Author's Note: my apologies for another tardy update. This one's a bit long as I needed to include a few key plot points and the chapter kept growing. On the upside, the next chapter is also written—actually it was written a long time ago and is almost exactly the same as it had been in my original Copper Beeches story. Anyway, enough of me. On with the chapter!
#
Chapter 33 - We're Going to Need to Coordinate
Violet volunteered Sherlock to tell his version of events first. He rose and gestured for her to take his seat, since Mycroft had deposited himself in her armchair, ready to record Sherlock's account. Violet shook her head; it was too painful to lower herself once more. But Sherlock approached her anyway.
Reaching for her, he said, "You probably sh—"
"Will you wash that hand before you touch me again!" Violet snapped, recoiling.
A fierce heat crept across her cheeks.
Dammit!
Calm down!
She let out a long exhale.
"The blood," she added softly, attempting to diffuse the now-charged atmosphere. "Just… Can you wash it off."
Sherlock regarded his index and middle fingers as if seeing them for the first time.
"What?" asked John, approaching from the kitchen. "Are you injured?"
With one shake of his head, Sherlock pressed fingers to his nape—the same blood-stained fingers Violet objected to.
"A blunt-force trauma to the back of the head," he intoned. "Excuse me for a second."
He turned and made for the bathroom.
Realisation slapped Violet in the face. It had been his blood that stained his fingertips! His own blood! He must've felt the wound soon after he'd been hit! Her heart sank.
Violet mumbled her excuses and followed Sherlock into the bathroom. He'd just finished washing his hands when she entered.
"You think I murdered them all," he said, drying his hands on a hand towel.
Violet's throat constricted. Her lips parted but no sound came out. She couldn't even form words even if she wanted to. Her boyfriend a murderer? That was exactly what she had feared.
Sherlock replaced the towel onto the rail and met her gaze.
"I didn't shoot anybody," he said.
"Then how are they all dead?"
"They managed that all by themselves."
Sherlock didn't give her any more details. He would have to explain it all to Mycroft, he said; she could hear it then. They left the bathroom at Sherlock's urging for Violet to get her own injuries checked out by John, to which she reluctantly agreed. The doctor examined Violet in the bedroom, while Sherlock looked on. It was her boyfriend's silence that spoke of his underlying anger. John recommended a few weeks' rest and several doses of ibuprofen for the pain.
"No contact sports, and you'll have to quit smoking," he quipped.
Resuming the debriefing session in the living room, Violet listened to Sherlock from the sofa, where she reclined, slightly elevated under doctor's orders.
Sherlock recalled the events leading up to the shooting by addressing the window, with only a few cursory glances in either her direction, or towards the fireplace, where Mycroft and John sat. Barely an emotion cracked the surface.
Violet's heart juddered when Sherlock told them Jake was also waiting in the kitchen when he and Jim entered the farmhouse. Had she been hoping for an alternate version of events? Tears pressed against her eyes as Sherlock described Jake's attempt at drugging him. John had muttered, "Jesus," under his breath, while Mycroft set his mouth into a thin line.
Sherlock now faced the door to the landing, hands thrust in pockets, head bowed a little.
"When I came to," he continued, "it was with the realisation I'd just been dosed with the contents of the second vial. The stimulant. And I deduced there had been a disturbance in the room."
Violet resisted the urge to enlighten them all as to what the "disturbance" entailed as Sherlock listed the evidence that led to his deduction. His steady voice recounted Sebastian Moran strangling him, Jim's instructions to Jake, the violence that left Seb dead and Jake seriously injured. Sherlock didn't go into any details regarding the conversation between him and Jim, and Violet suspected she may have been the subject under discussion. She held her breath as the others seemed to be doing.
"So I raised the gun once more and aimed it at his head."
At Sherlock's words, Violet could see the blood leach from John Watson's face. A flicker of uncertainty even crossed Mycroft Holmes's stoic facade.
"And that's where it gets hazy," Sherlock continued, blinking. "I was hit over the back of the head with a blunt instrument. I must've blacked out for a few seconds—no more than a minute. I'm certain of it."
"How do you know that?" John asked.
"When I came to, Moriarty was still bleeding from his head wound. He was… He lay in front of me, his eyes open, all life extinguished."
