Chapter 8 - That's What Couples Are Supposed to Do

September 2013

Violet found Sherlock where she'd left him earlier: sitting up in bed with his laptop perched on his lap. Her heart jolted at the thought of his discomfort in his own flat—that Mandi had irritated him to the degree that he now wouldn't sit in his armchair by the fire of an evening.

"Dinner's ready," she told him.

"Oh, okay," he said, fingertips tapping away at the keyboard. Gesturing to the bedside table with one hand he said, "Just put it there."

"No," Violet said, her neck muscles tensing. "We're eating at the table. I've cleared it."

The typing stopped. A tut issued from Sherlock's mouth.

"Why can't I eat in here?" he asked.

"Because we're being sociable today."

"Sociable," Sherlock scoffed. "I've put up with her for three weeks!"

"It's only been four days!"

"Feels like three weeks," he muttered.

Violet left Sherlock to freshen up. He was becoming more irritable as the days progressed, possibly because of the barriers he'd been putting in place between himself and their new lodger.

During the day, when Violet was at the recording studio, he'd taken to closing the sliding doors between the living room and the kitchen, and also locking the living room door to the landing. This still gave Mandi access to the kitchen, but prevented her from lounging around on their sofa.

"This is my place of work!" Sherlock had later complained to Violet the first day he'd found Mandi there.

And then he'd proceeded to accept every client that made contact with him. A constant stream of them in and out of the flat. Mediocre clients. Dull clients. Ones Sherlock would usually filter. Was he trying to prove a point? That he was a very busy, in-demand Consulting Detective? Not that Mandi was a permanent fixture at 221B. As well as taking on the role of Violet Hunter's personal assistant, she still worked as a part-time consultant for Cleo de Thebes, distributing products to various retailers throughout the city.

Mandi was already in the living room holding two bottles of wine when Violet entered carrying both her and Sherlock's plates, his fresh from the microwave.

"White or red?" Mandi asked.

Setting Sherlock's at the end and hers across from Mandi, Violet replied, "Neither. Diet, remember? Sherlock might like a glass. I think the red goes best with his beef."

"I think I like the white," Mandi remarked, placing one of the glasses in front of Sherlock's plate. She opened the white and proceeded to pour in a generous portion for him.

Not just Sherlock who isn't trying, Violet thought, taking her place at the table. The beginnings of a headache pressed against the back of her eyes.

"So we could go at 9pm," Mandi began, continuing a conversation they'd started earlier, as Sherlock entered the room.

Violet glanced at him tapping away at his phone as he crossed the floor.

"Lincoln said only the roadies will be there," Mandi went on, oblivious. "But we can get a good table. The lads will be there at ten, and get this…" Mandi leant in closer, as if to impart confidential information. "When they're taking a break between sets, they'll sit with us!"

"Well…" began Violet. Did she have to tell Mandi yet again that she didn't want to go out tonight? That she wanted a night in with her boyfriend?

Sherlock had sat down, his eyes still on his screen. He lifted his fork, his expression unreadable.

"Careful, it's hot," Violet told him.

He placed the fork back down and reached for the wine, only then taking his focus off his phone.

"Isn't that great?" Mandi gushed, obviously still referring to tonight's Beige Apple secret pub gig.

"Mm," Sherlock said, eyeing the wine. "White."

He took a sip, and Violet knew that one word held a quiet criticism about the choice of wine. She turned back to Mandi and hoped her BFF hadn't understood Sherlock's remark.

"Isn't there another band on before Beige Apple?" she asked, striving to keep the conversation moving along. "Like, a support act? Because that could mean you won't get a table."

"Doubt it," Mandi replied. "I don't think they'd be any good, to be honest. It's The Harwich, after all. Who goes there? That's the point of the secret gig." Grabbing her phone from beside her plate, she added, "I'll just check with Lincoln."

Violet picked at her salad. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock pop a piece of beef into his mouth as he read something on his screen. As he slowly chewed, his phone chimed with a new message. Naturally, it drew Violet's attention. A smile grew from one corner of Sherlock's mouth as he read, causing a sharp pang in Violet's chest.

Sherlock slowly rose from his seat as he tapped away again.

