Chapter 28 - Bet You Never Saw This Coming
March 2014
"How did he recognise her from… not her face?" he heard Molly say to Mycroft as the mortuary door swung shut. It muffled any possible reply his brother may have made.
Walking along the low-ceilinged basement corridor, Sherlock tried to dismiss the pang of regret. The ache of failure.
"Apparently you have the code," Mycroft called to him.
Sherlock stopped at the end of the corridor, his thoughts stalling. Mycroft made his way towards him, his hand already reaching into a breast pocket.
"What code?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft handed Sherlock a cigarette.
"The code that unlocks her phone," he replied.
"No…" Sherlock said, lighting the cigarette.
"She was overheard telling her assassin to 'ask Sherlock Holmes'. They'd been demanding she unlock her phone and wanted the code. She seemed to enjoy taunting them."
"Then she was stalling," Sherlock replied, taking a drag.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.
"Are you sure?"
"I think I'd know." Making for the lift, he added, "But what does it matter? Without the phone, what can we—"
"I have the phone," Mycroft said calmly, coming up beside Sherlock as he pressed the button for the lift.
"What?"
Mycroft patted his coat pocket.
"Ms Adler handed a copy of her phone to the contract killers," Mycroft explained. "An exact replica in all ways except the one that mattered. The data. Clearly they hadn't thought to search her before they abandoned her body."
"Then how do you know this isn't the copy?"
"Why would she hand over her insurance policy?"
"Without knowing what went down, you have no idea what you possess," Sherlock said irately.
"Then tell me the code and we'll both find out," Mycroft said.
"I don't know the code."
Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out a mobile phone.
"The information this device can reveal," Mycroft began, idly turning the phone over, "can end all this nonsense. Why are you acting so obtuse?"
"I don't know the code," Sherlock repeated. Who was acting obtuse?
As the lift doors opened before them, Mycroft said, "Think back, Brother Mine." Sherlock set his jaw firmly, swiftly entering the lift and turning to face the doors. "In whatever Mind Palace vault you store your clandestine liaisons," his brother continued, joining him inside. "The private conversations you had in your flat. Among those… souvenir photos Ms Adler sent you, surely there's—"
"Nothing!" Sherlock said, punching the ground floor button with his fist. He bristled at his brother's inference that his and Irene Adler's interactions were more than a few stilted conversations in front of his fireplace. Clandestine liaisons? Souvenir photos?
They navigated the corridors of Barts and exited onto Giltspur Street. As the town car drew up beside them, Mycroft once more bid Sherlock to try a little harder to recall the conversations he'd had with Adler.
"I know you try to delete those memories that cause you pain," Mycroft went on, to Sherlock's horror, "so if you've been unfaithful to Ms Hun—"
"You've got to be joking."
"No. I'm serious. She sent you those photos on purpose," Mycroft said, climbing into the vehicle. With one hand on the door handle, he added, "If you get any ideas, you know where to find me."
She sent you those photos on purpose.
On purpose.
Photos of Adler.
From every angle.
Why?
"Stop!" Sherlock said as Mycroft made to close the door on him. He blinked a couple of times as an idea came to him. "How many characters does the code need?"
"Six," Mycroft replied. "Why?"
One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile.
"I have an idea," he replied.
#
Violet drained the rest of her glass.
"Top up," she commanded her P.A. Then she added. "That was my second."
Mandi raised an eyebrow.
"That was your third, actually."
"It was my second," Violet said, moving her glass closer to Mandi. "I think I'd know."
With a heavy sigh and a stifled eye roll, Mandi grabbed both their glasses and headed over to the mini bar.
Violet sank back into the sofa, grabbed the remote control next to her and turned up the volume on the news channel.
"… at high-security Belmarsh Prison in South London," the news anchor read, "and will be sentenced next month. In other news, a Hollywood studio executive was arrested late last night by the FBI for human trafficking out of the United States."
Violet sat up straight, her eyes widening. As she watched it all unfold, the world slowed to a crawl.
