hope.

An electronic bell sounded, signalling that the performance was going to start in fifteen minutes. Sherlock interpreted the ringing as a modern, light-hearted Executioner's Bell. When he felt his chest start to constrict, he tried to inhale deeply to calm himself down.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Violet asked, noticing his obvious discomfort.

"Can we just go outside for a bit? Fresh air." Sherlock didn't wait for a response from Violet, but strode across the theatre's bar area, and through the foyer before escaping outside.

He was relieved to find that Violet had followed him anyway, her face full of concern.

"I can't do it," he said, almost muttering to himself and pacing along the footpath.

"Sherlock?"

"Can't go in," he ranted, still pacing.

"Sherlock, what—?"

Sherlock pulled up in front of Violet, a pained expression marring his features. "Violet, I'm sorry. I can't do it. It's too contrived. Full of idiots. Devoid of all that's disturbing and evil in this world and therefore excruciatingly painful to watch."

"What? The play?"

"All of it. The theatre..." He stopped short and studied Violet's eyes for signs of her taking offence.

Her worried expression softened, revealing a hint of a smile. "You mean the whole entertainment industry—the stuff you don't understand?"

Sherlock slowly nodded.

Violet's smile broadened and she lifted her hand to his cheek. As her fingers lightly stroked his face, she said softly, "Then we won't go in, okay?"

"But... your friend..."

"It's fine. We purchased tickets, so that helps the production company. And anyway, I've seen Alice perform loads of times. She tends to swing between over-emotional and just plain shouting..." And then her expression contorted, as if another thought had struck her.

"Sherlock, how much did you pay for the tickets?"

Sherlock knew it was a 'pay what you can' night and Violet probably hoped Sherlock went along with it and didn't demand that the box office pay him to attend.

"Oh... fifty pounds," he said dismissively. "Each."

Violet gaped, causing Sherlock to second guess himself.

"Is that not enough?"

Violet gave him an encouraging smile and wound her arms around his neck. Sherlock frowned at the display of affection out on a public street.

"That's wonderful," she replied. "But we don't have to go in now. You've already taken me to dinner and met a friend of mine. Plus you've generously donated to the theatre. That's probably enough for one evening."

Sherlock felt confused. He remembered angering the 'dates' he had at university because he didn't want to go out socially with any of their friends, unless he had an ulterior motive. Wasn't he striving to do the opposite here?

"I don't understand," he remarked, scowling a little. "I clearly don't know how to do this... relationship thing."

Violet gave Sherlock a quick kiss for encouragement, then pulled back and whispered conspiratorially, "I don't know how to do this either."

Sherlock frowned at Violet's statement that didn't compute.

"But you've been in lots of relationships in the past," he said through narrow eyes.

Violet's eyes glistened with warmth.

"But I've never dated Sherlock Holmes before." She smiled again, then punctuated her statement with another light kiss. "Perhaps that's something we can learn together?"

Sherlock was still worried that Violet was getting the raw end of the deal, but he attempted to return her smile. He still felt quite self-conscious at their display of intimacy outside the theatre, but as most of the patrons had now gone inside for the commencement of the play, the narrow street was fairly empty.

"And now, Mr Holmes," Violet said enticingly, as she tangled her fingers into the curls at Sherlock's nape, "as the night is still young, you can take me somewhere else. Somewhere that Sherlock Holmes likes to go."

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"Down there?" Violet looked nervously at the manhole at the bottom of an abandoned government office building.

"You wanted me to show you, but we don't have to go down," Sherlock reassured her.

"No, I do want to!" Violet's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. She was relieved that Sherlock had actually thought of a place he had wanted to show her. "If that's where you go, I want to see it."

Sherlock fished a torch from his coat and shone it into the hole. Violet wondered what else he had stowed away inside that great coat.

"The King Alfred Lane tube station terminated here, part of the original London Underground, and closed in 1900," he began. "You can see the cast iron staircase that leads to the platform level. It's perfectly safe. You ready?"

"It will hold our weight?"

"Just fine," he replied, his eyes twinkling. "Why don't you start down first, and I'll hold the torch above you."

Violet took a deep breath, then knelt down. Holding onto the sides of the manhole, she put her feet on the top step of the staircase. She slowly descended, holding onto the railing, and was relieved to hear Sherlock following her down, the torch light bouncing off the iron steps as he went. It wasn't a very long descent, and she found herself on the darkened platform soon enough with Sherlock joining her a moment later.

"Are you all right?" he asked, standing close to her and feeling for her hand.

"I think so," she whispered.