"But… who…?" Violet asked.
"Ven… Jake had the gun back in his hand."
"So…" John said, his unspoken words hanging in the air—a conclusion they could all make with varying degrees of relief.
Jake had shot Jim.
The thought echoed in Violet's mind.
"And what did you do next?" Mycroft asked.
But Violet tuned out. She knew the rest. Sherlock searching for her. Releasing her. Their escape into the open air.
Jake shot Jim.
Violet hugged her side. If the ibuprofen was supposed to have taken effect at some stage, she couldn't feel it.
"Ms Hunter?" Mycroft was asking.
She gave a brief nod in acknowledgement. It was her turn. All eyes were upon her.
#
Sherlock curled around Violet, her curves soft and warm against his skin.
"Can we stay here all day?" she murmured.
"If you like."
He pressed his lips to the delicate tissue behind Violet's ear. "We might get a bit bored though."
"Wrestling's out, sorry," she said with a sigh. "Doctor's orders."
The silence stretched before them. He surmised it was because wrestling in their underwear—those casual self-defence lessons of yesteryear—prepared Violet for some hypothetical day. A day far off into the future where she would need those skills fighting some anonymous foe alongside Sherlock. And that day had well and truly passed.
After Mycroft had finished recording their statements last night, he and John departed. Violet insisted on a bath. Sherlock showered once she'd finished. They'd lain in bed, fingers entwined, no words passing between them. In the early hours of the morning, in a half-wake state, they'd gravitated together.
Though keenly aware of Violet's fragility, he was irresistibly tempted to take and plunder. Her vulnerability appeared to be only in his head, though. The heat of her mouth, the soft unyielding curves beneath him teased into a seductive battle. Violet obviously craved as he did, to be touched and tasted, the events of the evening long forgotten.
Sherlock forced himself to slow down even at the sound of quiet pleasure sighing through Violet's lips. He led them slowly yet thoroughly through each exquisite layer of sensation, and she moved her body in time, her breath as ragged as his.
As pleasure swamped them both, Sherlock emitted a long, low sigh of surrender.
In the rapidly brightening dawn, they had lain entwined, twin hearts beating a slow and steady rhythm.
Sherlock may have been content to stay in bed with Violet if he could only quiet his mind. But a light knock on the bedroom door and a harshly whispered, "Sherlock!" through the crack interrupted those musings.
Sherlock could feel Violet's body stiffen.
"Yes?" he called out, injecting a healthy dose of irritation in his tone.
"It's Greg. Um… sorry to call round so early. This is urgent."
After a moment's pause in which Sherlock calculated every possible scenario stemming from a botched investigation, he announced, "Coming."
Donning his pyjamas and best dressing gown, Sherlock reassured a concerned Violet that everything was fine and he wouldn't be long. He left the bedroom for the living room. The C.I.D. detective stood waiting.
"Care to tell me what happened?" Lestrade asked.
"Um. No. Can't do that. Top secret."
"Look, I don't know what the bloody hell your brother and the Secret Service think they're doing…"
"Security Services. And international relations are at stake."
"International? This is domestic. Cecil Robbins was murdered. A local. The Kent mob are on the warpath…"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
Raking a hand through his hair, Lestrade drew in a deep breath.
"I don't care about this James Moriarty character," he went on. "If your brother's posse want him, they can have him. But Organised Crime are stomping their filthy boots all over this, too, saying Moran and Venucci are theirs. The Chief Super—"
"I've given my statement to MI5, and my brother has a working relationship with the National Crime Agency. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he is the NCA. There must've been a reason they rearranged the damn thing. In any case, he can pass on the details."
Sherlock made to leave.
"Well, you're going to have to give it to Kent, too. There's a Detective Inspector Dimmock—"
"Not going to happen, Lestrade," he shot back.
Behind him, he heard the D.I. heave out a weary sigh.
"You don't have to go back to Kent. Just come to Scotland Yard. Dimmock can interview you there."
Sherlock paused at the entrance to the kitchen and spun around. "Dimmock? Why not you?"
Lestrade seemed to collapse internally—his facial features sagging as if the scaffolding had come away.
"It's been a very busy night for some people," he said, scratching his temple.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I've been suspended—"
"Suspended?"