"Lincoln says it's only a magician," Mandi said, laughing lightly. "Who'd be there for that?"

But Violet was only half listening. Sherlock had moved towards the doors to the kitchen with his phone to his ear.

"You know I never guess," he drawled, without preamble, to whomever he had just called. "What is it that's just come in?"

Violet looked down at her steamed chicken and spinach. It suddenly lost its appeal.

"I like magic," she said in a flat response to Mandi. But her friend had begun tapping away at her own phone, probably a flirtatious reply to Lincoln.

Violet redirected her gaze to Sherlock.

"Molly Hooper, you're a genius!"

Violet's insides twisted and she felt her face flush. She put down her fork and slowly rose from her seat.

"That all right?" Mandi asked, nodding at Violet's plate.

"It's fine," Violet swiftly replied. "I just need water."

She made a swift exit for the kitchen, brushing past Sherlock on the way. He was talking about decomposition and preservation and rates of decay—none of which Violet understood.

At the sink, she filled a glass tumbler with water, then gulped down half of it. It did nothing to alleviate whatever it was that was shredding her insides.

Sherlock had disappeared out of view while Violet refilled her glass. He returned a moment later holding his plate of beef.

"No, no, nothing on," he said, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder.

Violet looked on, her cheeks beginning to burn, as Sherlock started scraping the contents of his meal into the kitchen bin. She opened her mouth to protest, but Sherlock just continued talking into his phone, not making eye contact with her.

"As soon as I can get a cab," he said.

Violet moved away from the sink as he made a beeline for it. The plate and cutlery clattered as Sherlock dropped them into it. He turned on the tap.

"Leave them," Violet said, waving at the sink. It was obvious he needed to be somewhere. Bart's most likely.

Every muscle in her body now tensed.

"I'm off then," Sherlock said, pocketing the phone on his way through the kitchen.

Violet baulked at following him. She resisted the urge to demand he explain where he was going and what for. She'd already guessed. But what about the dinner they'd heated up for him! Conflicting thoughts battered her head. She should pull him up about that! But she was reluctant to cause a scene in front of Mandi, especially when her friend already held negative thoughts about Sherlock.

"I'm going to text Chenoa and Priyal, yeah?" Mandi called out as Violet made for the kitchen door to the landing.

Perhaps if she intercepted him from this side, Mandi wouldn't see.

"And Priyal can bring Antonia," Mandi went on.

Violet opened the door just as Sherlock thundered past, now sporting his Belstaff.

"Sher—"

"Don't wait up!"

He rounded the corner and was gone.

Quietly fuming, Violet softly closed the kitchen door. She'd need a few seconds to recompose herself. Her heart thumped wildly. Mandi made a few more remarks about Priyal and Antonia, but Violet couldn't process anything else right now.

What the fuck was going on with Sherlock?

"Vi?"

Mandi had called her. Twice now.

"Sorry," Violet said, striding back into the living room. She vaguely recalled what Mandi had been asking, and replied, "Yes, Priyal's dating Antonia now, and no, I don't know what happened to Lila."

"Did he just leave?" Mandi said, gesturing towards the door.

"Uh… yes," Violet replied, striving to project a casual air. "Something came up."

Mandi wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah, some tart called Molly Cooper, that's what came up."

Violet felt her flush returning. Obviously Mandi had heard portions of Sherlock's phone call as well. But she settled back into her seat at the table anyway.

"It… it's not like that," she replied, picking up her fork. "She's a pathologist at Bart's. And when there's…" Violet drew in a steady breath, and decided on a different tack. "You know when Sherlock's called to a crime scene? He can see how a death occurred by examining the body and surrounding area. Doesn't take him long." Mandi grimaced, but Violet soldiered on. "Well, he knows a lot about causes of death because he's been studying them for years. So when something unusual comes into Bart's morgue, Molly gives him a call and—"

"Oh my God! You mean like a dead body?"

"And…" Violet stammered, slightly thrown by Mandi's look of horror. "And he gathers more information. Relevant data. To store for later." Violet forced a smile to her face to conclude her explanation. She then stabbed at a piece of chicken and popped it into her mouth.

