Chapter 31 - Vatican Cameos
Violet tried to look anywhere else but at the gunshot victim across the desk in front of her. She'd never even met the man. Was this the Cecil Sherlock had mentioned?
"There's far too much emotion here," she heard Jim say from the other side of the room. "Take her away, Jake. I'll have my little chat with Ms Hunter later."
Hands now secured behind her back, she was pulled away from the desk. The side of her face sang in pain, but she could still make out her surroundings.
Her breath ran ragged at the sight of Sherlock, lying immobile on the sofa, his eyes closed, limbs slackened. She tried to stop, but Jake pushed her forward.
Moran still crouched on all fours, cradling his bleeding head, muttering curses under his breath in between spitting blood onto the carpet. If she had any fight left in her, Violet would've added a swift kick to the groin as a parting gift.
The least she could do for Kevin.
Slowly shaking his head, Jim stood in front of the French doors, arms folded in front of him. Jake pulled Violet around the other figures in the room, hastening her through the door. Violet looked back.
Another of Moran's entourage was crouching over Kevin. Violet's heart wrenched. Kevin lay face down, a dark patch spreading across the carpet like a bloody halo.
"Don't say a fuckin' word," Jake said as he hurtled her along the passageway.
"But… I…" Violet began, her eyes stinging with tears.
"Not a fuckin'…"
Suddenly a figure rushed at them both, knocking Violet out of Jake's grasp. She lost her balance and toppled to the carpeted hallway, unable to catch herself with her hands tied behind her back.
"Fuckin' cunt!" screamed the man.
The steel-capped boot came out of nowhere. Pain exploded in Violet's ribcage. "He was me brother!"
"Tommy!" Jake yelled, shoving the young man away.
Violet curled up into her side, choking out a cough.
"I'll fuckin' end you!"
She flinched, but no more blows came.
"I'll sort this!" she heard Jake say. "I'll fucking sort it, right?"
"She's dead! Y'girlfriend's dead!"
Opening her eyes, Violet saw Jake shove back the young man called Tommy.
"Sort y'self out!"
Jake hauled Violet to her feet. The world swam.
"Y'all right?" he asked her.
Violet shook her head, her breathing coming in painful bursts.
"Keep going," Jake muttered, half-supporting, half-dragging her towards a doorway to their right.
Wait a minute.
Jake's aggression. Tommy's attack. They thought she'd shot Kevin!
"Jake."
"Shut up."
As Jake opened the door, Violet heard Jim ordering Tommy outside.
"You're on sentry duty now," he added.
The guest room was sparsely furnished. A four-poster bed dominated the space, dwarfing the matching bedside table and antique wardrobe.
"Jake." Her ribs screamed in protest with the effort.
Pushing Violet towards the bed, he snapped at her to shut up. He spun her around so her back was to the bedpost. She could feel Jake's anger radiating from him in waves.
"Jake."
Jake suddenly grabbed Violet by her shoulders, his gaze piercing.
"I'm fuckin' mad, Vi. You shot him. You shot a fucking boy. He was only eighteen."
Violet's mouth ran dry.
"I… I… didn't." And besides, Kevin was nineteen. "Jake." Jake yanked Violet's wrists towards the post, as if he wanted to busy himself and not make eye contact with her. "It was Seb." Her voice cracked as she spoke. "H-he… shot… I only… I had his gun…" Tears stung her eyes.
Jake stopped and straightened up.
"What?"
"Seb shot him."
"Seb."
A muscle in Jake's brow twitched.
Violet nodded.
"Why?"
A solitary tear streaked down her cheek. She sniffed valiantly.
"B-because I took his gun. Kevin's. Outside."
"How?"
Violet swallowed.
"When he wasn't looking. I hit him… and…"
Jake bowed his head, briefly closing his eyes and exhaling sharply.
"And then Seb…"
"Fucking useless c—" Jake muttered.
"Seb… shot him… when we… when we walked into… the room. When… when he saw I had… K-Kevin's gun."
Jake looked away from her, his eyes roaming as if he was contemplating something.
