Chapter 36 - Give Him a Puzzle and Watch Him Dance
Why is she so upset, Sherlock thought, easing Violet out of his embrace. And the smell of another man's cologne was far too distracting. Her co-star, Sherlock assumed. It wasn't the first time the scent from the aftershave of one of her co-stars had lingered on her clothing. Actors were such a touchy-feely bunch. Although this particular actor had expensive tastes, Sherlock mused.
"I haven't let go yet," Violet had started to explain.
Sherlock thought it sounded like a whole lot of wank. Surely playing pretend, no matter how professionally done, easily leant itself to coming out of your made-up fantasy world. How hard could it be? The company had been rehearsing the final scene, Violet had told him, and she had let herself get into her character's state of mind all too deeply. Sherlock was familiar with the scene, having read the play on their return trip from Dartmoor. He called it the Romeo and Julie-something part; the mutual suicide pact, he recalled.
Sherlock wanted to do something nice for Violet, to cheer her up, such as taking her to dinner at Angelo's or the Chinese restaurant on the corner, despite his earlier paranoia of Violet's infidelity. What was he thinking? He could usually tell at a glance if someone had been having clandestine liaisons, and he definitely didn't see that in Violet. He vowed to think things through next time.
Violet settled for the takeaway menu, so they could cuddle on the couch for a lot longer.
Once a tiny serving of dinner was sampled—neither Violet nor Sherlock had much of an appetite—Violet stretched out along the couch, resting her legs on Sherlock's lap, on top of which he perched his laptop. He read and reread the hiker's background information—an accomplished sportsman who had returned from overseas travel—and again watched the Skype video. With a deep sigh, he shut his laptop lid, removed his feet from the coffee table, and placed the computer down onto it. He looked across to Violet's sleeping form, and shifted her legs from his lap to the couch as he stood up. He thought he'd leave her there while he had a shower, after which he'd wake her and help her move to his bed. Their bed.
Once Sherlock had finished in the bathroom, though, he came out to find that Violet had relocated herself. She was lying awake waiting for him, and observing how the crisp, white sheet outlined her soft curves, he concluded that she was naked. No need for him to don his pyjamas then.
He slipped into bed beside her, thankful that the last few hours in his company had had a calming effect on his girlfriend.
"Not feeling like the suicidal World War Two nurse any more?" he asked.
Violet laughed lightly—the familiar sparkle having returned to her eyes, which warmed Sherlock's heart.
She reached out, twining her fingers into Sherlock's curls, then leant in, planting a soft kiss on his lips. She eased back a little, and whispered, "Thank you for tonight."
"The night's not over yet," Sherlock responded in his sinfully low register, accompanying the promise with a wicked grin.
No one before had ever come close to anticipating and satisfying his needs— both physical and mental—during the act of sex, let alone invading his every waking hour with their presence.
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As Sherlock's hands glided and stroked, Violet's mouth grew hungrier and more impatient. She had fallen asleep on the couch earlier, with her meeting with Jake and her lies to Sherlock about why she was upset burning through her heart and mind. Now that Sherlock's careful attention had her whole body aflame, her fears and anxieties were swiftly being smothered. They way he touched and caressed her, with such skill and familiarity, was if he had every right to do so. And she welcomed all of him.
As Violet's mouth moved just as avidly beneath Sherlock's, her hands grew as adventurous, and were equalled in skill as his own. Sherlock moaned against her lips, then gave himself over to her lingering touches. His mouth left hers and burned a trail along her jawline and the soft tissue of her neck.
Her unsteady breath in his ear had him aroused beyond measure, and he pressed his firm body against hers. She could feel his heart thundering, keeping pace with her own.
They paused only to retrieve protection, and even then Sherlock had come painfully close to forgetting about it when Violet became far too attentive to his needs. She laughed at his moment of panic, so he attempted to pay her back by commencing a slow, tortuous descent, bringing her close to her own tumultous release, before abandoning her to nibble at her throat and chuckling mischievously in her ear.
Their love-making went frequently along those lines—teasing, fighting for dominance and mind games, and she knew Sherlock revelled in all of it.
Violet wrapped herself around Sherlock and took him in, her breath stuttering with the solid feel of his lithe body that so intimately molded to hers. As their mutual pleasure climbed higher, they were completely lost in one another, passion and desire fusing them as one. They raced toward the end they both instinctively craved, and then lay breathless, a tangle of limbs, their bodies warmed and heavy from their love-making.
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"Don't get that," Sherlock called from his ensuite.
The personalised ring tone of "God Save the Queen" heralded his older sibling's call, one that he had ignored twice the previous evening.
"It may be urgent," Violet said to Sherlock as he vacated the bathroom.
He ignored the comment, preferring to tut once he spied her clothing.
"Why are you going jogging?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. "Wasn't our bedroom gymnastics an aerobic enough workout for you?"
Violet laughed as she sat down onto the bed to lace up her trainers. "Another round of morning sex might do it, but I don't think you have it in you."
Sherlock pouted as he fastened his shirt buttons. "I have a case to solve," he huffed.
Violet rose, and kissed Sherlock's cheek on her way out of his room.