"Oh, my God!" she breathed.
"What?" Mandi asked.
"… outside the Metropolitan Detention Centre in downtown L.A. Maryanne what can you tell us about the case the FBI has been investigating?"
Violet leant forward, straining to hear.
"Thank you, Rhonda. These last few months the Federal Bureau of Investigation has been working closely with INTERPOL..."
"Who's that?" Mandi asked, drifting over from the mini bar, wine glasses in hand. "Oh! Isn't that…?"
"...now being held in federal custody over the weekend awaiting a pre-trial hearing on Monday."
"They haven't said his name," Violet murmured.
"It's him, though isn't it? That guy… the executive from Etienne-Lumiere… the one producing Canning Town."
"...The man, identified only as an Irish national at this stage, will appear in federal court along with his accomplices..."
"Accomplices," Violet echoed, distracted.
"…and now we head over to the seaside town of Whitby, the infamous setting of—"
Violet's mind was abuzz with a multitude of thoughts.
"It's that woman again," Mandi said beside her, phone in hand.
"What?"
Mandi held out Violet's phone, which was ringing, to show her the caller ID.
Mary Watson.
The hollow inside Violet's chest expanded just that bit more. Mary had phoned last night as well, but Violet hadn't wanted to speak to her. They'd just returned from dinner where Violet had consumed a tad too much red wine and then a couple of vodkas with lemonade. There may have been a few shots thrown in for good measure. Damn that Heath Camblin and his drinking games!
After Sherlock's deduction about Violet's drinking, once in front of Mary, Violet hadn't wanted to talk to Doctor Watson's wife while she was feeling a bit tipsy.
Leaving last night's call to go through to her messaging service did nothing to alleviate the worry, though. What if Mary was ringing to deliver bad news about Sherlock? Despite Violet walking out on him, it wasn't the lack of caring that had prompted her. The missed call niggled at her all day.
Maybe Mary was ringing about Jim's arrest? Did Sherlock have something to do with it? But Sherlock was probably still using designer drugs and lolling about on his sofa. Maybe Mary was ringing about Sherlock after all. He could've OD'd!
"Am I answering it?" Mandi asked.
Heart hammering, Violet drew in a steadying breath and reached for the phone.
"Mary," she said, rising from the sofa and striving to make her voice sound light and unaffected. "How are you?"
"Violet! I'm not ringing at an inconvenient hour am I?"
"No… no… Just winding down… here… long days… living out of a hotel room…"
She tried to add a chuckle at the end, but it came out more like a choke.
"Have you heard the news?" Mary went on.
"About…?" Violet asked cautiously.
"Moriarty."
Violet's chest heaved, her shoulders relaxing.
Not Sherlock! He was okay!
"It… it was just on," she said, indicating the telly, even though Mary couldn't see her gesture.
"It's over," Mary gushed. "Sherlock wanted me to ring you. He didn't think it was appropriate to make the call himself. I would've told you yesterday, before the press got wind of it, but..."
But Violet hadn't taken her call.
Heading towards her bedroom, Violet asked in a low voice, "Did he have anything to do with it?" Closing her door behind her, she whispered, "Sherlock?"
"Yes!" Mary replied. She told Violet about gaining access to Irene Adler's phone, to which Violet's cheeks reddened. That woman! But she was only half listening as Mary went on about the Holmes brothers finding the best incriminating evidence they could send to Mycroft's international contacts, to remove themselves and the British Government from the equation. "So…" Mary said, finally slowing down. "He wants to see you."
"H-how is he?"
"Good," Mary replied. Then after a moment's silence, she added, "Clean."
Violet sank onto the bed, her eyes stinging.
"Well, he thought maybe a weekend away somewhere, you know… private," Mary went on. "Just the two of you, away from the press. And after that, something public, just to let the world know you might be dating again. Can't have you moving into Baker Street the minute you get back. But Mycroft thought Sherlock should work on a couple of cases abroad first. Have a few wins under his belt, get the public's sympathy, after all the stuff the press wrote about him when you broke up. Make it believable that you'd take him back. He's in Amsterdam at the moment."
