Chapter 5 – A Bit of Unwanted Attention
"And why would you be terrified?" Sherlock asked, one hand cupping Violet's face as he lightly skimmed his thumb across her cheek. He could just make out her features in the half-light, as they lay together in the early hours of the morning.
"I don't know," she said, with a sigh. "I think my imagination's working overtime."
Sherlock let the silence thicken around them as Violet shuffled in closer and then turned her back to him so he could curl himself around her. Sometimes, Violet Hunter's imagination was something to be feared, he thought.
He'd found her awake when he returned from his unsuccessful search within the more dubious locations around East London for other members of his homeless network. A visit to Bart's mortuary yielded nothing more than a plastic bag of Lana's possessions, given to him by Molly, who said they would be binned otherwise. Sherlock would pass them on to Wiggins, now his sole homeless network lieutenant.
He felt Violet's deep inhale before she spoke again in a half-whisper.
"I'm worried I'll be humiliated… that Tevish will ask questions about my family… my parents… like, are they proud? I mean… how am I supposed to answer that without bringing the mood down? My mum's dead and my dad hates being my dad. I don't even think he knows who Violet Hunter is."
"Why would Tevish ask about your parents if nobody else ever has?"
"I don't know, Sherlock. He just rambles on and on, and the guest timeslot is about twenty minutes long, although there'll be other guests on the couch. He and Andrea Fabenaski talked for ages about her brother. He works for a shoe company and he designed a shoe with her face on it. And her mum owns every DVD Andrea's in. And then they talked about her sex scenes in The Bloomsbury Circle. You never know what he's going to ask. I mean… fucking hell…" Her voice rose and Sherlock had to lift his head away from her. "What if he asks me about Improbity and shooting sex scenes with Alex Breville? That's the last conversation I want to have. It hasn't even been confirmed publicly, but I'm sure he hears about these things. They say his interviews aren't scripted, but I think that's just an excuse for him to get away with blurting out something that he wouldn't normally be allowed to ask."
"Are you… are you sure you want to do this?"
Violet was silent for a moment or two, and in that time, Sherlock felt her body relax against him.
"Yes," she said in a small voice. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
To Sherlock, she sounded entirely unconvinced.
"I think so, too," he said, tightening his hold around her. "And I'll be there… backstage."
"I know," she said, sighing.
Pressing his lips to the delicate skin behind her ear, he added, "So why don't you try going back to sleep? I can help you."
His hands began to drift in an exploratory manner, but he paused when he felt Violet stiffen.
"I… I've got something to tell you," she whispered.
"Tell me in the morning," he murmured back, distracted by the task at hand.
#
Having narrowed down Bill Wiggins's probable locations to three, Sherlock rapped on the front door of the neglected community hall, his final option. The peeling paint, split wooden boards and assorted litter fluttering on the ground all greeted him like one of their own.
The siren call of old habits.
The words echoed through his Mind Palace—those his brother had once uttered upon finding Sherlock, yet again, in some rundown doss house, not dissimilar to this one.
He banged on the door once more.
Ah, his early twenties, he thought somewhat fondly. When he wasn't sporting bruises and fractured metacarpals from bare knuckle boxing, he abused his body in a myriad of other ways. Good times.
And one more for luck, he said, giving the door another three raps with his fist.
"Go away," came a voice from within.
Sherlock tutted upon recognising it.
"It's me," he said.
"Shezza?"
"Yes. Open up."
"Y'not… y'not'ere with the fuzz?"
"No. Hurry up."
Billy "The Wigg" Wiggins opened the door a crack. With impatience, Sherlock shoved it open further and stepped in.
"Why are you avoiding me?" he asked.
"Don't wanna answer questions."
"It's me, remember. You answering my questions is our core business relationship." Billy turned and ambled along the passageway. "Where are you going?" Sherlock called out, before following his homeless network representative.
"Afternoon tea," Billy shot back.
He turned into the first room on the left, settling himself down onto a well-worn orange sofa. An upturned wooden crate served as a coffee table, upon which sat, amongst other things, a packet of Rizla papers, a lighter and a bag of weed.
