Author's Note: Apologies— I forgot to add the month to the previous sections. It's currently New Year's Day. Many thanks to those of you reviewed the last chapter! Your enthusiasm and support mean a lot!
ATM I'm participating in NaNoWriMo, so I'm alternating writing this story and an original piece. This means I'm ahead by two chapters, which is the reason for this quick update! Hopefully, I can keep up the pace!
Chapter 25 - The Worst Thing You Can Do
January 2014
"Ah… sorry?" John asked.
He had that pinched look about his face that indicated he was several degrees away from boiling point. It was a good thing this particular expression was directed at Violet and not Sherlock. Although, Violet began wringing her hands, which indicated she was now becoming agitated.
Dammit! Now Sherlock would have to step in. Since he was equally culpable for the deception, John's ire would be directed at him! All those weeks of John worrying about his best friend descending into a self-destructive hell-hole. It was a trick, John! Smoke and mirrors!
"We had to fake it," Violet began, "because one of my friends…" Here, she faltered, and she looked to Sherlock for help. His heart sank.
"The man who threatened Violet initially," he added, walking forward into the room, "the criminal mastermind, if you can remember Violet's unexpected return to London from Australia—he actually carried out his threat. One of Violet's closest friends was murdered."
"Christ, Violet," John said. "I'm sorry to hear that. What friend was that? Are you okay?"
Violet gave John a grateful smile.
"Her name was Emily. We used to share a flat together in Manchester, years ago."
"So…" John said, furrowing his brow in thought. Redirecting his gaze to Sherlock, he said, "That was only going to happen if you investigated him—this criminal mastermind. And if you didn't know his identity…?"
Sherlock turned to Violet.
"Are we revealing his name in this… this trust thing you've got going here?"
"Yes," Violet said, through moist eyes. "If Mycroft and John are going to help you, then we need to tell them… everything." She rubbed her nose with a knuckle after she spoke, a sure sign of deception. Why? Why tell a lie at the same time as revealing an intention to tell the truth? Unless she was going to keep something from them. But what?
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. His brother's gaze was fixed firmly on Violet. His eyes had narrowed to slits. He had noted her deception, too.
Sherlock dismissed the gesture as a hangover from the lie they'd told the rest of the world, because what else could she possibly be keeping from them. He once more addressed John, who had twisted around in his seat when Sherlock started talking.
"James Moriarty," he said.
"Moriarty," Mycroft repeated. "Why do I know that name?"
Violet bowed her head and smoothed a hand over her forehead. Sherlock surmised she was remembering she had instigated the investigation into Moriarty in the first place.
"I had you check out a few things," Sherlock replied. "In the film industry."
"Oh… yes," Mycroft said, wrinkling his nose a little in distaste.
"You know how I like to research anyone of significance," Sherlock went on. Of significance to Violet, he thought to himself, but didn't want to voice out loud, in case it triggered his girlfriend into having another meltdown about her involvement in the death of her friend.
"Who's this?" John asked.
"James Moriarty is the Chief Executive Office of Etienne-Lumiere studios," Mycroft said.
He's feeling tired today, Sherlock thought. His brother hadn't even attempted to haul out his brown notebook, which he often used as a prop to appear more omniscient, when he recited the man's credentials.
Sherlock added, "I assume you had your people run a cursory check through the usual databases. Moriarty is like a spider at the centre of a web. One tug on one tiny strand was instantly detected. Thinking I was investigating him, he came good on his threat."
"So… why the… break up?" John asked, with a tilt of a his head.
"To distance Violet from Sherlock so no further threats could be carried out," Mycroft replied, the thin line of his lips indicating his disapproval. "Obviously."
"Correct," Sherlock said.
"While you…. what?" Mycroft asked. "Stop shaving and start celebrating Christmases with riff-raff?"
"What?" Violet asked, looking offended.
"He doesn't mean you," Sherlock scrambled to add. "I led them to believe I spent Christmas with a homeless person."
"So that was another bloody lie?" John asked. "You spent Christmas with… who? Violet?"
"Yes."
Both Mycroft and John sighed in varying degrees of exasperation.
"So it didn't occur to you that we could be trusted with this information?" John asked.
"It was important we be believed. Having those closest to us—"
"Didn't bloody trust us," John murmured, shaking his head.
When the front door slammed shut downstairs, they all focussed on the light treads upon the staircase. Sherlock saw Violet stiffen, poised to flee, but John said, "That'll be—"
"Mary," Sherlock finished.
"Happy New Year," Mary said, striding in and seeing Sherlock first. She went to give Sherlock a hug when she spied Violet rising from her position in front of the fireplace.
