Chapter 32 - Now People Will Definitely Talk
The stillness of the air amplified the throbbing of her cheekbones and ribs, the harshness of her breath through her nostrils.
Don't cry, Violet kept telling herself. She couldn't afford to block her sinuses. How would she breathe otherwise?
Sherlock! her mind screamed where her voice couldn't.
The door flew open.
And there he was, striding towards her, loosely holding a gun in one hand.
"Are you all right?" he asked, staring down at her. Violet blinked, just to be sure she hadn't conjured up an hallucination.
But he looked odd—dishevelled in his crumpled shirt and trousers, unbalanced with one sleeve rolled up to his elbow. More alarming, the red rash that wrapped around his throat like an angry scarf.
Sherlock sank down beside her and gently tugged at one corner of the gaffer tape.
"I'm going to do it quickly," he said. "It might hurt."
Violet nodded, then gasped in protest as Sherlock yanked on the tape.
"Sorry," he said, cupping a hand to her cheek. She knew he was swiftly cataloguing whatever injuries were prominent on her face. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked. It looked like he was holding his breath, waiting to hear the worst.
Violet silently shook her head. It hurt to breathe. Every joint ached. Her head throbbed.
"No," she croaked, just to reinforce the lie.
Sherlock bent low and pressed a kiss to her aching lips. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, her heart beat slow and thick. The kiss was warm, soft. Testing. When he drew back, his face split into a broad grin with what looked like relief moistening his eyes.
Violet frowned.
"What… " she began, but Sherlock quickly pressed a finger to her lips and gently shushed her.
"There's at least two more gunmen," he said. "I haven't seen them in the last few minutes, but they're probably patrolling the perimeter. They're young. Inexperienced. I wouldn't be surprised if they've panicked and run away."
"There's only one now," Violet offered.
"Why's that?"
Violet tore her gaze away from Sherlock. She felt the walls pressing in on her again.
"Kevin's dead," she said. "Seb shot him."
Sherlock gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if he understood.
"What happened to everyone else?" Violet asked.
Sherlock straightened up.
"Let's not talk about the past."
What?
He rose from the bed and began to pace.
"We still have to take precautions. I don't know if Moriarty was waiting for transport or not. I assume they all arrived in the one vehicle. And there's been no sign of Simone since she left for the shops." Sherlock paused and scratched his temple with the tip of the gun. Violet's eyes widened in alarm. "They shot Cecil just to lure me here," he mused. "I doubt if Simone met with the same fate. Anyway…" He inhaled sharply. "He was expecting to leave soon. Moriarty. Something about a hair appointment. He could have reinforcements on the way."
Did he say hair appointment?
She must've misheard. He was talking a mile a minute.
"So stay close," Sherlock said, heading for the door.
Violet tugged at her restraints in case she'd missed something. A magical kiss that somehow dissolved cable ties, for example.
"Sherlock?"
"Try to keep up."
"Sherlock!"
"What?"
He turned, a frown creasing his forehead. He scanned her from post to post—her bound wrists and ankles. His eyes widened.
"Oh!" He stilled, casting his gaze to some far off place. "I need a knife. Back in a minute!"
He dashed out the door.
Violet was alone again with the sound of the stark white walls whispering to the timber furniture, but this time the door was open and she could yell if she needed to. It was almost as if Sherlock had never been there, but his kiss lingered, and the air still hummed with the vibrancy he'd left in his wake.
Would he blow in again like a whirlwind, delivering his thoughts at a manic pace? He had acted as if he'd been wearing two nicotine patches after a week-long abstinence. Perhaps he was fuelled by adrenaline. But where was everyone else? Why was it so quiet out there?
Light footsteps hurried along the passageway. Violet held her breath until Sherlock materialised, this time carrying a kitchen knife as well as the gun.
"My apologies," he said.
"Did you think I was just having a bit of a lie down?" Violet asked as Sherlock sliced through the cable ties that secured her wrists.
"The thought had occurred. Did wonder why you didn't have a book in hand, though."
He glanced at her and winked.
"It's not like you to miss the finer details."
Releasing Violet's arms, Sherlock took hold of one and gently ran his thumb along the red welt on her wrist, tutting.
"Speaking of finer details," he began.
"Oh," she said. "I tried to—"
"Yes, I can see what you attempted there. Must've been painful."
He began on her ankles, while Violet massaged her wrists.
"Who did this?" he asked, his voice clipped.
