Chapter 35 - The Final Problem
May, 2014
"Hey, Violet," Lestrade said. Sherlock looked up, regarding the pair as he shined his shoes. The D.I. lightly touched Violet's arm. "Sorry about…"
Violet nodded and gave Lestrade a grateful smile.
"Thank you," she replied.
Sherlock discarded the soft cloth and stood, straightening cuffs that didn't need straightening. John inhaled sharply and looked from Violet to Sherlock. Gesturing towards the stairwell, he said, "Ah… so we'll wait downstairs." Lestrade nodded in silent agreement.
Nice deduction, John, thought Sherlock.
His former flatmate accurately gauged the temperature of the room. How considerate of him to let Sherlock and Violet have a moment of privacy, as if the last few minutes before the car arrived would somehow ease the strain of the last couple of weeks.
As the doctor and the D.I.'s footsteps retreated down the stairwell, Sherlock regarded his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, while behind him Violet deposited random objects into her handbag.
Sherlock cleared his throat. He eyed her reflection in the mirror as she stood by the coffee table.
"You don't have to come," he said, fastening the button on his jacket.
She kept her attention on searching the depths of her handbag.
"I want to come," she replied.
"Are you sure. It's—"
"Show my support."
Sherlock brushed imaginary fluff from one sleeve. "It's going to be a circus outside. And you didn't come to my bail hearing, so…"
"Mycroft wouldn't let me." She continued rummaging, sounding distracted. "Don't you want me to come?"
"I—"
"Oh, God! Where the hell are my sunglasses!"
Sherlock regarded the contents of Violet's handbag that now spilled out over the coffee table. He longed to comfort her, but a great chasm divided them. And her mood had nothing to do with her missing sunglasses.
"I last saw them upstairs on the dresser," he replied. After a moment's consideration, during which Violet sighed loudly, he volunteered to fetch them. He needed to put distance between them once more, and he didn't have the excuse of a Skype case with foreign clients abroad this time. He knew tears now pooled in Violet's eyes. Tears of frustration. But their constant arguing over the last couple of weeks still humidified the air, and he could do nothing to alleviate it.
Upstairs, Sherlock regarded the unmade bed and clothing that littered the floor. Just like the good old days. Or the days before they'd started dating, when Violet didn't share his bed. An overloaded rubbish bin lay toppled to the floor. A couple of scripts spilled out—obviously the other film projects from which Violet had been passed over. The producers "wanted to go in another direction." Sherlock took that to mean another direction as far away as possible from Violet Hunter and the violence that surrounded her.
So this was the end result of her efforts to let the world know about her relationship with Venucci: a systematic destruction of her career.
By the state of her rumpled sheets, it didn't look like she was sleeping well at all. Neither was he, come to think of it. Separate beds. Separate rooms. Separate floors. Not a good sign for a healthy relationship. Still, at least she hadn't moved back to Chelsea.
His heart continued to beat dully in his chest.
Sherlock spied the sunglasses on the dresser—exactly where he'd spotted them the morning he came up to deliver the news about Venucci.
He'd hovered in the doorway at first. Violet was filing her nails or whatever, earbuds in, watching something on her iPad. Their argument from the night before crackled like static in the air. It had been the same argument, on repeat, every evening.
Sherlock had cleared his throat. Obviously she didn't hear him. Thrusting hands into trouser pockets, he approached the bed. She looked up, plucked the buds from her ears and set her jaw as if steeling herself for another round.
"What?"
Sherlock had dropped his gaze to the bed for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," he began, his voice pitched low. Her face paled. "Just had word from Lestrade. It's Jake." He paused as her eyes grew rounder. "Violet, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Monica Venucci gave consent for Jake to be removed from life support. He…" Sherlock folded in his upper lip before he continued. "He passed away in the early hours of this morning."
Her eyes immediately moistened and she looked away. Sherlock's body locked in place, at odds with his thoughts. Go to her. Comfort her. But Violet gathered up her earbuds and slowly closed the lid on the iPad.
"So, that's it then," she intoned. She rose from the bed saying, "The only person who could prove your innocence."
Violet turned her back on Sherlock to deposit her iPad onto the dresser, pushing a pair of sunglasses out of the way.
Say you're sorry, Sherlock willed himself. Say you're sorry for her loss. That's what people do. Gather her up in your arms. Hold her.
"I've got a phone call to make," Violet said, turning her head but not quite meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Could you… give me a moment?"
"Of course," he rasped.
He knew now that she had phoned Tevish Stewart to arrange an interview on The Late Show for that weekend. To make some noise, she had said when Sherlock had confronted her about it later.
"It's a ruse!" she'd shouted at him when he'd shouted back. "I'm using the media!"
"For what? Destroying your reputation? Ruining your career?"
"To save you!"
To save Sherlock from going to jail.
So it was his fault.
But she'd been distant anyway. Once Sherlock found out she'd visited Venucci in hospital (again without telling him her plans first!), she'd retreated into herself, even before the press got wind of it.