"Violet!" Mary exclaimed. Instead of hugging Sherlock, she side-stepped him and enveloped Violet instead. "You're here! And in Sherlock's robe. Well… I knew you and Sherlock couldn't have broken up."
"Sorry, what?" John remarked.
Sherlock chuckled. Trust Mary to have made such a deduction.
"You knew?" Violet asked.
"It seemed obvious what had happened."
"We never had this discussion," John said to Mary.
"Well, I knew there'd be a reason we weren't supposed to know," Mary went on. "Sherlock would tell us in his own time. We do know now, though, don't we?" She looked from one to the other.
"As of five minutes ago," John muttered.
"So what's changed?" Mary asked.
"Sherlock needs help," Violet replied.
Sherlock exhaled deeply.
"I don't need help," he said, carefully enunciating his words.
"What progress have you made?" Violet asked.
"Well, if this is all there is to know," Mycroft said, rising from his seat, "I'll take my leave."
"You can't leave now," Sherlock protested.
"Since you're not in danger of self-destruction by alcohol over-consumption, my presence is not required."
"Aren't you interested in Moriarty's downfall?"
"I don't find him important at all. All I hear is: a C.O.O. of a major film studio threatened Violet in some way. I've never heard of the man, nor his connection to anything worthwhile."
"When we brought down those networks in Munich and Prague, he heard about it. Moriarty. That means some of the intel Irene Adler keeps on her phone relates to organisations Moriarty is either in business with or somehow controls. Find Adler's phone; bring down Moriarty. And you know the information she has on her phone will have significance to this government and possibly foreign governments you're currently propping up. Now, sit down!"
"Or there's another way to Jim," Violet said.
All eyes were directed upon her.
"How?" Sherlock asked.
"Through Jake."
"No. No way. You're not going anywhere near that man."
"He gave me intelligence about Sebastian Moran, remember. Moran was the middle man, between Jim and Jake. Now that Moran's in prison, there is no middle man. There can't be. There never was anybody else. Jake now has a direct connection to Jim. If I can convince Jake to give him up—"
"No. Far too dangerous."
"Sounds like a good plan to me," said Mary.
They all began talking at once. Sherlock looked around him. This was getting out of hand. Yes, maybe he needed assistance, as in a live skull or two upon which to air his own thoughts, but ideas on how to proceed? And with Violet offering to talk to that loser in Manchester again? Violet putting herself in danger? He felt a spike of adrenalin.
This was going to get messy, and their little conversations and remarks were cluttering his brain.
"All right. Everybody out," he said.
"What?" said John.
"With pleasure," Mycroft said, making a bid for the door.
"Sherlock," John bid him.
"I'm giving you time to mull it over," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. "Everything. I can't think while you're all vomitting your inferior thoughts. Go. Leave! We'll talk later."
"Yeah, thanks," John said. Turning to Mary, he said, "We can't discuss it at home."
"Yes, we can," she replied.
The pair slipped through the door and out onto the landing while Sherlock held the door open for them.
"We don't know if our house is bugged or not," John said as they took to the stairs.
"It isn't," Mary retorted.
"How do you know that?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he closed the door to the landing. John and Mary continued arguing about the status of their flat as they descended.
Alone at last, Sherlock turned to Violet who was still standing in front of the fireplace.
She was standing tall, a firm expression on her face.
Desire spiked through him. But why? Because Violet was once again proposing to put herself in harm's way? Because she was working on a case with him? She was here in his flat wearing his dressing gown?
"The kitchen door," Violet said, the beginnings of a smile playing on her lips.
She knew what he was thinking!
As he locked the kitchen door, Violet brushed past him on her way to the bedroom. He didn't let her get that far.
#
"A tour of the North?" Mandi repeated, wrinkling her nose.
"Yes," Violet said, pushing off her heels and rubbing at her stockinged feet. "But just radio, and a couple of nightclub appearances. Kabuki's, maybe."
Mandi sat across from her, consulting the calendar on the iPad.
"Kabuki's? As in, your Jake?"
Violet hummed in agreement.
"You can't fit that in," Mandi said.
"Make it fit," Violet said firmly. "After Improbity wraps, but before I leave for New York."
"Hang on. That's only three—"
"This is important. Cathy had a few options for me," she said, speaking of Improbity's PR agent. "Instead of next month…"
Mandi tutted.
"They can't organise this all at the last minute."
"Just Manchester then. Forget Liverpool and Sheffield and—"
"Fine."
"I want to do this before I start filming Arthur Avenue. I could be away for… months."
