Chapter 22 - Rather Have Anyone But You
Their breathing came in quick, laboured bursts, punctuated by gasps and moans of pleasure.
Violet was undoing him, searing and sealing him in ecstacy, and she appeared to revel in it. He indulged himself for a time, his mind emptying. But when she slid sinuously along his body, Sherlock sought to regain the upper hand. Violet put up a fierce resistance, limbs and sheets tangled together. At last he mounted an oral assault, and she gasped out, "Don't stop." A plead in desperation. Nails dug into his shoulders as Violet urged him on. She couldn't reciprocate now; she was in freefall.
He listened to her jagged breathing as he flicked his tongue, teasing and tormenting her, over her, into her. Like music to his ears, his name came on a moan. Violet tried to pull Sherlock away, tugging at his hair, pulling his shoulders, but he held her where he wanted her, savouring the taste of her. Blood thundered in his head when she shuddered and cried out, arching in pleasure. Hearing her gasp his name once more sent a bolt of thrill through him. Violet's breath caught and released again and again, until finally, she exhaled a long and deep sigh.
Sherlock worked his way up again, his body aching in anticipation. Violet wrapped herself around him, guiding him into her as she whispered, "Sherlock," in a desperate kind of longing. His heart leapt at the first thrust. He knew the urgency would build, but he wanted to draw this out, to savour every act from now on. A horrid thought had flashed through his mind. Any moment could be their last.
Violet pulled him deep, arching her hips. He tried to fight the torrent of sensations that rose inside, but she increased pressure, drawing out a moan from his lips.
Blood rushed under his skin. His pulse raced. He had to quell the primal urge to take and plunder.
Locking his eyes on Violet's, Sherlock noticed a flicker of dark intent cross her features. His desire quickened. Violet pushed against his shoulder, so he acquiesced, rolling them both until she straddled him on top.
"You're not getting off lightly," she whispered.
Sherlock gripped her hips in anticipation, but Violet began at an almost leisurely pace.
Need raged through him. He forced himself to quieten his desire. He'd play along. First he skimmed his hands along her thighs and back up over her hips, before trailing up to her ribcage and down again.
It was a torturous pace. On the one hand, Sherlock wanted it to end, and on the other, he wanted to have this exquisite pleasure go on forever.
Violet was maintaining a steady rhythm. Sherlock's mind reeled. He pulled her towards him, and she yielded only a little, her mouth hovering inches above his. He parted his lips. Desperate now. Her breath fluttered over him. The need for a physical release grew every second.
Sherlock moved restlessly beneath Violet. She bent her head, avoided his mouth and grazed her teeth along his jawline before nipping at his earlobe. His loins throbbed painfully with Violet's long, deliberate movements.
When she straightened up, he rose with her, taking one breast in his mouth and flicking his tongue over her nipple. She let out a low moan, and he suddenly deduced the meaning behind her actions.
She desired another orgasm; she wasn't there yet, so she was prolonging his.
Sherlock moved with her, slowly. Languidly. The ache was unbearable, but he was stirring her needs again, too. He trailed his hands over her soft curves, sought her other breast and caught the nipple between his thumb and finger. It was already hard with need. She whispered to God now, and he knew he had her. Fingers curled into his hair, so he grabbed Violet's hips and thrust deeper.
A moan escaped his own lips this time, and they both moved together in a tempo of urgency. The gift of Violet's tiny gasps of pleasure was powerfully arousing. Heat balled in his abdomen. Her breath caught and expelled a moan. She was close.
Sherlock pulled her mouth down to his. Warm and hungry and just as keen. They feasted off each other as heat slashed Sherlock's stomach. He drove them harder and Violet hummed in desperation against his mouth.
Breathless, they plunged. Violet rode him with a ruthless energy, until finally she arched against him, emitting a rough edgy moan from her throat.
Sherlock let himself go. Those wonderful, pulsing aches gave way to stronger sensations that swamped him. Explosions of heat buried him. His heart sprinted, every nerve alight, until the waves of pleasure dulled to tingles.
Violet clung to him as they stilled, her heart racing against his, her breath cooling his neck.
