Chapter 15 - We're in a Lot of Trouble

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no words came out, muted by an inability to reconcile the vision of the young woman whose footfalls thundered down the stairwell with the idea that his girlfriend was supposed to be ten thousand miles away, in Australia.

He should've been quicker, he thought as he launched himself out of his armchair. Irene Adler emitted a seductive chuckle as he flew out the door. He could've punched her.

As Sherlock dashed downstairs only one question battered his mind—what had transpired in Australia that necessitated Violet travelling all the way back to London, with one week of filming left in Brisbane? He'd received her message, Sherlock, ring me, it's urgent!, but he hadn't had the opportunity (or privacy!) to phone her back. And perhaps, to his error, he thought Violet was overdramatising something that was probably quite trivial.

He rounded the corner to see her at the foot of the staircase retrieving a pair of boots and her jacket. A backpack stood nearby. All items, like Violet herself, were rain-spattered.

"Violet!"

He reached the bottom in no time, as Violet hauled her possessions away from the last step.

"What happened?" he insisted. "Why are you here?"

She backed away from him, giving herself room to shove a stockinged foot into one of her boots.

"Don't… you… dare."

She could hardly speak, as if her words had to carefully pick themselves around the barriers she'd put in place to control her rage.

Sherlock cautiously approached. She seemed so much smaller now, here in real life, not an image on his phone's screen, or a figment of his (sometimes saucy) imagination. Her hair was cut a lot shorter than it used to be; it feathered her face, giving her a delicate elfin look. He… liked it. Obviously, he hadn't seen it properly the last time they'd skyped.

"I… was counting… on you," she said as she struggled into the second boot using the wall as support.

"Clearly something's happened," he began. Her single backpack and no other luggage indicated she'd left Australia only temporarily. She hadn't been fired from set then.

"You don't get to do this!" she suddenly yelled, stomping her boot on the lino. Whether out of emphasis or the necessity to wedge her foot into it further, Sherlock couldn't immediately determine. "That!" she snapped, pointing upwards, "That, up there, is what happened!"

"Oh," Sherlock said casually, waving a flippant hand. "That was noth—"

Whack!

His left cheek stung and his ear began to ring. Didn't see that coming.

"You don't get to fuck someone else and say it was nothing!" Violet yelled, her eyes blazing. "It's everything to me!" She choked out those last words, tears pooling and clotting her lashes.

Sherlock's stomach dropped several inches as he gently rubbed his cheek. The spinning top of his thoughts whirred and wobbled until it came to rest at an awkward angle. She really thinks… Did she assume I…

He thought she was only a bit angry, having stormed out… Easily managed. But this…

"There's a simple explanation for what you saw," Sherlock began, keeping his voice low and calm, "Or what you think you saw, but—"

"What's going on?" Mrs Hudson called, standing at the end of the passageway in her sleepwear.

But Violet's gaze of hatred didn't waver from Sherlock.

"Does she wear your dressing gown," she said through gritted teeth, "before or after you fuck her!"

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said on an exhale, while Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. He had his work cut out for him tonight.

"If you had observed instead of simply staring in bewilder—"

"Stop it," Violet said, her voice strangled. "Don't b-belittle me with your f-fucking clever deductions."

"Hold on a minute." Her slow blinking. Her slurred words. "Have you been drinking?"

"Oh… God!" Violet exclaimed with a humourless laugh. She stooped to retrieve her coat from the floor.

"So you've been drinking on the flight," Sherlock deduced. "Something upset you, prompting you to leave Austra—."

"You've upset me, you stupid prick!"

"Before now! Before this!" Sherlock yelled back.

"Stop trying to change the subject!"

While their heated gazes remained locked on one another, Mrs Hudson piped up, "Could someone please tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock waited for Violet's explanation as to why she was here.

"I caught Sherlock upstairs with some woman," Violet explained, her voice a deadly calm.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sherlock said as Mrs Hudson covered her mouth in alarm.

"They were holding hands and he was just about to kiss her," Violet went on.