As Billy pinched the weed between his fingers and began sprinkling it onto one of the Rizla papers, Sherlock asked, "What's that?"
"Look, it ain't Spice. Just weed. Cannabis. I don't touch that other stuff."
"Where did they get it from?" Sherlock asked, towering over Billy.
"Dunno."
Dropping to squat on his haunches to shoot Billy a deadly gaze aimed at eye level, he added, "Yes, you do. Two of your people in one week. Our people. It must've been the same batch. You must know who supplied it to them."
"Yeah, maybe, but I ain't no grass," Billy replied, before picking up the joint and licking the edge of the paper.
Sherlock straightened up, fished inside his jacket for his wallet, then slipped out a fifty pound note.
Dropping it to the table, he said, "And now you are. I want a name and a location by tonight. Not the supplier. The manufacturer. Finish your tea, Wiggins, because you've got work to do."
#
The high-pitched laughter emanating from Violet's room upstairs reached Sherlock before the cocktail of perfumes and hair products did. He paused on the landing outside his own living room and gazed upwards. This, combined with the text messages he hadn't answered from Violet, made for a horror of an evening. He should've stayed out with the homeless and drug-addled members of society. It would've been a far safer prospect.
Crossing the threshold, he drew out his phone and hastily typed a reply.
I'm here. —SH
At least Violet and her entourage weren't taking up his space, he thought as he made a beeline for the kettle. He may get a few minutes solitude before having to participate in this… what was it? The Late Show backstage nonsense. Violet said she needed his support… she wanted him to make her laugh, to tell her what a load of rubbish it all was. This he could do. But first, a quiet beverage. He had at least—he glanced at his watch—twelve seconds before Violet noticed his reply stating that he was, in fact, on the premises, and responded accordingly.
He grabbed a tea cup… no, a mug…
Nine - eight - seven…
… and a teaspoon. Pulling the sugar canister towards him, he heard rapid footfalls on the staircase.
… four - three - two…
"Why didn't you answer my messages?"
"I did. Just now," he replied, spooning two sugars into his mug.
"I had no idea where you were! And even if you were coming back. The car's going to be here in half an hour."
"And here I am," he said, looking up and gifting Violet a broad smile.
He ran his eyes over her from head to toe. Her hair was swept up into knotted piles on her head. No other way to describe it, but he was familiar with the style. Casual. Although it had probably taken the hair stylist half an hour to mangle that lot. And her makeup was subtly understated. Another technique he'd learnt over the course of their time together. To look like she wasn't wearing makeup! A trick! Because it would all be done over again backstage.
"I'm half an hour ahead of time," he drawled. "Unless… I need to get my hair done, too?"
Violet's stony visage answered a multitude of questions for him, even ones he wasn't going to ask. But then she blinked and her features softened.
"I'm sorry about your friends," she said, clasping her hands together. "Were you able to find out anything?"
Curious, her 180 degree turnaround, Sherlock mused. And that she referred to the deceased members of his homeless network as his 'friends'.
"I'm waiting on an address from Billy," he replied.
Violet nodded, as if she knew who Bill Wiggins was. Of course she didn't. Sherlock had never referred to anyone in his network by name.
She stepped forward, lay a light hand on Sherlock's arm, then stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek.
"Thank you for being here," she whispered.
Leaving nothing but the lingering caress of Cleo de Thebes, and curiously, champagne, Violet left.
Sherlock turned his attention to his tea preparations once more.
No, this won't do, he thought. If they're already downing champagne upstairs, that's a strong indicator as to what this evening had in store for him.
After tipping the sugar from his cup back into the canister, Sherlock retrieved his Macallan Scotch Whiskey from the top shelf. The 1926 tipple had been a gift from a Korean businessman, and Sherlock had drunk a substantial portion of it when he erroneously believed Violet had been planted in his life as a spy for Jacob Venucci.
"You got me through a difficult patch," he muttered, pouring a generous amount into his coffee cup. "Don't let me down now."
Christ, how long's it going to be? The Late Show. How late is late?
Sherlock chugged back the contents of his mug, feeling the burn in the back of his throat and the welcome warmth in his stomach.