"You don't have to whisper just because it's dark," Sherlock remarked, speaking directly into her ear.

Violet laughed nervously, then shivered at the temperature.

"Come on," Sherlock said, pulling her along, and shining the torch in front of them. "If we go down deeper, we can cross underneath the Thames."

Violet felt claustrophobic whenever there was silence. Sherlock, however, kept that to a minimum, informing her of reasons for various station and line closures, where the Second World War shelters had been, and where homeless people tended to congregate. She felt the ground gradually slope downwards, but the air remained at a constant temperature below freezing. They navigated through tunnels of various widths and states of decay, interspersed with the smell of rat droppings and rank water pipes. Violet was only comforted by the warmth of Sherlock's hand and his constant narrative.

At one stage Sherlock stopped in front of Violet and put his hands on her shoulders and told her to listen. Then he switched off his torch. When Violet gasped, he shushed her, but wrapped his arms around her to make her feel secure.

Violet listened hard, the dark enveloping her, and she closed her eyes anyway. Her breathing was the most prominent thing she could hear, followed by Sherlock's heartbeat as she pressed herself against his chest.

And then she heard it: the low rumble of the London Underground, the part that was actually in use.

Sherlock turned his torch back on and said, "So we'll go that way."

They walked on, eventually coming to another doorway, and ascended a very long staircase, while Sherlock told her of other uses for the tunnels and abandoned stations, enthusiastically recounting a tale he'd heard before his time of serial killers and shopping trolleys. The tunnel they came out into was quite dimly lit. There was obviously light coming in from somewhere. Sherlock switched off his torch, so their eyes could adjust.

They passed through a doorway that Violet hadn't even noticed was there, bringing them into small alcove that had another tunnel beyond it. The walls of the second tunnel were intermittently illuminated as trains criss-crossing the old line rumbled through unseen.

"And this is the end of our tour," Sherlock said, beaming at her.

Violet breathed out in relief. She had no idea where they were as they stood in semi-darkness.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, pulling Violet in closer when she didn't respond.

"You probably should've asked me that twenty tunnels ago."

She could barely see him, but he chuckled quite close to her ear, sounding positively evil. A train thundering past momentarily lit up the alcove and Violet could just make out his features as he gazed down at her. She pressed her lips to his, a kiss out of relief for coming to the end of their tour, and to thank him for a wonderful evening.

When she pulled away, he was still coolly looking down at her, a tiny smirk forming on his lips. He ducked his head and brushed his lips against the soft skin of Violet's neck. He trailed light kisses there before asking in a low rumble, "Here?"

It took Violet a few seconds to register what he was suggesting. Her body seemed to already know as her pulse raced and she ached for his touch.

"Here," she confirmed in a sigh, offering her neck some more.

But his mouth was suddenly hot and heavy on hers in a rush of impatience on Sherlock's part. She imagined he'd felt on tenterhooks the entire evening and finally regained a sense of control and self-confidence once they'd descended the staircase to the abandoned tube station.

There was a rush of fabric as coats and scarves were shed, and muttered swearing as Sherlock couldn't find his wallet and therefore the condoms in the dark until the tunnel was lit up for a few seconds by a passing train. He'd pinned her against a rough, decaying wall, both still half-dressed, as much as the urgency of their needs and the temperature would allow.

Violet clutched Sherlock in a tight embrace, and her legs twined around him as he drove into her until she gasped his name. She took him deeper until she felt all self-restraint leave him. Amid the intermittent lighting of the tunnel and the smothering darkness they moved together until Violet's breath shuddered with her final release. At this time, the alcove and tunnel beyond were bathed in light once more.

Violet gasped in alarm as the silhouette of a figure stood at the entrance to the alcove.

"Sherl—" she stammered, her breath catching. "Wait!"

She trembled in Sherlock's embrace, as his own tortured pleasure reached its peak. Violet could feel each laboured breath as she contained to stare at the now darkened alcove entrance. With his mind and body full and sated, Sherlock gathered Violet in close and buried his face into her shoulder, breathing heavily.

Violet continued to stare blindly into the darkness until Sherlock released her and gently lowered her to the ground.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, his voice full of concern as her face was bathed in light once more. "Did I...? Are you okay?" Sherlock asked more urgently.

Violet finally found her voice, and replied, with a slight tremor, "Someone was there."

"Where?" Sherlock spun around to look behind him.

"Before," Violet added, her voice lowering in defeat.

Sherlock shrugged and dismissed her concerns almost immediately. "Probably some homeless person. They wouldn't have seen anything. Violet, have you seen my trousers?"

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