Straightening up, Lestrade replied, "And anyway this belongs to Kent. Dimmock's SIO. He's been looking at everything we've got on you. You're a person of interest now, apparently. He's been asking a helluva lot of questions. Seems someone spilled the beans on our little incident a while back. The one with you storming into a house full of drug dealers, waving John's firearm about, and me covering it up."
"Someone spilled the beans? Would that someone be you?"
"There were other officers present on that night, thank you very much. And now it sounds like I threatened them in some way if they didn't keep their traps shut about your vigilante antics. So I'm out."
Sherlock placed his hands onto his hips.
"If you're suspended, then why are you here?"
"Thanks for your concern. I'm here as a friend. And I've got friends over in Kent who tell me your fingerprints are on two firearms, including the one used to shoot both Moriarty and Moran." Lestrade paused, his face paling. "So… did you?"
"No."
"Did Violet Hunter? Is this a cover up?"
"No on both counts."
"So, will you come and give a statement to that effect? Ms Hunter's gonna have to give a statement, too."
Sherlock glanced at his bedroom door.
"No, leave Violet out of this," he said.
"Sherlock, you of all people know how this works."
"Yes. This is where the Department of Incompetents gets it completely wrong."
"They're not gonna get it wrong if you tell your side of the story."
Sherlock tried to imagine what his side of the story would look like to the detectives at Scotland Yard. To the unknown detectives of Kent Police.
"So are you gonna come or not?" Lestrade asked, gesturing towards the door.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Turning abruptly, he marched over to the window.
"How long have I got?" he asked, peering out onto the street.
"How…?"
"Well, you've got friends," he went on. Turning back to Lestrade, he added, "So one of those friends tipped you off about my impending arrest. How long have I got?"
Lestrade gestured widely.
"Ten… fifteen minutes, tops."
Brushing past the D.I., Sherlock muttered, "That's enough time to get Violet out of here."
"No… hang on. Wait."
Sherlock strode through the kitchen and into his bedroom. Violet had already stirred and was using the ensuite. Sherlock knocked.
"Violet, get dressed. You have to go."
"What?" she said through the door.
"This is serious. Get dressed. Hurry up."
Returning to the D.I. Sherlock demanded the man's mobile phone.
"Why?" Lestrade asked, but he retrieved the device from his jacket pocket anyway.
"My phone's in evidence in some forensics lab, most probably. I need yours. Pull up my brother's number."
"I don't have—"
Sherlock pressed a knowing look upon Lestrade. Everybody had his brother's number.
"Yeah, all right," Lestrade conceded.
Sherlock pressed the Call button on Mycroft Holmes's contact details.
"There's still time," Lestrade said. "I could give you both a lift in. Stop them having to storm into your flat."
Pressing the phone to his ear, Sherlock told the D.I., "No, you're going to drive Violet to my brother's place."
"What?"
"Detective Inspector," Mycroft Holmes answered.
"It's not Lestrade; it's me."
#
"Not the weekend you were expecting," Detective Inspector Lestrade said, idly tapping an unrecognisable beat on the steering wheel with his thumb.
Poor man, Violet thought. Now he was left making small talk with a flaky actress.
"No," she replied.
At this time on a Saturday morning, the roads were choked with traffic. Violet remembered the last and only time she'd been driven to Mycroft Holmes's residence in Jermyn Street. That wasn't a pleasant occasion either. But this time she wasn't devastated that Sherlock had cheated on her; she was concerned for his welfare.
"Do you think he'll be okay?" she asked the D.I.
"Well, he's Sherlock, isn't he?"
They both exchanged a look. The Met detective huffed a laugh.
"Look, Ms Hunter, I don't—"
"Violet. Please…"
He gave her a brief smile.
"Violet," he went on. "They'll need to come at it from every angle. Interview all key witnesses…" Violet looked out of the window. "Your statement would come in very handy," he pressed.
"I wasn't in the room. I can't say what happened."
"You'll know what led up to the incident in question. It might help with the consistency of his."
The consistency of his?
Would they think he'd lie?
"Mycroft's forbidden me to talk," Violet replied, but her mind lay elsewhere. Why wouldn't the police believe Sherlock Homes? He was Sherlock Holmes!
"Who's this James Moriarty character anyway?" the detective asked. "He was meant to be in the U.S. What's he got to do with Sebastian Moran and Jacob Venucci?"
