Chapter 4 - Secret and Missing

"I just saw John," Violet said, as she breezed through the doorway.

Sherlock's attention remained firmly on his computer as Violet crossed the living room.

"Mm," he responded. "He's disappointed I didn't have an interesting case for him on his morning off." His eyes left the screen long enough to scan Violet from head to toe. "How was your… jog?"

Nice deduction, Violet mused. With a light laugh, she replied, "Good." She leant over and placed a kiss on his lips, relieved he'd actually raised his chin to accommodate her. At least he was trying to seem interested. She'd spent over two hours at the gym, learning mixed martial arts for The Rise of the Five. And she had alternated between taking the tube and jogging between stations. Never the same combination two days in a row to throw the paps off. Sherlock's advice. Stuart Jire's trial had entered its third day. Neither Violet Hunter nor Sherlock Holmes were interested in making a statement to the press.

Violet left the living room for her bedroom upstairs, had a quick shower, then changed into casual clothes before returning downstairs.

As she filled the kettle, she drew in a steady breath to calm her nerves. Loosen her larynx… project a casual air. That sort of thing. Sherlock was still seated at the living room table, frowning at his screen.

"Sherlock…"

"Mm?"

"Have you seen my… contract? The one with Stoper Westaway… my agency?"

"Mm… no."

She made her way over to him and began shuffling papers around on the table.

"I've got a hard copy," she said, trying to sound preoccupied, "and I want to make sure it's the same as the electronic copy."

She moved papers this way and that, holding back the urge to launch into a more detailed explanation. Only lies have detail—that's what Sherlock drilled into her when she had to purposefully mislead the studio, during her stint on Regency Road, about the injuries she'd suffered at the hands of Jake Venucci.

She moved a file box from one side of the table to the other and then moved it back again.

"Look, are you going to be long?" Sherlock asked, clicking his mouse forcefully a couple of times. "That's a tiny bit annoying."

"Just… let me know if you see it," Violet said, straightening up and moving away from the table.

She opened the lower cabinets behind Sherlock, drew assorted boxes in and out, checking the weight for the possibility of a firearm. But what would she know about the weight of a firearm? She opened the filing cabinet, where the file titled Francis Carfax in her own handwriting drew her attention, giving her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"This is all very peculiar," Sherlock remarked behind her. His voice was pitched low; his words spoken as if carefully considered.

A spike of adrenaline elevated Violet's heart rate.

Knew I couldn't get away with it.

She braved a glance at Sherlock.

He had repositioned his chair so that it now sat at a right-angle to its original position in front of the laptop. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and he rubbed the knuckle of his thumb across his lower lip. His contemplative pose. His slitted eyes told Violet he was on to something after observing her for quite some time.

"Have you got a case?" she said, turning back to the cabinet, as if she really wasn't listening to his comment, nor phased by his altered sitting position.

"What did you and John talk about?" he asked.

Violet's head buzzed, her mind scrambling for an explanation other than the actual truth—that John Watson seemed to think he'd left his service-issue revolver behind when he moved out. Or, he suspected, Sherlock may have 'taken' it. He'd asked Violet to sneakily look around for it. Pretend you're looking for something else, he'd prompted her.

"What makes you think we talked?" Violet replied.

Sherlock tutted, then drew in his usual pre-deduction breath.

"Because the interval between John leaving this room and you entering it isn't consistent with a quick greeting on the staircase. Therefore you had a conversation. Was it about me? What else would you talk about."

In spite of the secret she was striving to keep, Violet felt a smile tugging at her lips. This was typical behaviour of Sherlock whenever he had no real cases with which to occupy his mind: uncovering hidden secrets in the furniture and detecting deceit within 221B's occupants. Although, in this case, he was absolutely correct.

Violet opened her mouth to reply, but Sherlock interjected.

"And you're searching places in which your papers have no business residing."

Heart pounding, Violet drew in a steadying breath and said, "Well, if I can't find them where they're supposed to be, I'm going to look where they shouldn't be. Okay? And, since you've asked, John and I were talking about Catherine Hilderness."

