A/N: I'm unashamedly and unapologetically posting a chapter that doesn't move the plot forward very much because I needed to cheer myself up this week.

Chapter 37 – Use Your Mind Palace!

Sherlock didn't associate the Brassworks with pleasant memories. The first time he'd been here, he was searching for Violet after she'd walked out on him because he couldn't tell her he loved her—a minor technicality. Sherlock met Violet's father on that occasion. An odd encounter. The man was clearly a tosser. His second visit was upon his return from Manchester to find that Violet had been involved in an argument with Jake Venucci—another tosser—that had turned physical, leaving Sherlock's girlfriend battered and bruised. Mental note: destroy Jake Venucci when the Moran case is solved.

Now here they were again, footsteps echoing throughout the stairwell, just after one o'clock on a Sunday morning, all because Violet wanted to avoid tabloid journalists who may hover on 221B's doorstep.

What horrors would await him on this occasion?

When they reached the floor of the flat, a woman appeared from the alcove that Sherlock knew to house the doorway of flat 7B—their destination. The thirty-something redhead was dressed in a scarlet cocktail dress with a plunging neckline. Immaculately groomed and peering into a makeup mirror as she walked along, she said, "Ooh, sorry love," when she had to suddenly pull up short to avoid colliding with Violet. Without another thought, the woman rounded the pair and swiftly descended the stairs.

Sherlock could tell Violet wanted to say something. As they approached the door, she checked back along the passageway, then said to Sherlock, "Did she just…" Violet indicated 7B's door with a tilt of her head.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

Violet tutted.

"So, dad must've had a date," she murmured to herself. She hesitated before the front door. "That means he's home."

Sherlock had already deduced the woman's occupation, and therefore Not a date was his immediate thought. He decided to keep Violet in the dark about that little deduction.

Placing Violet's suitcase on the floor beside him, he asked "Well?" Sherlock wondered what was now going through his girlfriend's mind.

"Should I knock?" she asked.

"I suppose so."

Violet reached out and rapped loudly on the wooden door. It was a few seconds before they heard the click of a lock. The door swung inwards and an arm thrust out holding a silky black thong.

"Second time this week," said a male voice that Sherlock immediately recognised as belonging to Gregory Oakes.

Violet gasped and took a step backwards. Sherlock stifled an eyeroll. This man was something else again. The door opened wider and her dad poked his head out, lowering his arm simultaneously. Greg Oakes clucked his tongue out of annoyance then immediately disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar.

Sherlock saw Violet shudder a little before she recomposed herself and followed her father inside. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Sherlock picked up Violet's suitcase and entered the flat.

Greg Oakes said to Violet, "Did you say hello to Cherry on your way in? I don't think that's her real name."

Oakes had tossed the underwear onto the stark white sofa and had positioned himself in front of a matching armchair. Sherlock noted that the man wore a dressing gown and mostly likely nothing else underneath. It was his turn to shudder.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Oakes asked without looking at the pair. He sank into the chair and plucked the remote control from the coffee table.

Sherlock glanced at Violet. He could tell she was struggling to remain composed.

"I rang you," she began, "and left you several messages and texts."

Oakes pressed a button on the remote control and the television burst into life.

"I routinely ignore your calls and texts," he said.

Violet seemed to visibly deflate at those words and the lack of eye contact from her father.

Sherlock's heart hardened and he replied on Violet's behalf, "Violet needs to stay the night. She's avoiding the paparazzi. Bedroom's this way isn't it?" He took the suitcase and swiftly left the living area for the passageway to the right.

He hoped to hear Violet following him, but the sound of the TV was abruptly muted at the same time that Violet stammered, "That was… That's… You've already met Sherlock, haven't you?"

"Why are you avoiding the paparazzi?" Sherlock heard Oakes ask.

The detective stopped just outside the door to Violet's room. He looked back along the passageway, but could only partially see Violet.

"Why don't you Google me," he heard her say. "The name's Violet Hunter."

When she came into view, Sherlock gave her a reassuring smile and waited for her to catch up.

"He works odd hours," she muttered as she preceded Sherlock into the bedroom.

"Oh, okay," Sherlock remarked, closing the door behind them both. "Does that excuse his rude behaviour?"

"No. It explains why he's awake at the moment." Violet grabbed the suitcase from Sherlock and lifted it onto the bed. "And he's a fucking arsehole. That's his excuse for his rude behaviour."