Keeping her in his arms, he eased them both to the bed. Violet repositioned herself, cuddling into his side, one arm resting across his chest that still heaved from exertion.
A few minutes ticked by as they listened to each other's breathing in the otherwise stillness of the flat. Sweat cooled on their bodies.
"Mm, glad that's out of the way," Sherlock drawled. "Now what are we going to do for entertainment?"
Sherlock's question didn't require an answer, but Violet waited only a beat before she replied.
"I'm going to freshen up. Why don't you get the wine?"
Violet had risen and disappeared from the bedroom before Sherlock had even properly registered what she'd suggested. He was still contemplating what it felt like to have Violet in his arms once more.
It felt like home.
He blinked upon hearing the bathroom door click shut along the hallway. Heaving out a sigh, he swivelled and planted his feet on the floor.
Wine, he thought, bowing his head in distaste and scratching his scalp. Were they going to spend the rest of the evening drinking red wine?
Sherlock found his boxer trunks in an untidy pile of discarded clothing. He slid them on before padding along the hallway to the kitchen. Violet was showering, he noted. He could do with one himself, having worn secondhand clothes borrowed from Billy. Should he join her?
Something told him he wouldn't be welcome right now. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he suspected that.
Bordeaux—two of those—Merlot and Pinot Noir, he read of the bottles still in the box. Now, what went well with an empty stomach? Sherlock tutted as he scanned the contents of Violet's fridge. She obviously thought wine went well with cheese, but what of people with a finer palate? This wouldn't do.
By the time Violet had emerged from the shower, towel-drying her hair and wearing a bright pink dressing gown, Sherlock was casually leaning against the wall by the window, the best vantage point for discreetly peering down onto the street below through the gap in the curtains.
"Why are you dressed in that again?" Violet asked.
"Because I'm organising dinner."
Sherlock returned his gaze to the view outside.
"I've got cheese."
He huffed at the suggestion.
"Did you go out?" Violet asked.
"Sort of."
As a raincoated figure holding a delivery bag approached the portico downstairs, Sherlock hastened over to the front door.
"What do you mean, 'sort of'? Did you go out, or didn't you?"
Sherlock opened Violet's door, listened for the door buzzer to the flat downstairs, then pressed the button on the intercom which would release the latch on the foyer door. He slipped out onto the landing, then reconsidered.
Poking his head back round the still open door, he said to Violet, "I'll just leave this door ajar, so you don't have to get up to let me in, okay?"
Violet tutted and went back to combing her wet hair as she sat on the twin sofa.
Sherlock made it down to the first floor just in time to hear footfalls ascending from below. He pulled up the hood on Billy's jumper. Fishing around in his track-pants pocket, he retrieved fifty, twenty and ten pound notes.
Fishing around in his Mind Palace, he retrieved a temporary identity.
"Seventy-six, wasn't it?" he said to the young man who held their dinner. Sherlock was using a well-worn Scottish accent—somebody who had been born in Scotland, but had lived in London for quite some time. It worked on occasion. "Keep the change."
With takeaway dishes now in hand, Sherlock returned to the flat to find Violet frowning at Regency Road on the telly while she combed her hair. She unfolded her legs and scrutinised Sherlock as he headed for the kitchen.
"Don't get up," he said. "I'll bring you something. I bought extra so we can eat it over the next two days."
Violet followed him into the kitchen anyway.
"What did you mean, you 'sort of' went out?" she asked.
"I didn't want to use our phones to order the food or give them your flat number," Sherlock began as he lifted each container out of the plastic bag. "You're not supposed to be here, so I broke into your downstairs neighbour's flat through the balcony door and called from their landline. They're spending Christmas in Whitby, judging by the pamphlets littering the kitchen table, but they left the sliding door unlocked. Probably because they're on the first floor. They think they're safe. I'm glad to see yours is locked, but your bedroom window isn't."
"You… what?"
Sherlock looked up from his stocktake. Violet had already retrieved two wine glasses.
"I called from their flat and gave their flat number as the delivery address."
Violet didn't compliment him on his cleverness, Sherlock noted, deflating a little. She turned around and silently poured wine into both of the glasses.
