Chapter 3 - I Value Your Little Contributions
"Now, Sherlock," Violet gasped in desperation.
Sherlock did as he was bid and Violet exhaled with a relieved moan.
"I told you not to lift it on your own," he remarked, straightening up and wiping his hands on his trousers.
"And you were supposed to get the other end when I said to."
Now that they had pivotted the heavy antique table upon which the computer sat, Violet once again peered at the screen.
"There," she said, gesturing towards the mountain of clothes that covered her bed. "They won't be able to see it now."
Sherlock surveyed the mound. It never grew smaller. Violet's frequent declarations of "just popping upstairs to sort out my clothes" never seemed to produce any sign of progress.
"May I… go now?" he asked.
He'd helped her set up Skype for her silly meeting with… now who was it? Splendor Pictures. That's it. An independent production company based in New York. Of course he remembered. Virginia Schalder and Justin Behmes. Names filed away in his Mind Palace to research later, in case they — like Stuart Jire — possessed ill-intent where it concerned his girlfriend.
They'd rearranged the furniture so the lighting over Violet's dressing table "filled in the shadows" and the bed laden with clothes was out of view.
"No! Aren't you going to stay?"
"W-was I?"
Violet's brows arched. Never a good sign.
"You can sit on the bed," she said, a sprinkling of desperation in her voice. Sit in on a meeting with Violet and two American showbiz types? Discussing… a movie? "And be my support," she went on. "Silent support. Otherwise, it's two against one."
"Two against one? How can it be two against one? It's a meeting, not a debate. You've already got the part. This is to discuss logistics, you said."
"Yes, but—"
"Perhaps I'll just stick my head round the door now and again to see if you're okay."
Sherlock finished his statement with his broad closed-mouth smile, but Violet had already furrowed her brow.
"No. You can see the door behind me. You can't just pop in and out."
"I'm sure you'll be fine."
"I'm feeling really anxious," Violet remarked unnecessarily, clasping her hands together.
"Violet," Sherlock said, placing gentle hands on her shoulders, "they already want you. They've seen your… showreel. Their niece… cousin…"
"Daughter."
"Daughter(!) saw you in Kara's War when she visited London. Live! On stage! Couldn't recommend you more highly! So this is… just a chat." Sherlock straightened up and waved a flippant hand. "Have a cup of tea. You like nattering to people about films and…" He was running out of steam. And his interest level was rapidly taking a dive. "…all sorts of rubbish," he finally muttered.
Violet's eyes lit up. Clearly she hadn't heard his last statement.
"Tea! A cup of tea! Of course! That'll give me something to do!"
"Other than speaking and breathing?"
"Sherlock, you run along and make me a cup of tea." Run along? "And I'll find something to wear," she finished, now facing the bed, a new determination in her tone.
Thank Christ for that! Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief and made for the landing.
"Sherlock!" Oh, dear God. He thought he'd managed to escape! "What am I going to wear!"
A knot formed in his stomach. Trying to maintain a casual air, Sherlock glanced back and said, "What you're wearing is fine." He edged towards the top of the staircase.
"You can't wear white in front of a camera!"
Sherlock clenched the top of the banister.
"Come on," Violet said, tugging at his shirt sleeve. "You're really good at this."
Within seconds, Sherlock was back in front of the mountain of clothes. Eyeing them critically, every white garment now disappeared from his mind's eye.
"And nothing with patterns," Violet added.
He eliminated several more items.
Lifting up a burgundy knitted top, she said, "And nothing that shows my cleavage. It's not that sort of meeting."
"Nothing that shows…" Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned to face Violet. "What sort of meeting necessitates you showing your cleavage?"
Violet laughed lightly.
"Oh… you know…" she said, shrugging. And she drew several garments aside.
Sherlock didn't know. And he really wanted to! It seemed kind of important.
He scratched his head, watching as Violet churned through her clothes. Suddenly he spied something that made his heart quicken, and a familiar warmth spread through him.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, plucking out a jade-coloured evening dress from the pile. Now this dress had a plunging neckline. He remembered the Mickey Mouse pendant he'd bought Violet at the end of their trip to L.A. nestling against her cleavage when she wore the dress to John and Mary's wedding a couple of months ago. Very suggestive.