"Ring your brother while I'm out," she called back.
Sherlock finished tucking in his shirt, then followed Violet into the kitchen. He filled the kettle while Violet hovered nearby, her empty drink bottle in hand.
"He's probably got some dull work for me on behalf of an insignificant country who have misplaced an equally insignificant artefact. And I'm sure the value of such an item could possibly wipe the foreign debt of some impoverished country."
"That sounds amazing," Violet remarked as she filled her water bottle. "Tell me all about it when I get back."
Her enthusiasm for all aspects of his work still surprised Sherlock, however even that wasn't enough motivation for him to risk wasting his time with a case his brother deemed necessary to maintain diplomatic relations. How tedious the international community could be when it wasn't a case of Sherlock's choosing.
When Violet returned from her jog, she realised the late hour of the morning. She immediately rushed by Sherlock to shower and change for her day at the theatre. Sherlock was far more amenable to the idea, having reconciled his own insecure feelings. He had incinerated any thought that would previously have lead to jealous and paranoid behaviour. He farewelled Violet at the living room door to the landing, cupping her neck and planting soft kisses below her ear. He said, in a voice pitched low, "I'll wait up for you," and grinned devilishly at the desired effect he had on Violet. Let her take that to her rehearsals, he thought smugly as he heard her leave via the front door.
Fuelled by the praises of his lover, Sherlock was feeling quite invincible and just plain brilliant this morning. He would solve the case of the hiker's demise even if it meant spending the better part of the morning in the company of the unfortunate internet porn addict.
"Ah, now look what you've made me do, Sherlock. I've actually had to come and visit you."
Sherlock spun around from his position standing by the table in the living room, where he'd been analysing the forensic photos taken of the hiker. He took in the image of his brother, stiffed back, looking splendid in tweed, umbrella poised at the ready, in case there were other stuffy bureaucrats standing by who needed to be prodded into action.
"And it's not even noon," Sherlock remarked, turning back to his screen. "Go away. I'm busy."
"The hiker and the backfire case?" Mycroft asked, strolling further into the room and giving a cursory look at Sherlock's screen. "I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious."
Sherlock froze at hearing those words, then turned and furrowed his brow at Mycroft. What the hell was going on here? Bit obvious?
"A number of Chelmonski paintings have gone missing," Mycroft began, clearly having absolutely no interest in having to explain the rudiments of the hiker case to his brother. "The Polish art community is in a state. Well, these are the case notes. I'm sure you would like to go over them at your own leisure."
He held out one of two files he had in his possession to Sherlock, who just stared coldly at his brother. Mycroft placed the file onto Sherlock's desk, unaffected by his brother's churlishness.
"But let me just say, Sherlock, they will be expecting you in Warsaw by tomorrow afternoon. You can read the file on the flight tomorrow morning. You may like to take on this case, to give you a bit of, how should we say ... breathing space, from events that are about to erupt here."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft's cryptic statement. "What are you talking about?"
"Let's put the Polish case aside for the moment."
Mycroft placed the second file on top of the first. Opening it, he drew out an 8x10" black and white photo.
"Do you recognize this man?"
Sherlock sighed deeply. He would like to have remained aloof, but Mycroft's puzzling behaviour piqued the detective's interest just a little. Sherlock quickly scanned the photo.
"Business man, early to mid-thirties, expensive watch, designer suit and sunglasses. Leaving a club in broad daylight; he's either the club owner or there doing business, probably of a criminal nature, otherwise why would you be interested. The club looks like it's in Manchester, judging by the street sign."
"Jacob Venucci. Name ring a bell?"
Sherlock shrugged lightly.
"He was in the press for a bit, wasn't he? A couple of years ago, some scandal he was never pinned for. I don't usually pay attention to idle gossip."
"Perhaps you should. Organised crime syndicate. People like Jacob Venucci, we know about them, we have them under surveillance. Unfortunately we've never been able to directly relate any of the crimes back to the man."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, signaling his waning interest levels. Criminal organisations, although prolific, hardly ever offered up cases of interest to Sherlock. Bunch of morons, he always thought.
Mycroft put the first photo aside, and drew out a second. "Now this photograph was taken in Manchester just under four weeks ago. Recognise the brunette?"
Sherlock's heart rate slowed and sputtered, like a dying Volkswagen. Mycroft held out a photo of Venucci and Violet.
Violet.
The couple in the photograph were embracing.
Sherlock felt that the flat had gone eerily quiet until he realised he'd stopped breathing. He tried to kickstart his brain and deliver the required amount of oxygen in order for it to function at a basic level at least. Finally he sifted through the data he had stored in his Mind Palace.
Four weeks ago, Violet had just moved in, although initially blonde, she had dyed her hair brunette, then she'd gone to Manchester for the weekend—for her step-brother's engagement party, she'd said.
Sherlock's stomach churned as he made the connection. Violet's Jake. Jacob—Jake—Venucci. The ex-boyfriend who'd threaten to deposit guys at the bottom of the Mersey if they so much as looked at Violet.
Sherlock maintained a granite exterior. "So she has friends in Manchester. So what?"