"You're normalising his behaviour again!" Mandi said.

Violet chewed thoughtfully and shook her head.

"Yes, you are!" Mandi went on. "Ever since I moved in here… no. Ever since I met him, you've been trying to explain away everything he does." Violet swallowed her mouthful, steeling herself for the argument. "Every rude comment," Mandi continued, "and insult and every time he storms off. He doesn't even say goodbye!" She gestured to the stairwell.

"Not all—"

"Oh, he's all nice on the phone to Molly bloody Cooper and doesn't even look at you or say goodbye!"

"Firstly, it's Molly Hooper. And she's nice. I've met her."

"Doesn't mean she isn't out to steal your boyfriend."

Mandi stood and picked up her plate.

"Mandi," Violet said in exasperation.

"Are you done?" Mandi said, indicating Violet's plate.

"Have you quite finished criticising my boyfriend?" Violet retorted, pushing her plate towards Mandi.

"Whatever," Mandi said, taking the dishes into the kitchen. "So, you've changed your mind about coming out with us then, yeah?"

"No, I haven't," Violet said. "Late nights and drinking aren't good if you're going on a long-haul flight. And I've got to hit the ground running after we arrive. I know you'll get to sleep all day when we get there. And anyway, I'm still packing."

Of course she could explain Sherlock's behaviour to Mandi, Violet thought as she mounted the stairs. And she always had. But perhaps that was Mandi's point. Why did she have to?

Her conflicting thoughts as ever, circled and twisted and mutated. Of course he was different. Not the "standard" boyfriend. That was a part of his charm and why she had fallen for him in the first place.

Charm?

Then why did she feel so wretched?

Violet began packing clothes and toiletries for their trip as Mandi showered then tried on several outfits for the night ahead, asking to borrow this and that from amongst Violet's possessions and gushing about Lincoln and his role in the band. Mandi had flirted with him backstage on The Late Show. The young musician had only made it into Beige Apple after winning a reality TV show that was seeking a replacement after their original drummer took his own life.

Violet couldn't decide which toiletries to take. She was rapidly running out of space in both suitcases.

"Right," Mandi said, pushing the last pin into her hair. "I've still got an hour before I have to leave. We're going to sort out this boyfriend thing once and for all."

"What?"

Mandi sat on the bed and began tapping away at Violet's iPad. Violet pulled out the pair of tights she had rolled up and substituted them for another pair.

"You'll see," Mandi said. "It won't be just my opinion. Is there a printer…" Her eyes scanned the iPad screen. "Ah, there's one."

"It's downstairs on the shelf. Next to the sliding door to the kitchen. What are you printing?"

"Back in a sec."

Violet surveyed all she had packed so far as Mandi trotted off downstairs. She was zipping up the smaller suitcase when her friend returned, puffing lightly from her swift ascent.

"Okay, question one," Mandi began.

Violet protested when Mandi explained she'd found a questionnaire online called How Do I Know If I'm In a Toxic Relationship?

"A questionnaire? What are we… sixteen years old?"

She tried to ignore Mandi reading out the questions, eventually deciding it was easier if she just left, whereas Mandi retorted that she could probably answer the questions on Violet's behalf anyway.

Violet reached the threshold and spun around.

"You know what, Mandi. Sherlock isn't a typical boyfriend, and that doesn't make our relationship bad or wrong. It's unique. I'm finding it really insulting that you've got a low opinion of the man I love, a man you know nothing about."

"I know enough! And I'm finding it really insulting that you don't care to hear the opinion of a friend who loves you and cares about you. You're too close and you can't see him for what he is."

Violet drew in a deep breath.

"You're a wonderful friend and a fantastic personal assistant," she told Mandi. "But if you keep this up, our relationship is really going to be in trouble. That's yours and mine, not mine and Sherlock's."

With those parting words, Violet escaped onto the landing.

As she descended, Mandi called out, "Let the questionnaire decide! I'll let you know the results!"

Violet locked herself away in the ensuite.

#

Lavender oil, Sherlock deduced as he passed the bathroom.

Carefully pushing open the door to the bedroom, he noted that its closed position strongly signified Violet's presence. He thought she'd be home much later.