"Oh, don't be naughty," Violet said, snatching the dress from him. Obviously she'd caught the gleam in his eye.
"You should put it aside," he said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, "for those meetings where you need to show your cleavage. I highly recommend it."
"Very funny."
Ah, such fond memories of Violet in that dress.
They'd been a bit tipsy, admittedly. He hadn't been drinking the entirety of the wedding. (Not 'finding a way to cope', Brother Dear!). He'd had a shot of whiskey before his speech, but afterwards, the rest of the proceedings had been so tedious! And John's other groomsman — an ex-army major called Sholto — had plied Sherlock with alcohol. Not his fault!
But Violet… what was her excuse? She'd accosted Sherlock in the hallway outside the toilets and not-so-innocently wondered what it would be like to kiss him because he looked so handsome in his morning suit. Again, not his fault. And what was her hand doing rubbing the outside of his trousers. Wondering what the fabric felt like?
It was a good thing Sherlock had already committed to memory the layout of the wedding venue. Beyond the yew hedges and neglected topiary stood a hidden pergola. Perfect for clandestine encounters. Underneath the blossoming wisteria and the glow of the not-quite full moon, Sherlock slipped the top part of Violet's dress from her shoulders while he skimmed his lips along her throat. She shuddered and sighed, sending a flash of heat straight to his loins. Casting Mickey Mouse aside, he tried to free her breasts from the confines of her dress and bra beneath.
"What the bloody hell… why are your breasts sticky-taped to your dress?"
His comment brought on a round of giggles from Violet.
"It's… fashion… tape."
Unimpressed (and thoroughly confused), Sherlock murmured, "What will I find next? Staples in your underwear?"
It had taken a full two minutes to get Violet's giggling under control. She was in complete disarray—dress half undone, strands of hair spilling from her low side bun. Her skin was flushed and her eyes glistened with happy tears. Exquisite. He had to have her. But first, silence her in the only way he knew how.
His mouth fed off hers as he bunched up her dress. Fingers trailed to her thighs, skimming then exploring. She tried to continue laughing, mouth pressed against his, but a gasp as his fingers dipped inside ended it all.
Violet murmured his name, quietly pleading. Sherlock continued what he had started with her breasts, lathing and sucking her nipples, first one and then the other. She arched in appreciation, eagerly fumbling for his fly in response.
Sherlock yanked Violet up onto a moss-covered low stone wall, pressing her against a pillar before he plunged inside. Violet clung to him, breathlessly urging him on. It was with an urgent desperation that he drove deep into her, tirelessly, mindlessly, before sending them both deliciously over the edge and beyond.
Violet must've recalled the same memory, for her eyes shone with a certain wistfulness.
Draping the dress over one shoulder and holding it against her waist, she asked, "Did you like me in this dress?"
"I liked you out of that dress," he replied, one corner of his mouth curving upward.
"Well, I'm sorry," she said. "We don't have time to play dress-ups right now."
Sherlock didn't have the stamina to play dress-ups just now. He'd only ejaculated fifteen minutes ago thanks to Violet's saucy dee—
"Oh, fuck, Sherlock!" Violet exclaimed, looking at her digital clock on the dresser. "It's—"
The familiar bloops of an incoming Skype call sounded from her laptop. Violet's mouth fell open, her eyes rounded in panic.
Sherlock casually plucked a top from the bed—scoop-neck, midtones, slim-fitting.
"How do you do that?" she asked, before hastily discarding the top she was wearing. "No, don't answer that question."
After donning Sherlock's selection and quickly fixing her hair as she crossed the room, Violet called back, "You can't leave now!"
In a split second, Sherlock was out the door and onto the landing. He gently pulled the door shut behind him.
A close call!
#
"Sherlock?" Violet called out as she crossed the landing for the living room.
The sole occupant on the mantelpiece greeted her with its toothy grin. Still out then, she mused. He'd left before she was due at the gym for her pre-production fitness regime. Violet hoped the case he had been called out for posed an interesting challenge for him, unlike the one she had sat in on yesterday afternoon.