"For fuck's sake, Violet. You know me. You know I wouldn't do—"

"I know what I saw! And I know what you were like before you met me. Those Thursday night pickups. Is Saturday night your thing now?"

Sherlock couldn't help it. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he heaved out a sigh.

"I was gone for two months," she choked, as she began pulling on her coat. "And that's all it took."

Wait! Was she that upset, she was just going to leave without hearing his explanation? Sherlock had set the foundation of their conversation on the basis that he was completely innocent, yet Violet hung erroneously from the rafters of wild misinformation. He had to talk her down somehow.

"Violet, listen," he said, reaching for her.

She shrugged out of his hold, yelling, "Don't fucking touch me!"

Violet grabbed her backpack, heaving it over one shoulder as she lurched towards the entrance. Was her backpack putting her off balance, or was she drunker than Sherlock initially detected?

"Violet."

"I can't stand the sight of you."

It sounded like a desperate bid for freedom. As she reached the front door, Sherlock grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

"Have the courtesy of—"

A loud thwack, accompanied by a sharp pain in his nose, silenced him. In a blur of limbs, the air was knocked out of him, one leg was suddenly kicked out from underneath him and he landed with a thud on the floor, jolting his head against the frame of the internal door.

In a daze and struggling to breathe, he could just make out Violet standing above him.

"I've lost everything now!" she raged. "Don't you dare put me in the headlines as well by following me out into the street like some fucking ITV drama!"

The world went fuzzy on the edges as the door clicked shut.

"Oh, dear," he heard his landlady say as her footsteps approached him. "That wasn't very good, was it?"

Leaning forward from his crumpled position, he held his nose with one hand and reached behind to rub the back of his throbbing head.

"N-no," he said through his sinuses. "That was… that was… brilliant."

The pain in his chest intensified as he drew in air. He had no idea his girlfriend was capable of such a feat. Such fluid dexterity. And all heavily under the influence. Time well spent in Australia, then.

"I don't mean that," Mrs Hudson went on. "I mean…" She pointed to the ceiling, the way she and John often did when they didn't want to say Irene Adler's name out loud.

"Oh, that. Nothing happened." Sherlock withdrew his hand from his nose and inspected his fingers for blood. A smattering. "A simple misunderstanding," he went on. "Violet will calm down once she's had five minutes alone in a cab. What's more important is why my girlfriend is in London one week early."

"I'm not sure you actually have a girlfriend at the moment, dear. I'll get something for your… injuries."

Sherlock struggled to stand up.

"No," he said in a sort of half-exhale, half-pained moan. "Bring me your mobile. I need to make a call."

"What's wrong with your phone?"

"Upstairs. Don't want to face her just now."

Mrs Hudson disappeared into her flat while Sherlock hobbled over to the stairwell and gingerly lowered himself onto the bottom step, still rubbing his head. He winced at the sharp stabbing pain in his abdomen. Bruised ribs, no doubt. Well done, Violet.

"Ring Mycroft," he said, when his landlady returned.

"I don't have your brother's number."

"Everyone around me has my brother's number. He pays you all to spy on me."

"I've never received a single penny. Do other people get paid?"

"Just ring it."

Sherlock was going to end this farce once and for all.

#

Violet's head throbbed and now her chest ached as well. It all ached. Her world had shattered and lay in shards all around her. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in the seat of the cab. The rhythm of the windscreen wipers urged her heart to beat faster, which in turn, caused her breath to come in shallow bursts.

Oh, God.

I need…

Violet grabbed her backpack, which sat between her legs, and rummaged through it. Somewhere in here…

Where is it?

I know I put it in…

The vodka. Thank God. The mini bar bottle she'd surreptitiously slipped into her handbag back in her hotel room on the Gold Coast. In two quick swigs, it lay empty in her palm. Closing her eyes once more, she knew she'd fully relax the moment the alcohol hit her system. She'd book into a hotel near Heathrow, get a good night's sleep, then take the flight back to Brisbane, via Sydney or Melbourne… whatever the fuck Mandi had organised. Another day of flying!