"John wouldn't have much to say about a TV show."

"He said he enjoyed it, actually. But… I think he watched it under sufferance."

"Mary," Sherlock volunteered.

"And he was surprised and annoyed I hadn't made you watch it yet."

"Mm," Sherlock replied, turning back to his computer.

Violet laughed lightly, then headed for the kitchen. It was true; she hadn't made him watch it. Why put herself through such torture if he was going to complain every five minutes?

"I'm was making tea," she called out. "Would you like a cup?"

Sherlock rose from his chair and made his way over to the kitchen, hands in his pockets.

"I was thinking about dinner tonight," he said. "Why don't we go out? It's been an age, and surely you can have one night off from your diet?"

Violet clicked the kettle on again and frowned up at Sherlock.

"You don't like going out to dinner. People stare, you said."

"It's a small sacrifice I'm willing to make this time round."

His eyes glistened as he gave her his customary broad smile.

"Takeaway's fine," she replied. "We don't have to go out." Just what was he up to? But she had another favour to ask him. "Because… well, actually," she began, "if you're willing to make a small sacrifice for me…"

Violet noted Sherlock's deep inhale, as if he needed to hold his breath.

"I didn't ask you, well, we did… Mandi and I… the other week, but I could tell you weren't listening."

Sherlock exhaled. Perhaps he had already deduced what she was about to ask.

"The Late Show, with Tevish Stewart," she went on. "It's tomorrow. We've got your name on the list for backstage access. Obviously, you don't have to, but I'd really love it if you could come with me. Us. Mandi and Bonnie and I."

"Who's Bonnie?"

"My hair and makeup stylist. Remember she came over before the…" Before the Catherine Hilderness advanced screening, Violet recalled. But Sherlock had already bolted for Bart's hospital that afternoon. "It doesn't matter," she finished, with a light shrug. "The point is: I really need you there."

"You've done interviews up and down the country. I don't understand why you need me for this one."

"Because it's different." Violet could feel knots forming in her stomach at the thought of it. "Look, you know I can talk about my work for hours. All day, if I have to. But The Late Show is different. This is entertainment, and it's recorded in front of a studio audience. I've never done that before. And Tevish's interviews are supposed to be fun. He does things like getting celebrities to sing or dance, especially if that's not what they're known for… or they read rude tweets or something. They've asked if I can recite Catherine's lines in a Northern accent… as if she's Christa from Regency Road."

"Why?"

"They think it'll be funny. He's not a serious interviewer, but he's very popular. I can't really say no without sounding like a dick." Violet's chest tightened and she looked up at Sherlock with imploring eyes. "To be perfectly honest," she said, her eyes stinging a little, "I'm absolutely terrified. If I have you backstage, telling me what a load of rubbish it is… making me laugh before I go on… I know I'll be able to cope."

Sherlock seemed to study Violet's eyes as if he had a lot to contemplate. If he said no, she would understand. She would accept his answer and find a way to cope herself. Champagne, probably. She was sure they served up whatever your poison was. But this was definitely out of Sherlock's comfort zone. Not as intense an experience as the TELSAs, but he didn't have any idea what he was getting into when he had accepted that one. Now that he knew what these sorts of things entailed, these days his default answer was always a resounding 'no'.

"Okay," he said finally.

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Violet drew open Sherlock's sock and underwear drawer and exhaled deeply—a calming effect on her nerves. When her fingertips eventually brushed against velvet towards the back of the drawer, she gasped. The texture she felt didn't match the heritage green, gold-flecked socks she could see, under which her fingers had glided. She withdrew her hand, then began carefully removing each sock roll in the back corner until they revealed the oddly-shaped bundle beneath. It was now evident that each roll in this section only contained an individual sock, rather than a pair; it was to accommodate the hidden object beneath them, without adding height to the pile.

Violet carefully placed the bundle onto the corner of the bed. There she stood stock still, ruminating on the meaning behind it. If it was John's gun, then Sherlock had been purposefully deceitful. She hated to think that of him.