What if Billy messaged him while he was at the studio? And what was taking his lieutenant so long anyway? He could just imagine Bill Wiggins wading into the toxic sludge of drug distribution, the little ripples of his enquiry reaching the shores of their target before too long. Sherlock would have to act quickly once he'd received an address. So, how late was late?
Hearing multiple footfalls on the staircase from above, Sherlock quickly poured another shot of whiskey. He shoved the bottle to the far corner of the kitchen counter, tucking it away behind the blender. Strolling casually to the edge of the kitchen, he took a small sip from his mug.
"…then Beige Apple," Mandi was saying as she stopped on the living room rug, staring intently at her iPad.
Another young woman accompanied her, juggling a small case and a garment bag slung over one arm. The hair stylist, presumably. Bronnie, Bonnie, Bobby? She, too, had her eyes focussed on her own device.
"Yeah, can't wait," the woman replied. She slung the garment bag over the back of the chair adjacent to the living room table as if she owned the place.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Oh," Mandi said, glancing up in surprise.
The hair stylist dropped her case next to Sherlock's chair(!) before sinking down into it. Sherlock stared at her in disbelief.
"Do you think we could get a smile this time?" Mandi asked him.
"Sorry… what?" Sherlock responded, dragging his eyes from the interloper to Violet's P.A.
"For the press. Look a bit less like you hate being there?"
"I will hate being there."
Mandi gaped and the hair stylist looked up in interest. Sherlock turned back for the kitchen, draining the remainder of his whiskey as he did so. It was going to be a long night.
As he began rinsing out the mug in the sink, Mandi added, "You're Violet Hunter's boyfriend. You should at least act like you're being supportive."
"No," he said, placing his cup onto the draining board, "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Arrogant prick. I don't need to act like anything."
To stunned silence, Sherlock crossed the kitchen for the door to the landing. As he rapidly ascended, he heard Bronnie… Bonnie? ask, "So that was Sherlock Holmes?"
In Violet's sitting room upstairs, he found her standing at the window overlooking Baker Street, her back to the door. From the way her arms were positioned, he could tell she was wringing her hands. She'd obviously told her entourage she needed a moment to herself. But what she actually needed, Sherlock thought as he crossed the room, was some Consulting Detective loving.
Slipping his arms around her, he nuzzled into her neck.
"You're the most talented actress I know," he said warmly. He felt her relax against him as she exhaled. "I remember you being asked if there was anyone special in your life… Brekky TV, I think it was… and you replied that you were far too busy, and who'd put up with you. Carefully sidestepped the question. You did that quite effortlessly."
"I know," Violet replied, sighing.
"You'll be fine."
"Mm." She rubbed his arm, then turned her head a little. "Do I smell whiskey?" she asked.
"Yes, I've been bathing in it."
Violet turned around in his arms, furrows appearing between her brows.
"Mandi's worried you're going to be photographed frowning."
Sherlock tutted.
"Why would I be photographed at all?" he replied. "I thought I was going to be backstage."
Smoothing her hands over his lapels and dropping her gaze, Violet replied, "There may be some paps and fans outside the studio when we arrive. Probably for Beige Apple, but we could—"
"Who?"
"Beige Apple. The… band? They're guests tonight as well."
Her raised eyebrows indicated she was still surprised about his ignorance of so-called famous people. He never showed surprise when she failed to recognise the names of those he considered famous— the Camden Garroter, for example.
"Anyway," she went on, "she's been going through online photos of us together, and she thinks you always look angry."
"So she wants me to smile continuously, like a deranged lunatic?"
"No!" Violet said, her lips curving upward. "Just don't frown." She reached up and attempted to smooth the lines Sherlock assumed would've appeared between his brows just now. "If you don't feel like smiling, then have a neutral expression. Or better still, wear sunglasses."
"I don't wear sunglasses."
"You should," Violet said, with a chuckle. "I know I've seen a pair somewhere."
"They're for disguise purposes only." Along with the black jeans and boots Violet gleefully discovered one day.
"We'll grab them for today," she said, patting his chest.
At least he had finally made her smile. Job done.