"Huh, yes, very friendly," Mycroft commented as he placed another photo on top of the growing pile. Violet and Jake were kissing. Same setting, same hair colour.
Sherlock's face remained unemotional, but he was feeling sick inside. So, he told himself, he and Violet weren't together then. She told him she hadn't had sex in three months, so this was just a friendly kiss.
With an ex-boyfriend.
This cunt is still fuckin' that wanker, Nick's voice reverberated through his mind.
"Now this next one is not a recent photo," his brother's voice spoke again, cutting into the detective's thoughts. "It was taken again in Manchester, but this was two years ago."
The photo showed the back of a very naked female with long blonde hair, sitting astride a man whose face Sherlock could recognise as Jake Venucci. The photograph was very grainy.
"They were rather intimate back then, Sherlock."
"That... could be anyone," Sherlock said, indicating the blonde. He could barely keep his voice even.
"Oh, she does turn around, let me assure you. Would you care to see the next photograph?"
Sherlock walked away from the table towards the kitchen.
"What's the point of this? I know Violet had previous boyfriends. I congratulate you and your spy network for documenting sexual misconduct. Will you be funding the next war through blackmail?"
Mycroft fixed Sherlock with a barely patient glare.
"That particular set was taken by a private eye, hired by Venucci's wife," Mycroft replied. "We merely... acquired them."
"So what's the point of all this? Why the happy snaps of Violet's past?"
"The point is, my dear brother, that Violet Hunter was Venucci's mistress for just over a year. She then came back to live in London, during which time Venucci paid for a lovely flat for her to live in for a few months. He sold that when she moved in with a ... "
Mycroft paused while he consulted the file.
"...Nicholas McIntyre. We have no real information on McIntyre, just that he's a photographer and an alcoholic. Nobody of significance. They lived together for six months after which she returned to Manchester for a couple of months, living in a flat leased by none other than Jacob Venucci."
Sherlock shrugged again.
"And now she's back in London, Sherlock. Upon moving in to Baker Street, Venucci transferred a small amount of money into Ms Hunter's personal savings account."
Sherlock just wasn't following.
"Let me enlighten you further. We were going to employ you, dear brother, to try to make these connections between Jacob Venucci, and these spate of crimes that have rocked Manchester in the last few months. And we suspect there are bigger plans afoot—something in London, something in Glasgow. We were going to come to you for help, Sherlock—you and your unique talents. We think Venucci got wind of our plans, probably from someone on the inside. Don't worry, we're dealing with that minor security breach. We suspect Venucci paid Ms Hunter to live here in Baker Street, to share in your cases with you Sherlock... and your bed."
Sherlock's demeanor actually faltered for a second, before he composed himself. He'd never heard of anything more ridiculous in his life.
Tell me about your cases, Sherlock.
"That's ... that's a lie," he said, with a great deal less conviction that he would've preferred. "It's absurd. These photographs prove nothing."
"Then how about this one," Mycroft said, adding another to the pile. "This was taken yesterday."
Sherlock didn't want to look, but he found his legs moving back over to the living room table of their own accord.
Yesterday.
Sherlock was able to confirm that this was Violet as she was dressed yesterday. Again, she and Jake were in an embrace, with Violet's hand resting on Jake's cheek. Before Sherlock could think up a snappy retort, Mycroft covered that photo with another. Same setting, same hand to cheek gesture, except in this one Violet was kissing Jake.
Yesterday.
Coffee Update 4pm xx.
"No," Sherlock said simply. Photographic evidence meant nothing. His heart had all the evidence it needed. "This doesn't prove anything."
Mycroft finally lost his patience with his little brother. "Oh my God! Are you really so gullible!"
Sherlock was confused. Gullible? Bit obvious? Why could Mycroft see things he couldn't?
"She... I..." he stammered, not making eye contact with Mycroft.
"Oh grow up, Sherlock! Do you think she could possibly be interested in you!"
The words struck Sherlock like a knife. The sudden silence only served to further punctuate Mycroft's last statement. Sherlock's head started to buzz and his eyes stung. In the back of his Mind Palace, a girl's laughter rang out. It was the senior girl from Gunhild Wenden.
As if I'd get off with you!
Her laughter continued, mocking him, until it began to sound eerily like Violet's.
He blinked back the tears angrily, turning his back on Mycroft. He was annoyed at the sudden physiological reaction his body had made in that instant.
"I did try to warn you, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice softened. "John Watson's absence left you in a particularly vulnerable state, and open to manipulation. I should've seen it coming... I'm... sorry."
Comforting his sibling was just not in his DNA. Sherlock knew Mycroft was struggling with the concept. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft shift his stance.
"Try to be on that flight to Warsaw tomorrow morning can you? A couple of weeks hiking in Lesko will give you time to ... think about things."
Mycroft left without further sentiment.
As the front door downstairs slammed shut Sherlock breathed out. He took in several gulps of air, his heart racing. This couldn't be happening, he thought, turning around.
He could always trust his senses, his instincts, his own view of the world. Now it had all gone awry.
Violet continued laughing at him in his Mind Palace, and all evidence as to her real intentions came to the fore.
Sherlock, you've got no idea how good an actress I am.
No idea at all.
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