Chapter 20 - A Shoulder to Cry On
Raindrops pelted the passenger window, skewing the lights of the theatre. Beside her, Dan gave a light cough. He was tugging at his tie again. Violet tutted and reached for it.
"Don't touch it," she said, pulling the knot tighter.
"We are just watching a flick, yeah?" he said. "Could we not wear jeans?"
Violet eased back into her seat and resumed her scan through the limousine windows. This was the third time Danny had made that comment. It wasn't funny after his second attempt.
At times like this, it would be Violet who needed reassurance—a warm smile, a steady hand and encouraging words from Sherlock. Why did she now have to ease someone else's discomfort?
Violet exhaled a slow, deep breath, reminding herself to lighten up. Dan was doing her an enormous favour. She had to cut him some slack.
"Sorry," she said, forcing a grim smile to her face. She reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze. "It's a pain, I know."
"No, s'okay," he said, with a light chuckle. "Just 'aving a laugh."
Violet wished she could 'just have a laugh'. The situation in which she now found herself was far from comical. Her answer had been a resounding no, when Sherlock suggested Dan Corlionne for Violet's pretend boyfriend.
"Oh, my God, no! What are you talking about?" had been Violet's panicked reply.
"Don't you see—it's perfect!" Sherlock said, his eyes glistening. "You'll be letting the world know you've definitely moved on! And we're adding a security detail to the bargain."
Violet shook her head, too stunned by the suggestion that Dan—her ex's right-hand man—was the "bargain" to whom Sherlock was referring.
"You don't have to decide now," Sherlock went on. "I'll talk to Dan. When he rings you and suggests coffee, you can say yes or no then."
The moving men arrived, prompting no further discussion. The couple embraced out of sight of prying eyes, one final time—a prolonged hug Violet wasn't keen on ending—before she was thrust back into her alternate universe.
When Danny did ring at the end of the week, Violet didn't even have the chance to ignore the call to give herself further time to think. Her phone sat on the sidetable in the tiny living room of her new flat in Chelsea. Mandi snatched it up, discovered it was Dan, and spent a few minutes flirting with the man before handing the phone over. By that time, Violet couldn't say she was busy or not in. Mandi had already filled Dan in on her whereabouts.
"Er… so… how about coffee?" Dan had rasped without pre-amble. He was clearly more nervous than she was. But her heart sank. There had still been a chance Sherlock hadn't managed to approach the Mancunian nightclub manager, and that Dan was just ringing for one of his regular chats.
"It's… it's a bad idea," Violet practically whispered into the phone, turning from Mandi. "I'll talk to you later." She swiftly ended the call.
And then her insides twisted.
He knew.
Only three people now knew Violet and Sherlock's break up was false. Here was someone she could confide in, on a regular basis! The world had opened up for her, just a little.
"What's that about?" Mandi had asked, but Violet was already dialling Danny's number.
Before he could speak, Violet gushed, "I've no idea what my schedule's like. Mandi takes care of it. Here she is. She can squeeze you in somewhere."
Violet held out the phone to her P.A. and bid her to schedule time for coffee with Dan. Mandi beamed. Violet felt ill.
Their first "date" didn't start off very well. In an exquisite tea room Violet sat across from Danny, her arms folded, her expression pale and drawn.
But when Dan leant forward, his eyes wide and earnest, and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry. This is shite, innit?" Violet's heart lurched. He cared. He was on her side. She didn't have to be alone. It was all going to be okay.
And they chatted for an hour, over tea and Coronation Chicken sandwiches about all manner of things, except the fact that they were going to pretend to be a couple. And definitely not the fact that they once had a one night stand at the end of her relationship with Jake.
Dan's parting words that afternoon, had been, "I 'ave-ta check with Jake first. Get 'is okay. Yeah?" What followed was two days of silent dread while Danny headed north to check with her ex-boyfriend. Not Sherlock Holmes, the jealous, controlling Insulting Detective (Mandi's words); not Nicholas McIntyre, the alcoholic photographer or even Damian Goulburn-Hurst, the uptight lawyer; but Jacob Venucci, the cocaine-addicted, Manchester businessman who had ties to organised crime, and more specifically—horrifically—Jim Moriarty. That ex.
