Chapter 26 - I Need to Know What State You're In

March 2014

Disguised in a hooded jumper and old trackpants, Violet entered 221B using the key she'd never returned. She could hear Mrs Hudson hoovering out the back. She would've been here yesterday, the day she'd arrived back in London, if it hadn't been for Mandi organising Spencer and Priyal to throw her a little welcome home party.

It had been two months since she'd seen Sherlock. Filming in New York, brief stints to L.A. — a regular on U.S. talk shows and convention panels— she lived a world away. She was only back in London for two weeks before she'd have to travel the Asia-Pacific promoting The Rise of the Five. Six countries in ten days. Madness!

Violet swiftly ascended, avoiding the creaky step as she did so. Both doors to the landing were shut. Testing the door-knob to the living room, she found it was locked as well. Was there anyone home? She couldn't hear anything. Apart from their enthusiastic shenanigans of the past, she didn't know any reason Sherlock locked the doors. Should she knock?

She let herself in.

And there he was—asleep on the sofa with his back to the door. Her heart tripped with joy at seeing Sherlock lying so peacefully.

Violet swiftly entered, locking the door again behind her.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't stir.

"Sherlock?"

He remained still, so Violet perched on the coffee table in front of him. Resting a light hand on his shoulder, she tried to rouse him.

Sherlock slowly rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, wincing as he did so.

"Chri-i-ist," he gasped, blinking against the light.

"Hi," Violet said, beaming down at him.

Deep creases appeared between his brows.

"Is it March already?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

"Yes," Violet said, light laughter in her tone.

"What happened to February?" Sherlock propped himself up onto elbows and looked about the flat. "Wasn't I just talking to someone?"

"I guess you've been busy," Violet said, leaning forward. She pressed a kiss to his down-turned lips, then pulled back to examine his features. He'd obviously had a lot on while she was in the States, if he hadn't noticed the passage of time.

She rose and made her way to the kitchen, calling back, "I'll put the kettle on while you wake up."

She didn't want to interrogate Sherlock further while he seemed groggy and disoriented. Had he been out all night? Sure smelled like it.

After flicking on the kettle, she turned her back on the counter, leaning against it as Sherlock passed her by, staggering a little. She just opened her mouth to ask him what he'd been working on when he waved a dismissive hand at her.

"I haven't progressed on the case," he muttered, "so don't ask me about it." He entered the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Violet heaved out a sigh. Of course he hadn't made progress. Jim Moriarty was still at large, his mere presence fraying her nerves.

The completed script for Canning Town, based on Violet's favourite novel of the same name, had lain unopen on her hotel bedside table for weeks, until Jim reminded her she ought to be more grateful for the strings he'd pulled for her.

"Or should I say," he added, a hint of menace in his tone, "for the people I've had put down for you."

What the fuck had that meant? More people had died at her expense?

So, she'd read the script. Obviously a rush job. Had the writer even read the novel properly? She discussed it with Timothy Killaney when they met backstage on the Marcia Higgins show.

"It's just a series of events," she told him. "Where's the internal struggle?"

The next time Jim had turned up on set, he gave her version two of the script.

"I hope you like the internal struggle in this one," he said. "Unfortunately, the last script writer faced an external struggle so I had to get someone else in."

Shooting was delayed that afternoon, because Violet wouldn't leave her dressing room.

But Sherlock wouldn't know any of this. If he had, would he have progressed on the case?

She heard what sounded like Sherlock dry-wretching, so she crossed the kitchen for the corridor outside the bathroom.

"Are you all right?" she asked through the closed door.

After a moment or two, she could hear water splashing in the sink, a lot of rummaging around with cabinet doors opening and closing. Finally, Sherlock exited into the hallway from the door to his bedroom. He'd draped his new dressing gown around him—the one Violet had gifted him for Christmas.

"I'm fine," he said.

"God, Sherlock, you look awful." Violet hastened over to him and put a hand to his cheek. "And you've got a temperature."

