Chapter 23 - Wish You Could Have Worn the Antlers

Violet spat into the sink, rinsed both her toothbrush and her mouth.

How dare he ruin her Christmas? Just showing up like that. But that's what he does, the maniac. Appearing out of the blue, making seemingly innocuous comments, when all the while there's a more sinister intent.

Wasn't I free of him? she thought, a shudder running through her as she watched the water swirl around the sink. He'd made his threat in Australia, and Violet hoped she'd never have to lay eyes on him again. But Jim made it clear when he turned up unannounced outside her dressing room the other day that he was going to be a permanent fixture in her life. At the helm of her career.

A lovely Christmas present from a psychopath.

For the remainder of the week, the idea never left her. Its heavy presence clamped itself to every limb, so each movement felt like she was wearing shackles. And what about Natalia, from wardrobe? Was she keeping tabs on Violet? Reporting every phone call, every conversation, back to Jim?

Her mind never ceased its endless questioning. Numbing it seemed like the only solution. But in those tingling after effects, her thoughts blackened at the edges, as if set alight. And it was scary just how scorched they became.

Violet shook her head to clear it, then dabbed her mouth with the hand towel beside the sink. As she straightened up, she drew in a sharp breath at Sherlock's appearance in the bathroom doorway.

"Do you mind if I take a shower?" he asked. His eyes were rounded, his mouth slightly down-turned. He was unsure of himself.

"That's fine," she replied, her expression softening. Opening the cabinet of the vanity unit, she added, "Here's a towel."

Sherlock squeezed past her as she placed the spare towel beside the sink.

"Thank you," he murmured, pulling off his hoody and t-shirt in one go. He cleared his throat, before reaching into the shower stall and turning on the hot tap.

Violet felt a lead weight in her stomach. She'd treated him badly. Sherlock. He'd lost all self-confidence around her. And it was so lovely of him sneaking in to spend Christmas with her. Well, he thought it was her idea, but why would she set him straight?

Drinking two wines on an empty stomach hadn't served to anaesthetise her, which was what she'd initially intended when ordering the box of wines for the Christmas period. Instead, the sweet, full-bodied Bordeaux had armed her, sharpened her tongue, and she'd cruelly used it against Sherlock.

Lightly touching his arm, Violet said, "Sorry I was a bit short. Rough week. I'm really glad you're here."

His expression brightened a little into a smile.

"Me, too."

Violet pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth and said, "Yeah, I think you do need that shower."

Sherlock huffed a laugh and turned from her. Violet made a bid for her bedroom across the hallway. She set about making the bed since the covers and pillows had either tumbled or been shoved to the floor during their heated antics earlier.

Settling beneath the covers to wait for Sherlock, she silently urged herself, Please make an effort.

#

By the time Sherlock joined Violet in the bedroom, the lights were low, and Violet lay under the covers, facing away from the door.

Sherlock shed his towel and slipped, completely naked, between the sheets.

"I've taken the liberty of putting my clothes in the wash," he said in a low voice. "I hope that's okay?"

Violet rolled over to face him.

"Mm," she replied, stifling a yawn. "Probably a good idea. They were a bit whiffy. Lucky thing it's Christmas tomorrow."

"How is that relevant?"

"Um… I mean… we can stay in bed all day." She brightened beneath heavy-lidded eyes. "Who needs clothes?"

Sherlock gave a low chuckle. He shuffled closer to Violet and stole a kiss. Her lips were warm and plump, and she was as naked as he was. He felt his needs stirring.

Easing back, she murmured, "The wine's made me sleepy. Sorry."

His stomach plummeted again, but Violet snuggled alongside, nestling her head into the crook of his neck.

"No, that's… that's fine," he said, rearranging them so he could band an arm around her. "We have plenty of time."

With his free hand, he reached up and switched off the bedside lamp. He lay awake, thoughts adrift, listening to Violet's breathing.

How could he make this better? Perhaps if he told Violet everything he knew so far, as if she were his skull on the mantlepiece, he might make headway on the case. See everything through someone else's eyes. It helped. He knew the drill. And "everything" included his efforts to re-engage with Irene Adler. The trips to the nightclubs. The rave bars.

And the result? A flyer through the letterbox. It was something, he supposed.

New Year's Eve, he thought sleepily. A yawn tugged at his ability to stay awake.