But this was something Dan had negotiated with Sherlock, apparently: that he would only go ahead with dating Violet Hunter if Jake knew first. Not the truth about the fake breakup, but that Dan was thinking of asking her out on a proper date. He'd say they'd kept in contact when Dan moved to London to manage the Kabuki Pirates nightclub that Jake owned. It was sort of true.
Violet was on set, in-between takes, covered in blood made out of (amongst other things) chocolate syrup and food colouring, when Dan called her. Jake was okay, he said. Bit silent. Violet knew that silence. It could go one of two ways. But Jake finally told Dan, "Well, you're better than that Sherlock Holmes c—". Dan had cut himself off there, but Violet could fill in the expletive. Then Jake had finished with, "But if you hurt her…"
Yes, they knew what would come next. Bottom of the Mersey, and all that.
Dating Dan had turned out to be surprisingly easy. They continued their usual conversations over coffee, or dinner, followed by a stint in Kabuki's and other clubs. The only tricky bit was the kissing. But Violet kept it as neutral as she could, concentrating on how it looked to observers on the outside, rather than how it felt on the inside. It was just a role, after all, and she had already snogged Alex Breville on the set of Improbity that week, anyway.
Inside the limousine, Dan reached for her hand.
"Y'all right, Vi?" he asked, as the vehicle slowed to a crawl.
Violet nodded in silence, sat up taller, and waited for the valet to open her door to the red carpet.
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"Sherlock."
Sherlock dragged his eyes from the newspaper article. Evidentally John was asking him something. He lifted a brow, bidding his ex-flatmate to repeat the question.
"Do you want to come to ours for Christmas?" John asked, discomfort written all over his face.
"No. Thank you."
Sherlock returned his gaze to the photo that accompanied the article.
Violet Hunter Attends Ashendorf Premiere With New Beau
He could just imagine Mandi's comment: "Oh, look, he's smiling!"
Good on you, Corlionne.
Behind him, John Watson cleared his throat. The man kept thinking of new things to say, probably in an attempt to distract Sherlock from the paper.
"You know… we all care about you."
Sherlock tutted, grabbed the paper and dropped down into his armchair.
"And we… we don't think you should be alone for Christmas," John went on. "Mrs Hudson—"
"It's fine," Sherlock said, lowering the paper to his lap and meeting John's gaze. "I'll be at my parents'. I'm sure they'll ply me with more than enough love and concern."
John sighed heavily.
"You look like shit. Can I just say that?"
"You're asking permission to make a comment you've already made?"
"Look, Sherlock." John wearily sank down into his old chair. Violet's chair. "Mate." John appeared to chew on his next words before he spoke again. "We've all been through this."
"You've all dated an actress and had your breakup splashed across every newspaper in the country?"
"No," John said, shaking his head vigorously. He threaded his fingers together, in preparation for choosing his words carefully, Sherlock deduced. "Had our h-hearts… broken."
Sherlock lifted the paper again. This was a stupid and pointless conversation. Even by John Watson's standards.
"You're not…" John continued, trailing off at just the right moment. Sherlock let the unspoken words "on anything?" hang in the air. "Sherlock."
Sherlock irately dropped the paper once more.
"Would you like to take a urine sample, Doctor Watson?"
"Do you think I need to?"
Standing up and dropping the newspaper onto his vacated seat, Sherlock gestured towards the bathroom.
"Let's go then. You'll have to supervise, of course. I could've stolen a sample from a corpse and kept it frozen for just this purpose."
John rose from his chair as well, saying, "You do know the composition would be—"
"Yes, I do, John. It was a joke. I'm trying to lighten the mood. So… ceramic tea cup or pyrex beaker? Or did you bring a sample jar of your own?"
Raising his hands in protest, John replied, "I'm not getting you to pee in a jar, okay? I just want you to know we all care about you and want to help in some way. The last thing we want is you turning to… you know."
Sherlock crossed the living room rug, his dressing gown billowing behind him. He flopped onto the sofa with an audible sigh.
"No cases?" John asked, stooping to pick up the discarded newspaper. Sherlock gestured feebly towards his laptop. "What about the Chenoa Burton case?"
"Boring."
John paused in their discussion while he, too, glanced at the article featuring Violet and Dan attending her Improbity co-star's movie premiere. Two photos featured Violet on the red carpet—one with Dan, the other with actor Alex Breville.
