Chapter 7 - You're Really Not Gonna Like This
Sherlock swiftly rose from the bed.
"Sherlock?" he heard again through the doorway, a distinctive male voice floating from the other side of his flat.
Opening his bedroom door a crack, he called out to the visitor, "One moment!"
Jesus Christ. How fucking early is it? A quick glance at the clock told him it wasn't that early. In the past, he would wake at dawn, unless of course, that was the time he was returning home from wherever. Ever since acquiring a girlfriend, his time for rising varied widely.
Sherlock pulled on pyjamas then grabbed his dressing gown from the hook behind the door. Violet stirred, crumpled and sultry. Sherlock's heart stuttered and he felt her magnetic pull on him. That's where he should be right now. Curled around her, gently waking her with meaningful prodding.
Violet murmured something that sounded vaguely like, "What is it?"
"Shh," he replied. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."
Damn Lestrade and whatever drama had prompted him to visit this morning. And of course, Mrs Hudson had let him in, thinking Sherlock would be up and about by now.
This better be a fucking new case, he thought as he exited the bedroom. A spectacular case. A murder committed in a creative and seemingly unsolvable way.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stood at the window behind the living room table, the curtain parted in his hand as he surveyed Baker Street.
"Morning," Sherlock said in a neutral voice. When the D.I. turned around, he added, "Bit early for a Sunday."
Lestrade usually wore one of three expressions. Haggard and desperate, Sherlock's personal favourite, meant an unsolved case was taking its toll on the Scotland Yard detective, prompting him to seek Sherlock's help. Expression number two, one of friendly expectation and ready for banter, or (if John Watson was around) teasing or ridiculing Sherlock, was his least favourite. The third Sherlock could easily ignore. It was the latter the detective wore this morning: a Scotland Yard C.I.D. detective inspector not to be messed with. Rules, regulations, procedures.
Boring.
"Firstly," the D.I. said. "Since when do you even know what day it is, and secondly, you never sleep in."
A hint of a smile graced Sherlock's lips. An opportunity to make Lestrade uncomfortable.
"I… wasn't sleeping," he lied. The D.I. didn't need to know he actually had been asleep. It was Sherlock's original intention to languidly wake his girlfriend with a round of morning sex. He'd promised her.
"Uh… well," Lestrade spluttered. His eyes drifted to Sherlock's neck and remained there a split second longer than was natural, making Sherlock feel self-conscious. Wait… did Violet…?
And the Met detective was actually turning pink. It was just like Lestrade not to take Sherlock's relationship seriously—to forget somebody else actually shared Sherlock's flat and more specifically, his bed. He probably thought the Consulting Detective had done with dating that flaky over-sensitive actress from Regency Road.
"I was… on my way to the office," Lestrade managed to stammer. Recomposing himself and standing taller, he continued. "To do paperwork. Clear up this mess from last night. I want to make sure I have all the details so there are no holes in my fabrication." When Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, Lestrade interrupted with, "Yes, fabrication. To cover your… vigilante antics."
"Vigilante antics," Sherlock scoffed. "I thought this was all dealt with last night. Why are we still talking about it? I handed you an illegal drug lab, complete with the owner of said lab."
"While you were in possession of an illegal firearm. And you used it to unlawfully detain a group of men."
"Unlawfully detain? Four of them were right where they wanted to be—in front of the 'telly' playing computer games. And the last—I simply made a citizen's arrest after discovering his stash of cocaine in the back room."
"Right then," Lestrade said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his official-looking notepad and a pen.
"You're actually going to take a statement from me now?" Sherlock asked.
"No. You're going to tell me what happened, and I'm going to write down what sounds the least likely to get you arrested."
"Didn't I just tell you?"
"Why were you there?" Lestrade asked, emitting a long-suffering sigh.
"To buy research chemicals."
Lestrade's stare told Sherlock the Scotland Yard detective knew that labelling their products as 'research chemicals' in the legal high market were ways retailers could get around selling the new psychoactive substances—manufactured drugs that were supposed to mimic the effects of Class A and B drugs such as cocaine, methamphetamines and cannabis. What punters did with the products once they left the shop was none of their concern.
