Chapter 49 – All That Matters to Me is the Work
Sherlock made light work of ascending the staircase at the estate flats where Mandi lived, and where, he hoped, Violet was staying. He had waited until the end of the day when Mandi at least would've returned from working behind the Cleo de Thebes perfume counter at Selfridges.
What was he going to say to Violet?
I'm sorry, and I love you.
Love? No. No! That was such a lazy word. It wasn't even a tangible thing. And surely Violet would appreciate his intellectual musings rather than a rehash of a well-worn statement, as long as he conveyed much the same sentiment.
Violet, I'm sorry and I wanted to let you know that I've chosen you over the rest of the population of females in my narrow field of selection to be my lifelong partner.
Sherlock shook his head in dissatisfaction as he strode along the balcony to Mandi's flat. Probably not precisely what Violet would like to hear, he mused, heeding John Watson's advice in this instance, but also not overly happy with the word lifelong.
He came to a halt outside Mandi's door, and hoped that upon seeing Violet's face, he'd know exactly what to say.
He lightly tapped on the door, and had to wait only mere seconds before the door opened a couple of inches, barred by a security chain. When he caught sight of Mandi's red tresses, Sherlock opened his mouth to ask for Violet, but the door was immediately slammed shut again. He waited a beat, expecting the occupant to unfasten the chain, but there was no more life from within.
Sherlock knocked slightly louder this time, and was disappointed to hear Mandi yell out, "She's not here. Fuck off!"
She'd obviously recognised him then, he concluded. Sherlock hesitated before knocking again. Violet wasn't that angry with him for not returning her declaration of love. Disappointed and hurt, yes. Angry, no. So why was her friend so aggressive? Mandi had been a staunch supporter of Violet and Sherlock's reunion on the night of the after-party. Her over-reaction to Sherlock showing up at her door was something to be considered.
This peculiar behaviour of Violet's best friend coupled with Violet's dad's unhelpful attitude yesterday only increased Sherlock's level of frustration. It had taken him two whole days to get to this stage and he was becoming mightily pissed off with these encumbrances.
Sherlock knocked louder again, and took a step backward in readiness. He hoped Mandi didn't position herself behind the door this time, but he did count on her opening it again to deliver a more effective verbal insult, if he'd read her personality correctly.
As if on queue, Mandi opened the door as much as the security chain would allow. As the first colourful colloquialism left her lips, Sherlock kicked hard against the door, snapping the chain cleanly at the third link.
"Never rely on a cheap security chains to keep riffraff out," he said, striding through the doorway and into the tiny living area, leaving Mandi stunned at the entrance. He strode straight toward the hallway where he assumed the bedrooms were located, and knew in an instant that Violet wasn't there. With a heavy heart, he spied her possessions that were stored in boxes and bags and left haphazardly in a spare room. Again, there were no signs of the way she usually occupied her living spaces. She wasn't currently staying here.
"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded as he whirled back around to the entrance.
Mandi was already out the front door, and calling out to Desmond, presumably a neighbour, two doors down. Sherlock sighed and tutted to himself. This was all he needed—a hero in a tracksuit.
He joined Mandi on the narrow balcony outside the flats, as Desmond stormed out of his own residence.
"You 'right, Mand?" Desmond asked, before catching sight of Sherlock walking toward them.
Mandi straightened up, emboldened by the presence of her champion.
"Fuck off, Sherlock!" she spat. "She's not here!"
"Then I would like to know where she's gone," Sherlock said in as calm a manner as he could muster, stopping in front of the pair.
"You heard our Mand," Desmond volunteered. "Piss off, mate."
Sherlock couldn't believe the circumstances in which he had found himself. He'd kicked in the door of a council estate flat, and had demanded the whereabouts of his girlfriend. He felt a tad over-dressed for the part.
"I just want to talk to her, Mandi," Sherlock said, ignoring the hulking presence of Desmond.
"Well, she doesn't want anything to do with ya, ya fucking sick perv!"