Thank Christ. She could feel the vodka warming her insides now, quicker than she thought it would, but then again, she hadn't really eaten anything substantial since lunchtime, and even then…

Fucking arsehole.

Fucking arsehole!

She came all this way for nothing. What had she expected of him? She'd wanted to be relieved of this burden once she delivered Jim's stupid message. She couldn't even summon up her imaginary Sherlock to reply with comforting words.

Fucking arsehole.

In a quick intake of breath, Violet's eyes snapped open. She hadn't delivered Jim's message! Her heart jolted. The panic reclaimed its hold. She hadn't told Sherlock! He wouldn't know that he had to stop!

Oh, God!

"Stop the cab!"

"Wha…? I can't 'ere, miss," the cabbie replied.

"Just… just… just turn around. When you can. Take the next left… and then…"

Fuck!

There was no way she could return to Baker Street. To him.

And her.

"Where to, miss?"

"Um… I'm thinking… hang on."

Shit.

She couldn't speak to that lying, cheating prick again. How had he made it all about her? She caught him! But he was barely trying to wriggle out of it, the arrogant sod. What had he said?

If you had observed instead of simply staring…

Observed what?

Think, Violet. What did you see? What did you hear?

Shut up. I'm not talking to you.

I saw a woman, kneeling at your feet. Was she going to give you head? You know, I kneeled in that exact same place, you fucking prick. You love it!

Think, Violet! What did she say?

What did she say? I don't fucking care!

Cousin Lettie.

What? Why? I don't have any cousins. How did she know I was called Lettie?

Well, there were… cousins.

All those years ago… when I thought… believed… Charles Adler was my father. And his brother Eddie, with his three daughters. So, that means… the Adlers.

Was that…?

Irene Adler.

That was Irene Adler? The dominatrix for hire?

"Oh, my God!"

"Sorry, miss?"

"Nothing. Just… just… take the next left."

Sherlock hired a prostitute while I was away. And not just any prostitute. Irene Adler, the dominatrix.

"Fucking hell."

"Miss?"

"Just keep driving. Please. I'm looking for an address."

Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes. So he didn't go out and pick up on a Saturday night. He just hired someone. And did he really think that was okay? That fucking prostitutes didn't constitute cheating?

But you have to give me a message.

Shut up!

Oh, God. He's not going to know unless I tell him…

Or… someone else can tell him…

Prompted by an idea, Violet quickly retrieved her phone from her handbag and swiftly dialled John Watson's number.

"Hey, Violet! This is a surp—"

"John! I need to tell you something. Are you at home?"

"Uh… yeah, yeah. What's up?"

"I'm on my way. I'll be there soon."

"Wait… Are you coming 'round here? Are you back in the UK?"

"Yes. I just arrived and I need to tell you something. A message to give to Sherlock. I can't… I can't talk to him."

"Oh? Is he still abroad? I thought he was due back this… evening." At Violet's silence, John stammered, "Unless… D-did you already go around to Baker Street? Unannounced?"

The word 'unannounced' gave Violet pause.

"Shit," John said before she could answer, causing Violet's stomach to plummet even further. What did he know? "Listen, Violet. We need to talk. But we can't do it here, at my place. Do you think you could go back to Baker Street? We'll just sit in Mrs H's kitchen and—"

"No! I'm not going back to Baker Street."

"All right, all right… um… let me think."

"John, what's going on?"

"Violet, please trust me when I say I can't tell you over the phone."

"What?"

"How about… Do you know where Mycroft lives?"

Her head buzzed. This was all getting so confusing.

"In Jermyn Street."

"Good," John replied. "Can you go there? I'll meet you, but first I'll ring Mycroft to let him know in advance."

Violet stared resolutely through the car window as unfamiliar shops whizzed by.

"Okay, fine," she replied.

"Right. I'll see you then."

Violet ended the call, her insides twisting and turning.

…Violet. We need to talk.

"Jermyn Street," she told the cabbie.

#

"They're in the parlor," the valet stiffly told Sherlock.

"Parlor," Sherlock scoffed under his breath, brushing past Oliver, who must be receiving overtime tonight, he mused.