When the bed jolted, Sherlock pried open his eyes. The lethargy in his limbs indicated he'd been asleep for quite some time. A hazy view of Violet beaming down at him came into focus.

"Happy Christmas!" she proclaimed.

The weak light filtering in through the bedroom window told Sherlock the earliness of the hour. He propped himself on elbows, turning to scrutinise the clock on the dresser to dramatise the point he wanted to make.

"It's only seven," he said, sinking back down again. Closing his eyes, he murmured, "What have you done with the real Violet Hunter?"

"It's Christmas!" she chirruped.

With an exaggerated groan, Sherlock grabbed the nearest pillow and plopped it onto his face. Giggling, Violet pulled it from him.

"Go do your morning ablutions," she said cheerily. "Then hurry back. I've got a surprise for you!"

Sherlock sat up wearily.

"Can't we celebrate Christmas by wrestling naked under the covers or something?"

"Go!" she bid him, playfully swatting him with the pillow. She then shoved something further behind her. A box—square and flat.

Dropping his feet to the floor, Sherlock said with a sigh, "You bought me a dressing gown."

Violet's silence indicated she was gaping at his deduction.

He stood and waved a disinterested hand in Violet's direction, saying, "Well, you said something last night about it being good it's Christmas in relation to me putting my clothes in the wash…" Sherlock commenced walking out of the room, completely naked, as he continued, "and that box you've just hidden behind your back is from the Trevor & Vernet Autumn Collection of 2011."

He didn't wait for Violet's reply, escaping into the bathroom.

Thank God Violet was sparkling again. He enjoyed their banter, and her current festive spirit was one he'd love to capture and preserve in a jar of isopropyl alcohol.

When he returned to the bedroom, however, Violet was standing on her toes, attempting to shove his present onto the top shelf of her wardrobe.

"You're an arsehole," she said, with one last shove. "I'm giving it to Danny."

Sherlock smiled to himself as he slid back into bed. He loved these playful interactions. Christ, how he'd missed this!

He quickly corralled his features into a serious expression when Violet turned around.

"No, no, no," he said, lacing his fingers together over the bedspread. "Let's play pretend. I'll be an ordinary, everyday person—someone who puts the bins out and goes on pub crawls. No awareness or deductive ability regarding the world around me. Basically a moron. I'll pretend to be surprised." He punctuated his statement with a wide smile.

Violet drew her previously gaping dressing gown around her and tied the sash.

Pity. Sherlock had been enjoying the view.

She narrowed her eyes at him, as if considering his suggestion. Slowly, she turned around and reached up for the box. Because she'd shoved it so hard towards the back, she now couldn't reach it.

Sherlock silently left the bed, drew up beside Violet and retrieved the box for her. He then returned to his previous position, sitting up against the headboard. Once more, he clasped his hands together. The epitome of patience and ordinariness.

He could detect a smile struggling to surface beneath Violet's cool exterior.

"It's to replace the one that woman wore," she said, placing the box in his lap. "Merry Christmas."

"Thank you," he said, ending with a light cough at the memory of that woman and the trouble she'd caused. Sherlock hadn't actually discarded the dressing gown Irene Adler had worn. Was he supposed to?

With deft fingers, Sherlock untied the red, silk ribbon that criss-crossed the lid of the box.

"It matches the colour of your eyes," Violet went on. "Well, the colour they are when you're happy."

"Firstly, you're ruining the surprise, and secondly, my eye colour doesn't change with my mood."

"Yes, it does."

Violet sank down onto the bed beside Sherlock's legs, watching him as he lifted the lid. He feigned surprise.

"Oh… what's this?" he asked, peeling back the tissue paper.

The silk fabric shimmered up at him—the turquoise of south Pacific island waters, with golden sunlight glinting on wave peaks. His eyes weren't that colour, were they?

"Try it on!" Violet exclaimed, barely suppressing her enthusiasm. Sherlock fingered the fabric. One of Victor Trevor's finest textiles.

Standing at the mirror, tying the sash, Sherlock eyed his reflection and the young woman bursting with excitement beside him. Violet ran a flat hand down his sleeve, trailing over his back, as she gabbled about on the periphery of his hearing.

"I ordered it a while ago. I called Victor from Australia. You know, when I thought we'd be together for… Anyway, Victor said your favourite burgundy one came from the same collection, but there weren't any more available. He had this made just for you!"

Violet pulled up stops in front of him, her ebullience now at its peak.

"It's… amazing," Sherlock said as Violet attached herself to his lapels.