"I'm still abroad," Violet said, her mind racing. Go on a date with Sherlock Holmes? In public? That sort of freedom seemed like a lifetime ago.
"Well, so's he," Mary replied. "We're thinking the weekend after next. You'll be back then, won't you?"
"Yes," Violet replied. "I'll be back in London…"
She'd have to make sure she blocked out that weekend, so Mandi didn't have her attending the opening of a hair dressing salon, or some rubbish.
"Great!" Mary said. "I'll contact you again when you return."
Violet began breathing again once Mary had ended the call.
A date. With Sherlock Holmes.
Violet ran her fingers through her hair, then patted her cheeks in a pathetic effort to sober up. She had two weeks to stop this nightly ritual. Could she do it?
#
April 2014
Sherlock fingered the green velvet box in his coat pocket and gazed once more along the winding dusty driveway. He checked his watch again.
She'll be there, Mary's voice echoed to him. He was relying on his best friend's wife to pull all this together. Nobody except Mary knew the intricate details of their getaway to an exclusive cottage in Tunbridge Wells. Not even John. But what if Mary hadn't convinced Violet in the end?
"She'll love it," Mary said, her smile stretched wide as she handed over the engagement ring she'd purchased on Sherlock's behalf. Her eyes had glistened as she was overcome with emotion. "Sherlock," she said, stepping into an embrace he didn't realise he was giving.
Yes, he was doing it. Sealing Violet's fate with his.
But they were late.
The high-pitched whine of a power tool drilled into his thoughts.
"What's he doing now?" Sherlock muttered under his breath. The owners, Cecil and Simone, were preparing for a wedding party the following week, and they only had the rest of the weekend to prepare. In return for their hosts remaining discreet about their famous celebrity guests this weekend, Sherlock and Violet would have to endure the various maintenance and preparation work that was carried out around them. Doe Park Farmhouse wasn't originally taking bookings this weekend, but had made an exception.
Sherlock re-entered the farmhouse to find Cecil heating the muzzle of his shotgun with what looked like a hair dryer.
"Ruddy choke's stuck," Cecil yelled to Sherlock over the noise. "Groomsmen want to shoot rabbits Tuesday morning."
Sherlock gave the man a vague nod, then returned to stand sentry by the front entrance once more. Fortunately, they weren't going to be staying in the main house. Since the driveway stopped at the farmhouse, guests had to walk the rest of the way to the secluded cottage that overlooked the woodlands at the rear. Sherlock didn't want the owners to greet Violet. Quiet solitude, that's what he had specifically booked.
He was checking his watch again when Mary's grey Audi appeared winding its way towards the house. Striving to maintain a casual air, Sherlock stepped from the portico to the pebbled drive.
Mary pulled into the guest car park, giving Sherlock a brief wave. He could only just make out the figure in the passenger seat. Could be Violet. Could be a complete stranger.
Could be both.
He held his breath when Mary alighted. On the far side of the car, the passenger door opened. Mary had released the catch on the boot, and the lid automatically lifted as Sherlock approached.
"Sherlock," Mary said, meeting him in an embrace. "I won't linger," she added, accompanying her comment with a reassuring squeeze of his arm. "It'll be fine," she mouthed. Behind her, Violet had rounded the front of the car.
Sherlock waited patiently while Mary gave Violet a farewell hug.
Mary returned to the driver's seat, giving Sherlock clear access to Violet. If only his legs would move. But Violet still wore her sunglasses, so he couldn't read her present mood. For her part, she had turned her attention to the farmhouse.
"How many other guests?" she asked, without meeting Sherlock's gaze.
He quickly looked at Mary, who shrugged and gave him a rueful smile.
"Only us," he said, his voice rasping a little.
With a wave of her hand, Violet replied, "I've just got the one suitcase," and she immediately began walking towards the farmhouse without a backwards glance.