Violet had her back to the door, while Mycroft stood in a dressing gown and pyjamas by the fireplace, looking as if he were the guest and Violet the host. He nursed a brandy, a cognac, specifically, and Violet was pouring herself a glass of the same. Her second, Sherlock deduced, because there was no way Mycroft would've poured himself a drink first and not his guest.

The older Holmes raised his eyebrows once he spied Sherlock.

"I was just informing Ms Hunter the reason for Ms Adler's presence in your flat," Mycroft said, prompting Violet to turned around. "All top secret of course." Addressing Violet, he added, "We really must get you to sign the Official Secrets Act."

Violet's eyes immediately hooded upon seeing Sherlock, even though he had tried his best to maintain a neutral expression and not launch into an interrogation the second she turned around. The last thing he wanted to do was continue the conversation about Irene Adler and her presence in his flat. But in a few seconds, Violet had crossed the room and had doused Sherlock in the face with her drink.

"What he couldn't tell me," she said, slightly slurring her words, "was at what stage you thought you'd get the information out of her by fucking her."

Sherlock shot daggers at his brother, while Leyrat Cognac dripped from his face.

"My office. Now!"

Sherlock about-faced, rapidly exiting the parlor and striding the length of the passageway for the cloakroom at the end. As he bent over the sink and washed off the cognac, he felt Mycroft's presence. Straightening up, Sherlock reached for the hand towel and wiped his face.

"Did you think to inform my girlfriend that there were no circumstances under which I would've had sexual relations with Ms Adler?"

"And how would I know that?"

"You are joking," Sherlock said, dumping the hand towel into the sink and glaring at Mycroft.

"No, I'm serious," his brother replied, with a tiny tilt of his head. "How can I know what you're going to do from one day to the next where women and… relations are concerned. One day—or should I say one night—you're trawling nightclubs for casual liaisons, and the next, you're planning holidays to America with Ms Hunter. What's next? A fling with a sex worker? It's just as likely."

Sherlock clenched his jaw.

"You're right," he said through narrow eyes. "How would you know." Brushing past Mycroft, he added, "Stay out of the parlor."

Entering the passageway, he heard the front doorbell chime. A confederate at last!

Beating the valet to the door, Sherlock opened it, exhaling a grateful sigh upon spying John Watson.

"Perhaps you can explain to Violet what living with Irene Adler's been like?" he asked his friend.

"Code red?" John replied, his eyes drifting to Sherlock's cheek. Not having checked himself, he could only surmise it glowed red from Violet's elbow smacking it in a particularly glorious backward jab.

Sherlock gave a grim nod in confirmation as he shut the door behind them. He was grateful John had called to tell him that Violet had contacted him.

Violet's eyes immediately widened when she saw John trailing Sherlock into the parlor.

"Thank God!" she exclaimed. "I've got a message to give to you." Violet avoided Sherlock's gaze as she led John by the hand over to a sofa.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"I'm not talking to Sherlock—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sherlock muttered.

"—so you have to pass this on."

"I'm right here."

"What's up?" John asked, shooting Sherlock a warning glance before taking a seat on the sofa beside Violet.

"Someone's severely pissed off," Violet began. "Whatever happened in Munich and Prague—they've noticed."

Sherlock's ears immediately pricked up. Munich and Prague? His missions abroad, courtesy of intel supplied by Irene Adler.

"What?" he demanded, making his way over to Violet. "Who? Who said this to you?"

"So he's to stop what he's doing," she continued, her voice wavering a little, "or three of my loved ones will die."

"Shit," said John.

"Violet!" Sherlock crouched in front of his girlfriend. "Tell me who threatened you. Where were you? At the hotel? On set? In a club? Tell me everything you remember."

"I'm not talking to you."

With a sigh, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet again.

"Let's operate on the working assumption that I have never and will never have sex with another woman, nor will I knowingly do or say anything that will jeopardise our relationship."

Violet stared pointedly across the room, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Uncertainty. Perhaps whatever was driving her to mistrust him had faltered a little.

He pushed, "Your well-being is more important to me than what you think of me right now. So tell me."