Sherlock started at Mandi's words. Now that didn't compute.
"What did you call me?" he asked in the most non-threatening way possible.
"Hey, look you," Desmond warned, managing to read something else entirely in Sherlock's query.
"Why am I suddenly a pervert?" Sherlock asked, again addressing Mandi directly.
"You think it's normal spying on y'girlfriend when she's not y'girlfriend and taking photos of her having sex with another bloke?"
"Sorry, what?"
"All those photos. And photos of her when she were a kid in school and doing theatre at uni."
"Are you some kinda paedo?" Desmond asked.
Oh great. Devolved from a pervert to a paedophile in five seconds. Now how had that happened?
Desmond drew himself up to his full height and quickly added, "You'd better piss off, mate, before I call the coppers."
"Wait," Sherlock bid, his head buzzing from the implications of Mandi's statement. The threat of having the police called in hardly registered at all. "What photos?"
"The photos you took," Mandi replied, her brow furrowed in a disgust. "The ones in your flat, with all of Vi's school records, and medical stuff and all that shit. Fucking psycho stalker, that's what you are!"
The puzzle pieces were all in place now. The file, Sherlock concluded with a wave of sickening regret surging through him. Violet saw the file.
He spun on his heels and strode the length of the balcony, making for the stairwell, with Mandi and Desmond an irrelevant distraction and a distant memory now.
She saw the file; she had been in his flat. Sherlock's heart twinged, and he increased his stride. Violet had been in his flat. She saw the file.
#
Violet heard the unmistakeable voice of the Manchester underworld figure before he entered Danny's cozy living space.
Danny, you fucking traitor, she thought darkly.
The front door clicked shut, and Violet assumed Danny had now left to pick up their dinner—the Indian food he'd just ordered by phone—giving Jake some privacy to catch up with Violet.
A fitting end to a shitty day, she thought, pointing the remote control at the telly, and clicking off the domestic argument that was currently airing on Regency Road.
Wearily she unfolded her legs and rose from the sofa as Jake Venucci rounded the corner.
"Well, this is awkward," Violet said, before her ex-boyfriend opened his mouth. She thought it best to set the scene first.
Jake smiled broadly at her, and outstretched his arms. "But I'm a forgiving kind of guy."
"No, you're not," Violet retorted, before being enveloped in his embrace. She turned her head so that Jake was only left with her cheek to kiss.
Jake chuckled lightly at her remark, and as he released his hold on her, Violet assumed a casual and indifferent air, even though her insides were churning. She drifted back to the sofa, saying, "If you're going to ask why I'm not at the apartment, I'd have thought it was obvious."
"Still, it's there for you, if you want it," Jake remarked. Noting Violet's nonchalance, he turned and made for Danny's mini bar. "How long are you staying?" he asked as he retrieved a bottle of vodka from the top shelf.
"I've got an audition on Thursday," Violet answered, grabbing one of the sofa cushions, and hugging it for security reasons. "How long I stay will depend on the outcome."
Jake huffed a laugh, and with his back turned to Violet as he poured the drinks, he remarked, "I heard about your audition this morning."
Of course you did, Violet thought, sighing. Obviously Danny couldn't wait to tell Jake every single detail of Violet's First Day Back in Manchester, particularly the amusing story of how Violet Hunter almost auditioned for a porno. Hilarious.
After they had driven up and down the street searching for the address Alice had given her, Violet and Danny realised that the audition was indeed taking place in a suburban house in one of the better areas of Manchester. Danny slowed the car to a walking pace as they verified the street number of the house yet again, and Violet craned her neck trying to see any signs of movie types.
On their third pass, a couple emerged from the house—a buxom, peroxide blonde, wearing a red strappy dress several sizes too small, accompanied by a young man. Violet self-consciously touched a hand to her own matching blonde locks, while Danny murmured, "Hey, I know that woman."
To Violet's consternation, he wound down his window and called out, "Charity!"