Violet tugged at her wrists to find that they were now bound to the post.
"Sherlock," she said. "Is he…?"
"He's fucking fine."
"What'd they do to him?"
Jake pulled away from Violet.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said.
"Jake! Jake!"
Jake left the room, leaving Violet tied to the bed.
She scanned the room, her thoughts all jumbled. Sherlock. What happened to him? Why was Jake here?
Why did Seb have to…
Oh, Kevin.
I'm so sorry.
Feeling faint from the throbbing in her side, Violet was able to perch herself on the edge of the mattress.
Think now, panic later, she told herself.
But Sherlock!
A cry escaped her as a choke.
Calm down, he told her. Think! Fall to pieces later. You heard Jake—I'm fine.
Hearing his voice in her head offered little comfort.
Take stock, Sherlock said.
Hands tied to a post, behind my back. My whole left side smashed to pieces.
Slight exaggeration. What else?
Nothing. There's nothing else.
Doesn't this feel familiar?
What? You've never tied me up!
… Perhaps you should have.
In her mind, Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Not for that reason, she countered.
Scene 65, he said.
What?
Scene 65.
EXT. DR BUNSEN'S YACHT. DAY.
SATIS's hands are bound by a rope as she sits aboard the sinking vessel.
Oh God, Sherlock. How would you know that?
Because I'm you, remember. I know what you know. So… what's the first thing Satis did?
The first thing?
The first thing.
Violet cast her mind back to the blocking of that scene. She'd very awkwardly practised the move over and over. The end result? Crouching, Satis very calmly stepped back through her bound hands, bringing them in front of her.
I can't do that, Violet told Sherlock. My wrists are attached to a post. I can't put pressure on my left side.
Then improvise!
Improvise.
Okay.
Violet squatted on the mattress in front of the post. She gasped from the stabbing pain in her abdomen. Rising to a low crouch, she eased her elbows apart with her hips—a tight squeeze. Obviously she wasn't as trim and taut as she'd been during production.
With one foot out, Violet realised she was going to have to hop through her arms with her other foot. She's have to land on the floor beside the bed because the post was in the way. She'd either dislocate a shoulder or really damage her ribcage.
She held her breath and hopped.
Landing with a dull thud, with all limbs intact, Violet emitted a low moan, before breathing through the pain.
Oh, God. I'm going to die from this.
Die later. You did it!
Now raise your hands as high as they can go, and…
One of the stuntmen on the Rise of the Five set had ably demonstrated several ways to escape bondage. Just for fun and amusement. With cable ties (then with gaffer tape) he had shown how a swift downwards movement could snap the restraints.
Okay, Violet thought, steeling herself for more pain.
She slid the cable tie loop up the bedpost, wincing as she stretched her ribcage. She wrenched her hands downward.
Ow! Fffuuuck!
Gasping, Violet bowed her head on the post. Her ribs protested. It hurt to breathe. And now her wrists were burning and her arm sockets were—
"How the fuck did you get like that?" Jake said from the doorway.
Violet turned her head. Jake came up beside her holding a handful of cable ties and a roll of gaffer tape. Her heart sank.
"You don't have to do this," she said weakly.
"Lie down."
Violet closed her eyes and touched her forehead to the bedpost. She slowly shook her head. How much more of this nightmare could she take?
"Vi."
"Why are you here?" she asked him in a harsh whisper.
She hoped his silence meant he was collating thoughts and memories of the life they once shared. The good memories.
"Because I didn't want it to be Seb who was stood 'ere with you," he replied.
Violet let out a long, steadying breath.
"For fuck's sake, Vi. Get on the bed."
Violet stood taller, defiant, though it killed her ribs to do so.
"Do it for me,' Jake said, "or do it for Seb. Or Tommy, if you like."
He didn't have to ask twice.
Gingerly, Violet lay on her side, then carefully rolled to her back, straightening her legs as she did so. Jake grasped her ankles and pulled her further along the bed until her feet reached the post at the head of the bed.
"For fuck's sake," she muttered, wincing at the pain.