"The Bordeaux will go best with the beef," he said, indicating the array of dishes. "What else would you like?"
Violet leant back against the kitchen counter, a glass of wine to her lips.
"I'm not hungry," she said.
"Didn't we just work up an appetite?" Sherlock remarked, quirking an eyebrow.
Violet took a long sip of her wine.
"You choose," she said, pushing off from the counter. She turned and grabbed Sherlock's glass as well, before making for the living area.
Something twisted inside Sherlock.
Well, how had he expected her to be? Like the Violet he knew before this nightmare had begun? The playful, sparkly Original Violet, who'd tease him and gabble about nothing. Who'd hang off his arm and tell him how clever he was?
This charade was taking its toll on her—he could see that. And by Danny's account, she was taking it out on those closest to her as well. But he was here now, and it was the festive season. Hadn't she (surreptitiously) invited him around? Why wasn't she ecstatic about it?
Sherlock loaded up two plates with a selection of Chinese food. He put the remainder in the fridge for Christmas and Boxing Day.
"Look at these losers," Violet said, indicating the telly with her (three-quarters empty) wine glass. "They think they're doing something really important."
"I'm not up-to-date with the story-line these days," Sherlock remarked as he placed the dinner plates on the coffee table in front of them. He sank down onto the seat beside Violet.
"I'm not talking about the story-line," she said, without taking her eyes from the screen. "I mean the actors. They think this means something. That they're doing a service for all of humanity. God, the acting industry is such a fucking waste of space."
Violet drained her wine as Sherlock's skin prickled.
This wasn't right. He knew she was out of sorts, but Violet Hunter loved the acting industry. Her eyes would light up whenever she spoke about obscure plays and performances, her favourite books and how amazing it would be if they were made into screenplays with her in the starring roles. She'd recount incidences on set and worry about all manner of things relating to her acting gigs. But she revelled in it all. If anything, Sherlock had been counting on Violet's work to see her through.
He was lost for words, so he picked up his own wine glass and took a sip.
"I should've brought the bottle over," Violet said, placing her now empty glass onto the coffee table and rising from the sofa.
"I'll get it," Sherlock said, vacating his seat. Since he was closer to the kitchen, he could make a swift retreat before Violet even rounded the table.
He had brought both glasses with him but tipped the contents of his drink down the sink. In the other room, Violet was changing channels and not settling on any one programme by the sounds of it.
Sherlock poured wine into both glasses. There was still a bit left in the bottle, so he poured that down the sink as well. Just how was this evening going to play out? He had to match Violet drink for drink, so she'd have less to consume herself. Was this something he should be concerned about, or was this just her efforts to celebrate Christmas with him?
He watched with an ever-growing ache in his heart when Violet drained about two-thirds of her new glass.
"You should really eat something," he said. "That's a lot of alcohol on an empty stomach."
"You sound just like Mandi," Violet retorted, placing her glass down onto the coffee table.
What was more concerning than being likened to Violet's loathsome BFF, was the fact that Mandi also had to tell Violet not to drink on an empty stomach, apparently. So this was a larger concern. But why the hell didn't Dan Corlionne—the breakfast-eating, pseudo-boyfriend—mention it?
"I just don't want you to be sick or hungover during our brief time together," Sherlock replied. He was trying to act nonchalant as he stabbed at another piece of Szechuan Beef with his fork, but when his heart was in his mouth he found it difficult keeping his voice even.
Violet reached over, grabbed the remote control and turned the telly off. She drew her legs up, hugging her knees as she regarded Sherlock. He tried to keep eating under her gaze, but his mouth was running dry, making it hard to swallow.
"Why don't you tell me about one of your cases," Violet prompted him.
Sherlock swallowed. He eased back into the sofa and gave Violet a half smile, while he wracked his brain for a case.
"You'll like this one," he said, resting an arm along the back of the sofa. He began relating the story to Violet, spurred on by the shine in her eyes. It was almost like old times, until Violet frowned.
"Wait," she said. "Is this the one about the brother and the ladder?"
"Ah… yes."