Violet hated hearing Jake's name thrown in with those two vile psychopaths.
"I think that's classified information," she replied.
"Don't tell me you've signed the Official Secrets Act as well."
"I haven't. But I'm not giving a statement to the police."
"What police? We're just two friends having a chat."
Violet glanced at the C.I.D. detective; his brows were raised and a smile played on his lips.
Friends, he'd said. How were they friends after the treatment Violet gave him during the Chenoa Burton investigation last year?
"Detective Inspector…" she began.
"Greg," he replied. "Just… Greg."
Greg? That wasn't what Sherlock had called him. Wasn't it Gavin, or…? Violet gave him a grateful smile.
"Greg," she said. "We didn't get off on the right foot last year…"
"Completely forgotten," he said, waving a dismissive hand.
"Well… I really appreciate your—"
"Anything I can do to help. And, y'know… later on… I'm more than happy to… Well, anything really. Security… or what not."
"Security?"
"Y'know. The press." Greg kept his gaze on the road ahead. "Paps. Fans. If… if… if you want to go High Street shopping or… or… a movie premiere or something. Or just walking in and out of your front door." He shrugged. "You and Sherlock. Anything I can do."
"You'd do that? Security?"
"I owe a lot to Sherlock. My whole career, I guess."
"But you've been stood down because of him."
Greg gave her a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.
"It's my way of staying busy. Keeps me off the streets."
"He's very lucky to have such loyal friends."
Violet smoothed her hair back, the sleeve of the borrowed jacket slipping down, revealing her wrist. She noticed Greg do a double-take. She quickly folded her hand in her lap, pulling the sleeve over the red welt.
"Shit," Lestrade said under his breath. "It was you."
"Sorry?"
She could see his neck reddening. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"The… the… the…" One hand left the steering wheel and gestured vaguely towards her.
Violet massaged the wrist that had been exposed, her stomach churning.
"Restraints," Lestrade managed to spit out. "They found… The SOCOs found restraints on a bed as if…"
"I'm fine."
Lestrade shook his head, his gaze remaining fixed on the road ahead.
"You might need…" he stammered. "I mean… You should… Has anyone…"
"I'm fine, Detect… Greg. Really."
"But you should—"
"John examined me. I'm fine."
His hand clenched and unclenched the steering wheel.
"Th-there's people you can talk to… Evidence to collect… maybe…"
Violet studied the D.I. His face was awash with concern. Hang on. Did he think…?
"I wasn't sexually assaulted," she gushed. "Just… restrained. On the bed. Nothing happened. I mean I was hit… earlier… but that…"
Greg was nodding as if her words were slowly trickling into his thoughts. As if he were calming himself down.
She was okay, wasn't she? She'd only been restrained.
Just restrained. Tied up by her ex-boyfriend, and he'd never hurt her. Not like that.
But nobody could know she had once been in a relationship with Jake, could they? Mycroft's orders. Nobody would know why Jake had shot Jim. Why he had saved Sherlock Holmes. His actions wouldn't make sense to anybody.
So why would they believe Sherlock? Was Mycroft Holmes making a big mistake here?
They pulled up at Mycroft's residence, finding a loading bay in front of a Waterstones. Greg walked Violet to the door.
"I guess this is where I leave you," he said, as Violet pressed the buzzer to Mycroft's flat.
A surge of apprehension went through Violet. Perhaps she needed an ally?
"No. You should come in." She pushed on the door at the sound of the latch clicking. "Find out what's happening. Don't you want to interrogate Mycroft?"
"Interrogate?" Greg repeated, joining Violet in the entranceway. "Wouldn't I get arrested for treason?" Violet emitted a nervous laugh. She'd often had the same thoughts where it concerned her boyfriend's overbearing brother.
Upstairs, Mycroft's door was opened by his butler—Violet had forgotten his name—who then led them into the dining room where Mycroft Holmes, jacket less and waistcoated, sat with a cup of tea and an uneaten piece of toast.
"I assure you, I'll handle it," he was saying before ending the call. Catching sight of his visitors, he greeted them with an exasperated sigh and rose from his chair. "I've just had a call from an hysterical landlady in Baker Street. Sherlock's been arrested and now they're searching his flat."