"Why not go to a head shop?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"Could get recognised. The press love taking photos of Violet and me doing boring things like sitting in a cafe, and… shopping."
"You could be buying an e-cig. Some of those old school head shops are seeing where the market lies. They still sell tobacco and Rizla papers after all."
"I'd rather die than be seen 'vaping'."
Lestrade made a few scribbles on his notepad, murmuring, "Not really a plausible story as to why you attended the house and not a head shop."
"I don't like to queue."
Lestrade locked his gaze onto Sherlock's, his eyes narrowing.
"Unofficially," the D.I. said, snapping his notepad shut, "did you trace the original source of the Spice that caused the death of two of your homeless network to that supplier? Is that why you were there? I'd hate to think you were trying to substitute cocaine for this… this synthetic… thing. And what would I tell your brother?"
"It's called 3-FPM. And no, I've never used it, and I wasn't there for that purpose. I received intel on the supplier of the tainted Spice. His arrest was only warranted due to the fact that he wanted to expand into the illegal highs. I wanted him off the streets."
"And now you've shut him down, so case closed."
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Case not closed, Detective Inspector. For you perhaps, but I—"
Lestrade's expression hardened.
"Sherlock, you can't go off on your own!" he said.
"I do when Scotland Yard considers a case closed. You said it yourself: two of my homeless network targeted with tainted Spice. That's a pattern."
"Two isn't a pattern. That's a… a coincidence."
"What do you want, a third? Why are people only satisfied with the occurrence of three? Two's enough. And that supplier was only a foot soldier acting on instructions from someone else. You've got him in custody. Question him. Meanwhile, I've got my own investigation to carry out."
Sherlock made to leave—let Lestrade know that he was being dismissed.
"Sherlock, I can't keep covering for you! If you're going to roam the city with John's illegal handgun, I'm not go—"
"John took his gun," Sherlock retorted. "I'll be unarmed. Have a good day."
Sherlock made a beeline for his bedroom. He had a promise to keep to his girlfriend.
#
As she zipped up her boots, Violet wondered what mood Sherlock would be in this morning. It had been a week since his gun-wielding home invasion. Several variants of his persona had manifested themselves, with no leads on the Spice case and no cases from New Scotland Yard. And that was the problem with insulting the last contact Sherlock had with the Met—no major cases. And no challenges meant a Brooding Detective.
Violet emerged from the bedroom to find Sherlock seated at the dining table, tapping away at his laptop. When he saw her, he swiftly rose.
"Right," he said, descending on her. "I need you to go to several head shops in East London. I'll text you the addresses and the drugs I want you to purchase." Raking his eyes over her attire, he added, "And you might want to dress down for this. You're looking too much like,"—he flapped a disinterested hand at her— "Violet Hunter, the jobbing actress."
Violet gaped, momentarily stunned. Anyone would think they had already engaged in a conversation about this, but this was the first she'd heard of it.
"I'm… I'm dressed up because I'm going out to do my job."
"What job?"
"My…" She paused, knowing the rest of the details would fall on deaf ears. She'd already spoken to Sherlock about this the night before—about how nervous she was at having to record a fifteen minute sample.
"A bit like a screen test," she'd said, as they lay in bed curled around one another, "but for an audiobook. It's to see if the rights holder wants to go with me for this series of novels."
Sherlock had replied with his customary, "Mm." She should've realised he hadn't been listening.
"I can't go to a head shop and buy drugs," she said, feeling far too tired to explain the whole audiobook recording industry to Sherlock who may or may not pay attention anyway. "Sounds like a scandal waiting to happen."
"That's why I said dress down."
"I'm on my way out."
Violet headed for the door and grabbed her jacket from the hook on the back of it.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.
Violet sighed and tugged on the jacket.
"The recording studio. I told you."
"And when will you have time to help me on this case and actually do something worthwhile?"
