Chapter 24 - Maybe I Can Still Surprise You

Violet pried open her eyes to find the room spinning.

"Oh, shit," she thought.

Faintly, through the haze of her hangover, she heard whistling. A merry tune.

A Christmas tune?

Against all baser instincts, she pulled herself to a sitting position, then hauled her protesting body to her feet. The room tilted. On shaky limbs, she wrapped her dressing gown around herself.

Opening the bedroom door—and briefly supporting her weight with it—she listened more intently to the whistling.

Sherlock didn't whistle like that and certainly not Christmas tunes.

Oh, Christ. Sounds like Danny.

Violet stumbled across the hallway to the bathroom. Ripples of nausea continued to ebb and flow. Sitting with her head bowed, she tried to make sense of the world.

What day was it? The next day? She remembered Christmas night. Sort of.

Most of it.

Her heart felt heavy in her chest.

What happened to Boxing Day? Wasn't Sherlock staying until Boxing Day night? Did that mean it was the 27th now? Did he stay? Was she even conscious for it?

Wearily, Violet finished up in the bathroom, then staggered into the living area, making it as far as the sofa before collapsing on it.

"Lordy, look what the cat dragged in," Dan said, closing a kitchen cabinet door and casually making his way over to her. Violet pressed her eyes shut. "Y'know," he continued, his tone growing serious, "and I said this to Sherlock—why bring me in on your grand plan to fool the world if you're gonna sneak around behind me back?"

"Where's… Sherlock?" Violet croaked.

"Ah, for fuck's sake," Dan muttered. "Did you really get that plastered? You don't remember?"

Without opening her eyes, Violet knitted her brows together. She heard Danny heave out a sigh.

"He had to leave," he replied. "Said he had a text from his brother asking his whereabouts. Thought he'd better leg it in case his phone was being tracked. Called me back from the North to say you were in a right state and shouldn't be left alone. D'you know how hard it is, getting from Manchester to London on Christmas night? Bloody hard, that's what. I'd promised me nephews I'd play the Xbox with them today. They'd have woken up, and I'd have scarpered. Arsehole uncle, going back on his word."

Just shut up, shut up, shut up, Violet internally pleaded, her head throbbing.

"What day is it?" she asked feebly.

"Boxing Day. Christ's sake, Vi. And you've got nowt in the kitchen as usual. I'm going out to the shops. D'you want anything?"

"Water."

She heard Dan moving about the kitchen but daren't open her eyes. The sound of a glass tumbler being placed on the coffee table rattled her head.

"And some Panadol," Dan said. "Make sure you take it. I'm leaving now. Text me if you need anything else."

Violet waited until she heard the front door click shut before she opened her eyes again. Guilt washed through her, competing with the nausea that pressed against her stomach and the back of her throat. She didn't like being taken care of. That meant she'd lost control. Again. Black spots in her memory. But now she was left with an overwhelming sadness. Did she and Sherlock spend a Happy Christmas together? She didn't think so.

#

"Did you really think we wouldn't talk to each other?"

Fuck off.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed as John's voice droned on.

"You told me you were spending Christmas with your family. You told Mycroft you were spending Christmas with us."

I know what I said, Sherlock silently retorted, curling his toes as he lay stretched out, on the sofa.

"And Mrs Hudson said you weren't here."

Good old Hudders.

"So where were you?"

"Bolt hole," he replied.

"Which bolt hole?"

"Does it matter?"

Opening his eyes, he threw a challenging glare in John's direction.

Instead of arguing further, the good doctor reached into his jacket pocket and produced a sample jar, which he placed on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

"Oh, Christ," Sherlock said, lifting his head a little to see, then allowing it to drop back onto the sofa cushion, once more closing his eyes. "We're not doing that again are we?"

"Yes, we are."

Flapping a disinterested hand in the direction of the offending item, Sherlock added, "All you'll find is the presence of alcohol."

"Alcohol?" John repeated, unconvinced. "You sat in your bolt hole, alone, drinking whiskey on Christmas night?"