It truly was. Not the dressing gown, specifically, Sherlock thought on reflection. The whole experience. Violet's seasonal delight and enthusiasm were a novelty for him. He'd had a childhood full of traumatising Christmases—social expectations and criticism, demands and disappointments. A notebook full of man-trap designs he wasn't allowed to execute. And the noise!

Violet had lit up like a human Christmas tree with the idea of giving Sherlock a present. And she hadn't once told him how to react—okay, his ill-timed deduction had been a false start. Apart from that.

"And now," she said, her eyes glinting with mischief, "the second part of your present."

Puzzled, Sherlock frowned and tilted his head, but Violet tugged at his sash, then dropped to her knees.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, his breath catching.

This time, his gasp of delight was genuine.

#

"Toast it is then," Sherlock agreed. He didn't really care what Violet prepared them for breakfast. She'd already looked appalled at his offer to go downstairs and poke around in the McCall's fridge and pantry. He'd only made the suggestion half-heartedly. It was broad daylight, after all, and not conducive to illegally entering a residence through the balcony door.

But apart from the Chinese takeaway he had purchased for their dinners, Violet's fridge contents were pretty sparse.

Once Violet left for the kitchen, Sherlock quickly re-robed himself, then hastened over to the window from which he had stealthily entered her flat yesterday evening. Sliding his hand between the window and the blind, he retrieved the palm-sized felt box he had left there.

Just a small token, he told himself, but all the same, he felt his face flushing.

Violet was humming to herself as she put away the dishes Sherlock had washed last night when he was contemplating whether or not he was going to walk out on his girlfriend.

He cleared his throat.

When Violet straightened up from stowing the dinner plates in the lower cabinet, he told her, "You're not the only one who did a spot of… ah… Christmas shopping."

Seeing the object in his hand, Violet's eyes widened a little. Sherlock's heart gave a little jolt reminding him that he had one. He'd given Violet jewellery before—upon solving the John Douglas murder case—but Christmas was something else again. Sherlock had never in his life given another person a Christmas present.

He held out the gift box, watching as Violet's eyes moistened.

"Oh…" she said on a shaky exhale.

When she didn't automatically reach for it, Sherlock realised he was supposed to open it for her. This he did, murmuring, "Happy Christmas, Violet," and feeling a bit silly at the ritual.

"Sherlock," she breathed, bringing her hands to her mouth.

"It's a… well, I'm told it's a charm bracelet."

Sherlock blinked away his distaste. Charms, magic potions, spells. Abhorrent things. But the modern interpretation of charms, according to Mary Watson, meant items of a personal nature: sentimental attachments. And people loved those things, apparently.

Since Violet still hadn't taken the item from him, Sherlock scooped up the delicate jewellery and held it dangling between his fingers.

"And these are the charms."

At last, Violet reached for the bracelet, a smile growing on her face.

"Theatre masks," she said of the first trinket.

"Because you… um," he said, fading into a light cough. Explaining to Violet it was because she was an actor seemed superfluous. "And another… mouse… thing."

"Mickey Mouse."

"Yes. In miniature, because…"

"It has to fit on the bracelet. And you wanted the memory of us holidaying in the U.S. together."

"Ah… yes."

"And the book?"

"Our first case."

"A book?"

"Frances Carfax. The books she exchanged with her teacher. Your theory. Good one though." He was rambling. Just shut up, now! "Obviously," he added, waving a hand at the bracelet, "there's room for more… I suppose I can buy you charms on random occasions… to mark… events of significance."

He scratched behind one ear while Violet examined the charms, her expression bright and eager.

Sherlock tossed the felt box onto the kitchen counter. Could he get back to being a serious unemotional, logical Consulting Detective now?

Folding his hands behind his back, he watched as Violet unhooked the bracelet.

"Oh… could you…" she said.

Realising she was struggling to clasp the bracelet around her wrist, he reached out and assisted her.

She was overflowing with emotion now. Predictable.

"Thank you," she finally gasped.

Violet threw her arms around Sherlock and held fast. He heard her sniff, surely a good sign, so he patted her back with well-practised patience. He'd survived another relationship ritual! Thank God for Mary and her Christmas gift idea. It was a good thing it had been discussed well in advance of the fake breakup, otherwise he'd have floundered, with no idea what to purchase.

Violet drew back to examine the charms once more.

"They're beautiful."