"Violet," John pressed. "Who told you this?"

"I can't say," she replied, her eyes welling with tears. "H-he ordered me not to give away his identity. If he s-suspects…" Violet sniffed once to compose herself before continuing. "H-he said if he gets wind of anyone investigating him, then someone will… will die. He has to be allowed to continue."

"Are you listening to this, Mycroft?" Sherlock called towards the door that led to the dining room. It came as no surprise when his brother materialised over the threshold.

"It seems your little jaunts around the continent haven't gone unnoticed," Mycroft said.

"I told you those plans had serious drawbacks," Sherlock retorted. "Irene Adler drip-feeding us information with us acting on them without any knowledge as to how these organisations were interconnected was inevitably going to backfire. We needed the whole lot, and only then could we devise a strategy to bring down individual networks without alerting the others as to what was happening. The only thing we can do now is to get Adler to hand over the entire contents of her phone."

"That's not possible," Mycroft replied. "Your rather aggressive phone call ordering me to remove Ms Adler from your premises resulted in her flight from Baker Street before my car could pick her up. She's gone. Disappeared again. And if this person finds her before we do, we've lost all but the latest intel. Belgium is next. We'll go ahead as planned."

"No," Sherlock replied, as Violet gave an almost inaudible gasp.

John swiftly rose from the sofa.

"There are lives at stake here, Mycroft," he said.

"Collateral damage," Mycroft said. "It's to be expected."

"Bastard," Violet called out, weakly.

"Actual human lives," John continued. "Does that mean anything at all to you?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers to his lips and began to pace.

"Oh," he said under his breath. "Elegant."

"Just stay seated," he heard John say to Violet behind him. "I've got this. Sherlock?" When Sherlock remained in his contemplative fug, John sidled up to him and spoke in a low voice. "Violet? She might need some reassurance. She's … a bit upset."

"She's more than upset; she's been drinking ever since she left Australia."

"Yeah, so you'd better say something reassuring."

Instead, Sherlock turned once again to his brother and said, "The best thing we can do right now is stop what we're doing."

"That's absurd."

"At least until Ms Adler resurfaces and hands over her phone. This is not negotiable. You need me to do the leg work for you, and right now I'm not going anywhere."

"Sherlock—"

"Not. Negotiable."

"This is ridiculous," Mycroft said with a shake of his head. "All because of…" He gestured towards the sofa, where they all redirected their gaze.

Violet lay on her side, clutching a cushion, her eyes shut. Sherlock exhaled deeply as his heart twinged. Mycroft tutted.

"Violet?" John said, lightly touching her shoulder. Violet muttered something incoherent, but kept her eyes shuttered.

"She's okay," John said, straightening up. "Just—"

"Asleep," Sherlock said.

"—passed out," John finished.

"Dear Lord," Mycroft remarked, placing his hands on his hips. "Well this is a familiar sight."

Sherlock ignored his brother's comment as a wave of protectiveness surged through him. He replaced John by Violet's side, before he bent over and tenderly scooped her up in his arms.

"I take it the guest room upstairs is vacant?" he asked his brother. He felt Violet snuggle in under his neck, her breath cooling him there. His heart tripped at the thought of her being aware of his protective embrace, that her exhale was actually a contented sigh on her part.

"Yes, but—" Mycroft began.

"Then that's where we'll be staying tonight," Sherlock replied. "John, if you would be so kind as to go up and open the bedroom door. It's the second on your right."

John cleared his throat and looked from one brother to the next.

"Uh, yeah," he said, before vacating the room.

Stopping in front of his older sibling, Sherlock said, "Mycroft. This is the woman I love. The woman I've pledged to spend the rest of my life with. Her well-being is my number one priority. Get used to it."

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height.

"How charming," he said, with a smile that didn't meet his eyes. "You've found a kindred spirit in substance abuse. Our parents will be delighted." Dropping his gaze momentarily to Violet, he added, "In the old days, I would've just left you on the sofa."

"You would." Sherlock turned from his brother, calling back as he left the room, "It's a good thing I'm not you."