Chapter 27 - I've Been Slow, Far Too Slow
March 2014
"Did you even stop using after I left?" Violet yelled.
Sherlock alternated his gaze between John Watson and Violet, a look of confusion on his face. John was clearly seething as well.
Violet found Sherlock inactive on the sofa once more, looking no better than the day she'd learnt from the Watsons that he'd been abusing synthetic stimulants. After her confession—that Moriarty was behind her career—Sherlock had been seized by a deduction and run off as if he was on to something. Then what had happened after that? She'd nursed him through one night of withdrawal. But she had commitments in the days following—the London premiere of The Rise of the Five and all the nonsense that went with it.
Violet wanted to blame John. Mary. Mrs Hudson. Wasn't anyone looking out for him?
John told her he had a clinic to run, but a look of guilt flitted across his face.
"I thought he was working again," he added. "You know, back on the case. He doesn't use when he's working."
"I'm right here," Sherlock interrupted, rising from the sofa. He made his way towards the kitchen, wobbling a little.
There was a clicking in Violet's brain — like cogs turning, gears shifting. She tensed every muscle in her body as she tracked Sherlock across the floor. Without taking her eyes off him, she addressed his ex-flatmate.
"John, would you mind giving us a minute?"
"Uh… yeah… okay," John replied. He cleared his throat as if to counteract the awkwardness that now hung heavily in the room.
Violet waited until John had rounded the staircase. Sherlock was heaping sugar into a tea cup when she joined him at the kitchen counter.
"Am I the only one willing to do anything about him?" she said.
"Who, John?" Sherlock asked. "He's fairly harmless if you ignore—"
"I'm talking about Jim! Moriarty!"
Sherlock stopped what he was doing, the teaspoon poised on the side of the tea cup.
Violet felt a tightness building up in her chest. She had expected to arrive at 221 with Sherlock enthusiastically describing all the details that led him to an entirely connected case. To find him like this, again…
She drew in a steadying breath.
"He's ruined my life," she said evenly. "Our lives. My career." She paused to swallow the lump in her throat. "Maybe he's ruined yours, too. I don't know." She shrugged. "I've got no idea what you've been doing all this time. Have you even been working? I thought we were in this together. It's our case! Does that even register in your brain anymore? Do you care?" Violet waited for Sherlock to respond. To say something!
Something to let her know there was an ounce of intelligence left in him.
At Sherlock's continued silence, during which he carefully spooned another heap of sugar into his cup, Violet felt her cheeks flush.
"I'm going to do something about it," she said, seething. "About him. Whether or not you help me."
"And what are you going to do?" he asked lethargically, stirring the cup full of… what? Sugar?
Something inside Violet snapped.
She reached across Sherlock, grabbed a knife from the knife block and whirled around. She flung it straight at the bison skull above the living room table—a throw she had learned on the set of Rise of the Five, a throw that would hit its mark between the eyes with a loud thwack, the hilt of the knife reverberating dramatically. Instead, the knife tilted sideways, clipped the edge of the Bison's headphones, then bounced off the wall, falling to the table with a dull clatter.
Violet drew in a deep breath and set her jaw firmly.
Beside her, Sherlock snorted out a laugh.
She turned from him and stalked from the room. Making it to the landing, she heard Sherlock call behind her.
"Wait!" But she kept going. "Wait!" She heard his hurried footfalls tromping down the staircase as she rounded the bend. "Violet!" Sherlock grabbed her arm. When she turned to him, he added, "Sorry… can't keep up with my brain. It's too fast."
"I'm not sure it's working at all."
Violet made to continue down the stairs when Sherlock bid her, "No, wait! You were going to do something… Something that's not right."
Pulling her arm from his grasp, Violet replied, "You'll figure it out sooner or later." She continued her descent.
"Violet!" he called again.
As Violet reached the foot of the stairs, John emerged from Mrs Hudson's kitchen.