"Red wine, actually. I was sharing it with my homeless network. It would've been impolite to refuse otherwise."

"You spent Christmas night getting drunk on red wine with a bunch of tramps?"

"You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"Jesus, Sherlock."

Without looking, Sherlock knew John had turned from him and would be wearily rubbing his brow in a 'what am I going to do with you' manner.

"Happy Christmas, by the way," Sherlock murmured.

#

"I need to make a call," Violet yelled in Mandi's ear over the throbbing house music. "Back in a minute."

The strobing lights disoriented her for a second, but Violet made for the door that led to the secure offices at the back of Kabuki's nightclub, ignoring the turned heads. It was 11:17pm. There was no way she'd be out on the floor when midnight struck.

Danny was just leaving his office when Violet strode along the corridor. She gave him a weary smile.

"All getting too much for you?" he asked.

Violet nodded, her heart tripping at the concern on his face. She'd made her decision. There had been an awkward moment when she'd hastened to unpack the shopping on Boxing Day, discovering a packet of condoms in Dan's purchases. She knew she was doing the right thing.

"Are we really gonna do this now?" Dan asked. "Sherlock's gonna be—"

"He's not calling the shots anymore," Violet interrupted, disappearing into the office. She waited until Danny joined her.

#

Sherlock had heard the New Year's Eve countdown at Kabuki's nightclub. There was still time. He'd wait out the back for her.

Nodding to one of the bouncers, who had recognised the Consulting Detective from when he'd helped Dan previously, Sherlock was able to gain entrance to the club via the back door in preference to walking past the crowd of hopefuls queuing in front of the entrance. He wanted to avoid being recognised at all costs.

What a waste of an evening, he thought, picking his way past the cases and crates of alcohol and bathroom supplies.

Irene Adler remained as elusive as ever. Sherlock had visited the rave party at Monterico House, with no appearance whatsoever of The Woman. How long was he expected to wait for her? He had informed Dan that he'd see Violet again on New Year's Eve. Dan had advised Sherlock that Violet was scheduled to appear at the club for its end of year celebrations. Violet and her Rise of the Five co-star, Timothy Killaney, were supposed to be "the drawcard"—guest DJs and game hosts, or some rubbish.

Sherlock had assumed Violet wouldn't remember her proposal to him.

Murder.

The thought filled him with an uncharacteristic horror. That his girlfriend could've contemplated such a notion—just how stressed was she? Had she harboured secret thoughts about killing James Moriarty for some time now, or had that been a spur of the moment decision on Christmas night, under the influence? He fervently hoped it had been the latter. She had murmured incoherently after her declaration, then had promptly passed out. So it was fortunate (or unfortunate?) that Mycroft had texted him, otherwise he would've had to deal with the fallout Boxing Day morning.

Striding along the corridor towards the office, Sherlock could feel the floor vibrating with the music that filled the rest of the club. From his pocket, he retrieved the secure access card Dan had allocated him, and he stopped in front of the office door.

Unrecognisable sounds came from within. Well, recognisable, but not expected. What was he hearing, exactly?

Still puzzling over this, Sherlock swiped the card along the reader, then pushed the door inwards in one smooth movement.

He stood, frozen in the doorway, not quite comprehending the scene in front of him.

Dan, in disarray—thrusting, his back to the door, trousers crumpled at his feet, shirt hanging loosely underneath his jacket coat. Another person—a woman, obviously, hidden from view—propped up on top of the low drinks cabinet. A pair of legs wrapped around Dan's torso. Manicured fingers threaded into his hair. The pair of them were… panting. Moaning. Gasping.

Sherlock's jaw slackened.

Violet?

He took a step back, lost his grip on the door which swung back towards him.

He retreated further to avoid being hit, until the door shuddered to a close in front of him, leaving him in the corridor.

His heart tripped, then accelerated. Head buzzing, Sherlock continued to stare at the door uncomprehendingly. A poison, as thick and black as crude oil, seeped into his heart.