"Ah, but now you've explained it," the ruddy-complexioned Mr Kingsley had said to Sherlock after the Consulting Detective explained how he knew his client had been indifferent to an ex-girlfriend. "It's dead simple, innit?" the hapless man finished.
Violet's eyes widened. Even she knew that wasn't the type of throwaway remark you made to Sherlock Holmes once he explained a deduction. It was simple to him. To Ordinary Minds, it was clever, brilliant, astounding.
She listened, in ever-growing amusement, to Sherlock's rapid-fire alternate-universe deduction to a gobsmacked Mr Kingsley. He finished with the real deduction of, "Your wife left you because your breath stinks and you like to wear her lingerie," then ordered his humiliated client to leave.
Violet had held in her laughter until she heard the front door click shut downstairs.
"God help me," Sherlock said, dragging a hand down his face. "Is this all I'm left with?"
She felt bad that his cases were few and far between. After he'd weeded out the sly journalists and sycophantic fans, the genuine cases that remained in his inbox were below par. Less than a five, he'd told her. Hopefully, Violet thought, Scotland Yard had given him a real case in which to sink his teeth. He'd been gone for hours.
She filled the kettle and clicked it on, before retrieving her Twinings Fruit Selections from the overhead cabinet.
"Woo hoo!" called Mrs Hudson, with an accompanying rap on the open kitchen door. "I've got more milk," the landlady added, crossing the kitchen for the fridge. "I know you don't have it anymore, but Sherlock still does."
"Oh. Thank you."
Violet dropped a tea bag into her mug, biting back the comments that sat on the tip of her tongue in defence of her new diet.
"What are you having?" Mrs Hudson asked, nodding towards the box on the counter.
"Ah… mango and strawberry."
The landlady tutted.
"Back in my day, an ordinary cup of tea never hurt anyone!"
And there it was.
With those parting words, Mrs Hudson exited the kitchen.
Violet clenched her jaw. Not that she would've made an argument out of it with Mrs H. These days, the air still felt stifled between them, ever since the actress, in a drunken state, had insulted the landlady for taking Sherlock's side. Apparently Violet had been swearing and carrying on, her ire directed at Sherlock and then Mrs Hudson. Violet's cheeks flushed when she recalled Sherlock's disappointment in her behaviour.
Once the kettle had clicked off, Violet poured the water into her mug, inhaling the scent of mango. She left the bag sitting in the water, added a dash of cold from the tap to cool it down, then took her mug to the living room. She took a sip and grimaced. Yes, she did miss sugar, milk and caffeine. The sacrifices she had to make for her craft!
Violet grabbed the script she'd been reading the night before and settled into her armchair. She sighed. She was going to have to tell Sherlock about it and see what he thought. Surely he'd be supportive of her choice of projects these days. That's how their relationship had evolved, hadn't it? Encouraging each other in their work. Well, she had tried to help him with his where possible. When she was available.
Had she been supportive of his casework lately, though? Apart from Mr Kingsley's, there was one other she had sat in on, taking notes, asking semi-intelligent questions (Sherlock's words!), before she'd embarked on her Catherine Hilderness publicity tour the other week. That client—Violet had forgotten her name—had also seemed unphased by the presence of the actress.
"I don't think they even know who you are," Sherlock had remarked when they discussed it. "You don't look anything like your public image."
She concluded that those sorts of people had reached a quiet desperation in their own lives, forced to make that final leap into hiring a private (Consulting!) detective. They probably didn't care to catch up on local celebrity gossip. And that suited Violet just fine.
But what had Sherlock been working on lately, while she spent two hours each morning in a North London gym learning mixed martial arts?
Violet cast the script aside, rose from her chair and slid in front of Sherlock's computer at the living room table. It was time to Google Sherlock Holmes again.
"Oh, God," she said, her eyes widening at the headline that appeared at the top of the search results.