"Yes. Bit of a flu," Sherlock said, side-stepping Violet for the kitchen.

"I've never known you to get sick. Are you taking anything for it?"

"Just need paracetamol," he said, sniffing. Shuffling a few beakers aside on the kitchen table, he found a packet of Panadol and held it up as if it were evidence.

Violet fetched him a glass of water and eyed him critically as he downed the tablets.

"You should probably lie down again," she said. "But… can we say a proper hello, first?"

Sherlock looked slightly alarmed as Violet came forward for a hug. Thankfully, he embraced her, while she held him fast around the waist.

The tension left her as Sherlock rested his chin on the top of her head.

"I've missed you," he rasped.

His confession was unexpected and tinged with so much emotion. A lump formed in her throat.

"I've missed you, too," she whispered. "I can't believe it's been two whole months."

Two months. It had been torture. Almost. New York City was an amazing place to live and work. So much to do, so many distractions. She was busy the entire time, but nights were the worst when she was left alone with her own thoughts.

Sherlock tightened his hold around her. How easy would it be to stay here? She'd taken a risk coming back to Baker Street, but who on earth was still watching 221B?

The front door slammed shut, and Sherlock straightened up. Multiple footsteps sounded in the stairwell.

"Oh God," he said, with a groan. "The Good Samaritans."

Releasing Violet from his embrace, he pressed a finger to his lips and said, "Be quiet. Pretend we're not here."

"Sherlock!" came an irate voice, accompanied with a couple of hefty raps on the door. "So help me, I'm going to smash through this door if you don't open it!"

"It's John!" Violet whispered. But why was he so angry?

She made to move away from Sherlock, but he clasped his hand around her wrist and hissed, "Don't answer it!"

"But it's John!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, John," came a female voice Violet recognised as Mary. "Use the bloody key."

Violet eased herself out of Sherlock's grip and made a bid for the living room. Before she could reach the front door, it opened.

"Violet," John said, his mouth gaping a little.

Relief spread through her. She beamed at John and met him in an embrace.

"W-when did you get back?" he asked.

"In London, yesterday," she replied. "But I've only just arrived here, in Baker Street."

John moved aside, allowing Mary to give Violet a hug. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Oh, you're awake," John said to Sherlock.

"He's a bit poorly," Violet told them.

"I'll bloody say," John muttered.

Puzzled by his attitude towards Sherlock, Violet hastened to add, "He's got the flu."

"Is that what you told her?" John said, addressing Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Flopping down into his armchair, he said, "Oh, John, relax. You'll do yourself an injury."

"What's going on?" Violet asked, looking between the men.

Jabbing a finger at Sherlock, John said, "Why don't you ask him. Ask him why he's got the 'flu'. Although, he probably won't tell you he's been off his tits for months."

"That's an exaggeration," Sherlock retorted. "Six weeks at the most."

"Jeez, Sherlock," John said in an undertone.

Violet looked from John to Sherlock and back again.

"What do you mean?" she asked John.

"And you're keeping the door locked," John said, still addressing Sherlock. "So you're hiding your drug use from Mrs Hudson, too."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock replied. "Somebody keeps breaking in and moving my things around. I'm trying to prevent a robbery."

"That would be Mary and I and Mrs Hudson looking for your drug supply. We've checked all the usual places. Couldn't find anything, but you're obviously still using."

Violet gaped, blood leaching from her face. Drug supply? Still using?

"You took a urine sample the other day, Doctor Watson," Sherlock retorted. "What did you find?"

"You know very well that whatever you've been taking can't be detected in the lab with the usual tests. That's what Molly said, anyway."

"Oh, you've brought her in on it."

"What's going on!" Violet demanded. Her stomach was in knots. How was this even possible? Sherlock taking drugs?

She knew he had a cocaine problem in his early twenties; he'd told her that. But he was… different.