Remembering all this administered a fresh dose of guilt straight to his heart, and he swiftly retrieved the sunglasses from the dresser. When he returned to the living room, he found it empty.
He followed the sound of her voice. Their voices. Evidently, Violet had decided to join their security detail downstairs. Less chance of Sherlock making conversation then. Or picking a fight.
Sherlock checked his jacket pockets for his phone and wallet and made the descent himself. Violet was browsing Twitter of all things, Sherlock saw as he reached the bottom step. Didn't she have a P.A. to do that for her?
Perhaps Mandi Doniellson was still in a state of shock now that Violet had told her the whole sordid story. Sherlock preferred the woman's ignorance and the open hostility she used to direct towards him. Mandi knowing the sacrifice he and Violet made to save her life meant he was now the recipient of false empathy whenever she visited 221B. Sherlock knew he and Mandi would never like one another, but their current situation had them both maintaining a ridiculous facade for Violet's sake.
"The car's here," Lestrade announced.
Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff from the hook by the door.
"Remember," John said as Sherlock pulled on his coat.
"Yes," Sherlock replied.
"Remember—" John tried again.
"Yes."
"Remember what they told you. Don't try to be clever..."
"No."
"...and just keep it simple and brief."
Sherlock sighed. "God forbid the defendant should come across as intelligent."
"Intelligent, fine. Let's give smart-arse a wide berth."
"I'll just be myself."
Exasperated, John asked, "Are you listening to me?"
"John, it's fine," Violet said softly.
Sherlock was surprised to hear her come to his defence.
Had she given up, then? Resigned to the fact that all her efforts—her great sacrifice—had come to naught? Here they were, on their way to Sherlock's preliminary hearing. In spite of receiving "additional evidence", the CPS had decided to prosecute after all.
"Ready?" Lestrade asked. He held his hand on the doorknob. "I think it's better if Violet's behind me, then Sherlock, then John."
Sherlock moved aside for Violet to precede him. Should he hold her hand for appearance's sake? Bit awkward. They'd be walking in single file.
God, why was this so complicated.
#
Lestrade opened the door and stepped outside, carving out a path for the celebrity couple. Violet held her breath, keeping her gaze lowered, as she followed close behind. The Met were already in attendance with crowd barriers on either side. Cameras clicked from every direction, and questions were lost in amongst cheers from fans waving their "#FreeSherlock!" and "#SherlockIsInnocent!" banners.
The group had a direct path to the waiting private hire car. John, Sherlock and Violet took the back seat, while Lestrade sat in the front passenger seat alongside their driver.
As the car eased away from the throng, John muttered, "Thank God the hearing's closed to the public."
Violet kept her gaze ahead.
"Will Mycroft be meeting us there?" Lestrade asked, turning around to address Sherlock.
"I have no idea what my brother's timetable is," Sherlock replied.
They spent the remainder of the journey in relative silence. Violet was trying to keep it together as they threaded their way through traffic towards the Old Bailey. She longed to hold Sherlock's hand. Give him a reassuring squeeze. Was he worried at all?
She'd failed him. The preliminary hearing was the first step in a most likely long and drawn out process. This was going to be their lives for months, possibly years, to come. They would be waiting in limbo for the actual trial date if the hearing found that a trial was warranted. Of course it would be. These CPS arseholes couldn't connect the dots on a page that only contained two dots.
Why couldn't they see what had happened? That Jake Venucci ended Jim Moriarty's life because of his relationship with Violet Hunter? He had, hadn't he? It was the only explanation. Although, it didn't help that Sherlock kept questioning the likelihood of such a scenario himself. What was he thinking? There'd been nobody else in the parlour.
"You think it doesn't make any sense?" John had asked him during Sherlock's ramblings one night.
"Of course it makes sense," Sherlock spat. "I just can't see it yet."
Why would Jake go to the trouble of knocking him out? he'd queried. Why didn't he just calmly ask for his gun and say he'd shoot Moriarty himself?
"Maybe he thought you wouldn't trust him," John replied. "Why would you hand the gun back to a man who'd been working for Moriarty?"
Jake would've had the answers. Violet had pleaded with him to wake up. Swore at him, while she gently held his hand in hospital. He looked older than his years. Greg had told her she only had five minutes. She had to make it count.
She had rambled. Every happy memory she could think of came tumbling out. Tears clouded her vision, but she continued on. A five minute monologue straight from her heart.
But the fucker had died. She hadn't got through to him. Or maybe the thought of being married to Violet Hunter for the rest of his life sounded like torture. Death seemed a better option.
Bastard.
She'd pushed Sherlock away in preparation for leaving him. It was easier to storm out after they'd argued if she kept Jake in mind. To stay away. Even at night when the dark and quiet of her room amplified her longing and regret. She hoped he'd come up to her room anyway, but he was hurting, she knew that. She'd destroyed her career by leaking her past life to the press herself. Via her P.A.—knowingly and willingly. And she hadn't even consulted Sherlock about it. Didn't he understand that someone had to do something?
As the car approached the Old Bailey, Violet's breathing grew shallower.