"Y'all right?" Jake asked.
"Of course I'm fucking not. I'm being tied up by my ex-boyfriend. One of his mates just kicked me in the ribs."
Jake set his jaw firmly and fastened a cable tie to each ankle.
"Jake."
He began looping two more cable ties together, securing them to the bedpost.
"Please help Sherlock," Violet said in a desperate whisper. Her throat began to constrict. "Don't let him die. I'll do any—"
Jake clamped a hand over Violet's mouth.
"Don't say anything you're going to regret later."
Violet shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes. She wanted to say she'd do anything to save Sherlock. Move to Manchester. Live with Jake.
Marry him.
Jake removed his hand and grabbed the roll of tape, sitting himself on the bed beside her.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, securing the tape over her mouth. "Why didn't you listen to me?"
Violet tried to say all she'd kept back just by her expression alone, but Jake avoided looking at her. He was ruminating on something.
Slowly, he made eye contact.
"I'm sorry about Dan," he said, his voice running ragged. Then he rose and headed for the door.
It took a split second before Violet realised what his words could possibly mean. Danny?
What happened to Danny?
Violet screamed Jake's name, only managing to emit a hoarse growl, but Jake left the room without turning back.
#
"… I'm changeable like that."
The soft lilt of an Irish accent.
Sherlock cleared the flotsam and jetsam of his drugged out submersion and broke the surface.
A needle.
The seductive pressure of a needle had just left his arm.
A couple of sharp slaps on one cheek. A Mancunian voice saying, "Wake up, sunshine."
As his eyelids opened a crack, a blurry figure rose and moved away from him.
Venucci.
Must've been Venucci.
Sherlock knew where he was now.
"Yeah, why don't you suck him off as well, traitor cunt," returned a gruff voice.
Moran.
"I'll leave that to you, Seb," Venucci replied coolly. "That's your thing."
"Let's get on with it."
And a bored-sounding James Moriarty.
Sherlock's heart began to thunder. Blood raced through his veins.
The artificial stimulant. How much had Venucci given him?
Sherlock propped himself up onto elbows. He had to get the lay of the land.
"Oh, Sleeping Beauty awakes," said Moriarty.
Moran was rising from the armchair Sherlock had previously occupied, a bag of frozen greens hanging loosely from his hand. Blood dotted his bald pate.
Interesting.
Venucci started pacing by the door. He retrieved a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and was carefully avoiding a dark substance pooled on the rug. Also interesting.
The shards of an antique clock lay scattered on the ground from the desk to the sofa. Curious.
Items on the desk in a pile to one side.
Cecil's rifle lay closer to the deceased man's lap now.
Sherlock forced himself upright. He inhaled sharply. Cleo de Thebes.
"Where's Violet?"
"Oh," Moriarty said, a half-smile on his face. He clapped his hands together, a single audience member's applause. "Very good deduction. We had a bit of an incident. What have you been feeding that girl? Raw meat?"
An incident?
The dark patch on the rug.
Losing that amount of blood could prove fatal.
Sherlock looked to Venucci.
"She's fine," the man said, his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he lit it.
"Jake made sure of that," Moriarty said. "I just visited her in the guest room. Very creative, Jake. Not sure what you had in mind there."
Sherlock dropped his legs to the ground, waited for the world to come into focus, then pushed himself upwards. He had to get to Violet.
The guest room.
Suddenly Moran was in front of him.
"Hey, fuckface. Remember this?"
Moran seized him around the throat and began to squeeze with both hands.
"Still not pickin' on someone me own size," the gangster growled.
Sherlock grasped at Moran's hands, but the man's thick fingers wouldn't yield. Blood pounded Sherlock's temples.
"Sebastian! This is your last warning!"
Sherlock opened his palms wide and slammed them against both of Moran's ears. It would've been more effective if Sherlock's strength hadn't been compromised. But Moran released him, blinking against the sudden blow to his head. The gangster roughly yanked Sherlock forward. Sherlock dropped to his knees gasping desperately for air.