"I said 'fine'."
Violet's heart sank at the thought of her impending relocation to New York. She'd have no contact whatsoever with Sherlock. No emails, text messages or phone-calls. And definitely no sneaking in and out of each other's flats. But if she could get the ball rolling on Moriarty's destruction before leaving for America, perhaps she and Sherlock could be back together again sooner, and he could visit her in New York. Filming abroad wouldn't seem like such a lonely prospect then.
And if Moriarty showed his face before Sherlock brought about his downfall via his networks? Well, Violet had a much more permanent plan in mind for the bastard.
#
"Where did you say Mary went?" Sherlock asked, shrugging on his coat.
John was waiting for him by the front door.
"Where are you two off to?" Mrs Hudson said, wearing bright pink rubber gloves, scouring brush in hand, and dripping suds onto her lino.
"Out," Sherlock said.
"At this hour?"
They exited onto the street, with John repeating that Mary was visiting friends in Donegal. Sherlock didn't like that idea. Why was Mary suddenly "visiting friends" when he and the Watsons were supposed to be working on a case together? Was there trouble in the Watson household? Was John jealous that Sherlock often preferred Mary's theories over John's? By John's grim expression, he didn't like the scenario either.
But Sherlock needed Mary. She could help him choose an engagement ring!
"So we're just going to visit a few clubs and sit at the bar drinking?" John said, as Sherlock waved down a cab.
"That's the plan."
His phone bleeped with a message, and he drew it out of his pocket.
"Sounds like the plan of thousands of twenty-somethings around London," John quipped.
"Yes," Sherlock drawled distractedly as he looked at the photo he received on his phone. His mouth quirked into a smile. "But Irene Adler doesn't have her eyes on a twenty-something," he said, quickly pocketing his phone. "She wants me. And I have to let her know I'm available."
"Couldn't you just take out a Lonely Hearts ad? Tweet it or something."
"I could. She does have her own hashtag, after all."
John emitted a humourless laugh as they both climbed into the back of the cab.
But this was the game Irene Adler liked to play. And now she'd sent him a message. This may be a game Sherlock was willing to play as well.
#
The corridor appeared narrower and the carpet threadbare and colourless, the lighting more foreboding than she remembered. She was stone-cold sober, though, a state she had rarely existed in years ago. It looked like Kabuki's in London, but the Manchester version felt like they were striding down the corridor in a dream from the past.
"All right, Vi?" Danny asked, before he held out his keycard and swiped at the reader.
Violet nodded and held her breath when Dan pushed open the door into Jake Venucci's office.
The man himself was leaning against the desk facing the door, mobile phone in hand. He looked up when they entered.
"Well, well, well," he said, straightening up and pocketing his phone. "Never thought I'd see this. Violet Hunter, bang on time."
"Hiya," she said.
"All right, then?"
Violet met him halfway across the floor, her expression softening into a smile. She didn't resist when he embraced her, didn't turn her head when he pressed his lips to hers.
"Deny him nothing," Sherlock had advised her. "Except… perhaps… another proposal of marriage… and, sex, of course… snogging… the odd grope, here and there. You get the picture."
"I know, Sherlock!" she'd replied.
Violet eased back, though, because the situation was awkward. Dan stood rooted to the spot by the doorway. Both men were her exes now. She was clocking up quite a few, it seemed!
Fake ones as well…
"You look… much better," she said, raising a hand to Jake's cheek. She summoned up a misty-eyed expression as well, while she smoothed a thumb over his stubble.
The last time she'd seen Jake he had been in hospital, battered and bruised—the victim of a punishing assault by assailants operating on Sebastian Moran's orders. By playing on his emotions, she'd been able to get information out of Jake that led to Moran's arrest.
"Still carry the fucking scars, though, yeah?" Jake replied. "And one never healed prop'ly. I think somebody leant on it." His eyes glinted with mischief.
"Something to remember me by."
"I don't need a scar to remember you by."
Behind them, Dan cleared his throat.
"Hey, sunshine," Jake said to Danny over Violet's shoulder. "Why don't you get yourself a drink? You remember the way."
"Fine right here, I am," Dan replied, readjusting his stance. "If it's all the same to you."
Violet bristled at the invisible divide that separated the men who had once been so close.
"Well, it's not all the fucking same to me. What I'm saying is," Jake added, "fuck off and give us some privacy, yeah?"
Violet heaved out a sigh.
"Vi?" Dan said.
"What, you taking orders from our Vi, now?" Jake asked.
"Jake," Violet said in exasperation.
"I'm not here as an employee," Dan said. "To either of you."
"Danny, I'm fine," Violet told him. "Just give us a few minutes. Please."
Violet reasoned Dan had wanted to stay because, firstly, he was her security detail, as allocated by Sherlock, and secondly, he'd witnessed the end result of "meetings" between Violet and Jake on previous occasions.
After Danny had left, Jake remarked, "Jesus fucking Christ. Give him his own patch down south and he's Lord Muck."
"I thought you two were fine."
"We are fucking fine. If we weren't fine, him and me, he'd be sunk at the bottom of the Mersey. Know what I'm sayin'? He's part of me crew. I've always looked after him. He's still me number one lad, Dan."
Violet rolled her eyes. Posturing, that's what they were both doing.
"Are you all sorted out there?" Jake asked. "She showed you the ropes, then, Meg?"
Meg was the DJ Violet was 'assisting' that evening.
"Yes, all sorted. So, I'm heading off. Just wanted to ask you something."
"Yeah, what?"
"Emily."
"What about her?"
"I want to know what part you played in her death? At what point did you give her up? Because her name could've only come from you."
"All right. Okay. I can see you're mad."
"Did you have anything to do with it? Because this is your patch. Jim was in Australia or the U.S. at the time. And it's not as if he gets his hands dirty anyway. Did he order you to make the hit? Did you give her the drugs? Mix the speedball? Who was it? Did you pay them?"
"Fucking hell, Vi. Let us get a word in, yeah?"
He turned from her, but not before she saw a sense of defeat marring his features. He raked a hand through his hair before he turned back.
"It was either you or Emily."
"What do you mean?"
"With him. Moriarty. He wanted to threaten him—your fuckin' cunt of a boyfriend—with your life. Sherlock Holmes. 'Cause it's always about him, yeah?"
Violet recoiled a little at the ferocity of Jake's words, but quickly recomposed herself.
"I made Moriarty think it would be better to threaten one of your friends." Jake shook his head as he recounted his story. Violet listened in stunned silence. "Because you would have to convince him. Your boyfriend. And he liked that, Moriarty. It'd create conflict, he said, between you and… and… Sherlock." It had just struck Violet, that Jake hated saying Sherlock's name out loud. "Drama," Jake went on. "Moriarty loves it. You would insist he stop what he was doing, the great detective, and he wouldn't give a fuck about your friends. Maybe he'd stop, maybe he wouldn't, but it was the conflict Moriarty wanted, more than someone to threaten. Do you see?"
"Y-you traded my life for Emily's?"
"Why wouldn't I? This is you we're talking about, versus some smackhead tart who'd be dead inside a year anyway."
Violet pushed down the loathing she felt for Jake's words.
"And what about Mandi and my dad?" she asked.
"He wanted three people—he said ordinary people like the number three. I gave up Riley, but he weren't having it. Said one drug addict was enough. He wanted a family member—that's where your dad comes in—and he reckoned your P.A. was worth something to you. Your Mandi."
Was it possible to hate Jim even more than she already did?
"So who did it?"
"Who did what?"
"Had her killed."
Jake shook his head and avoided her gaze. He looked everywhere else but at her.
Something boiled inside her, filling every vein with a hate so venomous, her hands began to tremble.
"Drug addicts will do anything for money," Jake said. "Even our Riley."
Violet lunged for him, talons raised. Jake fended her off, grabbing her wrists and shouting at her to stop. The door flew open. As Jake pushed her up against the wall and yelled at her to "calm the fuck down!" she saw Dan, filling the doorway.
"I've got it sorted!" Jake growled back at Danny. "You so much as come in here, I'll have you, too!"
Violet felt the tension drain away as Jake let go of her wrists. Danny checked her over and Violet gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He backed out, closing the door before him.
Violet's eyes stung with tears. Chest heaving, she tried to maintain a steady breath, mentally kicking herself for losing it. This wasn't why she had come tonight.
Propping himself against the wall as he leant over her, Jake said, "One day you and I will stop doing this crap, won't we? One day we'll be… all right."
"That will be the day you stop doing other people's bidding."
Jake shoved off the wall and stalked away from her.
"I work for meself," he muttered.
Violet could feel the heat lessening in her cheeks.
"I have to go," she said, her voice hollow. But she wasn't finished yet.
Making her way to the door, she tried to maintain an even tone as she asked, "How will you murder my dad and Mandi?"
"Oh, don't be so fucking stupid."
"It's a valid question."
Jake shrugged.
"It won't come to that, though, will it?" he said, approaching her. "You and Sherlock Holmes, you're finished. And Moriarty's done with him."