Violet opened the suitcase, but then stood back to remove her parka. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"So, I'll just… ah," he began, feeling a tad awkward, "say goodbye then?"

"What?"

"Say goodnight, and leave you to it."

The creases in Violet's brow indicated her disapproval.

"You're going to leave?"

"I'm not staying here."

Violet threw the parka onto the bed and drew up in front of Sherlock.

"You said you'd stay here with me tonight."

"I agreed to come with you. We didn't discuss staying the night."

Violet's eyes began to water. Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock thought. Was there no way to predict her needs from one day to the next?

"But I'm leaving tomorrow," she said, her voice straining with emotion. "I'll be gone for a whole week."

"Yes, I know."

Violet continued to gaze up at him, as if she was waiting for some further explanation from him.

"And…" he said, stalling. "I'm… saying… goodbye. You're only going for a week after all."

Violet's expression altered slightly. She slid her arms around Sherlock's neck and drew him in for a hug. Sherlock circled his arms around Violet's waist and lowered his head, allowing her shampoo and perfume to fill him with their usual desirable notions. But he kept himself in check so he could deliver just the one goodbye kiss.

Violet turned her face toward him. Sherlock could feel her breath warming his neck and tempting him as it fluttered over his skin. He thought now was the time to say goodbye.

The words had formed on his lips when Violet asked, "Are you sure you can't stay?" She slid her hand into the curls at his nape and lightly skimmed his lips with hers.

"Um…" was his reply. He knew what she was doing here. The needy girlfriend was replaced by the demanding wanton girlfriend.

"Because I could make it worth your while if you stayed."

She brushed his lips with hers once more, then lingered a little.

"Ah…" he said, he voice becoming rough with… what was that? Oh. Need. He cleared his throat. It wasn't as if they hadn't done this hundreds of times before. Why was he getting all worked up now? "I can't… really… do this here."

Violet lips were now lightly feathering along his jawline.

"Why?" she murmured.

Sherlock drew back a little. Violet had barely touched him, yet her promise to him was irresistibly tempting.

"Because this is your father's place. I can't do what I want to do to you when he's here."

A tiny laugh escaped Violet.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. It feels wrong."

Violet raised her brows, incredulous.

"You want to show respect for my father by not fucking his daughter under his roof. Is that it?"

Sherlock hesitated, but that sounded like an accurate summation of what he was feeling.

"Yes."

"That man, out there? The one who pretty much ignored me after he'd just farewelled a prostitute?"

"How… did you know that?"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. You don't think she looked like a high-class escort? Cherry? I know you deduced it. She couldn't possibly be just a date. She didn't stay over to do the walk of shame in the morning, for one thing."

"The walk of…?"

"Sherlock," Violet said, her eyes sharpening with renewed intention. "We're both adults. He's a narcissistic arsehole who doesn't deserve your respect." A sly smile grew on her face before she claimed his mouth back again. Sherlock found his defences lowering and a yearning rising up instead.

He returned Violet's kiss, unhurried, allowing himself to savour the taste of her and feel the hunger behind the light flicks of her tongue. As longing gave way to arousal, Sherlock reflected on their love making sessions in the last week. Only twice, he thought, and even then, it had been tender and considered. He'd gone to bed each night with zero expectations. Violet preferred to cuddle in those days after visiting Grice Johnson. And then, gradually, cuddling became what it was designed to be: a precursor to sex, naturally.

Feeling the warmth and need in Violet's kiss reminded him of the many and varied ways he and Violet approached sex. Her enthusiasm and intensity often matched his own. How he had missed those energetic encounters!

With these thoughts flitting through his mind, he slid his lips from hers and sought the milky smooth expanse of Violet's neck. He felt her sigh with delight at his touch.

"So, that's a yes then?" she asked somewhat superfluously.

Undressing in this frame of mind was always a challenge for them both. There was the danger that Violet could ruin a perfectly good Trevor & Vernet shirt in the process. And this was a new purchase, he thought—the scarlet shirt Violet had eyed when he had his pre-TELSAs fitting at the exclusive tailor in Savile Row.