"Jake," Moriarty said. "Your turn. Don't disappoint me this time."
Sherlock tugged at his collar, still struggling to breathe.
"You see, Sherlock," said Moriarty. "I was happy to let the drugs take you. But your constant use in the past month has raised your tolerance, I think. But I can't let you live. I just can't. And Jake still needs to prove his loyalty to our cause."
Crouched on the rug, Sherlock saw Jake's cigarette drop to the floor. The Mancunian gangster crushed it with his shoe.
Sherlock straightened up, still kneeling on the rug, his throat burning.
"I was your best distraction," he rasped.
"Didn't mean it as a compliment," Moriarty replied.
"Yes, you did."
"Yeah, okay, I did. But can we just get it over with now. No last cigarette. No declarations of love." Moriarty made a show of checking his watch. "And I've got a hair appointment I don't want to miss."
Venucci came up beside Sherlock and pressed the barrel of his gun to Sherlock's temple.
"Violet," Sherlock said.
"Violet what?" asked Moriarty.
"What's going to happen to her?"
"Oh, you know. I'm sure she'll be in mourning for a while. She looks good in black. But everyone will want a piece of the little girl lost. Hollywood will distract her once more. Until I'm done with her."
"You think you'll still be around to control her career?"
"I know I'll be around to control her career."
"You're wanted by the FBI."
"Everybody wants me, Sherlock Holmes. Do you think the criminal networks around the world are going to let a little office like the FBI have me all to themselves? They're all wetting themselves at the chance to be my hero. Daddy loves me the best. Do you see what you were up against, Sherlock? I can easily go back to Hollywood. Disgraced Hollywood Executive Makes a Come Back. Everybody loves the bad boy. But I'm bored of this conversation. Jake?"
Sherlock felt the pressure of Venucci's gun ease off a little. Moriarty had just confessed to having a hold on Violet's career—how he planned to toy with her until he became bored. Sherlock had been counting on this reaction from Venucci.
"Jake," Moriarty prompted again, his voice dropping a notch. "Oh, for God's sake. You disappoint me, Jake. You really do. First Corlionne and now Sherlock?"
Sherlock started. What had happened to Dan?
Moriarty looked pointedly at Moran.
"Seb."
To his left, Sebastian Moran raised his gun.
Sherlock dove sideways, stabbing a shard of glass from the antique clock into Moran's calf. Twin pops split the air. There was a loud crash as Moran's form hit a glass cabinet, and behind Sherlock, another loud thud.
Sherlock waited for the burning pain, or a numbness as life ebbed away from him, but none came.
Moran slumped against the cabinet, a bloody gouge in his right eye.
Quite dead.
"I'm in a room full of idiots," Moriarty murmured, incredulous.
Sherlock slowly rose.
Venucci lay crumpled against the doorway, blood oozing from his left ear. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes were shut.
Moran and Venucci had aimed their guns at each other, but Jacob Venucci was clearly the better shot. Or Sherlock had diverted Moran's attention enough to make him miss his mark.
Sherlock got to his feet. Moriarty met his gaze.
"Looks like it's just you and m—"
His last word ended in a squeak, because in a flash, Sherlock had the criminal mastermind by the lapels.
"Yes," he ground out, "and only one of us is capable of killing the other with their bare hands."
"Oh," Moriarty replied, excitement dancing in his eyes. "But you wouldn't, Sherlock Holmes, because that makes you no better than the Neanderthals in this room. You and I are intellectual sparring partners, and I'm willing to negotiate the terms of my release. I've still got a few minutes before I have to leave."
"Yes, I know. Your hair appointment."
"I was thinking a bit off the sides."
Sherlock shoved Moriarty towards the French door, releasing him. His heart was still pounding. The stimulant, possibly the best batch of 3-FPM he'd had in recent times, still charged through him. Crossing the room, Sherlock quickly took stock of Venucci. A head wound. Could be superficial. The man might survive.
He grabbed the jacket he'd slung over the armchair earlier. Bunching it up, he pressed it to the side of Venucci's head. The man's eyes fluttered open.