Violet.

The door was suddenly reefed opened in front of him. A flushed Dan emerged, a sheepish grin lighting one side of his face.

A spark lit the poison now being pumped through Sherlock's veins. A wildfire began to burn in Sherlock's insides.

"S-sorry," Dan said.

Sherlock waited a beat for further explanation.

"Sorry?" he repeated, incredulous, when he was met with silence. That was all the man had to say? Every tendon in his body began to retract. Sherlock's right hand curled into a fist.

"She thought you'd be here earlier," Dan replied, his expression fully brightening into an amiable smile.

Sherlock looked towards the door.

"She…" he began, unable to formulate a coherent argument. It felt as if he'd punctured lung. He lifted a hand to the door handle.

"She went home," Dan continued.

Sherlock blinked. Was this man the worst liar ever?

"Sorry," Dan repeated. Gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the door, he added, "It was all her idea. I knew you'd be mad."

"What!"

Sherlock couldn't believe the gall of the man. He lunged at Dan, grabbed him by his lapels and thrust him backwards into the wall.

"I'm more than mad," he said between gritted teeth.

"Woah!" Danny said, throwing his hands up in protest. "I couldn't persuade her otherwise. You know how she is, once she gets an idea in her head."

"Why!" Sherlock raged. He couldn't even think of a reasonable question behind this turn of events.

Disgusted, he let Dan go. He had to confront her. What could she possibly have to say, though. He'd dropped the access card in his rush to maime Corlionne. Retrieving it from the carpetted floor, he swiped once more against the reader.

"Oh, hey, I wouldn't go in—"

Despite Dan's protest, Sherlock pushed the door inwards.

Violet, her back to the door, squeaked in surprise as she pulled up dress straps over bare shoulders, not quite meeting the gaze of the intruder in the doorway. Except…

That wasn't Violet.

"I'm…" Sherlock began. —Sorry, he meant to finish, as he pulled the door closed.

"That's…" he stammered. "That's not Violet."

"Oh, fucking hell!" Dan exclaimed. "Did you think that was our Vi?"

The remnants of rage still controlled his body, his thought processes. Once again, Sherlock took hold of Dan Corlionne by the lapels, shoving him roughly against the wall.

"Where is she? What the fuck were you doing in there? Are you mad or stupid or dim-witted? You can't cheat on Violet Hunter. If you've blown our cover, so help me—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Dan protested. "It was Vi. Her idea. We broke up. We were going to do it tonight, before midnight. She's just left. Everybody would know she weren't there for the countdown. This was all a part of her plan. I knew you'd be angry about it, but she wouldn't take no for an answer."

Sherlock slowly released his hold on the nightclub manager.

"Why?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. His heart continued to beat erratically in his chest. Was this a plan of Violet's to dump her security detail so she'd be free to… what…? Murder James Moriarty? "What plan?"

"To break up with me," Dan replied.

"Why?"

"Because… Well, first she felt bad." A flush crept across Dan's face. "She found a… a packet of condoms I'd bought. Y'know. For New Year's Eve. There's this girl, right. I'd been mad about her for ages but she never showed she were interested before. But ever since I'd been dating a… y'know… a celebrity, she's been flirting, right. So I thought, on New Year's Eve, I'd get me end away—"

"Spare me," Sherlock said, wincing.

"Well, Vi hated the fact that I haven't been able to date other women all this time. And you and Vi will be back together eventually. She wants to make it a plausible story. Her heart's all over the place, or something. The press love that kind of thing. And to be perfectly honest, I think she needs time to be alone, mate."

Adrenaline still amped Sherlock's heart-rate, thoughts and emotions. He abruptly released Danny, stepped back and raked a hand through his curls, mind adrift.

What would this mean, though… Violet Hunter single again? Had the presence of a boyfriend been enough of a deterrent for Moriarty and his henchmen to stay away from Violet? But why would they need to go near her again if Violet and Sherlock had severed their connection? What would be the point in threatening her?