Sherlock shed his jacket, without incident, and relieved Violet of her knitted top. Shoes were always discarded with a certain degree of ineloquence while trying to remain balanced yet still enthusiastically grope one's partner. But the trouble began after Violet's nimble fingers unfastened Sherlock's shirt buttons. Thankfully she didn't pull his shirt apart as she had done once in the past, but she did aggressively try to yank the shirt from his body. In her haste, she hadn't undone the buttons at Sherlock's cuffs.

In hindsight, Sherlock realised it was normally he who would remember this task. The couple of times they'd become aware of this error, Violet would invariably dissolve into a fit of laughter.

Which she did on this occasion.

Instead of assisting Sherlock with his cuffs, she decided unhooking his trousers would be the next best thing. In her eagerness to release Sherlock from the confines of his underwear she had neglected to free his arms. Sherlock was torn between enjoying Violet's libidinous ministrations and wanting to do something to her in return.

Violet nipped and sucked at his neck while her hands tended to other deeds inside Sherlock's pants. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't even band his arms around her because his shirt was off his shoulders but not yet loose enough behind his back. Eventually… that is… eventually…after a couple of low moans of pleasure, he decided he ought to contribute.

He flicked his shirt back up to his shoulders then ushered Violet backwards toward the bed. She didn't seem to mind the changing of the guard. In fact, her eyes were alight with expectation. Sometimes Sherlock thought his girlfriend had more foresight about how events would pan out than he'd given her credit for.

Violet tugged him down onto the bed with her, and Sherlock stretched himself along her length. He was still completely dressed, more or less. He gave Violet no chance to make Sherlock's while worth anything, for he filled himself with her, tormenting and pleasuring her, removing her clothing items one by one where necessary. His fingers and tongue teased and stroked until she gasped out his name. It was, by far, the most successful way to stop Violet talking too much.

Suddenly Sherlock was off the bed, standing over her, his face clouded by indifference.

"Permit me to finish undressing," he said.

Violet was rosy cheeked and dishevelled when she propped herself up onto her elbows. Her chest heaved from their exertions, but her eyes were bright with arousal. He thought she'd be annoyed with the disruption to reaching her desired destination, but apparently the sight of Sherlock undoing his cuff buttons reminded her of that earlier moment of awkwardness. This brought with it a fresh round of chuckling on her part. Sherlock tutted as he slipped off his shirt properly this time. He opened the closet door as Violet shuffled toward the bedhead, fluffed out a pillow, and set her gaze upon him.

"Really?" she asked as Sherlock slipped his shirt over a hanger.

"Yes. Really."

Violet kept her eyes on Sherlock as he dropped his trousers onto the floor. She was enjoying this, he mused, upon seeing the tiny smile playing on her lips. He hadn't brought a change of clothes. What else was he going to wear upon leaving? A crumpled suit?

With deliberate slowness, Sherlock shook out his trousers, then hung them too onto a hanger. He closed the closet doors and moved toward the bed.

"You haven't finished yet," Violet said.

With a sigh that had no place in the moments before sex, Sherlock slid off his boxer trunks. He wasn't self-conscious at all; he just didn't like Violet telling him what to do.

"Are you going to hang those up, too?" she asked. It was a question not worth answering. Of course he wasn't going to hang up his underwear. Ridiculous. And there weren't any spare hangers left anyway.

It was then that Violet dropped her gaze. The only tell-tale sign of approval was the imperceptible widening of her smile.

Sherlock left his underwear on the floor as he climbed back onto the bed, and onto his girlfriend.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he hovered over her and said, "Don't you know it's rude to stare?"

Violet twined her arms and legs around Sherlock's body, pulling him closer.

"Don't you know it's rude to bring someone almost to the point of orgasm, then leaving them there while you slowly undress?"

"Is that where you were?" he asked, feigning innocence. "The point of orgasm? I had no idea…"

Violet curled her fingers into Sherlock's hair. She tilted her chin in anticipation of Sherlock's kiss, but he deliberately held back.

Rearranging himself, he said, "I wonder if it's possible to bring you back again?" He locked his eyes on Violet's as he slowly slid into her.

She emitted a pleasurable gasp causing Sherlock to form a tiny smile of satisfaction on his lips. He deliberately kept to a slow rhythm that Violet initially matched underneath him.