Violet could feel a pressure building inside. And Sherlock was sounding like he was trying to contain his own anger. Best not fall to pieces now.
"Let's not talk about the past," she replied.
Sherlock gave her a knowing look. Of course he'd made a deduction.
Finally freeing her, Sherlock stepped back and offered Violet a hand.
"Shall we start again?" he asked.
Placing her hand in his, Violet tried to swivel off the bed and rise in one fluid movement, but a vice-like grip had her doubling over in pain. She gasped as much as her lungs allowed.
"What's wrong? What happened?"
Violet held onto Sherlock, using his support to slowly straighten up.
"'s okay," she said on a heavy exhale.
"Clearly not. What did they do to you?"
"It's nothing."
"Violet."
His anger was simmering just beneath the surface. He wore the same look he'd given her the night he spied the red welts around her neck courtesy of Sebastian Moran.
"I was kicked, okay?" she said, standing taller so she'd look more capable than she felt. She gently ran the flat of her hand over her side. "Some guy called Tommy. Probably patrolling outside now, like you said."
"And where was Venu—" Sherlock exhaled sharply as if calming himself. "Jake. Where was Jake?"
"He was there. He pushed Tommy away before he could… inflict… more damage."
Sherlock blinked and looked towards the door. Upon returning his gaze, he said, "Look, I can find you somewhere to hide. It's a big old house. Lots of nooks and crannies. I'll come back for you when—"
"No," Violet said. Hide? When she'd been through so much just to be here for Sherlock? She drew back from Sherlock's supportive hold. "I'm coming with you. I'm fine to walk. Just don't ask me to do any crunches. Don't we have to go now?" Violet brushed past Sherlock, making for the door. "You said someone might be coming."
"Wait," he said, pulling up beside her. "I'll lead. You follow."
He grabbed Violet's hand, but she pulled it out of his grasp.
"Don't hold my hand. You might need both of yours."
"I only need one to hold a gun."
"And I might need both of mine," Violet added, her chin jutting forward. She lifted her gaze. "I can punch my way out of a difficult situation, you know."
She locked eyes on his, challenging him.
Sherlock lifted Violet's hand and rubbed a thumb over her bruised knuckles, where they'd connected with Kevin's sternum.
"I have no doubt," he said with a nod.
Dropping her hand, he spun on his heels and made a swift exit.
"Try to keep up!"
All was quiet as they entered the kitchen. Violet looked back along the passageway, towards the front of the farmhouse and the parlour. Not a soul stirred.
As Sherlock cautiously approached the door to the outside, Violet asked, "Where's Jim?"
With one hand on the door knob, Sherlock whispered, "Not now."
"And Seb?"
"Violet."
Sherlock appeared to be listening intently to the world beyond the door. Violet's thoughts were still on the occupants of the house.
What about Jake, she wanted to ask Sherlock.
Were they all dead?
The buzzing of white noise grew in her head—her attempt to shut out the thoughts that crowded her mind, jostling for attention like paparazzi at a red carpet event.
They must be dead. Jim. Seb. Jake.
Her heart ran ragged.
Sherlock opened the door a crack, the gun poised in front of him.
Yes, they were dead. They had to be. And all because Sherlock could hold a gun and be prepared to use it.
The violent jerk of Kevin's head appeared like a slow-motion clip in front of her.
Seb's maniacal expression. The twisting of his mouth into a snarl.
Seb had been prepared to do what she couldn't. If she'd pointed her gun at Sebastian Moran instead of the back of Kevin's head, could she have shot him?
Squeezed the trigger. A bullet hole in Seb's forehead. Then redirected her aim, shooting Jim as he sat on the edge of the desk.
It would've been over sooner. Two shots. Two lives.
And she would've spared Jake.
"It's clear," Sherlock said.
#
As they eased out of the kitchen door, Sherlock paused, holding up a hand to signal Violet to do likewise.
The distinctive dull thwacks of a helicopter could be heard in the distance. His stomach dropped. Moriarty's reinforcements? Or the Security Services? Sherlock would've called Mycroft himself if he had found his phone. Moriarty no longer had it on his person, and Sherlock didn't have time to search for it in the parlour. He had to get to Violet. At the time, he still hadn't determined the source of the pool of blood on the rug. She may have been lying injured in the guest room.
"We need to get to the road," he said in an urgent whisper to Violet. He gestured to the side of the house. "Follow the line of trees."