'MR VIOLET HUNTER' ORDERED TO STAND DOWN 1 hour ago
The tiny photo that accompanied the headline showed Sherlock and D.I. Lestrade facing each other, with the Scotland Yard detective's mouth contorted in what was clearly a reprimand. Violet clicked on the link to the article, but barely had time to skim it when she heard the front door slam shut.
Angry footsteps echoed up the stairwell. No need to guess who they belonged to.
Violet quickly closed the laptop and stood up as Sherlock appeared on the landing.
"Unbelievable," he said, his eyes blazing as he crossed the threshold. "Arrogant. Ignorant. Useless." He pulled up stops on the living room rug, only to about turn and drag a hand through his curls. "Didn't listen to a damn thing I said." Violet could almost see the steam billowing around him as he gestured and vented. "Won't let me near witnesses." Another about-turn. "More worried about the fucking press than actually solving the case!"
"I'm sorry," Violet said, not really sure if Sherlock even knew she was present.
But he stopped and regarded her through narrow eyes.
"He invited me," Sherlock told her. "Then dismissed me like an underling. Told me to leave the crime—"
"—stand down?"
"—scene and let the real det—" He straightened up and tilted his head. "What did you say?"
"He told you to stand down?"
Sherlock studied Violet's eyes for a few seconds.
Whoops. Dammit Violet. Should've kept your gob shut.
"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked slowly.
"Um…" Violet replied, before swallowing the lump in her throat. "It was on the… internet," she finished weakly, gesturing to the computer behind her.
In a flash, Sherlock was seated at the table. The air in the room stilled while he scanned the screen. Violet held her breath. Sherlock's expression remained stony.
"Sorry," Violet said again, the headline firmly in her mind. Mr Violet Hunter.
Since the studio announcement confirming Violet as the character of Satis, the fifth member of the superhero team in the sequel to Anuket's Children, titled The Rise of the Five, there had a been renewed interest in the brand that was Violet Hunter. Lately, there had been more requests for interviews, on top of the ones she'd already conducted during her Catherine Hilderness press junket. The presence of paparazzi at her regular haunts and sneaky snaps from the twitterati resulted in an increase in Violet Hunter-related material online and in the press. And Sherlock's online identity had become less about the clever 'net detective and more about being Violet Hunter's silent but brooding boyfriend.
"Utter rubbish," Sherlock snapped, slamming down the lid of his computer. He made a bid for the kitchen as he spoke. "It wasn't about me not having the authorisation to attend the scene, it was Lestrade caught out by the press for calling in an external consultant. Heaven forbid Scotland Yard come across as incompetent."
Sherlock checked the contents of the kettle before switching it on.
Making her way over to him, Violet asked, "Did the press already know you were there, or did they recognise you afterwards?"
"Dunno," he said, leaning both hands on the counter and bowing his head.
Violet slipped an arm through his.
"Perhaps you need a break from all this," she said soothingly. "Time away from London and the press."
Sherlock heaved out a sigh and withdrew his arm from Violet's hold.
"Not this again," he muttered, turning his back to the counter and folding his arms across his chest.
"It'll be great!" she said, attempting to raise some enthusiasm in him.
Sherlock stalked away from Violet with the remark, "I'm not going with you to Australia!"
Her heart sank. Why did he hate the idea so much? They were going to be apart for two whole months! She just wanted him there halfway through filming.
Sherlock snatched up Violet's script from beside her chair and sank into his own. He held the open script in front of his face as if to read it, but Violet knew he was trying to obscure her from his view.
Such a child!
The last time they'd had this conversation, it had pretty much ended the same way.
Violet rolled her eyes and retrieved a tea cup from the overhead cabinet. She placed a tea bag inside—English Breakfast (because he was allowed caffeine, milk and sugar!)—and went to confront Sherlock in the living room. She couldn't tell if he was actually reading the script or not at this stage, but she decided this conversation wasn't over just yet. She'd get to her script in a moment.
Folding her arms in front of her, Violet leant against the sliding doors.
"I don't mean as a holiday," she began. "Just whatever days you can spare. You could ask Mycroft if he has a case over there. Surely he knows someone in the Australian Gov—"
"Mycroft!" Sherlock repeated in disgust, lowering the script to his lap. His eyes had narrowed. "There's no way I'm contacting my brother." And he lifted up Violet's script once more.
