Chapter 11 - I've Been Expecting This for Some Time

The second unit crew had temporarily moved to Mount Tamborine, in the Gold Coast hinterland for filming rainforest scenes. Filming had wrapped for the day. The cast and crew relaxed around the pool and BBQ area of the holiday lodge the studio had secured for the period they were filming there. Violet pored over a book with Joe, Mandi and Heath. It had been given to Heath by a well-meaning friend back home in California. The book listed every Australian animal and plant that could kill people.

Sherlock had returned to London and told Violet his assignment away had been quite lack-lustre. She was thankful he agreed to talk to Dan about his case, even going so far as to say Dan could visit him in Baker Street or he could go to Kabuki's, or they could meet in a discreet neutral location. Violet was on tenterhooks for twenty-four hours until she heard from Sherlock, and later, Dan, that they had met in an East London curry house and Sherlock was on the case.

Violet and Sherlock communicated almost daily, either via text or Skype or voice messages left at odd hours of a morning. Sherlock listened patiently to her updates, asking pointed questions here and there, especially when names were mentioned. Violet still kept Jim Moriarty's offer and name out of their conversations. The man seemed to have vanished into thin air anyway, and Timothy Killaney had little to offer in the way of information, saying he'd only met the C.O.O. during pre-production on Anuket's Children three years earlier. Nor did Jim contact her about Canning Town and the reclusive author Stacia Jecks.

For Sherlock's part, he remained vague about the so-called interesting cases he was working on, but very specific about the dull ones. Violet suspected he hadn't solved the highly-rated ones, and would wait for success before regaling Violet with the details of his brilliance. Excitement bubbled inside her at the thought. She told him she couldn't wait to work on cases with him again. His only response was, "Oh," as if this surprised him.

Violet's skin began to crawl at the photos of the scars left on the skin by box jellyfish tentacles, so she moved away from the group in search of a refill for her iced tea.

"Violet," Lynda Chan-Beatty, the producer called to her. Violet turned towards the decorative bridge that spanned a small section of the resort pool where Lynda and her companion crossed. "Have you met Hersch Gleitzman?"

Gleitzman's presence was a bit hard to miss. The man wore a Hawaiian shirt for heaven's sake. It billowed around his expansive girth like a tarpaulin on a high-rise building under refurbishment.

"Mr Gleitzman," Violet said, forcing a smile to her face as her hand was enveloped in his. The man was old-style Hollywood with the unshaven jawline of a Mafia boss.

"No, please, call me Hersch," he said, in his gruff New York accent. What was missing, Violet thought, was a large cigar to chew on.

His eyes dropped to Violet's cleavage and she immediately felt exposed. She'd opted for the sarong-style dress Mandi had purchased for her in a surf shop along Broadbeach for this humid evening under the stars. Its halter-neck top dipped between her breasts and now she regretted wearing it. Her skin prickled, but this time it had nothing to do with redback spiders or box jellyfish.

"I'll leave you both to chat," Lynda said.

What was Violet thinking? The man was probably nice. Wasn't he a creative genius? Or at least very savvy in the business of film production. She should cut him some slack. She didn't even know him. Perhaps she shouldn't pay attention to her initial instincts and the rumour mill.

Pay attention to your initial instincts! Sherlock's voice echoed in her mind. I've already deduced six different reasons why you should feel uncomfortable in his presence. And the rumour mill may be onto something.

Six, Sherlock? she thought faintly.

Oh, how she wished he really stood by her side, instead of in her imagination, to hold her hand and steer her away if necessary.

"What do you think?" Gleitzman asked her, sweeping a hand to take in their surroundings. "A far cry from London."

"It's beautiful," she replied, clasping her hands together.

His eyes flicked toward her cleavage again. Violet tilted her chin as if she could somehow encourage him to keep his gaze above her collar bone.

"Are you… doing work with the studio?" she asked. Because why was he here, otherwise? He was an independent producer, in opposition to the studios.

"The studio wants Glitz and Gomorrah," he said, in reference to a long-awaited historic drama about Hollywood itself and acquired by Gleitzman and Co. "And I want use of the studio—the lot, the sound stages. All of it." He bent his head and lowered his voice, adding, "They wanna get into my pants. And I might let them."

Violet automatically hunched her shoulder, her thoughts fraying.

Gleitzman straightened up, chuckling.

"But that's not what I want to talk to you about," he went on. "I hear Arthur Avenue is in trouble. Script rewrites, finance trouble. Bit of a drama getting the permits from the city for filming. Gleitzman and Co. are ready to swoop in and save the day. And you, young lady, are definitely part of negotiations."

"I-I'm sorry?"

She had no idea. What rewrites? What trouble with finance?

… What negotiations?