Sherlock locked eyes with Mary once more, but her only reaction was to raise an eyebrow and gesture with a tilt of her head towards the boot.
His cheeks beginning to burn, Sherlock swiftly retrieved Violet's small suitcase and slammed down the lid of the boot. With a wave of his hand, he farewelled Mary, who gave him a grim smile.
"Ah, Violet…" he called out, just as Violet reached the portico. "We're staying in the cottage." He gestured towards the right-hand side of the house and gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
"Lovely," she replied, her voice devoid of emotion. As she followed a red brick path along the front of the house, Sherlock fell into step just behind her.
He should ask, "How are you?" or make some other trite comment. But he didn't do small talk. Violet knew him well enough by now not to be surprised by him launching into a conversation about something very specific. He longed to ask, "Have you stopped drinking now?" or "What do you think about Moriarty's incarceration?" And then he'd get to regale her with the brilliance of his deductions: how he'd figured out the code for Irene Adler's phone. Her measurements! All those nude photos she'd been texting him had a purpose after all!
Of course, he couldn't tell Violet about that.
So Sherlock said nothing.
They rounded the house and continued following the path that crossed a manicured lawn, then dove between a gap in a tall hedge.
"This is lovely," Violet said, stopping to take in the terrace with its outdoor setting and a path that led towards the woodland.
"Yes," Sherlock said. He cleared his throat. "We're too early for the bluebells… but…"
Oh, for fuck's sake. "And the… um… " He gestured with his free hand to the wisteria that threaded its way along the pergola above them. Violet followed his gaze. "We'd have to come back in May… Cecil said. But they're all booked out… so…"
So stop talking about absolute rubbish!
He gave her a sheepish smile—her reaction hard to read behind sunglasses—then he strode to the cottage door. Pushing inwards, he stepped inside, holding the door open for Violet. The cottage enveloped them in its warmth thanks to Cecil lighting the fire earlier. Sherlock had sat in front of it, watching the flames as he'd waited for the minutes to tick by until Violet could join him.
Violet cautiously looked around, her eyes alighting on the king bed that dominated one end of the cottage.
Sherlock closed the door and heaved a sigh. How stupid did he feel now. A king bed. For sleeping together and having sex on! How far were they from that sort of intimacy! But Violet was already approaching the bed. She dropped her handbag onto it, then made a beeline for the door that led to the bathroom opposite.
"Won't be a moment," she said, closing the door behind her.
Sherlock heaved out a breath and deposited Violet's suitcase at the foot of the bed. He raked his hand through his hair, his heart hammering.
Stupid idea.
Whose idea was this?
Looking around the cottage and seeing nothing that could relieve him of this pain, he stepped outside again. The perfect moment for a cigarette. But he stared, hands folded behind his back, along the path overgrown with bluebells. Yes, it would look spectacular in May, he thought, for those who like that sort of thing. And there was something about deer, too. Meant to be a drawcard. For who, though? Surely not the groomsmen who were going to shoot rabbits.
"Still smoking then?" Violet asked behind him.
He spun around. She was casually leaning against the doorway and indicated with a nod the outdoor table upon which an ashtray sat holding the butts of the two cigarettes Sherlock had smoked before Violet's arrival. Nice deduction.
But more alarming was Violet's red-rimmed eyes. She'd removed her sunglasses. And the tip of her nose was a little pink. Sherlock knew those tell-tale signs.
"Are you all right?" he asked, moving towards her.
She appeared to dissolve right before his eyes as she stepped back into the cottage. Sherlock followed her in, because this…. this right now was an emotion at last!
Her back turned to him, Violet sobbed into her hands.
"Violet."
She suddenly turned, buried her face in his chest and held him fast around his waist. Automatically, tenderly, Sherlock banded his arms around her.
"It's all right," he said, smoothing a hand over Violet's back. "It's over."
She continued hiccuping into his chest, so he let her have this moment. Resting his chin on top of Violet's head, he felt his own tension leave him in waves.