Danny pulled the car over to the kerb as the blonde turned around, her face lighting up in recognition. Danny left the car idling, and asked Violet to wait a moment, before climbing out. The blonde's companion continued walking to their own car, which was parked in front of Danny's, while Charity squealed and trotted over to Danny, double-D cups bouncing with every tiny step. Violet watched, in an ever increasing state of embarrassment, as Charity locked lips with Danny for what seemed like an excessive amount of time just for a simple greeting.
The pair finally disengaged and chatted for a while, with Danny at one point indicating his car, whereupon Charity turned and gave Violet a cute little wave. Violet returned the young woman's greeting, wishing she had sunk down low into the seat like she had considered doing a minute earlier.
Eventually Danny bid farewell to Charity, and made it back to a bemused Violet. He laughed lightly as he took the wheel.
"You're seriously not auditioning for a role in the same movie as Charity," he laughed, turning to Violet.
Violet noticed that Danny's face was smeared with red lipstick. Indicating her own face, she replied, "You've got... ah..."
Danny immediately adjusted the rear-view mirror to check his reflection.
"I have a pretty good feeling I'm not going to audition at all for this movie," Violet remarked, her epiphany occurring about three minutes prior. She searched in her bag for a disposable wipe to remove makeup and handed it to Danny.
He continued chuckling to himself as he removed the lipstick, then asked Violet what she would like to do now instead of attending her audition.
An hour later, Violet sat in front of a mirror with her hair in foils, in a small salon located in a side street opposite an art gallery in the city centre. Danny appeared intimate with the owner, which didn't surprise Violet at all. Throughout the afternoon he regaled Violet with stories involving the Adult Film industry, of which he knew a surprising amount in regard to the production companies in Manchester.
"Charity has won Best Female Performer in an Anal Scene three years in a row," he told Violet, facetiously adding that there was no way Violet could have won the lead role when up against such a well-recognised talent as Charity.
Violet vowed several times over to kill Alice, for her actress friend had clearly set her up to attend an audition for a pornographic film, under the guise of an independent film project. Alice had kept the actual casting details to herself, Violet surmised, and had obviously edited the description of the role, the loose plot, and the all important detail of the genre. And then there was the apparent directive from Alice's agent, preventing Alice from attending. Obviously the woman had no intention of accompanying Violet to the audition in the first place.
With her hair almost returned to her natural shade of ash blonde, Violet accepted Danny's invitation to lunch. When they returned to the house in Cheetham Hill, Violet had calmed down considerably, and had toyed with the idea of telling Alice that she'd actually won the role. But she found out from Xander, that Alice had returned to London. Her agent had called apparently, and Alice was up for a role in a television drama series if she returned to London in time to read for the casting director on Wednesday.
Violet would've been fine to have stayed with the twins in their house in Cheetham Hill if Alec hadn't awkwardly brought up the subject of board. Violet was under the impression that their stay in Manchester was gratis, at least during their auditions, again details Alice had decided to omit. One, or both of them would have sorted out more permanent accommodation if they'd won a role in either the independent movie, or the theatre play. Violet felt like an enormous free-loader when confronted with the issue of payment upfront, of which she had been oblivious.
Violet's funds were low after she had bought new 'audition clothes' and extra copies of her headshots to accompany her CV to hand out at the auditions. And now she had just paid for her new hair colour. A direct transfer from Sherlock's bank account would occur this coming Friday; the automatic transfer of Violet's salary as his personal assistant hadn't been cancelled by the detective upon their break-up. Every Friday afternoon, Violet would routinely transfer it back into his account. She doubted that he would even notice.
But this coming Friday she thought that she may keep just one payment, she was that hard up—the arsehole bonus, according to Sherlock, that she had never paid herself. If she kept this one, perhaps she could call it a Victim's Levy.
Alec accompanied Violet to the ATM around the corner, and she paid him both hers and Alice's board for Monday and Tuesday nights. Then she swallowed her pride, and phoned Danny, asking if she could stay at his, at least until early next week when she'd find out the results of this coming Thursday's audition.