"You've already told me that one. It's an old case, isn't it? From a couple of years ago."
"Yes, yes, it is. I just thought you'd want to hear one that was interesting."
"No. I want to hear about one you've worked on since we've been apart. In the last month."
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Well… they were… they were… There's the one about the accountant… but that's probably boring. Spreadsheets and… things. Or… there's the married couple. He's cheating on her, but she's… No. Boring. That one barely rated as a two. S-so there's…"
"What have you been working on?" Violet asked. "Any murders or violent criminals?"
He was losing her. She was becoming annoyed with him.
Violet reached for her wine glass.
"Chenoa Burton," Sherlock scrambled to say.
Violet paused, the glass halfway to her lips.
"S-she came to visit me. Just after you left."
"Why?"
"Be… cause… she thinks Stuart Jire didn't attack her. In fact, she was sure of it."
Violet's expression seemed to harden, and she narrowed her eyes.
"And what do you think?" she asked.
"I… don't know. I haven't solved that one."
Violet took a sip of her wine.
"But Mary has a theory," Sherlock added, brightening.
"Well, perhaps I should be dating Mary," Violet muttered, and she drained the last of her drink. "I'm going to bed."
Sherlock sat stunned in the wake of Violet's remark and subsequent departure. This evening was definitely not going as he'd planned.
His movements felt mechanical as he took the dishes—including Violet's congealed meal—into the kitchen. After placing them on the counter, he turned and leant against the cool granite, bowing his head to his hand. Rubbing his brow, he retreated into his Mind Palace.
Violet wasn't acting very festive, and she was usually one for celebrating all manner of pointless things. Although she demonstrated enthusiasm in the bedroom earlier, her attitude since then had been quite the opposite.
Perhaps I should be dating Mary.
Her words were a blow to his heart.
Sherlock's lack of progress on any case that mattered was a huge problem. He knew that. He was failing Violet, and his heart weighed heavily with guilt. Her descent into whatever this was, was entirely his fault. Their separation was his idea, and he hadn't made headway with the Moriarty case. Was that why she was pushing him away this evening? But New Year's Eve! It could all change then! Should he tell her about Irene Adler?
Out of the darkness of his Mind Palace, a besuited figure emerged.
Clearly she doesn't want you here, Mind Palace Mycroft said, prodding the floor with his umbrella.
Sherlock scoffed. It had been an age since he had the pleasure of the company of the personification of his insecurities.
The four bottles of wine, Mycroft went on, raising an eyebrow to prompt Sherlock into making a deduction. The cheese. These are not consumables to be shared, Brother Mine. You know she has a penchant for these items. If she planned on accommodating you, there would've been… frozen meals, and… whiskey. Mycroft's gaze was piercing. You were never invited. Your presence is not required. Your deduction was incorrect.
Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes snapping open with this new revelation.
Violet hadn't invited him!
Sherlock's chest heaved as he suddenly inhaled. He stared, unseeing, across the kitchen, his mind replaying the moment of his arrival: the expression on Violet's face as she spun around to discover Sherlock standing there. She had been genuinely surprised to see him. There had been no expectations, no relief that he'd received her message. She had actually seemed confused about his deduction regarding her father's flight plans.
Not expected. Not welcome.
You should leave, Mycroft bid him. Leave her to her wine and cheese. She hates her life—the acting industry, her relationship status. And you are a reminder of it all. Leave.
Ahem.
Another voice. Another figure stepping out of the dark recesses of his Mind Palace.
John Watson.
This is her hour of need, John began. Are you really just going to leave her in this state? What she wants is to be left alone. What she needs is companionship. Yours, mate.
Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft spat. She'll resent you for staying. The best thing you can do for her, for your relationship, is to respect her wishes.
You love her, John said, stepping closer. She needs you. Pointing to the floor, he added firmly, Don't leave her like this. It's Christmas!
Sherlock looked from one apparition to the other, his mind in turmoil, his ego in tatters.
Pushing off from the counter, he made his decision.
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Author's Note:
Whoopsie! Did someone ask for a happy Christmas?
It's not too late to cast your vote!