"Are you ready?" she asked him.
"No."
#
Sherlock could see the crowd of onlookers and photographers as they turned into the alleyway alongside the studio. Members of both groups jostled behind barriers, while studio heavies stood as sentries at both barriers and to the glass doors that led into the studio.
How ridiculous this whole spectacle! There was quite clearly underground parking available, but no. The whole industry was obsessed with things like "arrivals". Celebrities disembarking their vehicles. For Christ's sake!
"Ooh," Mandi said, indicating through the passenger window. "They still have their Beige Apple posters. The lads must be arriving after us."
Violet squeezed Sherlock's hand, something she'd been doing intermittently throughout the journey whenever she felt anxious, he assumed. Beige Apple, Sherlock had been informed by Mandi, were some kind of super-group (musicians!) who had been around for decades, and their lead singer, Melon (for fuck's sake) was a star in his own right. It would be the band's first appearance together in over eight years. So it wasn't just Tevish Stewart's interview questions and the presence of a studio audience that stressed Violet. It was also sitting on the same couch as the UK super-group and their fruity lead singer.
Sherlock found himself standing on the pavement next to a security guard, watching Violet turn this way and that for the cameras. They collectively yelled opposing instructions to her, to turn left or right or 'over here'. Like many farmers commanding a single sheep dog. How ridiculous. Nancy Dundas, the assistant producer who had greeted them earlier, led Violet away to sign autographs to fans vying for the best position.
"How long have you been standing here?" Sherlock asked one of the bouncers nearest him.
"A few hours," came the reply. "Some of them have been here since 6am." He indicated the fans with a nod of his head.
Sherlock scoffed under his breath.
"Beige Apple," the bouncer said, by way of an explanation.
"Mm," Sherlock agreed knowingly.
Suddenly, Violet was beckoning him and he thought he heard someone, or a few someones, in the crowd of fans calling his name. Many faces were turned towards him and his stocky companion. His head began to buzz when a voice in a Northern accent said in a loud whisper behind him, "Run along, Sherlock Holmes, arrogant prick. Now's your chance to frown."
Sherlock gritted his teeth, but tried to ignore Mandi who had come up beside him. Violet was quite clearly waiting for him.
"You Sherlock Holmes?" the bouncer queried him, as if he suddenly realised who he'd been chatting to. "You'd better get over there then, mate."
Sherlock blinked a few times, thankful his discomfort was hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Feeling stiff and awkward as he walked, he made his way over to Violet and the fans who were holding out photos of the actress from various publicity stills. Some held Anuket's Children: The Rise of the Five comics, too, he noted.
"Here," Violet said, her expression bright with affection. She took Sherlock by the hand and gestured to a couple of young women who held photos of him and Violet taken on the red carpet at the TELSAs. "Do you mind?" she asked. "They'd really love your autograph, too."
Violet had already signed the photos, he observed. She offered him a smile—a warm, genuine one, not the fake one she'd been giving to her fans. Her eyes were full of hope, though, and he knew she was counting on him not to be a dick.
Sherlock drew in a steadying breath, his mind at war with the scenario displayed before him. Absolutely ridiculous. But now was clearly not the time to tell Violet that. Was it?
He watched her for a few seconds as she answered her fans' questions, scrawling away on the photos thrust in front of her. She thanked them for coming, a smile fixed to her face.
The girl in front of him waved a permanent marker in the air, bringing him back to the task at hand. Sherlock held his breath, lest he say something derogatory, and took the proffered pen, quickly signing his name. Another photo was thrust in front of him and he dutifully signed that one, too.
"That's enough," he muttered, feeling dizzy about what had just happened. He handed the marker to the first girl and stepped back from the barrier.
He tried to tune out. The fans. All yelling for Violet's attention. Or his. He would ignore it all. Folding his hands neatly behind his back, he scanned the crowd.
"Thank you," said Nancy, the assistant producer, who had sidled up to him. "Perhaps we should have you on the couch as well."
"Thank you, but no," Sherlock said, in case there was a chance she was serious, and therefore he ought to make his own wishes known.