"You'll be all right," Sherlock said in a low voice.
"How touching," said Moriarty.
Propping up Venucci's arm to wedge the jacket between his head and his hand, Sherlock told him to hold it there.
"I've got unfinished business to conduct."
Sherlock retrieved the gun Venucci had dropped and straightened up. From where he stood, he turned and aimed it directly at James Moriarty.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really," Sherlock replied. "Squeezing the life out of you with my bare hands is do-able, but as you say, quite Neanderthal. This is cleaner. Neater. And I don't like getting my hands dirty either."
"I thought we were negotiating."
"Go on, then."
Moriarty straightened his jacket, then cricked his neck on either side.
"I can give you back Violet Hunter."
"Violet Hunter is her own person. Nobody has her."
"No," Moriarty said, with a shake of his head. "I mean as your personal assistant. You'd like that wouldn't you? I know you, Sherlock, and I'm sure you've hated every minute of Violet's existence in the entertainment industry. What I can offer is this: Violet Hunter's stardom slowly fading. Fewer roles of a lesser quality, smaller box-office takings. Before you know it, she'll be teaching drama classes at the local theatre with plenty of time on her hands to help you on your cases. And do your dry-cleaning."
"And what do you get?"
"I get to continue. But how about this—I only operate on the continent and in the States. I have to maintain my contacts in Hollywood, of course. But no more operations in the United Kingdom. You can have your cases here, knowing any criminal activity isn't backed by me, and I'll have my little networks around the rest of Europe, with no interference from you. What do you say?"
Violet Hunter no longer an actress?
Violet no longer flitting between film shoots and promotional obligations, regaling him in excruciating detail of life on set. No more press hounds reporting their every move, fans interrupting their fine dining experiences, paparazzi hovering on their doorstep. No more hashtags. And no more sparkle in Violet's eyes. No creative energy lighting a fire in her, sparking every fibre of her being, a force matched only by Sherlock's own zest for seemingly unsolvable cases.
His reply?
"I'd say you don't understand the meaning of what's in the box."
"The box?"
Sherlock slowly lowered the gun. He gestured towards the small case from which Jake Venucci had retrieved the drugs designed just for him.
"Open it."
"I know what's in the box," Moriarty said. "Or at least what was in the box."
"You'll have to open it," Sherlock said again.
Shaking his head, Moriarty casually strode over to the desk.
"A touch of the dramatic. I love it." Flicking the clasp aside, he opened the lid. "What am I looking at?"
Now he sounded irritated.
"Surely a criminal mastermind such as yourself can see what's left?"
Moriarty lifted up the first vial—the empty vial—and then the other. A clear liquid half filled the latter.
Sherlock had made the correct assumption.
"The 3-FPM," he said. "A good one, yes. A bit salty, as you said. But a fine vintage, nonetheless."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm still here," Sherlock said, his arms outstretched. "I haven't suffered a cardiac arrest. Why? Because of the one thing you failed to understand about ordinary humans."
Dropping the vials back into the case, Moriarty said, "What? What have I missed?"
"Love," Sherlock said. "And the sacrifice people make for the one they love." Gesturing to Venucci with the gun, he continued. "Jacob Venucci could have ended my life three times tonight, but he didn't. He only administered a half dose of the stimulant. Earlier, he prevented me injecting the full dose of the depressant—the opioid. And just now, at gunpoint, he failed to execute me."
A pained expression crossed Moriarty's face.
"Because he loves you?"
Sherlock tutted.
"Because he loves Violet."
"Oh. Of course. Yes."
"He decided that Violet's happiness meant more to him than the need to get me out of the picture. And it's for this same reason," Sherlock said, once more raising the gun to point at Moriarty, "that I can't accept your offer."
Moriarty's gaze dropped to the end of the gun, his expression blank.
All Sherlock had to do now was to pull the trigger.
#
Author's Note:
Oh, no, Sherlock! Will he or won't he?
Or: should he or shouldn't he?
And I'm sorry about Dan, too. D: