Author's Note

Apologies for the slow update. I'm not feeling all that motivated to write at the moment. This chapter was supposed to be longer, but that will take me some time to finish. I've cut it short so I could get it out earlier, before you all think I've abandoned the story.

Chapter 16 - I've Disappointed You

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Violet shifted in Sherlock's embrace.

Immediately alert, he asked, "Are you going to be sick?"

But Violet groggily rolled from him. After sliding from his side, Sherlock rounded the bed just as Violet half-stumbled from hers.

"Bathroom," she murmured, making a beeline for the ensuite. "—time is it?"

"Almost eight."

A curse as the door clicked shut behind her. Sherlock stared at the wooden panels, fingers twitching. Hovering. Listening. Satisfied that Violet wasn't being sick again, he looked about the room and decided to dress before heading downstairs.

By the time Sherlock returned from Mycroft's kitchen with a cup of tea, a glass of water and paracetamol, Violet was out of the bathroom, fully dressed and towel-drying her hair. She spared him half a glance before turning her back on him, busying herself with rummaging inside her backpack for various belongings.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked.

"Bit headachey."

"Here."

He held out the tablets and the water, waiting patiently until Violet turned around and acknowledged the offer.

"Thank you," she said, perfunctorily.

Uncertainty grated Sherlock's insides as he watched Violet gulp down the tablets. She could barely make eye contact with him, busying herself with her bag. He was losing her.

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls.

"Vi—"

"I have to get back home," Violet said, hauling her backpack over one shoulder. "Maurice is picking me up at nine."

"You can't go yet," Sherlock said.

"Why not?" Violet asked, making her way to the door. "I've given you the message. There's nothing more to say."

"You're not listening to me. Just stop for a minute." As Violet reached for the door handle, Sherlock added, "Please."

Such an odd word. It always seemed unnecessary. Superfluous to his needs. Usually he'd make a demand, then insult the recipient if they were too slow. But this request was pure desperation on his part.

He gestured towards the bed, adding, "I'd like to explain what you saw last night. Do me the courtesy..." He sighed and began again. "Could you please sit down?"

Lifting her chin, a gesture that indicated her usual impending obstinacy, Violet took the few steps towards the bed, before taking a seat on the edge.

Sherlock steadied himself with a deep inhale.

"What you saw last night was my usual arrogance at work," he began. "I have to be right. I have to be proven to be right, and those who think otherwise must be put in their place."

Violet's eyes met his, almost a good sign, if it wasn't for the frown already locked in place.

Sherlock folded his hands behind his back, bowing his head to the floor as he gathered his thoughts.

"Irene Adler," he began. He turned from Violet and began to pace, gesturing as he spoke. It felt better this way. "You know what she does for a living and Mycroft already explained her extra-curricula activities, as in acquiring sensitive information from people in positions of power."

"Yes," Violet said, with a touch of impatience.

"The way she obtains information is by probing people—her clients—when they're at their most vulnerable: disarming them, or unhinging them." Sherlock carefully avoided Violet's gaze as he about-turned. "She's been trying to work on me the whole time she's been in Baker Street. Quite unsuccessfully. It wasn't enough that she negotiated for Baker Street to be her safe house; she wanted to get under my skin." His chest heaved with a weary sigh, before he spoke quite quickly. "She was wearing my dressing gown because I threw it at her. She likes to parade around in the nude. John can attest to that, and so can Mrs Hudson. My dressing gown is the only garment she conceded to wearing. She would see that as a power play."

Sherlock braved a glance at Violet. Her brows were slightly raised now. In interest? A touch of sympathy for his plight, perhaps. He cleared his throat and soldiered on.

"Ms Adler kept proclaiming her professionalism. She never became personally involved, she said. Never allowed sentiment and emotions to cloud her judgement. But over the course of our… forced acquaintance… I could see the signs."

I like detective stories… and detectives…

Violet remained still, as if she held her breath.

"I did nothing to encourage her interest," Sherlock went on, "apart from being myself. Solving crimes. Making deductions. But apparently, that's all it takes for some people."

He searched Violet's face for a hint of recognition of herself in his words, his own smile at the ready, but all he detected was the slight hardening of her jaw and narrowing of her eyes.

"That night… last night," he went on, "she was doing her usual thing—flirting; asking about you. I made a comment about her being jealous of you, and she remarked that that would imply she had feelings for me."

Irene Adler had dropped to her knees and asked Sherlock if he'd ever had a real woman. She liked to point out Violet's 'petiteness'—that the actress only ever took the role of teenage girls. Perhaps he would omit that little detail in his retelling.

When Violet remained silent, Sherlock took his place beside her on the bed. Her eyes widened a little.

Reaching for her hand, he said, "I wanted to detect the physical signs of her attraction. To prove that I was right. You see…" Sherlock slid his fingers to Violet's wrist. "I wasn't holding her hand…" Pivotting her wrist, he positioned two fingers on the delicate skin above the tendon. "…I was taking her pulse." He felt the thrum of Violet's galloping heart-rate. "It was elevated," he added. "And her pupils, dilated. I was leaning in to deliver my brutal deduction, when you… arrived."

You're aroused, was what he had been about to say to Irene. Best not reveal that little snippet either.

"Huh," was all Violet managed to utter before she drew back her hand and abruptly stood. "Typical fucking male."

"What?"

"That's all you men ever do," she said, turning for the door. "Find ways to put women in their place."

Sherlock's head buzzed as he, too, rose from the bed. Violet flung open the door and left the room.

"Wait," he called, following Violet along the passageway to the top of the stairs. "Do you want to stay angry with me, is that it?"

Whirling around, Violet spat, "Yes, I do!"

"After what I just explained to you?"

Violet thundered down the stairs. All he could manage to capture were the words, "position of power" and "fucking arseholes."

Violet reached the entrance way and looked about her as Sherlock descended hot on her heels.

"Viol—"

"Where's Mycroft's butler guy?" she demanded. "I need a car to get me back to Baker Street."

So now this persona had manifested itself: the entitled starlet. Sherlock huffed an irritable breath.

"They've both left for the day," he replied. "Why do you need another car to take you to the first? Why not ring the car company and change the pickup address?"

Violet gave Sherlock a blank look, prompting him to reach into his trouser pocket for his phone.

"Why don't I ring them for you?" he said, swiftly navigating the keys. "This'll give you time to have breakfast." And time for him to turn this around. As Violet stalked away from him, he muttered, "You can't start drinking again on an empty stomach."

He wanted to bite back his comment, but Violet had disappeared into the kitchen. Sherlock joined her there once he had made the call to the transport company. Violet stood in front of the toaster, her arms folded across her chest as she waited for the toast to pop up.

"Please don't say anything," she said in a kind of desperate whisper which caused Sherlock's heart to jolt.

"Nothing… happened," he said. He longed to envelope her in his arms, but there seemed to be an invisible barrier between them preventing him from moving any closer.

"I know," she said on an exhale, her back still to him. "Just… stop talking."

The air around Sherlock buzzed and crackled. Violet stood a mere metre away, but he felt as if he'd been hobbled. Stop talking?

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.

The toast popped up with an out of place enthusiasm.

"I'm coming with you to Australia," he said.

Violet's shoulders sagged.

"No, you're not," she said, plucking out the toast.

"But you—"

"I don't need you!" Violet whirled around, butter knife in hand. "He won't be there anymore, if that's what you're thinking. And besides, I can look after myself!" Her eyes blazed with a fierce determination. "I've got a job to do…." She turned back around and proceeded to butter her toast. "Just let me get on with it."

A heavy weight descended on Sherlock.

"I'll come anyway."

"No… Leave… me… alone."

Sharp air sliced through Sherlock's lungs. What was going on here? This was much more than a reaction to Violet's mistimed entrance in 221B. But Sherlock could feel the disdain radiating from her. Was he losing her or had he already lost her?

Unable to process the current situation, Sherlock turned on his heels and marched out of the kitchen, back through to the parlour. He paced across the rug, steepling his hands to his mouth. Lost in his Mind Palace, replaying their most recent interactions over and over, he almost didn't hear the doorbell.

Of course it was the fucking driver, he thought upon opening the door.

"She'll just be a moment," Sherlock said to Maurice. The driver acknowledged him with a brief nod.

Sherlock shut the door to find Violet emerging from the kitchen, backpack and handbag in hand, sunglasses already perched on the top of her head.

"Please don't make a scene," she said. As if detecting Sherlock's stuttering heart, Violet approached him and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'll be back at the end of the week," she whispered. And then almost inaudibly, "I love you."

The front door clicked shut and he let her go.

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Sherlock continued staring at the crumpled paper in his hand, a knot forming in his stomach. Downstairs, the front door clicked shut, rousing him from his morose state. He knew those footfalls.

"Sher—" John began, before seeing Sherlock emerging from his bedroom through the kitchen. "What—"

Sherlock thrust the paper into John's hands and stalked into the living room his insides continuing to twist.

"How Do I Know If I'm In a Toxic Relationship?"John read. "What's this?" There was a bubble of laughter in his tone.

"I found it amongst Violet's papers," Sherlock replied, gesturing towards his bedroom where Violet's personal belongings had been temporarily stored while Irene Adler had occupied the room upstairs. He began to pace.

"But this isn't…" John peered down at the paper again. "He reads her emails," he murmured, reading. "Her emails," he repeated. "Not 'my emails'."

"Precisely. It isn't Violet's handwriting."

"Then, who…?"

"Mandi. Her BFF." Sherlock's lip curled in distaste as he about-faced on the rug. "When she stayed here, before they left for Australia. Obviously, she filled it in on Violet's behalf."

John attempted a smile. It wasn't quite convincing.

"But Violet wouldn't believe any of this."

"Read it."

John cleared his throat.

"Question one. Does your partner have no trust in you?" John hesitated before he read further. "No. He reads her emails and text messages." Looking up, he added, "You used to read my emails. It wasn't a question of trust. You're just a nosy bastard."

Sighing, Sherlock gestured towards the paper.

"Read on."

John's eyes dropped once more to the questionnaire.

"Question two," he said. "Can you tell other people what he says or does? Vi never tells me anything about him. Yeah, but…"

"Don't girlfriends tell each other things about their boyfriends? It's like a contract they have with each other. Obviously, Violet doesn't have any interesting anecdotes to tell."

"Yes, but…"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, waiting for John's response in his defence.

"Y-you… you're a private detective," John replied. "She can't talk about… your work."

Sherlock sighed and steepled his hands to his mouth, turning from John.

"Go on," he said.

"Look, Sherlock…"

"I've always said it helps me to see through someone else's eyes. So… read."

"Question three," John said, exhaling heavily. "Does your partner want you to change." He emitted a barely audible tut before he read on. "He hates her job. He would rather she get beaten up by supposed mob bosses for him. four: Does your partner put you down in front of others? Threw away the dinner she made right in front of me. Look, Sherlock, what's the point in me reading all this? For a start: I've seen you help her out with her work. For God's sake, you were on national telly at the TELSAs. You were backstage on The Late Show. If you wanted her to change her job, then why are you everywhere, alongside her? This is you we're talking about. Violet loves you… she fell in love with you, with you being exactly the way you are. You threw away her dinner? You threw away my dinner. The one I was still eating, because you wanted me to follow you on some… wild goose chase."

Sherlock's mood continued to see-saw. So he supported Violet in her work? He knew deep down he would rather she worked alongside him, on his cases.

The sound of paper crumpling drew Sherlock's attention back on John.

"And this?" the doctor said, holding up the ball of paper, before making for the kitchen, "this belongs in the bin." Pressing the pedal down on the rubbish bin, he added, "Looks like Violet screwed it up already."

"And then flattened it out and stored it with her things."

"Or her best friend did."

Sherlock bowed his head and raked a hand through his curls as John approached.

"Are you actually worried about that?" his friend asked, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. "Because that was teenage stuff. Highschool stuff. Did Violet actually change the way she treated you because of it?"

"She's been in Australia all this time."

"And you've been talking to her regularly."

Sherlock stared unseeing at a pile of books teetering precariously on the shelving in the corner of the living room. He heaved a sigh.

"And now this has happened... Irene Adler... and she's gone back to Australia, upset, where her best friend can give her advice on how to get rid of her toxic boyfriend. Because that's what I am, aren't I?"

John shook his head.

"Nope," he replied. "We're not doing this. That's kids' stuff. You're an adult. Vio—"

"Broadly speaking."

"—let's an adult. Why not have an adult conversation about it? Ring her the minute she lands."

Sherlock lifted his gaze, his mind rapidly calculating every possible scenario. The last time he'd taken John's advice when Violet had walked out on him and had departed to Manchester, Sherlock had lost her for three months.

"No," he finally told John. "There's only one solution." Sherlock straightened up and drew in a steadying breath. "I'm going to have to leave for Australia."

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