Chapter 9 - You Need Me, Or You're Nothing
"No… bit lower… lower… lower… no, up a bit."
"Sherlock! I don't have time for this!"
Violet left him on the dresser. It wasn't the best view, but his girlfriend filled the frame now and then as she bustled about getting ready.
"No, slow down!" he ordered, when Violet swiftly removed her night shirt.
Violet emitted a light laugh then moved out of view. Sherlock heard the sound of an aerosol spray.
"I know you're all settled in for the evening," she said, coming back into frame and grabbing the sports bra from her bed, "but I've got a whole day ahead of me. Transport will be here shortly."
Sherlock accompanied his scoff with a complimentary eyeroll. He had been contemplating taking himself and his laptop to the bedroom if he could only get Violet to stop dressing herself. When she had taken off her night shirt, he—
Wait a minute!
"Violet," he said, "Where's that shirt you just took off?"
Violet, having just pulled on a pair of trackpants to go with her sports bra, giggled and reached behind her. She hugged the shirt. Sherlock thought it had looked familiar.
"I stole it from the bathroom door," she said, holding the shirt to her nose and inhaling deeply. Her eyes had closed to slits. "It still smells like you."
Sherlock slowly shook his head. His girlfriend was deranged.
But now he was without his favourite pyjama shirt. He'd wondered where it had got to.
"I've got to go," Violet said, discarding the shirt with abandonment in stark contrast to her earlier affection for it. Was that how she saw him? On to bigger and better things. Discard Sherlock and his silly cases.
Sherlock scowled as Violet drew on a sweat shirt.
"I've got fight choreography," she said, stooping down to grab her shoes. "It's so amazing!" She glanced up at the screen, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Just wait til I get back," she said. "You're not going to know what hit you." She chuckled lightly and paused from doing up her laces. "Well, you will know, actually. It'll be me." Amused by her own quip, she laughed some more.
Sherlock had to admit Violet's skills in unarmed combat had greatly improved since she began training for the movie. During their last day together, she'd successfully out-manoeuvred him during their bedroom wrestling session. They'd tossed the bed covers onto the floor to cushion their falls. As Sherlock lay stunned looking up at the ceiling, slightly winded, Violet had dropped onto him in preparation for crushing his windpipe with the full weight of her body.
"You're dead," she said, a flash of fire lighting her eyes.
It was particularly thrilling and it made for energetic and creative sex afterwards.
In reflection, that day was quite the success in crawling back from whatever dark hole Violet had placed him due to his desertion the previous evening. Surely she understood his commitment to her now? Short of doing something silly like proposing marriage to her, that is. He'd often pondered that notion, especially since the Watson's wedding and all the nonsense that went with it. Was that the end game for Violet? The final nail in the coffin of commitment?
He thought about it a lot during the night of John's stag do, especially. Must've been the alcohol. Did Violet long for a proposal? Because a wedding as a ritual was absurd. Why did they need a public spectacle to declare their commitment to one another? Not to mention the paperwork! At the end of the night, he suspected he may have queried if she wanted him to ask her to marry him. Perhaps he'd slurred the words too much and she hadn't understood him, or he hadn't even said anything out loud, because she didn't ask him about it the next day. Thank Christ for that. She may have thought he was actually proposing!
"I have to go," Violet said, standing and reaching for her phone. "Bye, Sherlock! Love you!"
"Mm."
"Sherlock."
"What? Oh. I love you, too."
Violet gave him a look he couldn't immediately decipher and ended the Skype call. Sherlock found himself staring into the distance.
Weddings, he scoffed.
Now… where's Mrs Hudson with my dinner?
#
Sherlock slowly washed his now very clean dinner plate, deep in thought.
Of course he could hightail it to Manchester. Poke around a bit. His theory that there had been a criminal mastermind controlling the likes of Sebastian Moran, and now possibly Jake Venucci due to the former's incarceration, still floated around his mind. Now that Violet was away, he could do such things.
Or… he thought, glancing behind him at the clutter of chemistry equipment on the kitchen table, he could commence those experiments he'd been wanting to undertake but couldn't in Violet's presence. Ah! he thought gleefully, he could resurrect the thumb test! It had been an age.
London was his playground once more!
If he had so much to look forward to, then why did it feel as though his heart had dropped to the vicinity of his stomach? He should be living it up!