Why had Sherlock appointed a bodyguard, then, if there had been no imminent threat?

Because she needed someone to confide in. That's the reason. Remember?

Sherlock couldn't think here. The repetitive thud of the nightclub music was interfering with his synapses.

"She's probably home by now," Dan volunteered.

Sherlock eyed him critically. The man had failed to tuck his shirt back into his trousers. Probably keen to get at it again. Get his "end away".

"I'll talk to you later," Sherlock said. He strode the length of the corridor, making for the back entrance.

#

Sherlock tugged on the window, but there was something preventing the glass from sliding across. He peered in at the track. Moron! Dan had actually taken his advice and wedged a length of pine in the gap to prevent the window from sliding. Now Sherlock had no way in!

He knocked lightly and waited. After counting to five, he tried again. But if Violet had fallen into a heavy (and drunken?) sleep, there was a good chance she wouldn't hear the knocking. He tried once more for luck.

#

Sherlock felt particularly wired. He'd consumed three cups of caffeine since returning from Chelsea, and the nicotine patches weren't helping. He'd sat up all night, aimlessly roaming his Mind Palace to no avail, and now it was morning. Didn't even make it as far as the bedroom. Tapping his bare feet on the ground in front of his armchair, he contemplated another brew. Still dressed in his attire from the night before, sans jacket and shoes, Sherlock pushed himself out of his armchair.

The front door clicked shut.

Sherlock spun around, straining to listen.

Step, step, step, creak.

He rolled his eyes.

John. Never quite got the hang of avoiding that creaky step.

See! Still got it!

His mind was fully functioning! So why couldn't he make headway on this case?

But wait!

Another step, overlaying the first, then a tap, step, step, tap, in between.

Oh, Christ!

Mycroft!

Sherlock about-turned, made for his armchair and sank down into it. The bottle of whiskey, freed from its top-shelf confinement, was hidden behind the kettle. So near, yet so far! This was going to be painful.

John appeared first, stopping in the doorway to glance at the sofa, before his roaming eyes alighted on Sherlock by the fireplace.

"Let me guess," Sherlock said, deducing his friend's grim expression. "A New Year's Day intervention."

"Yep. Bloody right it is," John replied. He stood to one side, pulling the door open wider as the other busy-body materialised through it.

The British Government glided effortlessly into the room, looking for all the world like a man who had been rudely woken in the early hours by minions beckoning him to study CCTV footage.

John moved to the living room table, grabbed a chair and placed it facing the fireplace and Sherlock. He sat down, quite business-like, hands on knees, waiting as Mycroft made his way to the armchair opposite Sherlock.

Sherlock slouched further down into his chair, propping his head up with one disinterested hand. If they were going to be all formal about this, then he felt compelled to appear as casual as possible.

"You were seen entering and exiting Kabuki Pirates nightclub via the back entrance around midnight," Mycroft began, without so much as a 'Good morning'. "A location where Violet Hunter was making an appearance."

Sherlock huffed an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm working on a case," he drawled.

"What case?" John asked.

Sherlock raised his brows.

"Haven't you been paying attention? No, of course not. You've been too busy poking people's bodies with instruments of torture."

"It's called 'working as a General Practitioner'," John said through gritted teeth. "It's my day job."

"The point is," Mycroft interrupted.

Feeling brattish, Sherlock remarked, "Oh, do you have one?"

"The point is… Brother Mine… you've been on a downward spiral ever since you and Ms Hunter parted company."

"Parted company," Sherlock repeated derisively.

"Your continual intoxication is a cause for concern."

"As is boring people to death with pointless lectures."

"Sherlock," John warned.

Mycroft sat taller, lifting his chin which only served to make his beady eyes beadier.

"As we've done on previous occasions over the years, I'm allocating a minder."

"Oh, dear God."

"And the Watsons have kindly volunteered."

"Mary will be along shortly," John added.

"Oh, good," Sherlock said, brightening. He pushed himself out of his seat and quipped, "Just like the good old days. Let me know when it's dinner time. I've got a hankering for fish and chips."