"You can't go," Sherlock said. He paused on the last step, leaning heavily against the wall as he bowed his head to rub his temple, pain etched on his face.
Violet redirected her gaze to John.
"Look after him," she said, her voice cracking. "I can't do this any more."
"Do what?" Sherlock rasped. He appeared to be making an effort to keep his eyes locked on her this time. "Because you…" He waved a limp hand at her as he took the last step. "You… can't talk. You want me to stop using? What have you been doing? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You're one Bordeaux away from cirrhosis of the liver. I'll stop when you stop."
Violet clenched her fists by her side and took a step closer.
"I'm not the one lying on my sofa!" she snapped. "I'm still working! I still have relationships with people. I'm… I'm still contributing something meaningful to society!"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Something meaningful?" he repeated, slowly, deliberately. "How is what you do contributing anything meaningful?"
Violet lifted her chin.
Speaking with deadly calm, she said, "I'm going to do something about him. Something you've failed to do, Sherlock. You haven't solved our case. Jim Moriarty's won."
There was a flicker of hurt in his eyes before he blinked and it was gone. But Violet didn't hang around long enough to wait for his next reaction. She strode purposefully for the door and escaped into Baker Street.
#
Sherlock blinked against the eye drops, pried his left lids apart, tilted his head and squeezed the bottle.
"Did her insult jolt you out of your… your…" stammered John.
Sherlock would've rolled his eyes, but they were more or less occupied at the moment. He tutted instead.
She hadn't insulted him.
Well, not really.
She had made a deduction, that's all. He should applaud her for it.
But it wasn't just Violet's "deduction" that had eased him out of his drugged-out stupor. It was the gradual realisation that he wasn't even competent. He wasn't "using" properly. Where had those heady days gone living in Montague Street? Except for the end. That was a bit not good. But before that.
Sherlock Holmes used cocaine intravenously to fill in the lull between cases. Or during cases, if he needed that extra boost. There was a trick to hiding his drug use, or "addiction" as ignorant people liked to call it—namely his brother and Graham Lestrade. Stimulants filled in the gaps of boredom like a bricklayer slathering mortar between the cracks. But these days, the walls were crumbling, and the gaps were considerably wider. And 3-FPM wasn't cocaine.
"Here," he said, returning the bottle of eye drops to John. Striding from the window towards the kitchen, he asked, "What else have you got for me?"
He heard John blow out a breath before the man replied, "Nothing that stimulates or anaesthetises you."
"Pity."
He heard John cluck his tongue. Where was the doctor's sense of humour?
Sherlock lifted the kettle, gently swished it around to test the water level, then set it back in its holder. He flicked it on and tried to sift through the debris of discarded thoughts.
"She was pretty bloody mad," John continued, and this time Sherlock did roll his eyes.
"She'll calm down," he said. Of course she would, once she realised her own substance abuse wasn't so different from Sherlock's. "I expect she'll turn up sometime during the night."
"Do you even know what day it is?" John asked, his voice rising in incredulity. "Violet left on her promo tour last weekend. They're in Singapore now, apparently."
Sherlock blinked twice to pause all other thoughts and let John's statement sit there for a moment. Had it been days since he last used? It felt simultaneously like yesterday and a hundred years ago. No matter.
But Violet.
He thought she'd given up on all that nonsense now it was out there that her career path was dictated by the whims of the Consultant Criminal. Oh, but wait. It was only Sherlock and his entourage who recently found out that information. The rest of the world was still completely ignorant. But Violet had been living with the knowledge for months. Why would she continue with the charade?
But there was something else… something she hadn't told him in so many words. In the state he'd been in the other day, he really did need her to spell out everything. Was she talking about…?
He shook his head and stared at the blank spot on the kitchen counter where his tea cup ought to have sat. His movements feeling stiff and foreign, he reached up and retrieved a cup from the overhead cabinet.
