Chapter 6 - The Danger was the Fun Part

Violet's head throbbed. She knew she'd overdone the champagne. Bit of a celebration after the show. It was a good thing she didn't have to train on Sundays. But why was she awake now?

A ringing phone, dammit.

Violet grabbed it and hauled herself into a sitting position. The caller ID indicated it was John. She frowned and swiped to answer it, throwing a glance at the digital clock on Sherlock's side of the bed. An empty side.

1:16am.

"Hello?" she croaked.

"Violet! Sorry! Did I wake you?"

"Mm. 's'okay."

"Look. Sorry to ring you at this hour. Is Sherlock there?"

Violet wiped at her eyes, struggling to clear her foggy head. So many alarm bells were ringing now. The earliness of the hour. An empty bed. John wanting Sherlock.

"No," she said, staring at the place where Sherlock ought to have lain. Clearly he hadn't come home yet. "Why?" she asked. "I mean, he's not next to me, but…" With tremendous effort, Violet sat up fully and drew the covers aside. "I can check the rest of the flat." She swung her legs to the floor, hearing John mutter his own curse word.

"Greg Lestrade phoned me," John explained, as Violet padded to the door in the semi-darkness.

John Watson was talking to her and she was completely naked. Weird. She didn't always sleep in the nude, but it was the expectation of Sherlock returning at some stage, and the need to clear the air between them with cuddling, that prompted her this time.

"He got a call from Sherlock to attend a residence," John continued. "Something about drugs… I dunno. Manufacturing drugs on the premises, maybe. Greg wanted me to check on Sherlock. He had to order him to leave….again."

Violet grabbed her dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door, her insides roiling. Juggling the phone between her hands and the crook of her neck, she drew the gown around her.

"He was… he was following up on that Spice thing," Violet volunteered, her mind scrambling for everything Sherlock had told her before he'd left her dressing room at the studio in the early evening.

Her heart ached when she remembered their argument. No. Small disagreement. She hadn't really been listening to him. Too busy thinking (and worrying!) about her damn interview. An interview that turned out to be pretty benign by Tevish Stewart's usual standards. Sherlock had said the case could be dangerous. And he'd wanted her there with him! Fucking hell. What had he walked into?

"He had an address," she went on, exiting the bedroom and striding through the kitchen. She made several attempts at tying the sash on her gown. The rest of the flat was dark, cold and lifeless. "I'm sure he's not here."

"Violet," John said, sighing into the phone. "He had a gun."

A cold hand gripped Violet's heart.

"Did you…" John began, but Violet knew what he was going to ask as she rounded the entrance into the very empty living room. "Did you hide my gun in a good place? You said it was in a shoe box. I hadn't got round to picking it up."

No, of course he wouldn't have. It was only yesterday she'd found it and messaged him about it. Her heart thumping, Violet left the living room for the stairs.

"It was underneath a few other boxes," she replied, puffing lightly as she took the stairs two at a time. And now her head was pounding along with her heart. Stupid alcohol. She hadn't overindulged last night, but she couldn't tolerate as much these days because of her recent abstinence. Perhaps that was a good thing.

Reaching the landing, she strode into her room, flicking on the light. Then a bolt of fear struck her.

"John," she said, stopping in front of her closet. "Is… anyone… hurt?"

"No," he replied.

"And Sherlock?"

"He's… fine… Greg said. A bit manic, I think. Dunno, really. That's why Greg phoned me. To check on him. Doesn't he have your number?"

Why would Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade from New Scotland Yard have her number, Violet thought darkly as she opened the closet door. But he had John Watson's number. So…

"We're not…" she replied. "I… I don't think we've hit it off, to be perfectly honest." Because D.I. Lestrade thought she was a flaky actress for sympathising with the star-crossed lovers in the Frances Carfax case, and Violet had spoken rudely to him after the assault on her Regency Road co-star, Chenoa Burton. No, not really hit it off at all.

As Violet drew out the first shoe box, she asked John if he had tried to phone Sherlock.

"Goes straight through to his messages," John replied. "Must've switched his phone off."

Some of the boxes were empty, and Violet was sure she'd put the gun, wrapped in an old scarf, with a pair of sandals she didn't really like.

"What happened, exactly?" she asked as she continued pulling out boxes and opening their lids.

"Ah… he entered a house in Ealing, pulled a gun on a few blokes, held them hostage until another man returned. Something like that. It was the last guy he was actually after."

"What… so he terrorised these other innocent men with a gun?"

"Yeah… dunno."

A lead weight settled in the pit of Violet's stomach.

Oh, Sherlock.

She drew out the last box.

"No," she said wearily, spying a pair of suede wedge heel pumps. "It's not here."

"Shit," came John's reply. "Well… I'll come round. Maybe he'll be home by the time I get there."

Violet also tried to ring Sherlock, leaving him a short message to ring her because "everyone's worried. I'm worried!" She freshened up, took a couple of paracetamol for her headache, dressed in casual gear and was just putting on the kettle when she heard the front door click shut. After hastening to the living room doorway, she exhaled in disappointment at the sight of John Watson rounding the corner on the stairs.

"Sorry. Just me," he said with a grim smile.

They settled in armchairs with cups of tea—Violet in Sherlock's, John in his old one. John occasionally drummed his fingers on the armrest, while Violet stared into the unlit fireplace.

"I was on The Late Show," she said, breaking the silence.

"Really?" John replied. "Tonight?"

"Yep," she said, giving him a reluctant smile. "Tevish had me playing Charades with the guys from Beige Apple and Sally somebody… sorry can't remember her last name—the retired Olympian figure skater."

"You're joking! Beige Apple? With Melon and… the guys? Why didn't I know about that?"

"It'll be on YouTube eventu—"

The front door slammed shut. Rapid footfalls echoed up the stairwell. Both Violet and John were on their feet, cups of tea abandoned on respective side-tables.

#

Sherlock resisted the urge to whistle as he ascended the stairs. It was almost 2:30 in the morning after all. He wasn't that insensitive.

But he was on fire!

There were no other words for it. As he rounded the staircase he wondered if he could nudge Violet awake. His success made for spectacular sex! If she put on that dress she wore to the Watson's wedding, and he donned his black jea—

He paused upon seeing the light emitted from his living room. Two figures came into view as he neared the top.

"Ah," he said, crossing the landing, his eyes drawn to Violet. "Let me see. Lestrade phoned John, and John phoned you."

"Yep, clever deduction," said John, his voice devoid of humour.

"Are you all right?" Violet asked.

"So where is it?" demanded John.

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes before reaching into the back of his waistband. He held out John's gun, which the ex-army Captain grabbed, swore, and swiftly ejected the magazine.

"It was loaded!" John said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Of course it was loaded. Why would I go to a drug house with an unloaded weapon."

At Violet's gasp, he stepped closer to her, and said in a low voice, "I'm fine, by the way, thank you." He lightly touched her elbow before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She smelt deliciously like her lotions and deodorant, with faint traces of white wine.

"I need a shower," he said, leaving the pair for the kitchen. He hoped Violet would join him and that John Watson would piss off home.

As he made his way through the kitchen, he could hear the low rumble of John's voice. Probably letting Violet know she could ring him if Sherlock acted like he'd gone off the rails. Good old John. Always ready to impart words of wisdom when it came to the loose cannon that was Sherlock Holmes.

He entered the bedroom, emitting a sigh of relief upon hearing John's footsteps fading on the stairs.

Sherlock slipped off his jacket and draped it over the chair in the corner. When Violet strode into the bedroom, he was just unbuttoning a cuff.

"Did you terrorise a house full of innocent people with a gun?"

"Terrorise is a bit of a strong word," he said, working at the second cuff button and giving Violet an easy smile.

"You held them hostage! Those poor people!"

"Oh, relax. There's nothing poor about them. And they were hardly hostages. We watched telly." As the memory of the evening flooded back to him, his smile stretched wider. "We watched you."

As creases appeared between Violet's brows, Sherlock thought he ought to explain.

#

Four hours earlier

"I'm looking for a man named Jonah Rance," Sherlock said.

"He ain't here," said the gamer on the bean bag, apparently the mouthpiece of the group.

"Forgive me if I don't immediately take your word for it," Sherlock said. "I'll need to see everyone's ID. Photo ID." As hands began to lower, he added, "One at a time."

"I knew that cunt'd bring the fuzz here one day," muttered a figure standing in the entranceway.

Sherlock nodded to the young man on his right.

"You first."

The youth stood and went to reach into his back pocket. Sherlock ordered him to stop and turn around first.

"Don't show them," the man said, upon holding out his driving licence to Sherlock.

"I've seen it!" bean bag boy said with a laugh. "You look like you're stoned!"

"Fuck off."

After Sherlock had satisfied himself that none of the young men present were Jonah Rance, he asked when the Spice manufacturer was likely to return.

"A coupla hours," bean bag boy said, now identified as Finn. "If it's his gear you're wantin', it's in the back. We ain't allowed in there."

The young men were all quick to denigrate Rance and his work in the so-called "legal high" drug manufacturing business. They had no part in it, apparently.

"You don't need to hang about," Finn told Sherlock. "We can ring you when Rance gets back."

"I'd rather wait for him, if it's all the same to you," Sherlock said. He nodded to the television screen and said, "Put your game back on."

"All right!" Finn exclaimed. A couple of the others groaned.

After about ten minutes of alternately researching on his phone any information related to synthetic cannabinoids and watching Finn shoot random objects, Sherlock found he couldn't stand the artificial noises any longer. Pacing behind the sofa, he scratched the back of his head with the gun.

"Okay, that's enough of that," he said. "Can you do something else?"

"Watch telly," offered the man called Mick from his position on the sofa.

"Yeah, I'm waiting for The Late Show," said Harry, now perched on a dining chair brought into the room from the kitchen, instead of his previous post standing in the entranceway. "Beige Apple are on an' all."

"Oh, fuck man! Beige Apple are so gay!" proclaimed Finn.

Sherlock's ears pricked up at the mention of The Late Show.

"Put the TV on," he said.

Perhaps now was a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: work the case, and check that The Late Show host had kept to his word.

#

"You… you watched The Late Show?"

"Bits of it," Sherlock replied, his mouth twitching into a smile. "It's still a load of rubbish. Can't see the point, really."

"Yes. I know," Violet said, then she shrugged. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm still angry with you. A gun, Sherlock! I was so worried when I heard."

"Not as worried as I was when you confronted Sebastian Moran in Jake Venucci's nightclub."

Violet's eyes became hooded.

"Firstly, that was your plan—"

"Our plan."

"—and I didn't go there without backup, waving a gun around! I would never point a gun at someone. Wouldn't even think to take one along. You deliberately searched this flat for John's. It was pre-meditated."

"Yes… about that," Sherlock said, standing taller. "You went through my sock drawer, and you were careful about it. Replacing every sock exactly as it was to keep my sock index intact. Wrapping the velvet cloth that once held the gun around a lump of tin foil? Now that's deliberate and purposeful deception."

"…John asked me to do it."

"Clearly."

"But now I know why you and guns aren't a good mix."

"Since when is anyone and a gun a good mix?"

"It could've ended badly."

"Anything can end badly."

"Stop it."

Her moist eyes and arched brows were strong indicators she was upset. And her nose had turned that distinct pink shade of alarm. Sherlock had to turn this around. Make her remember how exciting his life—their life—could be!

Narrowing the gap between them, he lowered his voice and said, "This is me, we're talking about, remember. This is what I do. It's what I thrive on. Complex puzzles and dangerous situations. You know this. You've been a part of my world for long enough, and not just as a witness, standing by. Entering the home of a suspected paedophile teacher? Sound familiar?" Violet's eyes began to darken, so Sherlock continued, reaching for her. "Interrogating murder suspects in the underworld of race fixing. Assaulting your would-be rapist. Provoking Manchester's seedy underbelly. Extracting damning information out of a gangster ex-boyfriend? That was all you!" Lending a rough edge to his voice, he added, "You should've been there tonight. With me!"

The fire in her eyes had well and truly been lit.

Violet yanked Sherlock down by the collar, capturing his mouth with hers, ravenous and impatient. Momentarily shocked, but infinitely delighted, he fed off her. There was nothing soft and sweet about her right now, he thought, as his own hunger surged and deepened. He gathered her in closer, wanting to devour all of her, but Violet suddenly pulled out of their kiss before roughly shoving Sherlock to the bed.

"Ch-rist!"

Violet was upon him. Buttons pinged as she tore open his shirt.

"Vi—le" he began, his bare chest heaving.

"Don't ever do that again!"

Sherlock's pulse rate accelerated as Violet assaulted his neck.

Don't do what again, he wondered. Oh… the gun… thing.

Violet's hands streaked a possessive path along his torso. Heat slashed his stomach. He needed this—this confirmation from Violet. And now he knew this was the life for her, too. The one she ought to be sharing with him.

"Is this a…" he began, breathless with desire. Her actions had slowed to a torturous pace, allowing Sherlock to catch his breath. "…punishment?" he finished.

Her mouth and fingers blazed a trail, knowing where he craved to be touched. As she descended lower, arousing him beyond measure, he managed to add, "Not… really…a…" He paused to sigh in satisfaction. "… dis… incentive," he finished, his words finally dying on a grateful moan.