Sherlock noticed a burly gentleman leaning over the crowd of (mostly) young girls and women, thrusting his photo on top of theirs. The man moved over once more and repeated the action with a different picture, with Violet oblivious to the fact that she was signing another one for the same man.
Sherlock stepped forward and gently took Violet by the elbow.
"You've already done this one," he said to her.
"Sorry?" she asked. "Oh, thank you," she said in response to a comment by one adoring fan.
Sherlock flicked the man's photo aside and glared at him.
"You've had three photos signed," he said.
"Steady on, mate!" the man protested, still insisting on holding his photo on top of everyone else's.
"Sherlock," Violet said, in a desperate whisper beneath the canopy of fan noise.
But Sherlock held the photo away with the back of his hand, glaring at the man all the while.
…Until he realised his steely gaze would have no effect behind fucking sunglasses.
"We're finished here," Sherlock said to Violet. "They're waiting for you… the studio."
He held out an arm, effectively blocking Violet from the row of demanding fans, directing her to turn and accompany him away from the barriers. As she bid a goodbye and a thank you to the crowd for turning out this evening, she allowed Sherlock to escort her towards the entrance.
"Don't say a word!" she hissed, a contradictory smile still plastered on her face as they strode along the footpath. "I know he was an autograph seller. I just can't see them in amongst everyone. It's too chaotic. It's easier just to sign away."
Inside was blissfully less noisy but almost as busy, with the assistant producer and various nobodies ushering Violet Hunter and her entourage (of which Sherlock was a member!) through the building. They were shown where her dressing room was located, as well as the Green Room (it's not green!), the passageway that led behind the stage, and additional bathroom facilities.
"Tevish will be along in a moment," Nancy informed them, before she introduced another assistant called Bevan, who would help them with anything they wanted.
Good, thought Sherlock, already feeling the walls of Violet's dressing room pressing in on him. He may need Bevan's services before too long. Bonnie was removing Violet's dress from its garment bag, while Mandi was looking longingly down the corridor.
"I might go for a wander," she said distractedly, running her fingers through her long, red strands.
Maybe he should have a wander, too. Wander outside. Jump into a cab and drive away.
"I think I might need some fresh air," Sherlock said, as Violet removed her jacket.
Violet shot him a look, just as Bevan returned with a bottle of mineral water, since Violet had insisted they needed more than just sparkling wine to keep their thirsts quenched.
"Bevan," she said, just as Sherlock opened his own mouth. "Do you have a designated smoking area?"
Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. How did she know?
"Oh, well, if you'll just follow me," Bevan said, gesturing along the passageway.
"No, not for me," Violet replied, her eyes flicking to Sherlock.
Bevan gave Sherlock the once over, and evidently liked what he saw. The assistant stood taller and lifted his chin.
"Follow me, sir," he said, sashaying away.
The "designated smoking area" was a small balcony outside the emergency exit. Bevan told him there was a larger one, but it was often crowded with studio staff, mostly. Sherlock was thankful for Bevan deducing he would rather have a quiet smoke away from the general riff-raff.
After he'd lit up and luxuriated in the dizzying effects of nicotine, Sherlock's phone buzzed. His heart jolted when he saw that it was a message from Billy.
With an address.
Sherlock took several long drags on his cigarette, contemplating his next move. Of course he'd need to respond right away. But how to leave Violet?
Surely she would see the importance of this case over her need to have Sherlock hold her hand. She was at a studio. These were her people. Her industry. She'd already braved the fans and photographers. Managed exceedingly well, in fact. It was Sherlock who had needed his hand held.
After dropping his cigarette into the receptacle next to the door, Sherlock re-entered the building.
"You just missed Tevish," Violet said as Sherlock strode into the dressing room. She was now seated in front of the mirrors, with Bonnie struggling to undo the mess she had made of Violet's hair earlier.
"And… how was he?"
"He's lovely," Violet said, smiling at Sherlock's reflection.
"Ah… good."
"I still don't know what he's going to ask, though. So…"
So she was still feeling anxious, her unspoken words told Sherlock.
"But he wanted to meet you," Violet added, looking up at Sherlock through her lashes as her head remained bowed while Bonnie teased out several strands at a time.