But it could be a childhood artefact, something special and sentimental to him—something he may be a little embarrassed or precious about. Something she would have no business glimpsing.

Or…

A hidden present for her… a Christmas present! …purchased way too early.

Too big to be an engagement ring, she thought, deflating a little. Not that Sherlock would buy her a ring, or even think of asking her to marry him. She already knew his views on the subject of marriage by the speech he'd made at John and Mary's wedding. Death-watch beetle, indeed. By the time the wedding was over, Violet was quite sure that the words "marry me" Sherlock had drunkenly uttered after returning from John's Stag night in the days before the wedding were not the tail end of "will you marry me" but perhaps "don't expect me to ever ask you to marry me."

Violet sighed heavily. She'd stared at this mysterious object for far too long. Sherlock would be back soon.

Turning it over, she unwrapped the object from the black velvet cloth. Her heart sank when she saw the gun. Oh, Sherlock. And now she was going to have to deal with it.

By the time Sherlock's footfalls echoed up the stairwell, Violet was seated in her armchair, reading the script for Improbity, the gun now hidden in a shoebox at the bottom of her closet upstairs. She'd texted John its new location, then dutifully deleted the message from her phone.

Deceit bred deceit. Lies upon lies.

She felt ill.

After last year's break up, when hiding something as seemingly innocuous as having coffee with Jake became part of the so-called evidence against her, she thought she wouldn't ever keep things from Sherlock again. Her eyes stung, so she flipped to the last few scenes, which were emotionally charged and would give her an excuse for looking upset.

"Jacob's Creek," Sherlock said, holding out the bottle of pinot gris he'd purchased along with their Chinese takeaway. "Australian," he added proudly. "Since you're going there…"

Violet hopped up from her seat, a smile growing on her face as Sherlock deposited his purchases onto the coffee table. He never failed to impress her with his knowledge of which wine to pair with what meal, even though he professed not to be a wine drinker. Since her personal trainer-imposed alcohol ban, Violet missed the one glass of wine she used to allow herself to consume during dinner, with Sherlock sometimes choosing a bottle for them. If she was blowing her diet tonight, then her alcohol abstinence went with it, they decided.

She retrieved two white wine stems from the kitchen cabinet, while Sherlock grabbed plates and cutlery. A faint whiff of cigarette smoke accompanied him as he bustled about—the real reason he volunteered to pick up their dinner. Both food and wine could've been delivered, but Sherlock said he needed 'fresh air' anyway, which meant 'a quick smoke'.

They ate, drank two glasses of wine each, discussed the logistics of tastefully filming sex scenes and Violet's near miss in the porn industry, tried new wrestling holds, had a quick single-stick joust which left one new houseplant half-mangled, their battle ending with Violet showing Sherlock some of her new boxing moves, specifically, her left hook and rear upper cut.

"Don't drop your right arm," Sherlock instructed her as Violet's left hook slammed into his outstretched palm. "That's it! And keep your eyes on me when you pivot."

Her uppercut followed. Not quite as good, but Sherlock always had Violet in fits of laughter whenever he recounted scenarios for her. Sounded like he'd been in his fair share of fights over the years.

"Make sure you dip down so your hip and foot follow…"

"What's going on?" Mrs Hudson called from the stairwell.

"And use the power in your legs," he went on. Turning to the landlady, he added, "Training, Mrs Hud-ooof!"

Sherlock went down like a sack of potatoes. Violet was surprised her fist had actually connected with his stomach. She thought he'd step back to avoid being hit as he had been doing.

"Sherlock!" she cried. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock had curled up into a ball at her feet. Mrs Hudson tutted.

"If you fall about on my furniture, I'll give you what for, young man!"

"Sherlock?" Violet called again, leaning over him.

"I'm… okay," he rasped. "Just need… a moment."

Mrs Hudson began stacking up the takeaway containers on the coffee table with another tsk.