But now that Jake's offsider had betrayed her to his boss, Violet felt trapped. And here was Jake, acting as relaxed as if she hadn't rejected his marriage proposal, and had resumed discrediting her acting ambitions as much as he ever did.
"I don't drink," she said when she spied the two glasses on the counter in front if him.
He huffed a laugh and made his way over to Violet with both drinks.
"Vodka and lemonade," he said, standing by the sofa, and holding out one glass to Violet.
"What part of, 'I don't drink,' do you not understand?" she asked, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes as she stared up at Jake.
Jake regarded her with a furrowed brow. "I thought you were being sarcastic."
He placed Violet's glass down on the coffee table in front of her and took the seat beside her.
"So why aren't you drinking?" he asked, before taking a sip of his own vodka.
Because after a night out celebrating with my friends, I woke up in a hotel room with my ex-boyfriend, who turned out to be a psychotic stalker.
"Because I need to stay healthy and focussed when I'm going for auditions."
Jake's closed mouth smile signalled his intent to dismiss her words. It was the gesture she was all too familiar with, and it told her he had little interest for this childish hobby of hers.
"So, where do you want to go for dinner?" he asked, true to form.
"Danny's bringing home dinner."
"No, he's not."
Violet turned her gaze from Jake. Of course he's fucking not. The controlling overlord is here. She ran an irritable hand through her hair, lightly tossed her security cushion aside, then leant forward, absentmindedly picking up her drink from the coffee table. She idly ran a finger around the rim of the glass, then looked up into Jake's face. He wore an expression of amusement.
"Just because I'm in Danny's flat," Violet began, "you may think I'm one step closer to being naked and underneath you, but it's not going to happen." She took one sip of her drink then placed it back down onto the coffee table. Rising from the sofa, she said, "Now I'm just getting my jacket, and you're going to take me to that river side fish 'n chip shop."
She heard Jake laugh lightly behind her as she made her way to Danny's spare room where she had left her things. She could signal her own intent in gestures too. The choice of the fish 'n chip shop as a dinner venue demonstrated to Jake that she held little regard for his game-playing. He hated fish and chips with a passion, and the place by the river was where she had once thrown his phone into the water, because she was pissed off at him for texting his wife.
"You're a fucking tart," he laughed, when Violet re-entered the room pulling on her jacket.
Violet smiled in spite of herself. She preceded Jake to the door, then stopped and turned to him with one hand resting on the doorknob.
"I would never have been in a relationship with you for so long had you been an ignorant dickhead," she began.
"That's good to hear," Jake responded tentatively, as he puzzled over Violet's preamble.
"So I know you're not an idiot."
"Right. Good."
Violet studied Jake's eyes with a renewed interest as he coolly regarded her. His eyes were a brighter blue than Sherlock's, she found herself thinking. Sherlock's were sometimes grey and flecked with green, but never cruel like Jake's could be.
"And when I say I don't want to get back with you, I assume you're going to respect that, and not try anything stupid."
When Jake's face broke into a warm smile, Violet felt herself falter. She wouldn't lose herself in him, as she had done when she had come back to Manchester for the play Trafford Park Bombers after breaking up with Nick. Kissing Jake had been a stupid thing to do, and had probably set a precedent where Jake was concerned. But this time round, her ex-boyfriend didn't know she'd broken up with Sherlock, did he?
But Jake was able to do his own deducing based on Violet's cautionary warning.
"You've broken up with your boyfriend, haven't you?"
Violet's gaze dropped from Jake's eyes so she could remain composed while she considered her situation. Yes, she had run away from her problems again, the theatre audition on Thursday providing a weak excuse for leaving London. Manchester, her second home, had beckoned her with its comforting arms, and so she had decided to accompany Alice, even though she considered this particular play to be a step backwards.