She was, wasn't she? Talking about doing away with Jim Moriarty. That's what she was inferring. All her drunken ramblings during Christmas had now entered the forefront of her mind stone cold sober. How could he have let her leave with that idea in her head?
Sherlock could feel John Watson approaching, concern wafting from him like the stench on a month old corpse.
"How's the Lauren Myrtle-Moriarty thing going to help us?"
Ah, his deduction from… before. Useless.
"It doesn't," Sherlock replied.
But John's words prompted him into reaching up for a mug. He grabbed another automatically. "Tea?" he asked his friend.
"Uh, yeah," John responded before about-turning and retreating into the living room. "But doesn't it help figure out stuff—knowing his background?"
"Sometimes," Sherlock muttered, busying himself with the tea things. But he had to clarify things with John. Perhaps Violet had been drunk when she'd visited. He had noticed something, obviously. Made a deduction, even.
"Was Violet—" he began.
"That's your phone," John interrupted, indicating the table beside Sherlock's armchair upon which his phone sat.
Before Sherlock had crossed into the living room, John reached over from his chair and grabbed the handset.
"Sherlock's phone," he answered. "John speaking."
While Sherlock waited impatiently (must be a client; it was a default ringtone), John frowned and said, "Er… yeah, he's just here." Handing over the phone, he added in a low voice, "Sounds a bit desperate."
Sherlock held back a weary exhale. The last thing he needed right now was a client who proclaimed their spouse was cheating on them. They were invariably right.
"Yes?" he said.
"Mr Holmes."
He waited a beat, ensuring the voice he was hearing actually matched the one stored in his Mind Palace. She had been texting him relentlessly while he'd been "offline". Texts such as, 'Where are you?' 'Are you on vacation?' 'I miss your sultry face!' 'Nice corpse washed ashore yesterday. Where were you?'
Sherlock had finally texted back (and he rarely texted back), 'I was working —SH'
In response, he received another nude photo from the Woman for his troubles.
"Ms Adler," he said into the phone.
John's eyebrows shot up.
"They've found me," Irene Adler said, desperation in her tone. "You have to come. You're my protection. I'll text you the address."
"Why should I believe you this time?" Sherlock asked. Irene Adler had been making him pursue her all over London the last time he was in contact with her. Why should he do her bidding on this occasion?
But the ambient noise of thudding club music ceased, and Sherlock knew the Woman had ended the call.
"What's going on?" John said.
"We haven't a moment to lose," Sherlock said, snapping into action. Irene Adler had phoned him, not texted! That was why he should believe her this time.
#
"Dammit!" Sherlock yelled.
Hands clenched by his side, he spun from the chain link fence and the line of police officers preventing more punters from entering the vacant parking lot and therefore the illegal rave party.
"Well, they're not pulling anyone out," John said, nodding towards the previously-abandoned office block. It heaved with strobing lights, the silhouettes of gyrating bodies and the heavy base of a technotronic beat.
"They'll arrest the organisers as they leave," Sherlock said, making tracks for the road.
He pulled out his phone, dialled Irene Adler's number, then pressed the phone to his ear. After three rings, it went to a standard voicemail message. He swore under his breath and was just about to dial her number again when a text message appeared.
You're leaving already? And we haven't had a dance yet. x
Sherlock tutted and rapidly typed,
I take it you're no longer in danger? —SH
"What's she saying?" John asked.
He read Irene's next reply, then shoved the phone into his coat pocket.
"It was another ruse."
"You're joking!"
"Wish I was."
He turned on his heel and strode away, only vaguely aware of John's hurried footfalls struggling to keep up.
Back in Baker Street, Sherlock sat in his armchair for the rest of the night, brooding. Understandably, John left for home.
What joy did Irene Adler get out of tormenting him? Did she want protection or not? And how was he going to pry her phone away from her?
And more importantly, what was Violet going to do? And how could he prevent her from doing something stupid?
The light of dawn, a cup of tea and witless babble from his landlady brought no answers, so he hightailed it across the city and imposed himself on his brother.