"Don't worry," he said, curling a light hand around Violet's upper arm. He gave her a couple of affectionate pats. "You and I can save the day." He smiled as Violet found herself frowning. Before pulling his hand away, his thumb lightly skimmed her bare skin, ever so briefly. Violet took a step backwards, automatically recoiling.

"I'll get my assistant to arrange a meeting next week," Gleitzman said, oblivious, before winking and turning from her. "Heath Camblin!" he called out to her co-star.

Violet felt her skin flush before she forced herself to breathe again.

What just happened?

Gleitzman had grabbed Heath in a bear hug and Violet scanned the immediate vicinity for Mandi. Where was she? Wasn't she with this group a minute ago?

She needed her P.A.

Rewrites. Finance troubles. Drama with permits. What the fuck was going on?

Violet strode through the tropical garden outdoor area towards the restaurant.

"Mandi!" she called when she spied her friend at the cocktail bar. "Get Splendor Pictures on the phone… no, wait! Ring Justin's direct line… And then phone Bre Norton. See if she knows anything about—"

"Wait, Vi," Mandi said, frowning at her phone. "Isn't it the middle of the night in New York?"

"It doesn't matter. Leave messages." Violet lowered her voice. "I've just been speaking to Hersch Gleitzman, and he said—"

"Ooh, yeah, I saw that!" Mandi leant in conspiratorially. "Stay on his good side, whatever you do!"

"What?"

"He has a golden touch. Oscars! And I've heard he can make or break careers."

Violet momentarily opened and closed her mouth. She knew this, but where was this all leading?

"What message do you want me to leave?" Mandi asked, readjusting herself as if reasserting her professionalism.

Violet mentally shook herself. She needed to concentrate right now.

"I need an update on the status of Arthur Avenue," she told Mandi. "And I may have a meeting with Gleitzman and I want to know what his relationship with Splendor Pictures is now and into the future." Pausing to draw in a steadying breath, she added, "Can you prepare a plate of food for me when the buffet comes out? I'll take it in our room. I've had enough for one evening."

#

"Hello," Sherlock said, allowing his smile to leech into his voice.

"Hi."

It was more of a sigh than a greeting. Sherlock deduced Violet had settled into the sofa or against the pillows of her bed, satisfied upon hearing his voice at last, after a week of mismatched schedules.

"How's your wrist?" he asked her, juggling his phone between his ear and shoulder as he shrugged on his jacket.

"Better," she said with a tiny hum that told him she was rotating it. "But I'm so annoyed with myself. I'm supposed to come out of this roll, then twist and turn and catch my staff, but I'm fucking it up. At this rate, they'll use Heidi's take, not mine. I deserve this! I've trained so hard for it. It should be me, but I'm not making the catch in that fucking costume!"

"Mm," said Sherlock, at a loss for words.

"And I'm so fucking tired all the time. I think it's the heat."

Sherlock attempted a discreet sigh.

"Everyone's around the pool having a typical Aussie barbie," she went on.

"A what?"

"But I'm up here, hiding away in the air-conditioning… I'm sorry." Violet's voice dropped a notch. "I wanted to talk to you. I've missed this… this end of the day debrief, even if you don't understand or care about the details." Sherlock's heart twinged. He thought he was making an effort. "We're at the stage of this block where everyone's getting on each other's nerves," Violet continued, unabated, "and Julia—she's the second unit director—she's more desperate to make the day… and…"

"How about chocolate?" Sherlock suggested.

"What?"

"Chocolate. To give you that extra boost when you're shooting those physically gruelling scenes. Ask at cast services."

"Craft services. And I'm not allowed to have chocolate."

"Who said? And your abstinence will make it twice as potent."

Violet huffed a small laugh.

"Enough about me," she said. And her sigh indicated she had slipped even lower between the sheets or along the sofa. "Tell me about your week."

He knew what she was doing. She loved to fall asleep listening to his soothing voice. But before he could respond, he was momentarily distracted by footfalls on the staircase.

"Look, I'd love to," he replied, walking over and picking up his wallet from the living room table, "but John's just shown up and we're about to head off to Kabuki Pirates to see Dan."

"Oh." The disappointment in her voice was palpable. "You're going… with John?"

"Well, he came with me when Dan and I had our first meeting at the curr—"

"You took John because you were worried it might have been a set up?"

"Nice deduction. The thought had occurred."

"Please don't tell me you asked him to take his gun."

"O-kay," Sherlock said carefully.

A few seconds of silence elapsed while Sherlock slipped his wallet into his jacket.

"Sherlock!"

Looks like she understood what that silence meant.

"I have to go," Sherlock said. "John's here." He smiled at his ex-flatmate who was crossing the threshold. "You just get… get the 5th AD to smuggle you some chocolate onto set."

"There's no such person as a 5th AD."

"Hi, Violet!" John called out.

"That was John," Sherlock said.

"I know. Tell him I said hi."

"Violet says hello. I'll… um…"

Sherlock made a beeline towards the kitchen.

"Ring me the moment you wake," he finished, his voice pitched low.

"Why?"

"Just do it. Skype me, in fact."

"I was going to sleep in. It'll be Saturday here and my first call isn't til 3pm."

"Even better."

He had to see her the second she woke up, tired and dishevelled, with creases between her brows because she didn't want to be awake. His heart stuttered at the memory of her body warmed from sleep, her lips soft and pliant.

Best not get worked up now.

A late sleep in for Violet meant it would be later in the evening for Sherlock. He could settle into his bedroom. Into his bed.

What had he become?

"Okay," Violet replied, sighing. "I was hoping to fall asleep listening to you."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. We'll get the timing right one day."

He paused and ducked his head, holding the phone closer to his mouth. Even though he was out of sight of John, he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "I love you."

"Are you hiding in the kitchen now?" Violet asked, with a light laugh.

Sherlock chuckled.

"You're getting quite good at making deductions," he responded.

"Well, I love you, too," Violet said in a rather unnecessary whisper.

Sherlock ended the call with a "call me later." It sounded rather needy and desperate. God, how long had they been apart now? Separation should've become easier, not harder.

"Ready, John?"

Exiting the flat to hail a cab with John Watson by his side felt like old times. With the unsuccessful trip to Paris, where Sherlock deduced Irene Adler had been playing a deliberate game of cat and mouse, Sherlock had insisted to Mycroft that he be allowed to bring John Watson into his confidence.

"I know what she's doing," he had told his brother. "She's testing me. Observing me. Finding out if I'm worthy to approach. And I want John around in case she does."

Adler made it her business to photograph her clients in compromising situations just in case she needed something from them in the future. And why wouldn't she do the same to Sherlock Holmes? The media would love to get hold of an ambiguous photo such as the great Consulting Detective (or was his official title 'Violet Hunter's boyfriend'?) meeting with a dominatrix who owned her own URL. Sherlock had seen the pictures of Violet around the Gold Coast with her co-stars, and one co-star in particular: Joseph Irkhardt. Deliberate cropping could tell another story entirely.

"We were all at the club," Violet had quickly explained during a previous phone call. "They've cropped the photo so it looks like it's only Joe and I having an intimate conversation in a corner booth." He had sighed and told Violet she didn't need to explain anything. Although, having the knowledge last year that an image caught at 1/250th of a second didn't necessarily prove infidelity may have saved him three months of heartache.

In the cab, John cleared his throat and patted his jacket pocket.

"Didn't know if you still wanted me to bring this…"

"Oh," Sherlock replied. "I think we can assume Dan Corlionne is entirely trustworthy."

Their first meeting with the nightclub manager in the curry house had been benign. Sherlock asked Dan to explain to John (since Violet had already informed Sherlock) as to why he wanted to hire Sherlock Holmes specifically. Sherlock quietly observed Dan as he spoke, making sure facial gestures and body language matched his assertions. The man appeared genuine, although half of Sherlock's observations were about detecting how much the man in front of him still loved Sherlock's girlfriend.

Dan wanted to run a legitimate business, he told John. He suspected an employee was either smuggling in drugs to sell during business hours, or allowing it to happen. If Dan didn't prevent this, he could wind up getting himself arrested for permitting the sale of prohibited substances on premises he managed. Dan didn't want to inform Jake Venucci, the owner of the club, because he wanted to keep everything above board. Sherlock deduced the real meaning behind Dan's statement: the newly appointed Kabuki's manager didn't want his employees or any other related party found mysteriously washed ashore on the banks of the Thames.

"I'll deal with them meself," he said. "Blacklist them from the club, or if they work for me, fire them. And that's it. Keep it quiet, if you know what I mean."

And anyone else hired for the job of investigating his suspicions may mouth off to Jacob Venucci about their findings, if they wanted to impress someone of his standing. Dan knew of at least three private detectives who also undertook paid work for Venucci. The only private detective Dan could trust not to be in Venucci's pocket was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock advised Dan that his arrest would likely be as a result of a raid by the Metropolitan Police after months of investigation, namely, having officers regularly attending as patrons of the club. Perhaps even buying the drugs themselves. To detect both dealers and undercover police, Sherlock would either have to attend the club himself, or pore over surveillance footage. Since both punters and police may know Sherlock Holmes by sight, it seemed the latter was the only option.

Not very exciting, this Friday morning outing of theirs: to retrieve the surveillance files from the nightclub and double-check the layout. While they were there, Sherlock also advised Dan that he ought to install additional cameras in the alleyway by the rear door. Images of Violet being assaulted by a former bartender of the nightclub still featured heavily in Sherlock's thoughts.