But he was also doing himself a disservice. Violet had left him hopelessly aroused even before he had removed his clothing. Now that they were flesh to flesh, he had to force himself to maintain some sort of control. Heat shimmered over his skin and his heart rate decided that a nice trot would get things moving a bit. Violet's tiny murmurings of pleasure didn't help with his composure, and her hands and arching hips were urging him along the same lines. He didn't want to devour and plunder. He wanted this to last; it would be a week until the next time. Despite his earlier remark, that was indeed a long time between cuddles, now that cuddling had resumed offering its original programme content.

Sherlock just as deftly slid out of Violet. Using his skilful and clever fingers and tongue instead, he gave his penis a stay of execution. And now to bring Violet to the point of no return.

Violet must have thought otherwise, for she pushed Sherlock from her, rolling him onto his back. Before he could utter a sound in protest, she had already straddled him. His heart rate began a delightful canter. There was nothing sweet and soft about Violet Hunter when there was something she wanted. And that something was him. Inside her. Now.

Self-control had all but abandoned him and his heart rate broke into a gallop. Violet was dragging him to the edge with her. It would be her fault if he went over too soon.

Oh! he thought. Use my Mind Palace! He could carefully navigate its corridors, perhaps do some cleaning up, or filing, or… f-fucking… Oh, God, Violet.

No! No, he thought more calmly, resuming his walk along pristine corridors. The windows could do with a spot of cleaning, though. Are they cobwebs?

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Violet had stopped fucking him.

"No," she said. "You're not hiding out in your Mind Palace again. It's late. I want us to finish so I can go to sleep."

She leant down and kissed him out of his hideaway. He decided to play along if that was what she wanted. But how angry was Violet now? Angry sex didn't work for him. He used his tongue to test the waters of Violetness. She reciprocated! And she had resumed her earlier rhythm, but it was lacking in conviction.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Violet and tilted them both until she relented and allowed Sherlock to roll on top of her. Dialling down the pitch of his baritone to a climax-inducing level, he said, directly into her ear, "And you shall finish in style, if that's what you desire."

A gasp, ragged breathing, fingernails raking his back. Well, two out of three.

He drove her until all her exhales formed his name.

Or the occasional swear word.

Or some annoying deity.

But mostly his name, which was music to his ears.

Violet's undoing became his own, and he soon joined her in mindless exaltations.

As they lay together, side by side, with limp arms loosely thrown over one another, Sherlock asked Violet, "How did you know I was inside my Mind Palace?"

Violet blinked tired eyes and replied, "Because you were frowning."

Sherlock gave a low chuckle and accommodated Violet when she shuffled in closer. She kissed the underside of his jaw and sighed out an "I love you."

She didn't look up at him expectantly for his response, but he gave it anyway, and punctuated his utterance with a kiss on the top of Violet's head.

"I'll be leaving at dawn," he said. Violet murmured something incoherent in reply. "But I won't wake you," he added.

"Okay," she replied sleepily. "I'll see you next Friday then."

Violet's body grew heavy in his arms and Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair a couple of times before he, too, grew sleepy.

Several hours later, his body clock alerted him to the fact that it was the break of dawn. Sherlock disentangled himself from Violet's embrace and quietly dressed. He didn't wake her to say goodbye, but merely kissed her on the forehead.

Stealthily navigating through the flat, Sherlock let himself out onto the balcony that overlooked the central courtyard. He found what he was looking for: a half-full cigarette packet. He knew the moment he met Gregory Oakes that the man was a smoker. Not my usual brand, Sherlock observed. Oakes smoked low-tar, like that poncy git Sherlock had for a brother. Still, the detective helped himself to one, lit it with the lighter that also sat on the outdoor table and inhaled deeply.

He walked through the flat to the front door and quickly checked his reflection in the mirror beside the door—dishevelled and in need of a shave. There were bags under his eyes from lack of sleep and his jacket was creased. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair to fluff it out a bit, then left as quietly as he could.

Once he reached the ground floor and had exited the building, he allowed himself another drag. He decided to navigate through the city on foot for the twenty minutes or so to Baker Street rather than search for a cab at this early hour.

As he strode the length of Stanhope Place to Seymour Street, he remembered there was something he wanted to research. Sherlock retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket and swiftly navigated to Google using one hand while he continued to smoke with the other.

Ah, yes, he remembered. Just what exactly is 'the walk of shame'?

-oOo-

A/N: I hope this chapter provided light entertainment for you. Review?