He made to vacate the living room for the kitchen when Mycroft, also rising from his chair, called him back.

"And we'll be instituting a curfew."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"Why?"

"Even with your rapidly deteriorating brain cells, surely the reason is obvious. And what's more…" With the tip of his umbrella, Mycroft indicated along the hallway as if casting a spell. "Your bedroom door is shut. So if you weren't stalking Ms Hunter last night, or frequenting your usual haunts for substances to abuse, I gather you were trawling the nightclub for new conquests?"

Puzzled, Sherlock directed his own gaze towards his bedroom. The door was, indeed, shut.

Curious.

His mind ticked over.

The last time he'd had an intruder in his bedroom was a few days after his return from abroad. He'd been chasing Irene Adler and she had enjoyed eluding him. Had she done the same last night? Lured him to the rave club, only to end up lying in wait for him in his flat?

"Ah… excuse me," Sherlock said distractedly, making a cautious bid for his bedroom.

"Sherlock," John called.

Sherlock made it all the way to his bedroom door without being rugby-tackled by an irate ex-army doctor.

Heart hammering, he twisted the doorknob and gently pushed open the door.

This could all be over, he thought, a surge of hope making his heart feel buoyant. The data on Adler's phone could contain enough information to bring down James Moriarty. And she was right here, in his bedroom!

In the dim lighting of the room, Sherlock could barely make out the crumpled figure in his bed. He quietly closed the door behind him, then bent low, switching on the bedside lamp.

He blinked a couple of times, his eyes deceiving him into thinking it was Violet who lay with her back to him, wearing one of his pyjama shirts.

But then the figure stirred, rolled over, and…

"Fucking hell," Sherlock muttered. But his heart tripped in delight. "You can't be here!"

"Sherlock," Violet murmured sleepily.

In an instant, Sherlock was upon her. Arms twined around his neck. Warm, luscious lips met his. A great weight was lifted from him. Violet was here, not in Dan's office. Not with her legs wrapped around the nightclub manager's torso—not that Sherlock still thought that, but last night's nightclub office discovery had appeared like a ghostly picture in his Mind Palace, as if he'd been staring at a bright image for far too long and its negative was left rendered on his retina.

With great reluctance, he eased out of their kiss.

"Why are you here?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"Because you told Danny I had to keep my window secure from now on, so I didn't think you'd be able to sneak into my flat." Clever girl. "And if you came to the club, Tim might have spotted you."

"Tim?" he asked. As in Timothy Killaney, her co-star? What did that have to do with anything.

Violet's eyes widened minutely, as if she'd spoken out of turn.

"Besides," she scrambled to add, creases appearing in her brow, "we need to have a serious talk. I think you need help. Have you been out all night?"

"Sorry, what? Help?"

Sherlock straightened up, allowing Violet to pull herself up to a sitting position.

"You… on this case," she explained. "I don't think—"

Tentative knocks on the bedroom door interrupted Violet's explanation.

"Sherlock?" came John Watson's voice.

"Is that…?" Violet whispered.

"John," Sherlock finished for her. "And Mycroft's out there, too. We're having an intervention, apparently. I've been drowning my sorrows a little too much."

"That's what I'm talking about," Violet continued in a hushed voice. "So, let him in."

"What? … Why?"

"Let him in. I'm tired of this."

"Sherlock?" John said again. "Everything all right?"

"Let him in," Violet repeated. "Open the door."

Sherlock heaved out a sigh, then rose from the bed. Opening the door, he found a concerned John Watson. In the living room, Mycroft stood beside John's old armchair, regarding them both.

"Is she here, then?" John said. He mouthed the name, "Irene Adler".

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock said. "I was thinking along the same lines myself." He gestured towards his bed and opened the door a little wider, in a bid to invite John inside.

John puffed out his chest, as if steeling himself for the encounter, then took a step forward into the room.

His jaw slackened when his gaze caught sight of Violet Hunter, sitting up in Sherlock's bed, wearing one of his shirts, and smiling up at their visitor.