When she let herself think about Sherlock, she flitted between feeling ill about his apparent sick obsession with her, and sympathising once more for his lack of experience when it came to relationships. They were supposed to learn about dating together, so had she been heartless in abandoning him? But his actions went above and beyond just a little mistake. Surely this was unhealthy, she reasoned. He had collected so much information about her, and Violet couldn't figure out the timing of his obsessive information gathering—before they had commenced their relationship, or during, or both?
At times she felt guilty about confiding in Mandi. Well, she was upset after she'd left Sherlock's flat on Sunday, and everything came tumbling out. There was the puzzling letter about her mother, and that in itself would've made her angry with Sherlock for continuing his investigation into Copper Beeches. She had asked her dad about the institution, but he had never heard of it, and was also adamant that her mother had died in the car crash.
But the photos, in particular, had disturbed her greatly. Mandi was immediately horrified on her behalf, and confirmed for Violet that this was the action of a sick, perverted mind.
Violet couldn't eliminate the feeling of betrayal, as if she was damaging Sherlock's reputation. She thought she still loved him—at least she loved the Sherlock Holmes she thought he was. But then the ache of loss would be replaced by the sickening realisation that the man she loved was a monster.
"Yes, I have," she said eventually, making eye contact with Jake again. "But I need a friend right now, Jake. Not an ex-boyfriend who's trying to get off with me."
Jake's face softened, and he quipped, "Would a friend make another friend eat fish and chips for dinner?"
Violet's heart went out him. She was being unnecessarily cold toward him. After their own break-up, they had eventually become friends—a friendship that had become awkward and strained when she was dating Nick. And now it was back to being awkward because Jake had proposed to her. She longed to return to the days when Jake was just there for her, like a solid rock.
"Pasta then," she said, arching an eyebrow. "The Italian place next to the fish and chip shop. Pasta, and no funny business."
Jake grinned broadly as Violet opened the door for them. As they made their way to the stairwell, Violet asked over her shoulder, "Are we going to be followed by anyone?"
"Ah, yes," he replied. "My mates at SOCA. Let's see... it's Tuesday night, so that would be Hammond and Travis. I'll point them out to you if you like. I get coffee delivered to them some nights. Perhaps you can give them a wave?"
I'll do more than give them a wave, Violet thought.
She found dinner pleasant and not at all awkward. Jake was happy to talk about converting the old Row 17 nightclub by the river into another Kabuki Pirates. The new club would have the same layout as its namesake in London. Violet spoke about the success of her play in Ealing, and read out a couple of favourable reviews to Jake from her phone, so he could at least see that this was a serious industry and she had a legitimate occupation. She had been in a play that people actually saw, she emphasised, and notable critics had even made mention of her talent.
Warmed and comforted by three glasses of red wine, Violet settled back into the booth, as Jake gave their dessert orders to the waiter. Profiteroles with warm chocolate sauce or Italian biscuits drenched in amaretto. She couldn't decide, so she had asked Jake to surprise her.
Must go for a jog around Heaton Park tomorrow, she mused.
Violet's thoughts were interrupted by her ringing phone. As she picked it up, Jake turned back to her, having finished with the waiter.
The caller ID was listed as John Watson. Violet's head was far too fuzzy for a serious conversation about whether or not Sherlock Holmes was a pervy psycho. After she pressed the Reject Call button, she leant forward and asked Jake, "So what did you order for me?"
#
John cleared his throat and dropped his phone hand to his side.
"She's not answering right now," he said to Sherlock. "But I'll keep trying."
There was no reaction from Sherlock, who remained in his armchair in front of the fire, using a poker to gently push further into the flames the papers that were currently curling and turning black on one side.
Bit late for that now, John thought grimly, as Sherlock placed the last of the contents of the file on Violet onto the fire. John didn't know what else he could do for his friend. Sherlock had sent him a Code Red text message earlier that evening, which in itself, would've been a funny thing.