#

Violet could feel Sherlock's heart pounding in sync with her own as he held her in a loose embrace. With her back to him, his breath came warm and intermittent on her neck.

She could easily fall asleep right now—tired and sated. Exhausted, even. Sherlock—again in his unselfish and creative ways—had fought back to regain the upper hand. Those hands… that clever, clever tongue… But only for a moment, before Violet reclaimed her position. And so on it went, until they both came together in a final explosion of passion.

Violet drew in a deep breath and sighed contentedly.

But she better put things right about the other night, while sex was still in the air, settling about them like specks of dust.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

"Mm?"

"I have to tell you something."

"Mm. Does it need the light on?"

"No."

Sherlock momentarily released his hold on Violet to twist around and click off the bedside lamp.

But then again, Violet thought, her confession would need him to see her expression—to see how contrite she was and witness the truth in her eyes that it would never ever happen again.

"Sorry, yes," she said. "I do need the light on."

She felt pangs of regret when Sherlock rolled away from her this time to turn on the lamp. Violet turned to her side to face him.

Sherlock scrubbed at his face with his hands. Perhaps he'd even fallen asleep in those first few minutes post-coitus and she had woken him. It was after three. Best get it out, then.

"It's about the other night."

Sherlock rolled to his side to face her. He raised his brows as if to encourage Violet to continue—as if he was far too tired to pre-empt her words or prompt her in his usual fashion.

"Friday night," she went on, her stomach coiling itself in knots, "when we were in the middle of… well, the phone rang and then I… The mood was gone, I think, for me, anyway…"

Creases appeared in Sherlock's brow, indicating she was doing a lousy job of this.

"It was the phone," she continued. "It… it sort of threw me right out. So, I may have pretended, a bit, to be more aroused than I was."

"Pretended," Sherlock repeated slowly. "Pretended when?"

"At the end, mostly."

Sherlock appeared to ruminate on her words before he spoke again.

"You're talking about sex the other night."

"Y-yes." God, was he only just catching on? He really must have fallen asleep. "W-we'd started…" Violet went on. "I was so… so into it… you know I am… always… and then the phone rang. I saw it was Molly. And then after that… I couldn't feel it. I mean, I was getting there… but I couldn't focus. It would take me too long. And you seemed… and then I…"

"Pretended?" he said again.

"Sherlock… I faked my orgasm. With you. That night."

Sherlock studied Violet's eyes, but it looked as if he could see straight through them.

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

"I just told you," Violet replied, her heart sinking. He was going to get really upset. She could sense it. "The phone call," she continued. "You've had no interesting cases. So I started worrying you were thinking about Molly and why she'd called at 10 o'clock, and I just wanted you to finish. I couldn't keep up and…. What?"

A smile had started to grow on Sherlock's face. He reached for Violet, his eyes glistening. And then he started to chuckle, a laugh that began as a rumble deep within.

"What?" Violet asked again.

"You did yourself a great disservice," he said, his expression warm and affectionate.

Violet's breath hitched.

"I know," she said.

"Do you know what you missed out on?"

"Of course I do."

Sherlock shook his head, his face still bright with affection.

"That's not like you," he said. "You usually take what you want. Demand it, in fact."

"I know. I'm sorry." She heaved out a sigh. "It wasn't about you or your… abilities."

"Of course it wasn't."

"You're not upset?"

"Upset? No. A little disappointed you missed out."

Violet could feel the tension leave her in waves.

"I thought you'd be mad at me," she said, "or that you'd think you were somehow… inadequate."

"Me? Inadequate? When have I ever displayed a lack of confidence in the bedroom?"

His broad smile warmed Violet's heart.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'll never do that again. It was stupid of me."

"Yes, it was."

Her heart felt full and buoyant. It had been an error of judgement on Friday night, but her decision to confess had brought her peace of mind. Sherlock still managed to surprise her with his tolerance and understanding of the decisions she made based on her own stupidity.

"I love you."

They said it at the same time, prompting them to regard each other for a moment. Violet's eyes stung, but before too long they burst out laughing together. Sherlock stretched forward and planted a kiss on Violet's lips.

"Go to sleep," he said. "And tomorrow morning, I'll wake you so slowly you'll wish you could fake it just to end the torment."

"Don't," she whispered back. Then after a few seconds consideration, she added, "Promise?"

#

Author's Note:

Jonah Rance is derived from John Rance, a police constable in ACD's A Study in Scarlet. I merely borrowed and modified the name for no other reason than the need for a name.