"Violet," John said, his voice soaked with a heavy dose of incredulity.

Violet leapt out of bed, flung her arms around the stunned doctor, and said, "I've missed you all!"

Awkwardly, John patted her back, and said, "We've… er… missed you… t-too."

Violet eased back and said, "Sorry. Not really dressed for the occasion. Sherlock, could I wear your dressing gown?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply, reached behind the bedroom door and handed Violet the dressing gown that hung there. Her expression morphed into one of disgust.

"Not that one!"

It was his favourite blue dressing gown. What was wrong with it?

Oh. It was the gown Irene Adler had been wearing the night Violet walked in on them. He'd forgotten he was supposed to discard it!

"It's been washed," he said. "Dry-cleaned, even."

"What's going on?" John asked. "I mean… Are you two…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course John would conclude Sherlock had "reunited" with Violet in the club, just like they had done after their previous separation.

Thankfully, Violet—albeit reluctantly—began donning Sherlock's gown.

"I'm here because Sherlock needs help with our case," she said.

"What case?" John predictably asked.

Tying the dressing gown sash around herself, Violet made for the door.

"And we need Mycroft, too," she said.

Sherlock wearily followed John and Violet out of the room, bowing his head—the condemned being led to the gallows.

"Ms Hunter," Mycroft bid Violet by way of a greeting. The quirk of one eyebrow signalled his surprise at the actress's reappearance in 221B.

Violet, for her own part, was far more enthusiastic about their reunion. She grabbed Mycroft in a hug, held fast, and said, "I've missed you the most!"

Seeing the look of horror on his brother's face made Sherlock's morning all the more brighter. He couldn't have asked for a more fitting final request before his execution.

"Well, this is a surprise," Mycroft commented unnecessarily, stiffly patting Violet's back until she released him. "Our mother will be delighted."

"Oh, it's all top secret," Violet replied. "Sherlock," she said, throwing a glance behind her. "Put the kettle on would you? We've got work to do."

What was going on here? Was Violet high? Her bubbliness within minutes of waking was hugely out-of-character for Violet Hunter, his girlfriend and actress.

Although, for Violet Hunter, She Who Plots Murder, perhaps this was business as usual.

"Why don't we all sit down," Violet said, taking her own seat in Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock dutifully grabbed the kettle and began filling it with water. The others waited in silence—John reclaiming his position on the dining chair, and Mycroft in John's old armchair. It seemed oddly surreal to Sherlock that Violet was commanding the three reasonably assertive males in the room and taking up prime position in the most superior male's chair.

After returning the kettle to its holder and switching it on, Sherlock leant against the bookshelf nearest the entrance to the living room.

"It's probably too late to ask this now, Mycroft," he said, "but is my flat secure enough for this conversation?'

"Despite not knowing exactly what 'this conversation' pertains to, I can confirm that indeed it is."

Of course he could. The pompous arse had minions sneaking in and out of 221B for weeks. As if Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Because if not—Violet," Sherlock added, looking pointedly at his girlfriend, "our cover's been blown."

"Oh, shush, Sherlock. I made sure nobody saw me enter. I am the most talented actor you know, after all."

She made the last remark with a hint of bitterness in her voice. Sherlock filed that away for future examination.

"You mean you didn't arrive here together?" Mycroft asked.

"I had no idea Violet was in my bedroom," Sherlock replied. "I've been sitting out here since returning from… the club." No need to tell John and Mycroft that he had unsuccessfully attempted to break into Violet's flat in Chelsea.

"What's all this about?" John asked Violet. "What cover?"

"Sherlock and I never broke up," she began.

"Dear Lord," Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock bowed his head and scratched at his scalp. What a way to start the new year!

#

Author's Note:

Unfortunately, FFNET doesn't have a like button. I'm not going to know if you enjoy my updates and want me to keep uploading chapters if you don't ever review! A couple of words in the review box… that's all it takes! Thank you!

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