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."
Her cheeks burning, Violet left the flat. Sometimes it was best to play Sherlock's game: act as if everyone else in the world knew what your plans were and would support you without question.
#
The sample recording in a small studio in Hammersmith took less than an hour and Violet had arranged to meet Mandi and Priyal for coffee afterwards. Truth be told, she was avoiding Sherlock and his plans for her to buy synthetic drugs at a variety of head shops.
Violet stuck to her diet and chose a peppermint tea. Priyal had brought another friend along—a 'Wellness Consultant'. Violet was sure the woman bathed in rose water. Just wait til she told Sherlock about this consultant and tried to describe to him what 'wellness' meant. Perhaps he could branch out? She was fairly confident she could predict his response. Perhaps they'd have a laugh over it?
Fun and frivolity were hard to come by these days in 221B. Returning from the gym one morning, every blood vessel surging with adrenalin, she'd tried to cajole Sherlock into wrestling with her. Or boxing. Or something. A single-stick battle perhaps. But he'd simply looked at his watch and said he was due at the lab.
In the past, Violet was sure there was a better balance between them, for supporting each other in their areas of interest—Violet travelling with Sherlock on cases, helping him stalk people online; and Sherlock attending events and outings and reading her scripts. Didn't it work before, or was she imagining a life that never existed, and wouldn't exist in the future.
This time Violet returned to a vacant flat. She sent Sherlock a text, asking him if he'd be home for dinner. Not an unusual query. It would help her decide whether or not to heat up her own healthy meals she bought from the gym and order him chips, or heat one of these TV dinners she'd been buying him. She'd had varying degrees of success with Sherlock over those. After the first, he'd commented that it had the consistency (and taste!) of glue; the second he'd said was regurgitated mush. The third he'd started eating in silence, while Violet had been getting ready to go to a Cleo de Thebes event with Mandi. She had returned that night to find the uneaten portion in the bin.
Now this brand looked good. At least the picture on the box held appeal. Tuna mornay. With corn. Violet didn't have the time to learn how to cook to Sherlock's impossibly high standards (how did chips from the shop on the Marylebone Road qualify!), and he wouldn't eat properly otherwise. So TV dinners it was.
His reply came in two hours later after Violet had already settled in front of the telly, her pre-made Energising Salad in her lap.
I'm up North on a case. —SH
Violet's stomach lurched.
And don't worry, came a subsequent text, I'm nowhere near Manchester. —SH
Sherlock called Violet just before midnight (not that he realised the lateness of the hour) to explain that he had finally relented and had chosen the least bland case from his email inbox. All she got from him was a missing diamond, a wild goose-chase (or a wild goose?) around Selby in North Yorkshire, and a husband and wife on the brink of divorce. He would be back in the morning, if he could just locate the diamond, he told her.
Violet spent the next few days in blissful silence—no manic consulting detectives in close proximity. Although she felt pangs of disappointment that Sherlock hadn't invited her along. He was hot on the trail of the diamond (definitely a goose-chase, for it had been swallowed by a goose!). In the meantime, she studied the novel she was going to narrate—Her Albatross by Jayle Anglesee. The producer loved her sample and she had been given the go-ahead. And the recording schedule fit perfectly in the week before she was due to leave for Australia.
She felt Sherlock's absence all too keenly at night, in those last few minutes before nodding off. Even on the nights they didn't make love, they'd at least fall asleep, wrapped in each others' arms.
Mandi had been in and out, making last minute arrangements for their temporary emigration to the ends of the Earth. She really was a very efficient P.A., Violet mused, after the redhead rattled off a few media outlets that requested quotes from the actress and meticulously studied Violet's Rise of the Five call-sheet for their first week in Brisbane.
Violet was scrubbing the tiles around the ensuite sink when Sherlock returned.
"What happened?" he asked, the low timbre of his voice startling her.
"Oh, God! Sherlock! Don't do that!"