"Okay, then," Sherlock said, releasing his hold on Violet and turning his attention to the toast that had popped up a minute prior.

Their second effort with breakfast, after an impromptu tumble beneath the sheets—with Violet wearing nothing but her Mickey Mouse necklace and charm bracelet—fared no better. Sherlock dropped the cold, dry slice back onto its plate on the coffee table. They stretched out on the sofa together, watching telly. Violet's previously festive mood had become subdued a little. He watched in faint amusement as Violet repeatedly pressed the remote control, eventually settling on Music of the Monarchy.

"God, it's the only thing that's not painful to watch." Curiously, Sherlock noted, she no longer chose movies or soapies to watch, preferring newscasts, reality TV and documentaries.

Discarding the device, Violet shuffled around in Sherlock's embrace so she could face him. "Let's snog again."

They did, for a time, until Sherlock suggested wrestling holds, before he hit on the idea of recreating the set of moves Violet had used to incapacitate him the evening she'd discovered Sherlock about to whisper his (brilliant) deduction to Irene Adler. They spent a good amount of time stepping through each move, with Sherlock explaining how he could've blocked each one. Finally, he gave Violet tips on improving each blow to make them more lethal.

Instead of disrupting their interactions by giggling like she used to, Violet's brow remained furrowed in studious concentration, as if she really wanted to commit each choreographed movement to memory. Both fear and excitement rippled through Sherlock at the prospect of having Violet fight alongside him at some point in the future—as long as he wasn't the intended recipient of her blows.

They lazed through Christmas morning, with Sherlock eventually volunteering to heat the Chinese food for their celebratory lunch. He coordinated warming the various dishes in pots on the stove and containers in the microwave. Violet quizzed him about his own family Christmas traditions. Sherlock wasn't exactly forthcoming with anecdotes, but it didn't matter. Violet contributed quite a few of her own, to which he listened with the selected deafness he used to acquire in happier times.

They ate along to some Irishman reciting his travels through New Zealand. Eventually, they settled back on the sofa once more. Sherlock was definitely sated. Violet had at least eaten something, and they'd only consumed one glass of wine each during their meal.

At the conclusion of the show, Violet idly flicked through the other channels again, then reached forward and poured them each another glass of wine. Sherlock stretched out. The wine warmed his stomach, but his head felt heavy. He'd close his eyes for a few seconds… just for a minute or two…

He was pulled from his light slumber by the sound of crockery clattering in the kitchen. Scanning his surroundings to get his bearings, he noted that Violet had cleared the coffee table of the remnants of their Christmas lunch.

Sherlock wearily padded into the kitchen. Holding a glass of wine in one hand, Violet swished their plates in the sink.

"We might need another bottle," she said, without turning around.

Sherlock cast about the kitchen for the Merlot and the Shiraz.

"Aren't there two more?" he asked. "Your second Christmas Day one and another for Boxing Day?"

"This is the last of the Merlot. Why don't you see what the McCall's have?" She turned to him and smiled sweetly, but her eyes were glassy and almost closed to slits.

She'd already finished the second bottle while he slept?

"Well…" Sherlock began, his stomach plummeting. He didn't have the excuse that it was daytime and not a good opportunity for climbing out onto the balcony. It was now dark. How long had he slept?

"Or would you prefer Sparkling White?" she asked. "Mandi left one at the bottom of the fridge. I don't usually drink Champagne."

That was a lie if ever Sherlock heard one.

"Ah… no," he replied. "Why don't we open the Shiraz, and if we need another one tomorrow, I'll… get… one."

Hopefully they wouldn't need any more after tonight. He was still full from dinner, but Violet may well be on the way to consuming another bottle on an empty stomach.

But… it was Christmas, he thought wearily. He should cut Violet some slack.

Sherlock left the kitchen for the bathroom. When he returned, Violet was watching a celebrity dance show, wine glass in hand, and not enjoying the entertainment by the remarks passing her lips.

"Let's dance!" she suddenly exclaimed. Wobbling to her feet, she held out a hand to Sherlock.

"What? Now?"

Violet reached for the remote control and began turning up the volume on the telly. The mismatched bedfellows of disco and Samba began blasting from the speaker.

"Violet, wait!" Sherlock snatched up the control himself and quickly muted the volume. "You can't play loud music. We're not supposed to be here, remember!"

"Why can't we be here!" she snapped, causing Sherlock to flinch. "Why does he get to do whatever he wants! Why do we have to tiptoe around?"