"I'm sorry, Violet," John said, his voice considerably calmer. "For some reason, he's gone from pretending to have relapsed, to actually relapsing."

Mary stepped forward, folding her arms in front of her.

"And we've no idea what triggered it," she said.

Sherlock sat up and huffed an impatient breath.

"I don't need triggers," he said. "I simply use drugs to heighten my thinking process. This is deliberate."

"What?" Violet said, aghast.

Sherlock looked at her properly for the first time since the Watsons had arrived, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.

"Well," he said, waving a hand at her, "You can hardly talk. You've been drinking continually since you left for America. Look at you—your skin's dry, your face is a bit puffy. And there were those rumours on Twitter about you being late to set each day. Up drinking in the hotel bar the night before? So what triggered you?"

Violet gaped a little, feeling her eyes sting. Of course he bloody deduced her. But why did he have to be so mean about it?

What had triggered her?

Who had triggered her.

It had been just a glass of red in the evenings. A harmless glass. One or two. Or three. The days on set had been arduous. Her co-star was a fucking amateur. Jim had been right: the man was a has-been. Violet found herself yelling directions at him herself. Virginia Schalder as a director was far too soft.

Arthur Avenue was supposed to be a success. It was the only film Jim hadn't organised for her. They hadn't even signed a distribution deal yet. Nobody was going to get to see the damn movie anyway!

But red wine gave her an awful hangover, so she switched to vodka. And after her 'incident' with Jim, her shot of vodka wasn't just for the evenings, either.

"Nope," John said to Sherlock. "We're not doing this. Don't make it about Violet."

"No," Violet said. "Make it about me." This was getting out of hand. Sherlock—he'd sunk lower than she'd ever seen him. And for what? To heighten his thought processes? But he hadn't progressed on the case! Violet had to come clean. "It started with me," she continued. "And it'll probably finish with me."

Sherlock sharpened his gaze, looking more lucid than when she had arrived.

"What do you mean?" Mary asked.

Violet drew in a steadying breath.

"Jim's visited me a few times since I returned from Australia."

Sherlock pushed himself out of his armchair.

"Right," he said, grabbing a chair from the living room table and placing it between the two armchairs, facing the fireplace. "Sit," he said.

"Violet's not a client," John said.

"Yes, she is. She always has been. Don't forget, John: clients always start by lying or omitting information. What makes you think Violet's any different?" Narrowing his gaze at his girlfriend, he repeated the order to sit, gesturing towards the chair.

Violet quickly scanned the faces of those around her. With an imperceptible nod, she took the 'client' chair.

John sat in his old armchair with Mary perching herself on the armrest.

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock said, "and don't leave anything out."

Violet stared into the fireplace while she gathered her thoughts. The obvious place to start would be back in Australia and the first time she'd met Mr James Moriarty—after the first cast readthrough.

Sherlock had steepled his fingertips to his lips when Violet began. He stared at a spot in front of him, his gaze unwavering, as Violet told them all about Jim volunteering to approach Stacia Jecks for optioning her novel Canning Town; she filled in the missing details about Jim claiming responsibility for fast-tracking her career from her humble beginnings on Regency Road to the blockbuster superhero sequel, The Rise of the Five. He'd most recently snared her a co-starring role in the thriller, Improbity. And there were more to come.

Sherlock's only response was a tut.

Violet tried to recount the conversations exactly as they had occurred. The devil was in the detail. Remembering dialogue was definitely one of her strengths as an actor. Jim's comments always came with an underlying meaning and perhaps Sherlock, Mary or John could interpret them another way.

John murmured "Jesus Christ" when Violet told them about Hersch Gleitzman and Jim's probable involvement in his murder, but she only skimmed the surface of her interactions with the independent movie mogul, saying Gleitzman had wanted to cast her in a movie and Jim wasn't pleased with his interference.

She told them about Jim visiting her in the studio in London, after they'd leaked their "break up" to the press. She was filming Improbity at the time, and Jim indicated he was going to be a continual presence in her life.