"I had her under surveillance," Sherlock added, assuming his customary position with his hands steepled to his lips. "Chenoa Burton. So I could reassure her she wasn't being followed. At least she's safe, even if I'm not making progress on her case."
Approaching the coffee table, John asked, "So you're not going to follow up on the theory Stuart Jire was set up? That he wasn't the one who attacked her?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and intoned, "Not at the moment. No."
"What about Mary's theory?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
"What theory?"
"That Lauren Myrtle, Daisy Firmington and Violet all look the same."
Sherlock frowned. He recalled the photos they had spread over Mrs Hudson's coffee table during the time Violet was in Australia, and Irene Adler occupied her room upstairs.
"And I said, what's that got to do with the attack on Chenoa Burton?"
"Stuart Jire," John answered. "He admitted to attacking Lauren, way back when. He's the common link."
"Between Lauren and Chenoa. How does Daisy Firmington even feature? And my girlfriend, for that matter?"
The air stilled in the wake of his words.
My girlfriend.
Idiot!
As John gave a small cough to cover up his best friend's gaffe, Sherlock sat up, swivelled his feet to the floor and scrubbed at his hair.
"Is Mary pregnant?" he asked. With his head still bowed, he heard John suck in his breath. "Because that would explain why she's come up with such outlandish, irrelevant observations."
"Yeah, charming," John commented. "I won't tell Mary that. And no. We're not pregnant."
Sherlock gave John a wry smile.
"Well, I know you're not pregnant."
"It's an expression."
Sherlock took in his ex-flatmate from head to toe—the bags underneath his eyes, the down-turned lines about his mouth—and he suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.
"Don't worry about me, John," he said, rising from the sofa. "I've merely returned to my default state. Unsociable and alone. I'll be out and about, poking at bodies in the mortuary in no time."
"You really think you deserve to be alone?" John asked.
Sherlock moved towards the living room door as he spoke.
"I didn't say I deserved it." Turning, he added, "I put a case before the safety of Violet's friends, resulting in one of their deaths. I clearly have my priorities all wrong. Violet was right to move on." Sherlock stood beside the door, but avoided John's gaze on purpose. "She's better off without me."
John emitted a tiny tut.
"I still don't understand what happened."
Holding onto the door, Sherlock gestured towards the landing.
"I made an abominable error of judgement. But I'll be fine. Tell Molly to sharpen her bone saw. Thank you for checking in on me."
With an imperceptible nod, John bade Sherlock a farewell, although his slow treads on the staircase told Sherlock he was reluctant to leave the Consulting Detective alone. Closing the door, Sherlock looked about him. Now… what was he up to before the well-meaning doctor made his house call?
Ah, yes. The file Mycroft's people had started on James Moriarty.
Dejected and forlorn as he appeared to be, Sherlock Holmes was definitely not idle.
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Sherlock reached for his single malt whisky, took a sip and leant back into the crimson velvet wing chair.
The accessories room in the underground vault known as The Cave of Trevor & Vernet, with its dark wood panelling, lush carpet and soft downlights, transported him back to yesteryear, a time when he sought to escape the world by hiding in a series of boltholes. The Savile Row studio had been his favourite.
Back then, Victor Trevor would ply him with both gossip and the drug of his choice. Nowadays, Sherlock favoured silence and a cup of Earl Grey. But today was an illusion, like all his other actions of late, hence the top-shelf whisky.
Sherlock checked his watch. Corlionne was late. His fitting was probably taking a while. Although, knowing Victor Trevor's loyalty to his secret business partner—Altamont Vernet, Sherlock's alter-ego—the tailor was probably making Dan's experience an uncomfortable one.
Sherlock heard muffled voices and footsteps approaching. Thank Christ for that.
He straightened up, quickly schooling his features into a neutral expression, before the door swung inwards.
"Sorry, old chap," Victor was saying to Dan in his clipped, nasal tone. He gestured for Dan to precede him into the room. "I'm under strict instructions. VIP and all that."
Violet Hunter's "current boyfriend" stopped short, taking in the sole occupant of the room, the Consulting Detective, and his jaw visibly slackened.
"Mr Corlionne," Sherlock said, his voice pitched at an ominous level.
Victor hastily pulled the door shut, leaving the two men alone.
Dan relaxed, his expression immediately softening as Sherlock rose from his seat.
"Y'all right, Sherlock?" he said, extending his hand.