"You two should really clean these up straightaway. The whole flat smells like garlic and ginger. And when it gets into the curtains…"

Violet immediately helped the landlady clear the table, while Sherlock lay immobile on the rug in front of the coffee table.

In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson quizzed Violet about the plot of the first episode of Catherine Hilderness that had aired the previous Sunday. Since the scenes were shown out of sequence, her landlady was a bit baffled ("Back in my day, movies were less confusing."). It took a bit of explaining what scene went where, and by the time Mrs Hudson had left the kitchen a little bit clearer about the plot, Sherlock had risen to his feet and was ambling towards the bedroom.

"Are you all right?" Violet asked, following him along the passageway.

"Yes," he said, crawling onto the bed. "I had a stomach full of food when you landed that punch."

Violet was horrified she'd caused Sherlock such discomfort. After several minutes of soothing him and showering him with affection, he began returning Violet's caresses. This was one of her favourite moments in the evenings of lulls between cases, when Sherlock didn't shun alcohol, when he was relaxed and attentive—when their lovemaking was slow and drawn out, because he had all the time in the world, making her orgasm far more intense and longer-lasting.

She curled her toes as Sherlock's lips and tongue cruised lazily over her abdomen. Her whole body throbbed with a torturous ache, but she knew it would be worth the wait. As a storm slowly built inside her, Sherlock's phone rang from the bedside table.

It rang three times before he actually stopped what he was doing.

"Christ," he said, looking up from between her legs. "Sorry."

She would've reached over herself and thrown the phone across the room, but that was no guarantee the damn thing would stop ringing anyway. Sherlock pulled himself to the top of the bed, still stretched out on top of Violet and rejected the call. Violet had glanced over at his screen the moment he'd turned the phone over. She'd read Molly Hooper as the caller ID.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to her cheek and murmured, "I'm going to have to start from the top again."

"No," Violet said weakly.

Sherlock emitted a devilish chuckle before setting to work once more. As his mouth rode lower, progressing more quickly than before, Violet moved restlessly beneath him, her fingers twisting the bedsheets. When his hand slipped between her legs, even with the knowledge that his tongue would soon follow, Violet gently lifted it away.

"I'm ready," she whispered.

"What? Now?"

"Yes."

Sherlock rearranged himself above Violet, creases forming in his forehead.

"But I was going to—"

Violet pulled him into her, giving him no chance to emit anything more than a satisfied groan.

She moved with him, urging him faster, fresh need building inside her. But she knew it wouldn't be enough with that phone call crowding her thoughts. It was the slow, deliberate lovemaking she had wanted, but that was not what she was going to receive. Did he want to finish quickly? Sherlock had no cases. He had to be thinking about why Molly Hooper would be ringing him after 10pm on a Friday night. Well, if he wasn't, Violet certainly was. Her soft sigh in frustration only seemed to urge Sherlock on. She was so far from reaching her own peak!

She gripped his hips anyway, her sighs turning to moans.

"Don't stop!" she gasped, arching her back, and grinding their pelvises together. What she had wanted to say was "Slow down! Start again!" Every muscle tensed in anger and frustration; pleasure distanced itself from her, but she drove Sherlock to the brink. She nearly wept upon hearing his low moans signalling the start of his own release, but she cried out with him, her breath coming in short pants. Tears pressed against her eyes when Sherlock's gentle rocking finally ceased and he lay on top of her, with Violet still clinging to him. Their hearts hammered in unison.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to Violet's cheek and said, "I know that's not exactly what you wanted." Violet stiffened, but he seemed oblivious. "I hope that was to your satisfaction, anyway." He chuckled then rolled from her. "Just give me half an hour, and then we'll have another slow one."

Normally, she would roll into his side at this point, excited that it was going to be another one of those nights of lazy lovemaking, but her mind still buzzed with what she had just done. Her chest heaved from her physical exertions; her skin flushed. It certainly looked like she'd finished in style.

"Violet," Sherlock said, holding out an arm for her.

Violet slid over to him, moulded her body along his side and rested her head on his chest. Her insides twisted with guilt.

Lies and deceit!