"Violet…"

Her eyes were filling with tears, as if her body, now full of alcohol, had sprung a leak.

"He's out there," she said, gesturing widely, "stuffing his face with turkey and… and Brussels sprouts, and stuffing his… his… stockings with dead bodies. Why does he get to live how he wants? Why does he get to live at all?"

Sherlock clicked off the telly then dropped the remote control onto the table.

Violet drooped a little. Deflated. Defeated.

He could argue the point with her… or…

… smother the explosion, risking life and limb himself.

Enveloping his girlfriend in his arms, Sherlock said softly, "We're making do. Hm? We can still dance." He effected a gentle sway, tucking Violet's head beneath his chin. "We'll start slow, like we did at the Watsons' wedding."

Violet easily complied in her highly suggestible state, Sherlock concluded.

At the wedding, they were both too drunk to do anything else but sway.

Sway and giggle. The giggling, at least, on Violet's part.

At the time, Sherlock had been reflecting on the silly ritual that comprised weddings. He'd wondered if Violet had that expectation for their relationship. That final seal of commitment. Another win for Team Conformity, although Sherlock's infidelity cases jeered loudly from the opposing corner. But he was committed to Violet. For life. Of that he was sure—fake separation or not. Could he change his mind about marriage now that he was in a committed relationship? Would this be something he'd consider?

He swayed with Violet in a slowly pivotting circle in one spot in the middle of her living room. The furnishings were sparse. Personal possessions were mostly absent. No magazines or novels stacked on every available surface. Come to think of it, there were no clothes covering her bedroom floor, nor makeup products cluttering the bathroom sink. What was going on here?

Violet had dealt with the lunch dishes and made the bed. Casting his mind back to the time she cleaned her father's flat within an inch of its life, and scrubbed Sherlock's own bathroom til it bled bleach, he came to a startling realisation.

Violet was an emotional wreck. This wasn't just a cry for help; she was screaming!

Perhaps a proposal of marriage during this "break" in their relationship would give Violet something to cling to: hope for the future, since everything seemed so bleak to her at the moment.

He could feel the tension leaving Violet's body. Either his efforts were working, or she was now completely tanked. Either way, he'd successfully pulled her back from the precipice.

So… was he going to do this? Propose to Violet?

When his heart began hammering in his chest, he felt Violet soften in his arms, murmuring to herself. Completely inebriated. It didn't take a Consulting Detective to reach that conclusion.

But…

The proposal.

When and where and how?

He'd have to buy a ring—he knew that much. Another piece of jewellery. Another ritual to be endured.

Sherlock's pulse beat in his ears and his skin prickled.

Really? He was going to ask Violet to marry him? They would get married when all this was over?

Violet shifted in his arms, pulling back a little.

"Let's do it," she whispered, looking up at him with hope in her eyes.

Sherlock's breath hitched. Had he spoken out loud?

"Sorry?" he asked.

His mind quickly replayed the last few minutes. He was quite confident all his thoughts had remained secure behind locked doors.

"Kill him," Violet replied. "End his life."

Sherlock rapidly blinked, straightening up. Was he hearing things?

"What are you talking about?"

There was a faint light behind the fog of Violet's stare, like a beacon off some murky shore.

"Murder," she said. "We can… we can plot his murder." He wasn't hearing things. But his body reacted uncharactistically at the sound of that word.

Murder.

Sherlock wasn't jumping for joy. No spring in his step this time. There was a mis-fire in his synapses.

"You're… you're Sherlock Holmes," Violet went on through the haze of her intoxication. "You'd know how to get away with it."

"Violet…"

"Don't you see?" She clutched at his dressing gown lapels like a lifeline. "We could get away with it and end all this… misery." Her lips twisted in animation of the word. "And it's not just us we'd be saving." Violet paused, as if waiting for a reaction from Sherlock, but all he could hear were sirens blasting from his Mind Palace. Code Red. It was a Code Red!

Oblivious, Violet struggled on, her enthusiasm spreading into the void left by Sherlock's silence.

"How many other people are being tormented by him? How many others aren't living the life they want because of his threats? He controls so much, but what if he wasn't around anymore?"

"Violet…"

"Let's do it," she said, finally pushing away from him and wobbling with the independence of a newborn foal. Her eyes shone brightly when she finally declared, "Let's plot the murder of Jim Moriarty."