Sherlock returned the man's handshake, answering, "Dan," with a brisk nod. "Lock it, would you?" the detective bid his guest, indicating the door with a tilt of his head. "Whisky?"
Dan's gaze dropped to the bottle Sherlock had plucked from the side cabinet.
"Why not, yeah. Balvenie 40! So this is where they're hiding the good stuff!"
Dan latched the door, then walked slowly around the small room, his eyes roaming the ornate cabinets filled with neckties, bowties, cufflinks, pocket squares, watches and socks.
"Pretty sure they gave me a watered down Old Crow," he said conversationally. "As if I wouldn't notice. I run a fucking bar! I know how to water down drinks. Oh, this'll set you back. Look at that." Dan stopped in front of the watch cabinet and gave a low whistle.
"And how was it then," Sherlock asked. "Your… fitting?"
"Well, not sure, really," Dan said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Feel like one of those pin things, to be honest."
"Pin cushion?" Sherlock prompted, handing Dan his drink.
"Cheers." Dan gulped down a sip. "Yeah, pin cushion. They were stickin' me here, there and everywhere, yeah? All this for a fucking charity dinner thing. Don't know how you put up with it all."
Sherlock gave him a rueful smile. He had been correct in his deduction. Victor Trevor wasn't impressed that Violet Hunter had booked her "new beau" into the studio for a fitting. Sherlock's idea, naturally. They needed a meeting place for their first check-in, he and Dan, and the below ground exclusive fitting rooms on Savile Row were among the most discreet locations Sherlock harboured. Of course, Victor wasn't to know that Sherlock Holmes and Dan Corlionne were actually conspiring together. The story went that Sherlock had "got wind" Mr Corlionne had an appointment, so the Consulting Detective requested time and privacy to have words with the man. Victor's face had turned beet red at the thought of what could go down on his premises. But as with all things relating to Sherlock Holmes, the detective could trust his tailor to keep his confidence.
"Welcome to my world," Sherlock said to Dan, with a touch of forced humour. He wasn't really in the mood for small talk, though. "How is she?" he finally asked.
"Ah… y'know… crazy busy, yeah. Can't believe how much she has to do… running around…chatting to this person and that, getting photographed. Know what I mean? Apart from shooting that film, there's interviews… and… yeah, just a load of wank, really."
Dan pulled out his phone and thumbed the screen.
"Our Mand has given me her calendar, yeah. So I've got access. I know where she's meant to be at all times."
Sherlock bristled at the epithet Dan had spoken regarding Violet's BFF. Our Mand.
"Yes, but…" Sherlock cut in. "…how is she?"
Dan furrowed his brow, taking a moment to consider Sherlock's question. He pocketed his phone, then ran a hand through his dark blond hair.
"She's not happy. But why would she be? I asked her to Sheffield for Christmas. Me sister's there, yeah? Loadsa kids. Very festive. And she weren't having none of it."
Sherlock clenched his jaw at Dan's use of the double negative.
"She said she'd celebrate it with her dad," Dan went on. "To be honest, I think she expected this to be over by Christmas, yeah? Spend it with your fine self." Dan gestured towards Sherlock with his drink. "So I'll be up north, if that's all right. I figured her dad's place is as secure as any. That all right then? Just for a couple of days."
"No, that's… that's fine."
None of this sat right with Sherlock. Violet's unhappiness weighed heavily inside him like the river Thames flooding a bloated corpse.
"I'll be in the Home Counties anyway," he offered. "Parents," he said, with a half eye roll and Dan laughed. "I'll try to see her before then," Sherlock added a little more soberly. Dan nodded. "But don't tell her. I… I don't want her to get her hopes up, and if something happens and I can't make it…"
"Yeah, she'll be on the warpath," Dan finished for him. "What a temper, yeah? She keeps having rows with our Mand." Sherlock's stomach churned once more and he drained the last of his whisky while Danny enlightened him as to the nature of Violet and her P.A.'s arguments—mostly involving public appearances Violet loathed to make, and occasionally when it pertained to "items of a personal nature." Sherlock read between the lines. They'd argued over Mandi making snide remarks about the ex-boyfriend, most likely.