Allowing the light from the kitchen to spill into the room, he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His girlfriend was indeed curled up underneath the covers, facing away from the door.

But an unidentifiable eeriness in the room and a prior yet unregistered observation of the ensuite bathroom gave Sherlock cause for alarm. Beating a discreet retreat into the passageway, he gently pulled the door shut. He turned and headed into the bathroom. Bare floor, folded towels. No carelessly discarded clothing items that Violet would have worn to the pub, no pins and other hair accessories cluttering the sink, no disposable makeup wipes scrunched up on the side. Violet hadn't left the flat all evening.

And the lavender oil. Of course!

A good soak in the tub was usually an indicator Violet was winding down for the evening (sometimes hinting that Sherlock should join her!), not preparing for a night out.

A number of theories relating to a change in plans entered Sherlock's Mind Palace, most of them unpleasant. He silently undressed and freshened up before donning pyjamas. Re-entering the bedroom, he wondered whether or not he should wake Violet and interrogate her now, or let her sleep, resulting in him having to wait til morning to find out.

Never one for not knowing things, he curled himself around his girlfriend, propping himself up on one elbow to press a kiss to her temple.

Violet stirred and murmured, "No, Sherlock."

A cold hand gripped his heart.

"What happened?" he immediately asked.

"… Tired," she said.

"Why didn't you go to the pub?"

Violet sniffed, an almost imperceptible disturbance to the silence. His skin prickled.

"Violet?" he said, resting a light hand on her shoulder.

"Nothing… happened." Her words were halting, her voice raw.

Fearing the worst, Sherlock rolled away from her and flicked on the bedside light.

Violet tutted loudly, pulled one of the pillows out from underneath her and placed it on top of her head. Sherlock swiftly rounded the bed.

"What happened?" he asked, settling on the edge by Violet's side. "Why didn't you go out?" When he received no response from her, he continued. "Why won't you talk to me? Is it my fault? Is it something I've done? … Is it something I haven't done?"

Violet cast the pillow aside and blinked up at him with tear-stained, reddened eyes. Obviously her appearance wasn't only as a result of the last minute of awake time. There was a much larger concern. She'd been crying earlier.

"I didn't go out," she said. "I was never going out. You didn't care to check. You just… left."

It was his fault, he thought, slowly catching on. He was to blame. But…

This wasn't anything new or alarming. He'd dashed out of the house many times before—in pursuit of a case, to alleviate boredom, in desperate need for a smoke. All without necessarily checking with Violet first. Sometimes she'd take a dig at him when he returned, other times he'd receive irate texts he'd dutifully ignore. And on rarer occasions, he'd solve a case in a spectacular fashion and she'd been quite keen to hear all about his cleverness. And how he'd reaped the rewards during those times!

Why had this been such a big deal tonight?

"I… I'm sorry," he said, ultimately deciding that this was a better opener than immediately launching into an attack. "I was sure you were going to the pub with Mandi… to see that… that Beige… Melon thing. Clearly, I misunderstood the conversation."

Violet's eyes were still misty and she attempted to wipe away her tears before she spoke.

"Mandi asked me along," she said, sniffing again. "But I told her I wanted to spend the night at home… with you." Her voice crackled at the end, and her eyes welled with tears once more. Sherlock's heart sank. "And you didn't eat your dinner."

"Ah… about that…"

"I'm leaving for Australia the day after tomorrow," she went on, her voice still ragged. Turning her head, she glanced at the clock, her expression falling even further. "It's already tomorrow," she added. The clock indicated a little after midnight. Barely 'tomorrow', Sherlock thought. "So we've only got one day left. And you act like you don't care."

"On the contrary," he said. "I do care." His throat felt tight and his voice a bit unnatural. "I'm trying not to imagine my life without you. It's too hard to comprehend." Reaching for her hand, he noted the slight arch of her brow. A touch of sympathy there, so he soldiered on. "When you were away doing your publicity thing, I felt your absence in… in so many ways."

He made that statement as sincerely as he could. It was hard to put into words how he'd felt during her time away, but it had reached the stage where he longed to be greeted first thing in the morning with knickers and bras hanging merrily around the bathtub; to mutter under his breath in the dark, "Fucking hell, Violet," as he tripped over a misplaced highheel in the middle of his bedroom. There were the lost opportunities to share in the misery of others—the dull clients—exchanging a look of knowing on the odd occasion Violet sat in on client meetings; to giggle like drunks on the stairs after a successful case, as they tried to peel away one another's clothing without the landlady hearing; to have her soft touch on his shoulder as she passed his armchair of an evening, asking if he'd like a cup of tea; to wake her with spectacular sex and hear her sigh his name; to sit across from her in front of the fireplace, watching the excitement light up her eyes as she regaled him with trivial anecdotes about life on set; to have her snuggle into his arms, the corner of whatever novel she was reading digging into his ribs.

To tell her he loved her and see her eyes moisten.

To hear those words spoken to him in return and feel his chest swelling in response.

His longing had manifested itself physically, and although he was fully versed in the biology behind it, he still marvelled at the effect their relationship had on him, the human calculating machine, as John Watson had once referred to him.

And he knew that her longer stint in Australia would almost unravel him.

Care?

Of course he fucking did.

"Perhaps I'm in denial," he said in conclusion. "You know I'm not one for describing my feelings at the moment I'm having them." His jaw jutted forward and he averted his gaze for a moment. "Still learning to do that," he added, blinking, having just reminded himself of an earlier slight panic attack at the idea that Violet could be distracted by her career and never return from Australia. And he hadn't found a case with which to entice her to stay yet!

Violet sniffed again, her gaze still on him as if she was quietly studying him. Her eyes had widened. Definitely sympathetic. She shifted, pulling herself up a little.

"I don't…" she began, then appeared to reconsider. "I'm worried we're going to be one of those couples who can't make this work," she said. "Because of our jobs."

"We'll make it work," Sherlock said, reaching out to cup her face, "because that's what we both want. We'll have all those moments in between. And today, or tomorrow, your last day before you go, we'll lock all the doors and switch off our phones. Block everyone out. We'll make all those days count, because we want them to."

Violet responded by covering Sherlock's hand with hers. Her expression softened.

"Do you still love me?" she asked, her voice lowering to a whisper.

"You have to ask?"

Her smile was wobbly, but it was still there all the same.

"I've been a bit emotional lately," she said, bringing their hands down together. "Everything seems to be happening so fast. I can't believe I have all this work on. But you seem happy just to carry on with your cases as if I wasn't around. I was worried you wouldn't even miss me."

"Miss you? Oh, I suppose I might," he drawled. Violet's eyes brightened into a smile. Rearranging his features into a semi-serious expression, Sherlock murmured, "I love you. Just in case there's any doubt in your mind."

"I love you, too," Violet whispered. "Please be here when I get back."

Sherlock straightened up and dropped his gaze to Violet's neck. Reaching out, he clasped the Mickey Mouse pendant.

"I once told you this meant I would always come back to you," he said, "after an argument or whenever I'm off on a case or hiding out in a bolthole. But it can also remind you that I'll be here for you, when you return."

Violet sniffed again, diverting her gaze to the pendant.

"I don't know why you put up with me," she said.

"Oh… because you're okay in bed and you sometimes make a decent cup of tea." He regarded her warmly, then added a little less facetiously, "I'm sorry I abandoned you this evening."

She thanked him with a smile and then she sighed. "And I'm sorry I brought Mandi between us."

"Ah. Yes. Your Ms Doniellson."

"Only one more day."

"Mm."

Sherlock rose from the bed to turn off the bedside lamp on his side.

"I s'pose I should let you get back to sleep," he said, while slipping underneath the covers.

"Yes… thank you," came Violet's voice through the darkness.

Sherlock's shoulders sagged in defeat.

"You can nudge me awake sometime before dawn," she added in a whisper.

They rearranged themselves so they slotted in perfectly, Violet resting her head on Sherlock's chest. He listened to her breathing, feeling her body grow heavy and knowing the precise moment she had fallen asleep.

An odd thought flitted through Sherlock's mind.

He had promised to always return to Violet, but it was Violet who was doing the leaving this time. And he had forgotten to ask for her promise to return to him.

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