Why could he never read her? She hadn't felt indifferent towards him! She'd been desperately trying to keep her emotions in check until they were truly alone.
"… can't… do… this…" she said, turning her head a little.
"Let's sit down," Sherlock said, gently directing Violet towards one of the armchairs by the fireplace.
Violet sniffed back tears as Sherlock took to a footstool in front of her chair.
"We're going to be okay now," he said, cupping a hand to her face and smoothing a thumb across her cheek.
Violet regarded him with tear-stained eyes.
"It doesn't feel… real," she rasped. "When we go back to London… we'll have to pretend again. I-I can't do that anymore."
"No," Sherlock said, bringing his face closer to Violet's. "That's not how it's going to be. When we get back to London, the minute we get back, I'm going to ring you for a cup of coffee. How does that sound? We could go to that place where people celebrity watch, that one near Kensington Gardens… And I'll even tolerate fans asking for your autograph. I'll have to tut just the once—have to stay in character, of course, but—"
He felt warmed when Violet offered him a smile.
"And then we'll have dinner," he went on. "And if we're having a good time, you can invite me to stay at your place. I can even be photographed the next day leaving and looking a little bit dishevelled. I know what the walk of shame is now!"
Violet emitted a chuckle and Sherlock knew he had her. He gave her a lopsided grin in response.
Right here, right now, where emotions were heightened and they sat in such close proximity: now was the time to reach into his pocket and pull out the—
Two sharp raps sounded on the cottage door. Sherlock tutted and bowed his head, briefly closing his eyes at the lost opportunity.
"I'll just be a minute," he said, rising, but not before pressing a kiss to Violet's forehead.
He felt Violet rise and vacate the seat behind him just as he opened the door.
"Sorry, Mr Holmes," said Simone, Cecil's wife. Her arms were laden with towels, a couple of rolls of toilet paper, and a basket containing tea and coffee sachets along with three small tubs of long-life milk. "Before your guest arrives," she said.
"Oh," Sherlock said, reaching for the bundle. "She's already here, but thank you."
"Oh, no!" said Simone, her eyes widening in alarm. "I wanted to fix a curtain to the bathroom window." Shaking her head, she added, "The frosted glass isn't very discreet." Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, "We've had complaints."
"Well, we—" Sherlock began, starting to feel irritated.
"It'll only take a minute. Just need to wedge in the curtain rod… it has one of those spring-loaded attachments, and I…"
"Yes, that's fine," Sherlock replied. "Just give us two minutes, then we'll head out for a walk."
"Oh! That would be wonderful! Thank you!"
Sherlock stepped back to allow the door to fall shut, when Simone interrupted him once again.
"Then I'll be heading off to the shops, so let me know if there's anything else you need. Some chocolate perhaps?"
Sherlock tried on an amiable smile for size.
"We have everything we need, thank you."
His expression immediately righted itself the second the door clicked shut. Offloading the bundle onto the tiny dining table, Sherlock approached the bathroom. Just as he was about to knock, the door flew inwards.
"I heard," Violet said, her eyes glistening with good humour. "We're going for a walk."
"Sorry," Sherlock said as Violet brushed past him.
"No, some fresh air will be lovely. I'll just grab my coat."
Violet's phone began to ring from the vicinity of her handbag. She glanced at it and shook her head.
"I should turn it off," she said.
"Yes," Sherlock said, reaching into his own pocket and drawing out his phone. Curiously, it too began to ring—Mycroft—so Sherlock swiftly turned it off as well. After lightly tossing it onto the bed, he offered Violet his elbow.
"Shall we?"
Sherlock had checked his pocket at least half a dozen times as they made their way through the bluebell-lined path, hand in hand, eventually losing site of the cottage. A proposal in the middle of the woods was still romantic! He could get down on one knee, and the sunlight would be filtering through the trees, highlighting Violet's hair as tears streamed down her face. Perfect!