John had thought of the not-so-covert messaging system as a result of a particularly tight spot in which he had found himself with his then girlfriend Mary, once upon a time. He sought support from his flatmate, telling Sherlock that, by default, Sherlock should take his side. Sherlock actually thought Mary's argument was far superior and hadn't supported John at all. John had subsequently sat Sherlock down and told him all about mateship and brotherhood. Sherlock thought the entire 'Code Red call for help' support system was completely ridiculous.
Ten minutes after John had received Sherlock's text, he found himself in Baker Street faced with a completely distraught Consulting Detective.
"She was here," he said to John as he bundled up the papers into their folder. "She saw the file. She thinks I compiled it. You have to tell her it was all Mycroft."
"She saw..."
"These photos, John." Sherlock's voice crackled with emotion, as he bundled up the photos and placed them along with the papers into the file. "You have to ring her," he bid John again, before settling in front of his fireplace and feeding the papers to the hungry, orange flames a bundle at a time.
So John had immediately dialled Violet's number, but after a few rings it went to her messagebank. He sat himself down on the edge of his armchair, and watched as Sherlock stared, unseeing into the fire, his task complete.
"So you went round to see her?" John asked.
"She wasn't there. I don't know where she is. I spoke to her friend," Sherlock said, emphasising the last word in distaste.
Sherlock had returned home, his world in turmoil. Of course he had smellt Violet's perfume when he had returned to Baker Street on Sunday afternoon, not because her scent was on his coat, but because she had been in his flat only an hour or so before. If he had returned earlier, if he hadn't taken that pointless case, all this could have been avoided.
Violet had left his flat upset and thinking he was a disturbed individual. Sherlock's inside churned at the idea that this is what his Violet thought of him— not just a freak like all of the other ignorant bastards he had encountered all throughout his life, but a sick pervert. It was all his brother's doing again. Mycroft and his fucking file. Why had he left it on his desk? Idiot!
"Are you going to try again?" Sherlock asked John, trying to keep the desperation from seeping into his voice.
At that moment, Sherlock's phone chimed. He drew it out of his pocket expecting an answer from Mycroft. Sherlock had sent his last request to his brother as a text message, rather than phoning the elder Holmes and listening to that smarmy voice again. Find Violet's current location, was what he'd requested. All the pompous arse had to do was get his GCHQ buddies to triangulate Violet's mobile phone GPS signal.
As his eyes fell upon Mycroft's very short response, his stomach dropped a couple of inches.
Manchester. Would you like the precise location? —MH
"What? What is it?" John asked, noticing Sherlock's ashen expression.
Sherlock slowly raised his eyes from his screen and met John's concerned gaze. He shook his head minutely when he saw the doctor's own phone is his hand. "Don't worry about it," he said to John, indicating his friend's phone. He didn't need John to try phoning Violet again. Sherlock had received her message loud and clear.
She was in Manchester. She'd left part of her belongings here and there in London, but had escaped to Manchester to get away from Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock the sick fuck.
And who lived in Manchester?
The horrible ache in his heart returned with a vengeance—that feeling from his childhood, when he'd thought he'd made a friend at last, only to experience that look they gave him the next day because he'd inadvertently offended them; this rejection, coupled with the emotions of confusion and bewilderment caused by the Gunhild Wenden senior's words in his teen years, was nothing compared to what he was experiencing now.
Sherlock slowly rose from his seat, his body reacting physically to the burden of heartache it now carried. He couldn't make his mind work, but neither did he want to. He no longer had any interest in calculating his next move, or retrieving one more vital piece of information in his bid to finding Violet.
It was over, and he needed to eliminate the pain, not prolong it by continuing on with this seemingly endless and pointless quest.
Mind Palace Mycroft swiftly and silently had his Mind Palace minions patch up the crumbling wall that had allowed these weak sentimental emotions to leak out. The memories of Violet Hunter's company, her unique scent, her heart-warming laughter and odd views on the world, were all packaged up, tossed into a trunk and buried in the basement of Sherlock's Mind Palace.
#