"Meet me?"
"Yes. And he seemed really disappointed you weren't here. I told him you were outside having a smoke. I guess he didn't find you?"
"No… but I wasn't in the real designated smoking area."
He cleared his throat and threw a meaningful glance at the hair stylist, who's eyes remained focussed on her client's hairdo, while her ears strained to listen to their conversation, no doubt.
"Could I… have a word?" Sherlock asked.
Violet studied Sherlock in the mirror. He raised his eyebrows a little.
"Bonnie, could you…" she began.
"I'll just fetch you a plate of food from the Green Room," Bonnie said, with a quick smile directed at Violet.
She downed tools and exited the room, carefully avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and ventured closer.
"I've just been given word about the case. The Spice case."
"Spice case?"
"It's the name they've given this group of synthetic cannabinoids. The cause of death of two of my… two members of my homeless network. I really should go and chase up this lead."
"What, now?"
"We've been here hours already."
"Not hours."
"Feels like it."
Violet slipped out of her chair and approached the mirror. She leant forward to carefully wipe something from her lower lashes. Stray mascara, probably.
"I should follow this lead," Sherlock went on. "It's important."
"More important than this, I suppose," Violet replied, turning her back on the mirror.
Was that sarcasm? Sherlock couldn't tell.
"Yes, it is," he replied. "It's quite serious. And a bit dangerous."
Sherlock studied Violet's non-verbal response. He could possibly have her attention now, just like the early days of their courtship.
"You could come with me," he prompted, hopeful.
"You wouldn't let me go to the mortuary with you," Violet replied, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the counter that ran the width of the room. "You said Violet Hunter couldn't be seen there."
"You would be a lookout in a darkened street. Not likely to get recognised as that actress on the telly."
"A lookout? You want me to be a lookout? Sherlock, I'm about to get interviewed on the most popular chat show in the UK. I can't just leave."
She pushed off from the counter and crossed to the tray where the drinks sat.
"Why wouldn't you leave this?" Sherlock asked as Violet proceeded to pour herself a glass of sparkling wine. "This is… ridiculous… absolutely… pointless… rubbish."
"I knew you'd think that!"
"Wait… you told me to say that."
Mandi walked back into the room at that moment. She hesitated when she saw Violet and Sherlock glaring at each other. The redhead's eyes narrowed at Sherlock.
"Y'all right, Vi?" she asked.
"Fine, Mandi," Violet said, exhaling forcefully.
Mandi flopped herself down into an armchair in the corner of the dressing room.
"Beige Apple aren't here yet," she announced.
Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes from Violet. He wanted her to agree with him about this farcical situation in which they'd found themselves.
"It looks like you've made up your mind," Violet said. She leant towards Sherlock, steadied herself with a light hand on his arm, then planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'll see you later, then."
Sherlock blinked uncomprehendingly, but Violet strolled back over to her seat, drink in hand.
"Can you tell Bonnie to come back in now?" she said to Mandi. "She's in the Green Room."
"Yeah, all right," Mandi said, rising. "Probably tweeting. Y'know, you should fire her. I'm sure she's tweeting about this."
Passing Sherlock, she added, "Can you investigate her? She's not on Twitter under her own name, but I've seen her on it. I'm pretty sure she took a selfie when she was sitting in your armchair. It's not professional!"
With that final comment, Mandi left the dressing room.
"Violet," Sherlock said.
"I said I'll see you later," she remarked, looking down at her own phone's screen. "I'll be fine, Sherlock."
He'd been dismissed, it seemed. His face burning, Sherlock exited into the corridor. She had no idea! How did this even compare! Whatever happened to the excitement… the danger! … of working on cases together!
And the post-case sex!
As Sherlock strode along the corridor, he realised he'd let Violet down as well. He said he'd support her. He'd alleviate her worries about her interview.
Tevish Stewart.
Sherlock hadn't even got around to investigating the man—the chat show host who had been disappointed he'd missed meeting Sherlock Holmes?
Sherlock turned in the opposite direction, a new determination in his stride. He had one more thing to do before leaving the studio.
#