"Cecil said if we're out walking in the early hours, we might spot a deer," he offered.
"Early hours?" Violet repeated with a chuckle. "You and I?"
They stopped for a moment, facing each other.
"Well, if we don't go to sleep at all…" he said.
"That's more likely."
Sherlock drew in a steadying breath and reached for Violet's other hand, anchoring himself.
"This is a new beginning for us," he said, not quite sure of any other way to start. When Violet's eyes immediately began to moisten, he thought she might already be making a deduction. "And… and…" he added, scrambling.
A shot rang out, snapping the air around them. Furrowing his brow, Sherlock looked back along the path, towards the cottage.
"Was that…?" Violet asked.
Sherlock's mind struggled to change gear.
"A gunshot," he finished. "Cecil's cleaning the shotguns," he added, more for his own benefit than Violet's. "But that…"
That doesn't sound like a Browning B425, his Mind Palace finished for him.
The air buzzed about him in the wake of the gunshot and his own whirling thoughts. Something about…
"Sherlock. What is it?"
His continued silence and gaze that focussed on nothing in particular must've been alarming for Violet.
The phone calls!
Both phones, ringing within seconds of each other.
"Violet, who rang you just then?"
Confusion flitted across her face.
"I-it was… it was Mary," she replied.
Sherlock inhaled deeply, blinking rapidly as his thoughts collided.
Mary.
Mycroft.
"Violet," he said, holding Violet firmly. "This is one of those moments I need you to do as I ask, without question. Do you understand?"
Her eyes had widened considerably, but she slowly nodded.
"There," he said, spinning Violet around until she faced in the opposite direction. "That's west. Stay in the woods, but keep in site of the treeline. Head west. Once you're away from the estate, leave the wood and continue west. You should reach the road, and therefore the pub. It's about three miles."
Violet's breath caught, then released in a rush, so Sherlock turned her back to him.
"Once you're at the pub, ring Mycroft," he said.
Violet furrowed her brow.
"I… my phone…"
"Use the pub's phone."
She shook her head. "I don't know his number."
Sherlock recited his brother's number at a manic pace, which only served to confuse Violet further. Dammit. She'd never remember that!
"Ring the police, then," he said resignedly.
"Why?" she asked, lifting her chin a little. Her stubbornness was revealing itself now. "What are you going to do?"
"Don't worry about me. Just do as I ask."
"Sherlock—"
"Just…" He sharpened his gaze. "…trust me."
Their eyes locked on one another's, but Violet's expression softened before Sherlock's did.
"And then we'll head back to London, and have coffee," he added, a half-smile on his lips.
"I'd rather you do wicked things to me on that king bed," she whispered back.
His smile stretched wide.
Cradling her face in his hands, Sherlock ducked his head and pressed a soft kiss to Violet's lips. Before she could respond, he drew back. He held her for a moment longer, committing her expression—the way her eyes shone with a brightness that warmed his heart—to memory. Then he released her.
"Go," he said, gently prodding her in the direction he needed her to travel before he turned and headed back down the path towards the cottage.
He didn't look back.
After five minutes, Sherlock veered from the path so he could approach the farmhouse at an angle and within the shelter of the chestnut trees. But first, he needed to duck into the cottage and retrieve his phone. And perhaps a weapon of some description.
Before entering, Sherlock stood stock still against the wisteria-lined wall. He strained to hear any sounds coming from the farmhouse, but the whole point of offering the cottage to guests, was that its location offered a great deal of privacy from the farmhouse, and therefore, vice-versa.
Sherlock kept close to the wall as he approached the door. After turning the knob gently, he slowly pushed the door inwards.
Warm air from the fireplace escaped through the gap, and Sherlock stepped inside the cottage.
A man stood at the end of the bed staring at a device in his hand. He looked up in surprise, then a grin spread across his face. Sherlock immediately recognised him from the dozens of photos he'd once studied.
"Well, this is awkward," said Jim Moriarty. "Do you think they double-booked us?"