Once he'd detected the outline of her nod in the half-light, he took off at a brisk pace along the full length of the house, sticking close to the wall. As they approached the end of the brickwork, Sherlock checked on Violet again. She'd pulled up behind him, pressing close. He gave her another nod, a signal to be cautious as they took the corner.
The helicopter chuffs drew louder as its blades chopped through the cool night air. But there was another sound, pitched higher, a little way off. Sherlock cocked his head to one side, trying to distinguish it from the other ambient noises around him—crickets, Violet's breathing. His own heartbeat.
"Did you ring the police?" he whispered to Violet.
When she shook her head, his heart sank. Perhaps he was hearing things.
Unless his brother had acted true to form?
A dark shape suddenly loomed out of the darkness. Sherlock raised his gun and pressed forward.
"Drop it," he said.
Sherlock held the gun a mere breath away from the young man's head. When he heard a dull clatter to the ground, he added, "Turn around. Hands on your head. Back the way you came… Slowly… Violet, the gun."
As they continued forward, he assumed Violet had taken hold of the discarded weapon. Of a deeper concern was the helicopter now thundering overhead, its searchlights sweeping over the trees. This seemed far too dramatic for Moriarty's mode of escape. Although, nothing should surprise Sherlock where it concerned the Consultant Criminal. They could still be in danger. They had to disappear amongst the trees. And fast.
As they neared the front door, the familiar sounds drew nearer—sirens. The blues and reds of the incoming emergency vehicles bruised the night sky.
For the first time all night, Sherlock allowed himself to exhale deeply. He wasn't grateful for the arrival of assistance—he quite clearly didn't need that—but the presence of local enforcements meant Moriarty's Uber service wouldn't materialise any time soon.
"On the ground," he said to the Manchester gangster.
But the young man was mesmerised by the procession of police cars winding their way through the tree-lined driveway. Could that also mean the helicopter was actually—
"The ground, now, Tommy!" Violet suddenly yelled out, coming up beside Sherlock. She was holding the gun with such assuredness, such grim determination, that the skin prickled at Sherlock's nape.
"Violet," he said softly, reaching out and placing a hand over hers. "It's okay. Put the gun down."
Her expression was fixed, but Sherlock exerted pressure, forcing her aim away from the man called Tommy.
Headlights pierced the gloom, before the beams were directed squarely upon them. White light burned his eyes as the vehicles came to an abrupt halt at the top of the drive.
"Let go," Sherlock said in a harsh whisper, pulling the gun out of Violet's grasp.
Car doors opened. Armed silhouettes spread out before them. Uncoordinated shouts of "Get down!" "Down on the ground!" and "Drop the weapon!" were fired at them several times over.
Tommy was already lying prone. Sherlock slowly raised his hands allowing both handguns to be clearly visible.
"Just raise your hands," he said to Violet.
She looked dazed in the headlights. He was sure the scene clashed in her mind with any she'd recently experienced—the spotlights, calls from paparazzi to pose this way and that—because now the paparazzi were pointing guns at her.
Violet slowly raised her hands as Sherlock lowered both guns to the ground. As he straightened up, he mouthed to her, "It's okay."
In a rush, officers had them pinned to the wall of the house. Sherlock resisted the urge to punch the officer who'd pushed Violet forward.
Perhaps an introduction was called for.
#
It wasn't the first time Violet Hunter had taken a flight in a helicopter. But the glow of lights of the city of London was a more rewarding sight right now than the spectacular falls and mountain peaks of Milford Sound in New Zealand.
Sherlock and Mycroft appeared to be arguing, although the shouting was probably necessary over the helicopter's rotor and engine. Violet tried to tune them out. Apart from the view outside, she was mesmerised by Sherlock's sleeves.
He'd rolled down his right sleeve (had he been prompted by Mycroft's disapproving glare?), but Violet's attention was drawn to his cuff. He'd left the button undone. It really bothered her. More alarmingly, though, was the blood: a dot on his left sleeve, just underneath his elbow; a smear on the pads of two fingers on his right hand. Did he even know?
Violet hadn't noticed before now. Perhaps it was because he'd been holding a gun the whole time they'd been escaping the farmhouse that she hadn't observed it.
They landed at Battersea, where a car sat waiting for them. Who had coordinated all this? Violet hadn't even made it to the pub, let alone remembered Mycroft Holmes's phone number in order to ring him. Maybe Sherlock had, before he'd entered the guest room and set her free?
So many unanswered questions.
The only word she'd uttered during the helicopter's journey was, "Jake." Mycroft had phoned his minions, presumably, and found that he'd been taken away in an ambulance in a critical condition. She'd noticed Sherlock rub his knee then clench his fist in response. Up until that point, everything had been a blur.
One minute she'd been hauled away towards the waiting police vehicles and questioned, then there seemed to be a whole lot of yelling and male posturing and suddenly they were being bustled into a helicopter where—of all people—Mycroft Holmes sat waiting.
If felt like just another part of her promotional tour. The Rise of the Five. Herded here and there into waiting vehicles by security personnel wearing ear buds and yelling at each other in foreign languages. Someone would only talk to her in English when they needed to. Less friendlier here. No smiling and waving.
"Violet?"
Sherlock was asking her something, and Mycroft was showing her his phone's screen. Something about Moriarty.
Jim, she wanted to say. His name's Jim.
"Is it?" Sherlock prompted her.
They'd been arguing, Sherlock and Mycroft, about whether or not Jim was still incarcerated in a Californian prison. They needed Violet to identify him, since she was the only one who'd met Jim in person prior to his incarceration.
The photo Mycroft held had been taken of the man currently in FBI custody. Violet shook her head. The man on the screen—even though he was smirking like Jim Moriarty sometimes did—was definitely not that psychopath.
Mycroft furrowed his brow. He pressed his phone to his ear and said one word.
"No."
Violet turned her attention to her window. So Jim had never been arrested by the FBI? Had he been in the UK, watching her, this whole time?
And when had he picked up Jake?
And what had happened to Danny?
Her heart jolted when Sherlock reached for her hand. She tried not to think about the dried blood on his fingers and whomever he may have killed.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Just need a bath and a cup of tea," she replied, smiling weakly.
Sherlock returned her smile with a warm one of his own. Looks like she'd convinced him. She was so far from being fine. A bath and a cup of tea? She wanted to sleep for a thousand years then wake up to find it was all a dream.
"My office would be best," Mycroft was saying.
"And I'm saying Baker Street," Sherlock countered.
"I just want to go home," Violet said with a sigh. As if her opinion meant anything.
"There, you see?" Sherlock told his brother. "Baker Street it is, then."
Sherlock gave her hand a squeeze. She didn't know how to tell him she meant home to her flat. In Chelsea.
Violet expected paparazzi to be hovering on the doorstep of 221B. They had just been involved in something horrific. Surely somebody had tipped off the press by now. But the street lay empty, save for a black cab slowly pulling away from the kerb.
Once inside, Sherlock and Mycroft began arguing about giving statements. Violet huffed out a breath and made for the stairs.
Eventually, she heard them following along behind, agreeing that Mycroft would debrief them.
"Violet." John Watson appeared on the landing, his expression awash with concern. "My God. Are you all right?"
Bit late for a casual visit. Looks like John had been given the memo.
Violet nodded, slipping out of the oversized jacket Mycroft's security personnel had given her.
"Fine," she said. "Nothing a cup of tea wouldn't fix."
That's all anybody needed to hear, really. John made it his business to prepare a pot of tea, while Violet waited for the Holmes brothers to stop their intellectual sparring. She had questions of her own.
"Where's Mary? Isn't she back yet?" Sherlock asked, abruptly leaving his and Mycroft's argument about the Security Services controlling everything once he spied his former flatmate in the kitchen.
"She's… she just rang," John replied. "She's home now. How did you know she was awa—"
"Because she drove Violet to Tunbridge Wells," Sherlock answered. He was pacing now. Still wired. Still trying to solve something. Was there anything left to solve?
"She drove…?" John began.
Whoops. Looks like somebody had been left out of the loop, Violet thought. And why was John Watson always the last to know?
"What happened to Danny?" she asked the room at large. She didn't know who to direct her question to, but surely someone would have the answer by now.
Sherlock stopped pacing. He looked to his brother.
Mycroft Holmes rearranged his features from the battle-weary expression he'd been wearing to argue points with his brother, to one of a diplomat, the arbiter of international disputes. He waved Violet towards her armchair, but she stood tall. After an hour of climbing in and out of British Government transportation, she didn't know if she could pretend her ribs were fine any longer. If she was going to sit down, then she would stretch out and not get up again.
"Regrettably," Mycroft began when it appeared obvious Violet would remain where she stood, "it looks like a gangland execution."
Violet's heart leapt. Sherlock exhaled deeply and bowed his head, rubbing his brow with his fingertips.
"H-how?" she asked.
"Perhaps we can go over those details late—"
"I want to know now!"
Mycroft appeared to reconsider his suggestion under the glare of Violet's demand. He nodded his head, then cleared his throat.
"There was a witness to the events," he began. "A barmaid. Found tied up in a closet hours later. She was serving drinks to Jacob Venucci and Daniel Corlionne in the Kabuki Pirates nightclub in Manchester. They were having a meeting, apparently. Lunch. Four men walked in, unannounced. Three she immediately recognised: Sebastian Moran and two of his entourage. The fourth she only described as an Irishman with 'lovely manners'. She wasn't permitted to leave since she'd recognised Moran. He was an escaped convict, after all. She said Moran poured them all a drink. Happy to be at large, he kept saying. Mr Corlionne tried to make excuses about leaving, but there was an argument. Something about Corlionne betraying Venucci. Moran said it was Venucci's responsibility to punish Corlionne. She said her boss grabbed Mr Corlionne and punched him a couple of times, finally pushing him towards the door. He told Corlionne to get back to London where he'd deal with him later. But Moran said it wasn't good enough. He pushed Corlionne to his knees, pulled out a gun and told Venucci to shoot him. When Venucci refused, Moran took it upon himself—"
"Enough," Sherlock said.
The room grew quiet. Nobody was looking at her, but Violet knew they were stretching their little deductive tentacles in her direction. At least the Holmes men were. She had to remain strong. She knew Sherlock was looking for any indication she was going to fall apart.
"Did you want to take our statements?" she asked Mycroft.
He drew in a steady breath as if resetting.
"A debrief, yes," he said. "And I would like to point out the difference."
"For Christ's sake, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Violet.
"What have you already told the police?"
Violet shrugged. She'd immediately forgotten.
She'd been spun around and pushed up against the wall like a criminal. Dazed and confused she'd just answered one question after another.
"Did you tell them about your relationship with James Moriarty?" Mycroft probed.
"No," Violet said, with a shake of her head. "I told them why we were there. Sherlock and I. And the gunshot and Sherlock sending me to the pub, but I went the wrong way…"
Sherlock's brows shot up.
Was this news to him?
"What?" she said to him. "I didn't know the way! Why would I?"
But he didn't roll his eyes or tut, instead he just nodded. His chest rose and fell as if he had silently heaved out a sigh.
"And I said I came back to the cottage to get my phone," she went on. "And not much after that. Your secret service guys bundled me away."
"Ms Hunter," Mycroft said. "You are not to talk to the police again. They will not be permitted to take a statement. From either of you."
"Wait," John said, edging into the living area from his position in the kitchen. "Haven't you both given official statements to the police at the scene?"
"No," replied Sherlock. "We were interrupted by my brother swooping in to save the day."
"You know why I did that," said Mycroft.
"Yes. Because you don't want to offend Germany. Again."
"What's going on?" Violet asked. "Why did you pull us away?"
Mycroft uncrossed his arms and rubbed the nape of his neck.
"It's because of the data on Irene Adler's phone."
Violet glanced at Sherlock, but he gave an audible sigh and dropped himself into his armchair. He looked as exhausted as she felt.
"Why's that relevant again?" John asked.
"We didn't just use it to incarcerate James Moriarty," Mycroft continued. "There's enough information on that phone to break up a series of criminal networks both here and on the continent. We've been working with our sister intelligence agencies in France, Spain, Italy—"
"Germany," interrupted Sherlock.
"Yes, Sherlock. Germany. And we can't have every plod from here to Kent knowing the business of European intelligence communities."
"But I don't understand," said Violet. "I don't know the business of… of European intelligence communities. I couldn't give any information like that to the police. Why's that relevant?"
"Exactly," added Sherlock.
Mycroft huffed an exaggerated sigh.
"Moriarty's criminal associates don't know that," he explained. "If they gain intelligence that Sherlock Holmes and his… girlfriend… have disposed of James Moriarty after having some kind of working relationship with the man for quite some time, they will begin to wonder about the integrity of their own networks. Which means, they'll implement extra security measures, and therefore the data we have already acquired about these organisations will become obsolete. And yes, telling the police about your relationship with James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran and Jacob Venucci may be information that ends up in criminal hands. It may surprise you, Doctor Watson, Ms Hunter, that not all police officers can be trusted. The British Intelligence services have jurisdiction on this case. I'll be debriefing you. So…" He alternated his gaze between Violet and Sherlock. "Who'd like to go first?"
#