"Bit different, in daylight," John remarked of the club as they made their way by cab back to Baker Street.

Sherlock twirled the memory stick containing the surveillance files between his fingers.

"Mm," he agreed distractedly.

John appeared to wait a beat before asking, "So, what else are you working on?" He could barely hide the eagerness in his voice.

"Ah… this and that," Sherlock replied.

He pondered telling John about the Chenoa Burton case. He'd only progressed as far as determining that her assault was somehow related to Lauren Myrtle. Jire assaults Lauren, leading to her death, then is most likely framed for the copycat assault on Chenoa. Was someone punishing Jire for Lauren's death? Sherlock hadn't had time to investigate further upon his return to London. A second pair of eyes would be very useful on this case, and Chenoa had stipulated he keep this from Violet.

"Actually," he went on, "there is something, but you have to swear not to tell Violet about it until we've solved it."

"Sounds intriguing."

"I'll update you upstairs," Sherlock replied, as the cab pulled up outside 221.

Upon entering the flat, John told Sherlock he'd just go and say hello to Mrs Hudson.

Halfway up the stairs, Sherlock remembered his landlady spent Friday mornings with Mrs Booth.

Nevermind. John will discover that for himse—

Sherlock paused on the landing. An odd draught snaked its way through the doorway leading to the kitchen. Inhaling sharply, he crossed the threshold. A new scent tickled his nostrils. Perfume. The base note of jasmine still lingered, along with a rapidly fading heart note of… what was it… juniper? Not Mrs Hudson's and definitely not Violet's.

Sherlock spied the small window at the rear of the kitchen. He hastened over to it, and pushed on it, confirming it was ajar. He sniffed again. The warm air from a recently used shower reached the kitchen. As John's footfalls resonated up the stairwell, Sherlock cautiously made his way along the passageway at the back of the kitchen towards his bedroom.

He stared down at the figure curled up underneath his bedsheets.

"She's not in," John remarked, striding into the kitchen.

"We have a client," Sherlock told him.

"What, in your bedroom?" John asked, making his way towards him, a touch of humour in his tone.

The figure stirred as John came to a halt beside Sherlock.

"Oh."

#

"If I'm not back in half an hour, you go ahead without me. I'll catch up."

"Violet Hunter can't be seen wandering around the streets by herself."

"Then wait for me in the bar."

"I'm not ready," Mandi said, picking up her hair straightener again.

"I'll see you back here, then," Violet said, with a sigh.

She left her friend and headed down to the poolside bar on the first floor of their Broadbeach hotel. Violet was filming back on the coast—fight scenes on the backlot of the studio, and some of the cast and crew were heading out for fish and chips this evening. But Violet had a last minute meeting beforehand.

In the lift, Violet checked her phone once more. Still no return calls from Sherlock. He'd been very cagey this last week. She'd done as he had requested, and skyped him the minute she woke up last Saturday morning, but he didn't pick up and later messaged her that he couldn't take her call. Throughout the week, his messages came sporadically, and phone calls were abruptly ended with a quick, "Have to go. Talk later." Anyone would think he was a grounded teenage boy making sly calls to his friends in the middle of the night!

Violet's heart began to thump as she crossed the lobby.

Hersch Gleitzman, for fuck's sake. A meeting! Mandi had gleefully passed the message on to Violet, but Violet was still bewildered as to why he wanted to talk to her.

Speaking to Splendor Pictures earlier in the week, Justin Behmes told her they had already met with Gleitzman. They'd informed him they weren't interested in his production company buying out Splendor Pictures. Pre-production hiccups were par for the course, he told her. She had nothing to worry about.

"We did invite him to invest in our film, though," Justin added, "but he graciously declined. Look, if he wants to talk to you, it's probably about some other project he has you in mind for. That's great, Violet! Keep an open mind!"

Violet's U.S. agent, Bre Norton, had made similar comments, although she had instructed Violet to, "agree to everything, but sign nothing."

Violet scanned the bar area. Patrons either perched on stools stretched along the oak and chrome bar, or sat in comfortable cane chairs around low tables in groups of three or four. No sign of the great man.

Just as Violet started picking her way around the tables, a woman's voice in an American accent called to her. Violet spun around, recognising the woman as Gleitzman's P.A.

"I'm Marcia," she said. "Now Hersch is very, very busy." She placed a light hand on the small of Violet's back and gestured towards the hotel lobby. "He'll have to take your meeting in between his other calls, I'm afraid. You're very lucky he can see you at all tonight. He has to fly out at midnight." She waved her phone in front of her and added, "If I can get a booking on this damn thing."

The hair on the back of Violet's neck prickled as Marcia ushered her along.

"I'm sorry," Violet said. "Where are we going?"

"To Hersch's suite," Marcia said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

#