Sherlock rinsed the plate and placed it on the drainer. He let the water out of the sink and wiped his hands on a tea towel. When the front door clicked shut, Sherlock's heart jolted. A visitor! John and Mary? Or perhaps Lestrade… a new case! But the Scotland Yard D.I. didn't have a key to 221 Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson hadn't let anyone in. And besides, he was no longer on good terms with Lestrade, so…
A tap on the first step followed by footsteps told Sherlock all he needed to know. His shoulders slumped and he exhaled wearily.
Tea, he thought. He'd put the kettle on. At least make this visit seem half-civilised. Phonecalls and texts, Sherlock could ignore. But Mycroft Holmes hadn't taken to dropping in unannounced these days. Sherlock felt that his brother found Violet Hunter a tad alarming. He never quite knew how to take her, and that suited Sherlock just fine. But now that Violet temporarily resided in Australia, Sherlock's first line of defence against the British Government had disappeared with her.
Sherlock withdrew two tea cups from the overhead cupboard, and when he heard the footfalls cross the threshold, he asked, "Tea?"
His brother preceded his answer with a sigh.
"At this hour? I'd be nursing a brandy by now."
"So why aren't you at home, nursing your brandy?" Sherlock asked, turning around to face him.
"Because I'm visiting you," Mycroft said, a brief smile stretching wide.
Sherlock abandoned his tea making efforts and strolled into the living room, his hands thrust in his pockets.
"With files," he said, nodding towards the bundle Mycroft had tucked under one arm.
"Ms Hunter settled comfortably on the Gold Coast?" the older Holmes asked. He plucked out his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. "Their first cast readthrough of the script should be occurring about now." The words rolling off his tongue must've felt as odd forming them as it did to hear them. "That's a bit of an event, isn't it?"
"Is it? Why are you here? You know my default answer to any case you're thinking of giving me is 'no'."
"I believe you're well and truly in my debt," Mycroft replied. He strode over to the living room table. Placing the files down, Mycroft opened the first.
He said, "The list of names you keep requesting me to investigate is increasing in direct proportion to the number of favours you now owe me."
"On the contrary," Sherlock replied. "You've always said dubious people could get to me through Violet. And if they get to me, then they can get to you."
"I've never put it as clumsily as that."
"Violet is in constant contact with new people in the entertainment industry. So it's in your best interests, Brother Dear, and therefore to Queen and Country, to get them checked out."
"Justin Behmes and Virginia Schalder," Mycroft read, moving on. "The current owners of Splendor Pictures. Both successful actors in the eighties. Schalder is a director, while Behmes produces. Principal sponsors of the Global Nature Fund, and various other charities—"
"I know all this. They want Violet for a new film—forgotten the title. They'll be shooting in New York next year."
"Arthur Avenue is the working title," Mycroft said, tapping the file.
"I wanted you to dig deeper."
"There isn't anything else as far as the intelligence community is concerned. And that's me checking with the CIA and the FBI." With a tired sigh, Mycroft turned over a few pages. "Max Burnott," he said.
"Yes, yes, the director of Violet's current film, The Rise of the Five. Skip the biography."
"That's my point," Mycroft said. "All these people check out. From the three executive producers down to the production assistant in charge of filling out log books at base camp. And don't get me started on the cleaning staff. You do realise how many people work on a film project as large as this? We've barely touched the surface."
"I'll give you names as I hear them. People who interact with Violet. It's as simple as that."
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Fine," he said, shutting the file. "I'll leave this one with you." Opening the second file, Mycroft stepped away, giving Sherlock room to scan the first page.
Sherlock heaved out a sigh.
"Irene Adler," he said, unimpressed.
"Yes, Ms Adler. I did try to give you her case a while ago—"
"Why's it still relevant? I imagine one of your lot has been caught in a compromising position? Photos? Videos?"
"Not quite," Mycroft said, standing taller and folding his arms behind his back. "Ms Adler's clientele come from all walks of life. Yes, MPs as well as organised crime figures. As a result, she's accumulated quite a wealth of information, some of which may be of interest to the British Government."
It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes.
"She has information relating to a vast network of criminals," Mycroft continued, "operating within the United Kingdom and on the continent. So, naturally, if anyone within this network gets wind that Ms Adler possesses such information, then her life would be in grave danger and it's possible we'll never gain access to the data. She wants to negotiate terms which will ensure her safety."
"Why isn't it the other way around? Why isn't she selling government secrets to criminal organisations? Surely they're better funded?"
"I'm sure she did, initially," Mycroft replied with a brief smile. "But now it's a question of her safety. She said she wanted the backing of an organisation that had its own navy. But after her initial contact, she took herself off the grid. We need to find her."
"So why not set MI5 or even Six on her trail?"
Mycroft briefly glanced at his shoes, repositioning himself.
"She approached me… or rather, my right hand."
"Anthea."
"Correct," Mycroft said, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "If Irene Adler doesn't trust the Security Services, then neither can I. And that means putting the one person I can trust on this case. Do you understand my predicament?"
"You need me," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.
"Unfortunately, yes."
Not a cause for celebration. It wasn't a question of needing Sherlock's skills in particular, but one of trust.
How dull.
"Where was her last known sighting?"
"Paris. She prefers to frequent an area known as the Marais district."
"I know it."
"Good," Mycroft said, his expression almost one of relief. "How soon can you depart? Now that Ms Hunter is ten thousand miles away, you shouldn't have any… interference."
Now this was rather telling, Sherlock thought.
"You came after she left the country," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You still don't trust her."
Mycroft lifted his chin.
"Ms Hunter is a celebrity," he replied. "She talks to the press. Anybody whose job it is to exist as a public spectacle cannot be trusted with national secrets."
"Then why don't you tell that to the Prime Minister?"
"The PM isn't trusted with national secrets... well…" Mycroft's lips eased into a lizard's smile. "Not the ones that matter."
In spite of himself, Sherlock chuckled.
"Give me a few days," he told his brother. "I have a couple of things to tend to first."
A bold-faced lie. But extra days in London may still yield a far more interesting case than Mycroft's missing person abroad.
Although…. He pondered.
Mycroft bid Sherlock a good evening, but the younger Holmes was already too absorbed in his own thoughts to reply.
Surely Irene Adler's information about criminal networks in the U.K. included Venucci's organised crime outfit. Would the data reveal the name of a criminal mastermind, the puppeteer who Sherlock strongly suspected initially pulled Sebastian Moran's strings?
Sherlock steepled his hands, bringing them to his lips as he began to pace. This case may prove bigger and far more dangerous than he first imagined.
How exciting.
#
"I'll make you a cup of tea," Tim said, sweeping past Violet for the end of the table where a large urn and several tea cups teetered upon saucers. The large platter of Danish pastries spread before them looked frightfully unappealing and Violet had confided in him that she had no appetite.
That Timothy Killaney had taken it upon himself to act as her chaperone warmed Violet. Her brain felt fuzzy as if she was constantly having out of body experiences. She'd met far too many people in quick succession this morning: executive producers—at least three, she counted—as well as the line producer she had spoken to on the phone several times, a finance manager, the Director of Photography, the Production Designer, the first Assistant Director, the 2nd AD… and so on. The room was crowded with bodies, more than would fit around the conference-style table, despite its size. There were extra chairs arranged along three of the walls of the room, two rows deep. Violet was at a loss as to who all these extra people were. This wasn't just a first readthrough. It was to be a performance of sorts.
Max Burnott, the Director, was lovelier in person than he had been during their various transatlantic Skype and phone calls. The introduction to the group of raucous young men in one corner was where Violet truly found her inner and outer personalities separating. Her inner Violet stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed beside her, watching as Violet the Actress held her own among the movie's five male stars.
Violet recalled slumping down in her seat in the Cineworld in nearby Didsbury with Mandi, when they both lived in Manchester. Tired and hungover, a sulty August three years ago, they'd escaped to the cinema during their rental flat inspection. The Egyptian deities had filled the screen, larger than life, fighting against the evil serpent of the underworld, played by her now good friend and fellow Brit, Tim Killaney—the man currently fetching her tea and secretly dating her ex-flatmate and former co-star Spencer Munro.
"No beer!" Joseph Irkhardt exclaimed in mock outrage, his broad Australian accent still surprising her. His character, the bull deity, Apis, spoke with a British accent. His large mitt enclosed a custard danish as their other co-stars, Bradley Tessi and Heath Camblin roared with laughter. Violet had a feeling Joe was overplaying his Aussie-ness a bit.
"If we could all get started," a female voice called from one end of the room. It was Lynda Chan-Beatty, the line producer.
There was a last minute dash for the buffet table, which was spread the full length of one wall. Violet moved away, cup of tea in one hand, water bottle clutched in the other, and followed Tim across the room. Her heart skipped a little at the sight of her own name on a place card on the far-side of the table. She was sat next to Tim, thank goodness. On her other side, Ethan Helgesen was deep in conversation over his shoulder with an enthusiastic woman Violet didn't know. Mandi would be beside herself to learn Violet was seated next to the Jefferson Parish star. Her best friend had even attempted to show Violet footage of Helgesen completely naked in a sex scene in the hugely popular vampire drama.
"Not now, Mandi!" Violet had told her friend, looking away. "Perhaps after we've finished shooting." It would be far too distracting to act opposite a man you'd seen in glorious nude detail only days before.
A couple of assistants began placing scripts in front of everyone who was seated. Violet noticed that many scripts, including her own, were littered with sticky labels.
Tim leant in to her and said, "They're marking your parts. So you know when you can duck out to the loo or make another cuppa without missing your next scene."
Violet gave him a grateful smile. Why didn't people tell her these things?
Alissen King, the 1st Assistant Director, welcomed everyone and introduced the main production executives and director who all sat across from the principal actors. She then asked everyone to introduce themselves around the table. Several support actors who had a varying amount of speaking parts and the narrator introduced themselves first.
Violet drew in a steadying breath when Tim said, "Tim Killaney, reading the part of Apophis."
"Violet Hunter, reading Satis," she said, ending with a brief smile to nobody in particular at the opposite side of the table.
Ethan, Joe, Brad and Heath introduced themselves along with the characters they were reading, the four Egyptian gods Khonsu, Apis, Kephri and Sobek, respectively. Violet's Satis would make up the fifth member of the Anuket's Children superhero team in this sequel. It was all a bit overwhelming, joining something that had already entered into pop culture.
As several other support actors introduced themselves, Violet let her eyes wander around the room. She was stunned to see Hersch Gleitzman having a murmured conversation with a woman whose expression looked absolutely furious. What did he have to do with this film, or Etienne-Lumiere, the studio producing The Rise of the Five? He ran his own independent production company, Gleitzman and Co. but he was very hands-on, having a lot of creative input into the films his company produced. But this sequel was definitely not one of his projects.
Still pondering this, Violet let her eyes drift to the rest of the group either seated on the spare chairs, or standing nearby. She caught the eye of a dark-haired man, leaning against the wall, hands thrust casually into his pockets. He was young—thirtyish, perhaps—with a faint smile on his lips. A knowing smile? But at that moment, he bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck to avert his gaze.
Violet refocussed on the group at the table.
"Mary Smith, subbing for Fiona Taylor. I'm reading the second passenger on the train."
Violet exhaled deeply, opening her script along with everyone else when Alissen bid them to.
It was a good fifteen minutes or so before Violet uttered her first line, with the opening scenes dedicated to the original four superheroes mid-battle. The banter and one-liners flew, allowing Violet to laugh throatily along with everyone else, in an attempt to keep her vocal chords warm. As soon as she had a few lines to speak, she finally relaxed into it. She was mesmerised as the story unfolded before her, having read only her own scenes with brief summaries of the rest. Her final scene of significance was alongside Tim. The ferocity and hate directed at her character gave her the chills.
Prolonged applause and cheers sounded at the narrator's final words, "The End". Tim pulled Violet into an embrace, kissing the top of her head.
"Well done," he murmured.
What an ordeal, she thought.
There were congratulations all round along with several group photos. People began to file out. Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. She had time for a lunch break, then she was required back in G Block for more training in fight choreography.
"You slotted in perfectly."
Violet looked up in surprise. The man she had noticed earlier stood with Lynda, the producer. His accent threw her. She was expecting an American accent.
"Oh, Violet," Lynda said, suddenly scrambling to speak when she noticed Violet's expression. "Have you met our Chief Operating Officer, Mr Ja—"
"No, no, we don't have to be so formal," he said, holding out his hand and grinning. As Violet returned his handshake, he added, "Jim. Jim Moriarty."
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