"But he's not done with me."
Jake regarded her for a moment. "What do you mean?"
Violet swallowed.
"He's controlling my career. I don't have a say in the films I make, so Mandi and my dad are still under threat."
Jake slowly shook his head.
"I'm not gonna order a hit on your dad, Vi. Or Mand. What do you think I am? Em—she was…"
"Expendable?" Violet held back her rage. "We're both trapped, you and I. Only I'm determined to do something about it." She allowed her words to sink in, before she added, "If Jim Moriarty didn't exist, we… we'd both be free."
Violet pulled on the door handle and escaped into the hallway where Dan was waiting for her. She hoped she'd planted the seed.
#
February 2014
"Are you sure, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked him. "Because this could result in the man's arrest."
"Look at the bruising," Sherlock said, pointing to the body laying sprawled out in front of them. "Get him to the lab."
Turning on his heels, Sherlock stalked away.
What a waste of time. No more than a five.
In twenty minutes, he was home again. Why did he even bother leaving his flat?
Sherlock closed the image he'd received. The third from Irene Adler.
He stared at the date on his phone as he sat in his armchair by the fire. He had failed her, and now here he was, thousands of kilometres away and unable to contact her. His earlier googling had confirmed for him what he already knew: Violet Hunter had commenced filming Arthur Avenue in New York. She was spotted on location in Manhattan's Little Italy.
The date was the 2nd of February — Violet's 26th birthday. And he had no way of sending her a gift, let alone a birthday message. Mycroft had actually scoffed when Sherlock asked if he had any contacts in Washington D.C. who could just nip up to New York City and deliver a package.
Sherlock scratched at his stubble. He'd shaven for a week or two in the new year, but several weeks of inactivity had him reversing back to this scruffy appearance again. Cases were genuinely few and far between.
He'd mentioned buying an engagement ring to Mary, and, to his surprise, she'd laughed.
"Imagine spotting Sherlock Holmes shopping in Hatton Garden."
"I thought you'd buy it for me."
She'd rubbed his arm, a sympathetic look on her face, before adding, "Let's just concentrate on the case for now. You and Violet can talk about the future when you're back together, yeah?"
Mary had made him feel like an ordinary human being, distracted by emotions. Perhaps she was right.
She bid him to delve further into the Lauren Myrtle case, going so far as to check into both Lauren's and Daisy's past employment histories. They had nothing in common, one being an actress on British soil, the other American. Lauren was much older than Daisy—her pre-acting industry credits included working as an au pair, whereas Daisy had worked in an office supplies store, behind the print-on-demand counter.
If only he could think, Sherlock would work out what to do. He felt less and less like himself.
Deciding to go undercover once more in another nightclub—Irene Adler's message to him surely meant something—he rummaged through his wardrobe to find the black boots Violet had him wear with jeans, once upon a time.
At the bottom of the wardrobe, he found a plastic shopping bag. Strange. Clearly not anything he'd ever stowed there. Sitting on his bed, he idly picked through it, thinking it may have been items Violet had bought one day and had promptly forgotten.
The items, however, were clearly not recently purchased. They were worn and random: a small silk purse, with a procession of elephants embroidered on it, the thread hanging loose in some parts; a blue nylon scarf, several pens, a butter knife, a handful of merchant loyalty cards and finally a plastic container with what looked like various packets of herbal teas.
Puzzled, Sherlock looked over all items again as they lay spread out on his bed. Who on earth did these mismatched items belong to?
And then a thought struck him. The silk purse, slung diagonally across a world-weary shoulder.
Lana!
His heart tripped a little.
When he'd gone to the morgue to identify the body of his homeless network lieutenant, Molly had presented him with this bag of her possessions and he had thrown it into his wardrobe closet upon returning home, without a second thought. Lana used to shove the twenty or sometimes fifty pound notes Sherlock would pay her into the silk purse.
"That means this…" Isn't herbal tea. Sherlock finished the sentence in silent reverence.
Opening the plastic container, he found that the sachets were several varieties of synthetic drugs: cannabinoids, opioids, and stimulants.
Sherlock swiftly rose from his bed and closed his bedroom door.
Upon returning, he flicked through the sachets, carefully reading the labels of each one. Of course he knew the chemicals they contained. He had studied the varieties available for purchase when he was working the Spice case. He had wanted Violet to buy samples from the head shops so he could analyse them in the lab, but she had refused.
Of course he could always…
No, of course not. Stupid idea.
But…
He wasn't feeling one hundred percent. He was only operating at half-capacity. What if he could give himself a boost?
#