"Right," said the D.I., scratching his nape. A sheen of sweat broke out on Violet's skin. She knew this was going to happen. Sherlock had told her so. Still, the abrupt nature of Mycroft's announcement knocked her for six.
"So you're to stay here," Mycroft said grimly, "until all the fuss has died down."
"So they don't know where to find me," Violet said. Sherlock had inferred as much. Was she a criminal on the run now?
"It's better if she comes down and makes a statement," Greg said.
Mycroft stood taller.
"I don't need to tell you, Detective Inspector, that the security of our nation is at stake. This goes above and beyond your division."
Greg cleared his throat and said, "It's not as simple as that. Sherlock's currently under arrest by Kent Police. They'll be following every procedure. They could hold him for thirty-six hours or—"
"After which they must release him or charge him," Mycroft finished. "I'm well aware of the procedures. Everything done by the book. Or at least the appearance of. The Security Services have this in hand."
"Do they?" Greg challenged.
Violet felt the same. Why had Sherlock been dragged away, then, if Mycroft's people had this in hand?
Mycroft parried Greg's retort with a slight narrowing of his eyes.
"Yes. We do."
"What happens now?" Violet asked.
"I'll receive an update later today," Mycroft replied.
"Well, in that case," began Greg, "I'd better be off before I get a ticket. Ms… uh… Violet, give me a call if there's anything you need."
"Actually," Violet said. "If I'm going to be staying here, then I do need some things… things from my flat. I've got nothing. My suitcase…" She looked to Mycroft, who was scrolling through his phone.
"I'm in the process of retrieving your possessions from Doe Park," Mycroft announced, casually looking up from his screen. "But it may take a day or two." His mouth stretched into a humourless smile. "Red tape."
"D'you wanna ride back home?" Greg asked.
"Not me. My clothes. I'll…" She heaved out a sigh. "Could I borrow your phone?" she asked Mycroft. "I need to ring Mandi… and… I don't have her number, but if you ring mine, it'll be transf—"
"I have your assistant's number," Mycroft said.
Did he? Mycroft Holmes had Mandi Doniellson's number? Violet wondered why, although nothing should surprise her when it came to the omniscient Mycroft Holmes.
Violet asked Greg Lestrade if he would mind driving over to her flat in Chelsea, where she'd get her P.A. to have a packed bag waiting for him. When he readily agreed, Violet set about calling her assistant using Mycroft's phone. Wordlessly, the two men left the dining room, giving Violet a moment of privacy.
"Mister Holmes. This is a surprise." Mandi's voice came across as cold and business-like. Wait. How was Mycroft's caller ID in her phone? When had they ever communicated?
That was a discussion for another day.
"Mandi, it's me."
There was a pause as the proverbial dropped.
"Oh my God, Vi!"
Violet endured all the Northern redhead had to offer in the way of obscenities. There was nothing she could say that would derail her assistant from voicing her concerns about the media, Violet's talent and press agents, and well-meaning friends who had all swamped Mandi with phone calls via hers and Violet's phones. Violet's calls were, of course, redirected to Mandi's phone since the actress's was switched off. And missing.
"It's everywhere!" Mandi concluded.
"Well, I'm okay, thanks for asking," Violet replied.
"But he's been arrested! Just now! And what were you doing there with him anyway? Did he kidnap you?"
Violet tried to calm down her P.A. by saying she'd explain everything later, but right now she had to lay low at Mycroft's residence, and could Mandi please pack a bag for her.
It had been an interaction Violet had been dreading. It was one thing to endure the mostly stoney expressions from the men in Baker Street while recounting her story, it was another to experience the other end of the scale with Mandi's overemotional reaction when Violet hadn't even told her a thing about it. Mandi had sourced her information from internet news and gossip sites, naturally. How much had the press got hold of?
Against Violet's better judgement, once she ended the call with Mandi, she began googling herself and Sherlock. Line after line of headings shouted at her, beginning with the most recent entry and going back in time.
Sherlock Holmes arrested! [30 mins ago]
Violet Hunter, Sherlock Holmes in Shoot Out! [1 hour ago]
Four killed in Tunbridge Wells with Violet Hunter… [1 hour ago]
Rise of the Five Star in Real Life Massacre[1 hour ago]
Actress involved in Tunbridge Wells Massacre Identified [2 hours ago]
Tunbridge Wells Shooting! Celebrity Couple Revealed [2 hours ago]
Moran dead in shootout with celebrity couple [4 hours ago]
Escaped convict found dead with three others in Tunbridge Wells [4 hours ago]
Violet couldn't look at them any more.
"All sorted then?" Greg said from the entrance to the dining room.
Violet's throat felt constricted.
"I'll text you my address," she replied, her voice tight and strained. She felt like bursting into tears. The world was spinning out of control. But she had to stay strong. She had to focus.
#
"This interview is being digitally recorded onto a secure hard drive," Detective Sergeant Patel intoned, reading from the papers in front of her. "It may be tendered in evidence if your case is brought before a court. Can you confirm we've not had any conversation outside the interview about any offences today?"
Sherlock laced his fingers together on the table in front of him.
"That's correct," he replied.
"You've been arrested at 8:24 am on Saturday the 12th of April, 2014, on suspicion of murder," Patel read, "so we intend to question you over this allegation." Sherlock sighed as the D.S. continued in a monotone, only briefly glancing at him now and again. "On the evening of Friday the 11th of April, at approximately twelve minutes past seven, officers of the Operational Support Group presented at Doe Park Farmhouse, Tunbridge Wells, responding to a call from an officer of Her Majesty's Security Services. They found yourself and Ms Violet Hunter outside the front of the house in possession of firearms. On further inspection inside the house, they found four deceased males and one critically injured male. Forensic evidence has determined that one of the firearms in your possession is the weapon responsible for the fatal shootings of James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran." Finally looking up and meeting his gaze, Patel asked, "Can you tell me, Sherlock… Do you mind if I call you Sherlock?"
Sherlock had been in custody for a little over two hours and the civility of the officers who'd been processing his arrest still amazed him. He'd only ever been treated with contempt by most of the police officers he'd come into contact with in the course of his work as a consulting detective. It appeared that 'criminals' were treated with more respect.
"No," he replied. "Go ahead."
"Can you tell me, Sherlock, did you discharge the firearm that was in your possession?"
"No."
"And how did it come to be in your possession?"
"I took it from the possession of Jacob Venucci as he lay, wounded, on the floor of the parlour."
"And how did you come to be in the parlour?"
"I was invited."
"Who invited you?"
Sherlock turned to look at his solicitor, William Lamb, appointed by the British Government, Mycroft Holmes.
"My client isn't at liberty to discuss any and all interactions with the deceased, James Moriarty," Lamb said.
Patel referred to her file once more and made a note.
"And how did you come to be at Doe Park Farmhouse?"
"I caught the train from London, and was met at the station by Cecil Robbins, by prior arrangement."
D.S. Morehouse spoke up for the first time since Sherlock's interview began.
"What business did you have at Doe Park Farmhouse on the evening of Friday the 11th?" he asked.
"I was having a… what do you people call it… a… mini-break."
"And was Violet Hunter also attending the farmhouse for your … mini-break?" Morehouse asked.
Once more, Sherlock looked pointedly at his solicitor.
"My client isn't at liberty to discuss any and all interactions regarding Violet Hunter," Lamb said on cue.
James Moriarty. Violet Hunter. Both names were prohibited under some obscure Security Services mandate Mycroft had cobbled together. Moriarty had been initially listed as the sole name prohibited for discussion. For Violet's sake, Sherlock had the Security Services (that is, Mycroft Holmes) add his girlfriend as well. There was no way he was divulging any information regarding Violet's relationships with Moriarty and Venucci—one man the mastermind of her career successes, the other a gangster ex-boyfriend. If word got out, this could destroy everything Violet had worked hard to achieve. Her career. Her reputation. The respect of the industry she adored. He couldn't bring about her downfall. Sherlock had told Mycroft he'd abide by his silly prohibition and play along with this pointless charade if the directive included Violet Hunter.
But two hours in custody had begun to pall. He had to maintain control until the bitter end. Try not to be Sherlock Holmes.
"Uh… Mr Holmes—" Patel began.
"Sherlock's fine," Sherlock reminded her.
But Morehouse interjected.
"Do you take drugs, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock inwardly reeled. Outwardly he narrowed his eyes at Morehouse.
Lamb clucked his tongue.
"What my client does in his priva—" he began.
"I ask you this," Morehouse went on, "because we have a statement by a Mr Thomas Mayhew that in the presence of himself and Jacob Venucci you did administer an intravenous drug while you were in the parlour."
Sherlock huffed out a breath. Thomas.
Maintain a stony facade.
"That was under duress," he said coolly.
"Were you high when you shot James Moriarty?"
Lifting a finger, Lamb said, "My client isn't at liberty to discuss any and all—"
Sherlock held up a hand to silence the solicitor.
"I didn't shoot James Moriarty…" William Lamb emitted a strangled protest. "Or Sebastian Moran or Jacob Venucci or Cecil Robbins or Kevin…" Sherlock turned to Lamb his brows raised.
"McNally," his solicitor offered.
"McNally. I did not discharge a weapon of any description, as I said before. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel. Where's your SIO? Detective Inspector Dimmock?"
"Ah… Sherlock," said Lamb in a harsh whisper.
Turning to address the one way mirror, Sherlock called out, "Give me five minutes at the crime scene and I'll show you everything you need to know."
#
All eyes turned to Mycroft as he ended the call. John dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and Mary leant forward on her elbows. Lovely of Mycroft to invite the Watsons over for a Sunday night dinner. They provided a lifeline for Mycroft; he wasn't left having to make small talk with his brother's girlfriend. The girlfriend who'd been a little wired over the course of the weekend.
"Sherlock's been charged," he announced.
"Shit," said John.
Violet dropped her fork with a clatter.
"For the murder of James Moriarty only," Mycroft went on, a pleasant sort of smile on his stupid face. "They determined Venucci and Moran shot each other. Still, that's—"
"You are fucking joking!" Violet yelled, rising from her seat. "You said you were taking care of this!"
"Ms Hunter—"
"First he's arrested, and now he's charged! How is this—"
"His bail hearing is Monday morning. Tomorrow. Obviously he'll be granted ba—"
"How can you say that! How can you make any kind of guarantee!"
John cleared his throat.
"What happened in there?" John asked.
Violet felt her cheeks burning.
"I'm yet to find out," Mycroft asked, his tone suggesting he was grateful the conversation was back to being civilised.
"Excuse me," Violet said, striding for the door. "I have a phone call to make." She pulled up abruptly at the entrance to the living room and exhaled deeply. "John," she said, turning to the doctor. "May I please borrow your phone?"
In the privacy of the kitchen, Violet found Greg Lestrade's number in John's contact listing.
"John," the D.I. said by way of a greeting.
"Sorry, Greg. It's Violet."
"Violet! What can I do for you?"
Violet swallowed and rubbed a hand over her forehead.
"I'd like you to escort me to King's College hospital."
She heard his quick intake of breath.
"Oh." There was a moment of silence while Greg was clearly ruminating on Violet's need for a hospital. "Yes, of course…"
Did he think she wanted to get her injuries checked out?
"To see Jacob Venucci," she added.
"Wait. What? Jacob Venucci?"
"Yes. He's the only one who can prove Sherlock's innocence. If he…"
If he took the blame. If Jake admitted he'd shot Jim. That he'd saved Sherlock Holmes's life because of his love for Violet Hunter.
When he was tying her to the bed, Jake had prevented Violet saying the words she'd wanted to say to him. The promises she was going to make: if he saved Sherlock, she'd go to Manchester with him. She'd marry him. Had he really divorced his wife? It didn't matter; he would if he knew Violet accepting his proposal was a certainty.
Sure, he might go to jail if he confessed to murder…
Well, they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. He may only get manslaughter.
She could do that—marry Jake, if it meant Sherlock wouldn't go to jail. And Sherlock would come to understand in time. Still… her heart slowed to a dull beat.
"But he's in a coma," Greg said.
A minor complication. But what if she could get through to him?
"I still want to see him."
"Uh… yeah… I don't think they'd let you. They only allow family with these sorts of things."
"But if I accompany a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector?"
There was silence on the line for a moment.
"Well…"
"Please… Greg…"
Another long pause while the detective considered her request.
Come on, Greg. This is to save Sherlock.
"Yeah. Of course. When?"
#