"Must be important for you to pay me a visit," Mycroft said, loosely gesturing towards the chair opposite. "What have I done this time?"
Ignoring the invitation to take a seat, Sherlock gathered his thoughts. The last time he'd made an unannounced visit to his brother, he had demanded to hear the audio recording of a surveillance video of Violet and Jake Venucci. Not a good time in his life, admittedly. Although his current situation was hardly a walk through the morgue either.
"I think Violet's going to do something stupid the next time Moriarty turns up," he gushed. "Can you discreetly monitor his movements? I want to know precisely the moment he leaves the U.S. heading for the same country Violet's visiting."
Propping elbows on the armrests of his chair, Mycroft Holmes threaded his fingers together. He drew his mouth into a thin line.
"And then what will you do?" he asked with a tilt of his head. "Fly to Kuala Lumpur? Auckland? At the drop of a hat? I'm not sure you'll arrive in time to save the day. What about bodyguards? Surely the… what do they call them… film promoters… they must have some semblance of a security detail? All those fans." Mycroft grimaced in distaste.
"I'm worried about what Violet's going to do to Moriarty, not the other way around."
"And what do you think Ms Hunter is going to do to James Moriarty?"
Sherlock thought for all of two seconds before replying, "Murder him."
His brother quirked a humorless smile.
"Isn't she full of surprises."
"So…?" Sherlock prompted.
Sighing heavily, Mycroft Holmes regarded a spot on his desktop for a moment. Sherlock knew what that silence meant.
"All right, Sherlock." The lizard smile was back. "I can at least monitor his location if you like." Reaching for the phone, he added, "And then we'll see what can be done about Ms Hunter."
#
"Sherlock! Sherlock!"
But the Consulting Detective couldn't stop to answer his friend. Sprinting the length of the alleyway, every muscle protesting, Sherlock finally reached the back door to the warehouse. It was padlocked. And even more curious, the warehouse was deathly quiet. Where was the music? The rave party?
Puffing heavily, John Watson came up beside him.
"Come on, think!" Sherlock bid himself, bringing his fingertips to his temples and shutting his eyes tight.
"Wrong location?" John said.
"No," Sherlock replied, his mind navigating the route they'd just taken. "This must be right."
"Where've you sent Mycroft's people?"
"Other side," Sherlock swiftly answered, as if words were at a premium.
A single gunshot rang through the air.
He snapped his eyes open.
"No! No, no, no, no, no…"
Sherlock took off at a sprint in the opposite direction, the crisp night air burning his throat and lungs. He could hear John's footfalls far behind him. Ducking down another alleyway, he suddenly doubted himself. His mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be. Had he retrieved the wrong portion of the map in his Mind Palace?
Sherlock finally pulled up stops in front of a chain link fence. By the time he had made it to the top rail, John joined him, his chest heaving.
"I can't wait for you," Sherlock said, dropping to the other side. "Hand me your gun."
John looked like he was trying to swallow his protest, but he reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out his army-issued revolver. Handing it over the top of the fence, he said, "Just… don't…"
Sherlock nodded and reached for the gun. He didn't really care what he was agreeing not to do. He took off once more.
His chest ached with each stride, every breath short and sharp. Leg muscles heavy. He was desperately out of shape, he knew that.
Irene Adler's last phone call to him was different again. She barely said his name before there was the sound of a scuffle, a muffled cry, then silence. Seconds later, a message arrived containing a single photo of the exterior of a warehouse. Sherlock recognised the brickwork and the silhouetted skyline behind it. He was sure of that.
As he approached the next lot of warehouses, he became aware of a glow of headlights. Rounding the building he entered the scene that was all too familiar.
The scene of a murder.
#
Author's Note:
I'm so sorry this update has been a very long time in coming! I've suddenly found myself with a bit of extra time on my hands! How are you coping? I hope you are all keeping well and safe during this time.
~elbafo
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