More lies!

And now this.

"I just need the bathroom," she said, sitting up and sliding from her side of the bed. "Back in a minute." Before she entered the ensuite, she waved a hand at Sherlock's phone and said, "Why don't you find out what that call was about? Must be important."

"Mm," he said, staring at the ceiling.

Violet quickly shut the bathroom door behind her before she burst into tears. He was basking in the afterglow! That's where she was supposed to be right now!

She stepped into the shower and turned the tap on with the temperature as cold as she could stand it. Her punishment for being a liar and a fraud! Sherlock Holmes was a perfect lover—so generous and infinitely creative. Entirely selfless! He'd be mortified she'd resorted to this! There was absolutely no need for her appalling behaviour. So why had she done it?

As the cold water battered her bowed head, Violet clenched and unclenched her fists. She definitely wasn't jealous of Molly Hooper. The pathologist only featured in Sherlock's cases where there were oddities concerning corpses. He barely spoke about her. And they'd been friends for years and years. But then again, sometimes when he was bored he'd trot off to Bart's. Who knows how much they'd managed to bond over a microscope slide.

Violet wiped the water out of her eyes and turned off the taps.

Another woman had phoned her boyfriend at 10pm on a Friday night, while she, Violet, was in a very vulnerable position. With her boyfriend between her legs. But still.

Why should this bother her?

Because it did.

Another woman had phoned her boyfriend at 10pm. It was that simple. And the mood had been spoiled entirely.

Violet wound a towel around her damp hair, then grabbed her dressing gown from its hook on the bathroom door.

"Yes, it fucking bothers me," she muttered to herself as she slid on her gown and fastened the sash.

Upon opening the ensuite door, she found Sherlock standing beside the bed, tucking his grey button-down shirt into his trousers.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I have to go out," he said.

Violet blinked, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"Something's come up," Sherlock replied, taking a seat on the bed as he pulled his shoes towards him.

"What's… happened?"

"Molly," he said, pulling on socks.

"Is she… okay?"

"What?" he asked, looking up, a frown on his face. "No… she rang… Molly… about another…" He paused and bowed his head before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Another one," he said, exhaling as if in defeat.

Violet could see he was in no state to be hounded for the details, but he wasn't exactly forthcoming with information. She watched as he slipped on first one shoe, then the other.

"Is this a case you've been working on?"

"No," he said, standing up, his expression hardening. "And that's the whole fucking problem with this. I wasn't working on it."

He retrieved the suit jacket that had been draped over the chair in the corner. As he drew it on, he glanced at Violet.

"Homeless network," he said. "The second one in a week. Christ!" Turning from her again he dropped his head and rubbed fingertips across his brow. "She was only… Not that old. Your age."

She? thought Violet.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," she said.

"Weed," he said cryptically, straightening up before making for the door. Perplexed, Violet followed him out into the kitchen. "That's all they can be bothered using," he called back as he strode the length of the kitchen. "It's not a problem, usually. It's this… synthetic cannabinoid…"

"So where are you going?" Violet asked him as she followed him into the living room.

"Mortuary," he said, turning this way and that as he patted his pockets. He drew out his phone, then, satisfied that he had it, he shoved it back into his trouser pocket.

"I'll come with you," Violet said. "Just let me get—"

"No."

"But you shouldn't be—"

"I don't want you there!"

Violet snapped her mouth shut, tears pricking her eyes.

Sherlock's expression immediately softened and he hastened over to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching for her. "That came out much harsher than I intended." He rubbed her arms and attempted a smile. "Violet Hunter can't be seen there. What will people think? And besides, I'll probably visit the rest of them… Wiggins, and the others. Homeless network. They could be anywhere. I might be a while." He gave Violet a quick kiss on the cheek and added, "I'll be fine."

"I just don't want you to be… alone," Violet said, as he headed for the door.

Turning on the threshold, he said, "I won't be. I've got Molly." And with a quick wink and a half-smile, he turned and rapidly descended, leaving Violet standing on the living room rug in her dressing gown.

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