She pulled off rubber gloves and wiped at her forehead with the back of one hand. His furrowed brow told Violet he had been observing her for some time.
"How was the case?" she asked, moving towards him as she strived to catch her breath.
"Fine. Goose found. Diamond recovered."
"That's great!" Violet stretched up and planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Welcome home," she whispered.
Sherlock continued to stare down at her, his eyes narrowed.
"Was it hard to catch," Violet asked, "… the goose?" A smile plucked at her lips at the image she was conjuring up in her mind.
The creases deepened in Sherlock's brow.
"It wasn't a live goose."
"Oh!" Violet exclaimed, with a light chuckle. "I was imagining…" She paused as more laughter bubbled from within. Sherlock just folded his arms across his chest and quietly observed her. "I'm… sorry," Violet said, attempting to stifle further outbursts. "I thought… you were running around a farm trying to…"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, so Violet reached out and patted his arm.
"Sorry," she said again, but her eyes still glistened with laughter.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked, his penetrating gaze cutting off any more giggling from Violet.
The nervous anticipation of delivering her news returned immediately.
After dumping the gloves into the sink, Violet brushed Sherlock's arm, signalling for him to follow her into the bedroom.
"Well…" she began, turning to him.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock interjected, his expression a mask of concern. "Because you never clean this intently unless something's upset you."
Oh, God. He's thinking the worst!
"No… no… it's just that…" Violet inhaled deeply, so she could get it all out at once. "Mandi's lease ended, for that flat in… well, you know, you visited her there. And since she's going to be in Australia for the next couple of months with me, it seemed silly to rent another place when she won't be there. So I said she could stay here. Upstairs. My old room. And Mrs Hudson said it was fine, and we cleaned up the bed. That's Mandi and I, not Mrs Hudson. Got rid of heaps of my clothes, and the rest fit in the wardrobe. You should see it! Except for a couple of dresses I hung in yours… because…"
Sherlock's eyes had widened over the course of Violet's rambling.
"But she'll stay upstairs," Violet quickly added, "except when she needs to use the kitchen, of course. And it'll be really handy, because we've got so much to discuss about the rest of the year, you know, with Improbity in pre-production and the script for Arthur Avenue being finalised. Did I tell you it had a title now? The Splendor Pictures film in New York…"
She trailed off. Couldn't quite read Sherlock. Had she said too much? Too little?
"It's fine," he said, blinking. He shrugged out of his jacket, turning from her.
Violet clasped her hands together.
"Any further developments on the Spice case?" she asked.
Sherlock draped his jacket over the chair in the corner.
"Not unless you want to buy drugs for me," he said, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.
"Not… really."
"How about Mandi?" he suggested, crossing the room for the door.
"Sorry?"
"To buy drugs."
Violet's head swam. Sherlock threw her a glance, his smile stretching wider as he grabbed his dressing gown from the back of the door.
"She's your P.A. after all," he added. "And since you're my P.A. that implies some kind of hierarchy. Therefore, Mandi works for me."
"What? No! I'm not getting Mandi to buy drugs for you. And what do you need them for anyway?"
"To test," Sherlock replied, slipping on his gown.
"Well, why can't you ask one of your friends? John or Mary… or… M-Molly Hooper?"
"Because I can't ask my friends to buy drugs to give to me."
"Why not?"
"…Because. There's a history."
He turned for the door. Violet folded her arms in front of her.
"Then why are you asking me?"
Making to exit, Sherlock waved a hand at the ensuite.
"Are you going to finish that?" he asked, before slipping into the passageway.
Violet exhaled deeply. Entering the bathroom, she felt the tightness in her chest ease a little.
Sherlock was okay for Mandi to stay. He'd said it was fine. What had she been so worried about?
She slipped the rubber gloves back on and caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink.
It would all be fine.
But her gaze said otherwise.
#
Author's Note:
The goose-chase case is loosely derived from ACD's The Adventures of the Blue Carbuncle.
Please review! I feel as though I'm writing into a void. I would love to read your thoughts on the story so far! x