"One night I was watching telly," Dan went on, "and suddenly this shoe comes outta nowhere. A trainer! Right by me 'ead! It hits the corner of the screen, yeah, and there's herself marching back to her room without a word. The next morning, right, I'm trying to watch Brekky TV…"
Sherlock tuned out. Thoughts of "the next morning" echoed through his head. That meant Corlionne had stayed the night. The man had slept over. Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. Although, possibly on the sofa, he told himself. It was just an illusion after all.
"… and now there's this purple smudge permanently on the screen, yeah."
"Fascinating."
"So, I take her out for coffee, right, coz she's not exactly chirpy in the mornings…"
In the mornings.
Sherlock could feel his blood beginning to boil. More than one night over?
Busying himself pouring another shot of whisky, Sherlock let the rest of Dan's anecdote wash over him. He didn't know why this was bothering him all of a sudden. He created this situation. It was his fucking idea. To give Violet a confidant. To show Moriarty she'd moved on. A boyfriend and a security detail rolled into one. He knew the couple had to kiss in public. Sherlock had watched Violet lock lips with Spencer Munro on stage night after night! And now there was this romantic movie—with simulated sex scenes—she was shooting with Alex Breville. Mr Huggy! These did not bother Sherlock, so why this thing with Dan?
"Then outta the blue, right, she says 'Hertz Gleitzman is a cunt!' I almost choke on me hash brown…"
Is it because Violet and Dan actually had sex once?
"And then I realise, yeah, he's the bloke what was on the telly the night before. Hollywood big-shot being interviewed, y'know, before he died."
Dan, as Jake's right hand, had always been present when Violet and Jake were in a relationship.
"And y'know how she does that thing, stirring her coffee with a teaspoon and then sipping from the spoon…"
So whenever she was upset by something Jake had done, Dan was right there, offering a shoulder… and then a penis… to cry on.
"Y'know what I mean?"
"Yes, sounds typical of Violet," Sherlock agreed, having no idea how Dan's story had concluded.
"All right, then," Dan finally said, finishing his own drink. "Top notch, that was. We sell the Twelve." He handed Sherlock his empty glass. "Not as smooth as this, though, yeah? Only the best for the VIP."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," Sherlock deadpanned.
"You'll have to come to the club and sample the Glenfiddich."
"Probably not a good idea."
"Oh… yeah, right!" Dan laughed.
Sherlock had, in fact, sampled the Glenfiddich, after he and Violet had broken up the first time, and he had regularly visited the Kabuki Pirates nightclub in the hope of bumping into her. A visit to Kabuki's when the manager was fucking his ex-girlfriend over morning coffee was not a good idea.
"So… ah… should I rough meself up a bit?" Dan asked, tugging lightly at one of his jacket lapels.
"No need," Sherlock replied smoothly. "It would be unlike me to resort to physical violence during meetings of this nature."
"No. You're likely to come off second best," Dan said, with a chuckle. "Let's keep this realistic, yeah?"
In the blink of an eye, Sherlock calculated seven ways in which he could incapacitate the nightclub manager, one of them involving slamming his head into the tie cabinet, and wrapping a crimson silk number around the man's throat. Victor wouldn't approve. And neither would Violet.
"Yes. Realistic," Sherlock echoed.
"So… ah…" Dan began again, and for the first time since the start of the meeting, he appeared uneasy. "She'll be wanting an update on the case."
Sherlock's skin prickled. The case, for fuck's sake. He'd found nothing while scrutinising the British Government's rather slim file on James Moriarty. And there was no sign of Irene Adler either. To gain further data on either party, the detective would have to bring his brother into his confidence. And that simply was not going to happen.
"Tell her I'm on to something," he answered Dan.
Danny's expression brightened, as if he was pleased he could deliver good news to Violet. He straightened up and considered the door for a moment. Sherlock had the impression the young man was steeling himself for his moment in the spotlight. It wouldn't surprise the detective if Violet had allowed Dan to visit her on set, and he'd gained insight into what actor's did to prepare for their next scene.
Dan threw open the door and stormed from the room. Victor, who was carrying design books across the floor, visibly jumped.
"Yeah, thanks a fucking bunch!" Dan snapped at the tailor. "And you can stick your fucking vented jacket up your fucking arse!"
Sherlock closed the door as Dan stomped up the metal staircase to the studio shopfront at street level.
For the upcoming charity-do, Sherlock thought, it looked like Daniel Corlionne would have to settle for an off-the-rack number from Primark.
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