Violet wished he'd stop avoiding his older sibling. This game of who owed whom was petty and childish. Sherlock was sure Mycroft was going to make him work on some tedious case for the British Government because the elder Holmes had fast-tracked the processing of Violet's passport so she could visit her uncle in L.A.
"What is this?" Sherlock said eventually, turning to the front page of the script. "Improbity," he read, carefully enunciating the word.
Violet's stomach churned. He'd obviously read the first page then.
Clearing her throat, she replied, "It's a new script I've been sent." She rounded the armchair and sat down across from Sherlock. Perhaps now was the right time to have a conversation about this movie. Sherlock turned over a page, clearly absorbed in the scene. "And… it's…" Violet began.
"They're having sex," he stated blandly, not looking up.
"Yes," Violet replied. She leant back into her chair and waited for Sherlock to look up.
He turned over another page so Violet huffed out a breath. She'd rehearsed this several times in her head, anyway, so she may as well get started.
"Yes, there are sex scenes in this movie. Three, actually. And they're vital to the plot. The first one is because—"
"They witness a murder," Sherlock interjected. "While they're having sex in an alleyway. Hardly original."
"Well… yes, but… it… it's more about the character development," Violet went on while Sherlock's eyes continued to track across the page. "In the beginning they're obviously self-centred—absorbed in their own gratification. They're reckless and irresponsible. They're high in the first scene, so they don't quite know what they're seeing. And then they're on the run from—"
"And which role do you play?"
Violet gave a light cough.
"Ah… one of the main characters," she replied, her throat tightening so that her voice came out sounding strained. "Lisa."
Since the dialogue on the first page only alternated between LISA and CONOR, with the preceding screen description stating something along the lines of 'the couple move together' in a CLOSE shot of their clothed torsos with panting and moaning heard O.S., Violet thought she'd give Sherlock a moment to absorb the fact of her possible participation in a sex scene.
Scenes.
"And Alex Breville has already signed up to play Conor," she volunteered, clasping her fingers together.
Sherlock lowered the script. Two creases had appeared between his brows.
"Why do I know that name?"
"Um… well… h-he presented my award… at the TELSAs. He used to be on Regency Road… before my time though. His character died. I think he was murdered by… oh, I don't remember. But he was recently in—"
"Ah, Mr Huggy."
Violet tilted her head.
"W-what?"
"He presented you with your award, then hugged you for an inappropriate length of time."
"Oh… okay… did he?"
"Alex Breville. Single. Currently renting a flat in Colliers Wood. Born on the 18th of May, 1987 in London. Began his acting career playing a Lost Boy in Peter Pan in 19—"
"W-wait, Sherlock. How do you know all this?"
Sherlock shrugged lightly. "I may have researched him after that little hugging incident."
Violet's laugh came out high and unnatural.
"Oh…kay," she said.
Sherlock's expression was unreadable as he slowly lifted the script once more.
"And… so…" she struggled to continue, "the scenes will be shot very tastefully. They're quite precise with what they say they're going to show. Actually, the last sex scene is more tender, showing that Lisa and Conor are more aware of—"
Sherlock suddenly stood up.
"Boring."
He dropped the script onto the table beside Violet's chair and buttoned his jacket as he crossed the rug, heading towards the door.
Bewildered, she asked, "W-where are you going?"
"Out," he replied, exiting onto the landing. "I need to think. Might have another look at the crime scene."
"Sherlock!"
For fuck's sake! Did he think she was stupid? His 'need to think' was code for 'need a cigarette'.
Well, thank you Sherlock, Violet thought, indignant.
She stood and strode over to Sherlock's computer. Navigating to her own email account, she swiftly typed out a reply to Polly Stoper, her agent.
Happy to discuss Improbity. Please set up a meeting.
#
A/N: Just a reminder that my story is AU. So, although I mention John's wedding, it was nothing like the episode in the show. And the case with Mr Kingsley isn't to indicate that this scene takes place during S4. I'm just using cases, settings and characters from the show.