Again, Sherlock tutted.

There were a few more meetings in New York, mostly regarding the Canning Town script and its rewrites, she told them. Violet faltered when she said the first script writer had met with an untimely death because it got back to Jim that Violet hadn't liked the first version of the screenplay.

"Oh, Violet," Mary said.

What she omitted to tell them, though, was the last meeting in New York, which took place in her director's favourite pasta restaurant. James Moriarty was offering to find a distributor for Arthur Avenue, and Justin and Virginia wanted to clinch the deal with a dinner. The last to arrive, Violet approached the table where Jim sat with the Splendor Pictures power couple. On the spur of the moment, she grabbed a steak knife from a neighbouring table. The rest of the patrons disappeared in a blur of movement and voices. Her whole body numbed except for the blood rushing in her ears. As she narrowed the gap between herself and their table, the knife hidden behind her handbag, a waiter suddenly brushed past her, pulled the knife discreetly out of her grasp, and said, "I'll take that, ma'am," in a voice that suggested Violet may have been easing out of a coat and was in need of a cloakroom.

At that same moment, Jim gave her a tiny shake of his head, a knowing look in his eyes.

She spent the rest of the evening either silently seething—angry with herself for not being able to stab the fucker—or feeling sick at the thought of what she had attempted.

Jim ended the evening with a parting word meant only for Violet's ears.

"Nobody ever gets to me."

Justin Behmes later informed Violet that Moriarty was unable to secure a distribution deal for Arthur Avenue.

That may have been around the time Violet included a day-time hit of vodka.

"So, all these roles were won for you by Moriarty," Mary asked, "with the exception of Arthur Avenue?"

Violet nodded.

"Wow," John said under his breath.

"Regency Road," Sherlock said, still looking into the void with his hands in a prayer position.

Violet waited for Sherlock to pose a question, holding her breath. Was he going to deduce what had happened in New York?

"What did he mean when he said it didn't work out?" he eventually asked, bringing his gaze to lock onto Violet's.

Regency Road, Jim had said in the production office in Australia. I got you that role. Didn't turn out quite like I wanted it to, but still. It gave you a start.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "Christa was only supposed to be on the show for a short amount of time. Maybe Jim had pressured someone into extending my role and they refused. Probably harder to get his own way there. More people to threaten. It's like a committee… a team of writers deciding what happens when, and they're a whole year ahead with some of the subplots. I wasn't out of work for very long, anyway. He got me the role in Catherine Hilderness soon after."

Poor Sir Henry Masters, Violet thought. The British theatre icon had been against casting Violet Hunter from the beginning. What had Jim threatened him with?

"You should've told me all this," Sherlock said, his voice flat and unaffected. He was looking away from her again.

The realisation she'd been keeping all this from everyone she was close to, and especially the man who may have able to do something about it, hit Violet in an avalanche of emotions. What initially began as a shuddering exhale, turned into a choked sob, until Violet wept openly into her hand.

"Oh, Violet," Mary said, rushing to her side. "It must've been so hard for you," she soothed. "And being so far away."

"Sherlock," John said in a fierce whisper.

"You did the right thing in telling us now."

"Sherlock!"

Violet lifted her head, wiping at her eyes when Sherlock rose out of his seat. Mary straightened up, but Sherlock bypassed them both, crossing the living room floor before about-facing when he reached the coffee table.

Violet pushed herself out of her seat and turned to face him.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said. Sherlock paused, mid-stride, deep furrows appearing between his brows as if she had rudely interrupted his train of thought. "It's… it's humiliating," she went on. "It wasn't talent that won me these roles. It was Jim blackmailing people. How do you think that makes me feel, having the industry knowing I didn't get the roles on merit alone? How could I admit this to anyone?" Her voice cracked a little, but she persevered. "I've done interviews, so many fucking interviews, answering the same fucking questions about how I've been catapulted into stardom. Aren't I lucky, they say. How does it feel? What's my secret? Which one was my breakout role?" Violet paused to heave out a sigh. She dropped her gaze to run a hand through her hair. "I'm so sick of the fucking lies. I'm sick and tired of this life." Making eye contact with Sherlock again, she added, "I'm not going to give up like Daisy did. I won't give in to him. I just haven't figured out exactly—"

"Daisy," Sherlock said at last. "Daisy Firmington."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said. "Are you even listening?"

Some rapid thought process had Sherlock in its grips. Why'd he latch onto Daisy Firmington? Jim had mentioned her a couple of times.

"He asked me if anyone's said I look like Daisy Firmington," Violet said wearily. There had been an implied threat in his words at the time.

"Oh. Idiot!" Sherlock said, his eyes widening. Stepping closer to Violet, he suddenly grasped her by the shoulders, gave her a brief kiss on the lips and said, "Of course you'll be fine."

After releasing her, he then grabbed Mary and kissed her on the forehead.

"And you," he said. "You were almost right."

Pointing an accusatory finger at John, he added, "And you came up with nothing, as usual."

"Yeah, thanks," John said.

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock had swiftly vacated the living room, making a beeline for the bedroom.

"Sherlock!" John called after him.

"Where is Moriarty now?" Mary asked Violet.

Sherlock was yelling something about "not being idle" and "can't hear my thoughts over everyone else's drama."

"I don't know," Violet said, feeling slightly dizzy from both Sherlock's whirlwind reaction and the sharing of her horrible secret. "His official position's in L.A., but he just pops up anywhere."

Now wearing his suit jacket in place of his dressing gown, Sherlock returned to the living room.

"I have to think. I need a cigarette."

He patted his pockets reflexively.

"Ah, no you don't," John said. "Mary and I will leave, so you don't have to listen to our drama. And you're going to sit there and discuss things with Violet."

"No need, John; it's all here," Sherlock said, tapping his temple.

In no time, he was at the living room door, reaching behind it for his Belstaff.

"Sherlock—" Violet began.

"We all know you're not going out for cigarettes," John said. "I'm coming with you."

"Don't be such a drama queen," Sherlock said, heading for the landing.

"If you're just gonna walk and smoke," John said, grabbing his own coat from the back of a dining chair, "then you can share your thoughts out loud with me." As they disappeared into the stairwell, Violet heard Sherlock's loud scoffing, followed by John's irate tone. "It helps you think, as you keep saying!"

After they had left, Violet exhaled the breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. Did Sherlock really have something to go on? She was almost relieved she didn't have to deal with any fallout from her boyfriend right now.

"Are you okay?" Mary asked.

"What's all that noise?" a voice asked, floating up the stairs.

"I'd better head her off at the pass," Mary said. "You just…" And she waved in the direction of the kitchen. "… have a cup of tea."

When Mary disappeared through the living room door, Violet briefly closed her eyes and willed herself to relax. What a release it was—talking to people about something that was true, rather than existing on a plane of make-believe. But what had she expected to happen?

A murmured conversation filtered up from below which spurred Violet into moving.

She had just filled the kettle and switched it on when Mary returned.

"Just told her John's finally got through to Sherlock," Mary said. "But he's resting now. That'll stop her coming up and vacuuming for a few hours."

"Did you want a herbal tea as well?" Violet asked, reaching for the tea cups.

"That would be lovely."

Mary leant against the kitchen table as Violet retrieved the canister in which she used to store the herbal infusions she had switched to when she lived in Baker Street. She felt a pang of longing for her old routine.

"There might be a camomile and spearmint," she told Mary. "That's always lovely."

"Sounds wonderful." Mary paused for a moment, before venturing, "I did want to quiz you about all the movie-making business, but I.. I really want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine…" Violet gave Mary a half-smile. "I don't mind talking about my work. Just don't ask me how I've managed to win all these amazing roles."

Mary chuckled.

"Fair enough."

Violet started searching through the tea sachets for the one they wanted. She frowned at the unfamiliar choices.

"I've no idea what these are," she said, lifting up what looked like a herbal blend and reading the label. "What do you think this is?"

She handed the sachet to Mary and retrieved a different one so she could read its label, too.

"I think," Mary said, a grim smile on her face, "you've just found Sherlock's secret stash."

"What?" Violet said, examining the label with a more critical eye.

"These are designer drugs."

"Really?"

"Synthetic cannabinoids. And I don't think Sherlock's been taking these ones." Mary joined Violet at the kitchen counter. "There's too many left. He would've been after the stimulants and there aren't any of them here, if there were any. Hopefully John's managing to keep up with him right now."

Violet's stomach dropped.

Though they found a more traditional style of tea and settled into the armchairs by the fire to discuss some of the more charming aspects of the industry, Violet harboured a deep sense of dread, worrying about Sherlock and his drug relapse.

As they were both surreptitiously peering through the curtains onto the street, trying to figure out if Violet could successfully leave the flat without being spotted, a cab pulled up, depositing both Sherlock and John onto the kerb.

"Sherlock doesn't look too good," Mary observed.

Violet decided to stay for the rest of the evening to help Sherlock as he continued withdrawing from whatever substance he'd been abusing of late. John gave him something and told Violet it would help him sleep. He promised to return a few hours later to check in and perhaps give Violet a chance to leave, knowing Sherlock would be in good hands.

She soothed Sherlock in the bath, even though he told her to "fuck off" at one point.

She left him to fall asleep in his bed around midnight. Thinking she'd check in with him one more time before leaving, she peered through a crack in the door.

"Lie down with me," he said.

Relief flooded through her.

Violet settled on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Sherlock shuffled over to rest his head in her lap.

"I'm sorry," he murmured sleepily. "I've… disappointed… you."

Carding her fingers through his hair, Violet said, "Just concentrate on getting better. We'll talk things over… later."

When, though? she thought. She would be in the recording studio narrating the second book in the Jayle Anglesee series. And she had three scripts to read that Jim had delivered via courier to her. She knew which ones came from him directly, rather than her agent—they were tied in a red ribbon. His idea of a little joke.

She had to get this sorted with Sherlock before she headed off on her Rise of the Five promo tour.

"What are we going to do, Sherlock," she whispered into the darkness.

Sherlock murmured something she didn't quite catch.

"Sorry?"she asked.

"Get… married."

Her skin tingled and her breath hitched.

Where had that come from?

"Are you serious?" she asked.

"Mm."

Violet released the breath she didn't realise she'd been holding.

"I'm not sure that's going to help in any way," she said, partly to herself. "If you mean in secret, I don't see how that can work. But if you mean later…"

She drifted off, projecting her thoughts to some place far off into the future.

If they could both sneak off abroad… or perhaps Sherlock could meet her somewhere in the Asia-Pacific region. And what? Tie the knot? What then? It didn't help their situation at all.

But… sneaking away more permanently…

"Remember that couple you told me about?" she said. "It was ages ago. We had just got together… you know… We had our first real fight. I thought you didn't want John to know about us. I think we broke up for about a day." She laughed lightly. "And then you showed me these two rings… from a dead couple. Well, you said they weren't dead. They made a suicide pact and you suspected they were living together somewhere else… new identities, new location."

Violet let the silence carry her words as the idea swam around her head.

Lowering her voice, she added, "Maybe we could do that. You'd know how to fake our deaths and make us disappear…" Violet almost choked saying the words out loud. "A suicide pact."

Her eyes filled with tears as she was overcome with emotion.

"Sherlock?"

His silence told her all she needed to know.

Asleep? So he didn't hear a bloody thing I said!

#

Author's Note: I gave up on NaNoWriMo half-way through the month, so this is all I've written except for a few scrawled notes. I could use the motivation to write faster! If you'd like the next chapter in a timely fashion, you know what to do!