A larger police presence organised more effective barriers behind which the media, curious onlookers and supporters all vied for the best positions.
This was nothing at all like the red carpet premiere they'd attended the other night. Although things were tense between them, Sherlock had still agreed to accompany her to the premiere of Improbity.
"To show my support," he'd said. He was thoughtful like that. And he looked so handsome in his tuxedo.
Violet had wanted to remain visible to the public. To the press. To the fucking Crown Prosecution Service.
I'm here. And I fucked Jacob Venucci. Make something of it!
While monitoring the news sites, she was horrified to discover that some were using publicity stills from Improbity, showing a blood-splattered Lisa, the character she played, aiming a gun just off camera, whenever they wrote about the shooting in Tunbridge Wells. Who the fuck had authorised that? Perhaps the film's marketing gurus had deemed it good publicity. It's a pity those Etienne-Lumiere fuckers didn't think likewise.
The car slowed down as police directed them to a reserved space in front of the building. Panic began to take hold. Violet wanted to reach for Sherlock's hand, but his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket just as the car pulled up at the kerb. They all remained in the vehicle, all eyes on Sherlock.
"Yes?" he said into the phone.
He listened for a few seconds. Through the window, police officers struggled to hold back photographers who were trying to take snaps of the occupants.
"Can they do that?" Sherlock asked the unknown caller.
Violet's heart thumped loudly. Lestrade lowered the flap on his sun-visor, but it did little to shield them from the numerous flashbulbs and the sea of faces that surrounded them.
"Baker Street," Sherlock called to the driver.
"What?" both Lestrade and John said together.
"Drive away," Sherlock ordered.
Violet exhaled a shaky breath.
"Who was that?" John asked.
"My solicitor," Sherlock replied. "The hearing's been postponed until 2pm. Some CPS red tape or something."
"That's not normal is it?" Violet ventured.
"Dunno."
The car pulled out of its space, leaving the confused faces of onlookers.
"How did that come about?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock's gaze remained on the spectacle through his window.
"Something to do with my brother," he murmured.
#
Violet removed her jacket and dropped it onto the chair in the corner of the room, her back to him. Sherlock checked his phone for news from Mycroft. He'd phoned the interfering ponce on the way back from the Old Bailey, but it went straight to his messaging service. And not the Anthea-kind of messaging service either.
Their security detail, under the guise of updating Mrs Hudson, had thankfully remained downstairs.
"What do you think's happening?" Violet asked.
Dropping his phone into his pocket, Sherlock replied, "I think Mycroft's got off his arse and is actually doing something for a change."
"He has done something," Violet reminded him.
Oh, yes. Helping Violet with her little excursion to the NCA. That something. Sherlock learnt about that plan after the fact as well. He pictured how the conversation went, involving his girlfriend and his brother. Something about Violet appealing to whatever Mycroft possessed as a heart about helping his younger sibling. Allowing his brother's girlfriend to pretend to be answering questions regarding organised crime, when in fact she had sipped tea with Mycroft Holmes in the secret office he held within the bowels of the National Crime Agency. What a lovely afternoon that had made for the pair. And a good photograph for the press, too.
"In any case," Sherlock said. "I'm still at the mercy of the CPS. I don't think my brother in all his incarnations can interfere with a process once it's underway. Excuse me for a second."
Sherlock escaped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Sinking down onto the bed, he cradled his head in his hands. The enormity of the situation finally weighed him down. He just needed a moment of solitude. He'd been pushing aside all emotions while overly-concerned parties surrounded him. He could feel the divide between him and Violet all too keenly. As the reality of a murder trial came into being, he had to consider what a custodial sentence would mean for him. For them. For their future.
Sherlock pictured the small box that now lay nestled in the back of his sock drawer. It may never see the light of day. Mycroft had paid him a special visit, informing him that his jacket—the one Sherlock had used to stymy the flow of blood from Venucci's head wound—remained in the possession of police forensics.
"But they did, however, relinquish this," he said, holding out the green velvet box to Sherlock.
Violet had been back at her flat in Chelsea at the time, collecting odds and ends. Sherlock wondered if his brother had timed his visit during Violet's absence. Fingering the ring box, Sherlock decided to deal with it later. He deposited it into his trouser pocket, but still Mycroft hovered.
"Ms Hunter isn't wearing the ring," he began, "so I assume you haven't yet proposed?"
"That's correct. Another day, perhaps. The timing's not quite right."
"So you'll go ahead with it?"
At the time, Sherlock had still been hopeful.
"Why wouldn't I?" he challenged.
"Do you really think that's wise?"
"Since when do affairs of the heart come from a place of wisdom?"
Mycroft gave him a humourless smile.
"My thoughts exactly."
Mycroft repositioned himself, an early warning sign of an impending lecture.
"You know, Sherlock," he began, "I've stood by and watched the slow deterioration of your mental state over the last two years. Since Ms Hunter entered your life, in fact."
Jesus Christ! The gall of the man!
"Don't forget," Sherlock replied, furrowing his brow, "you were responsible for a large portion of my deteriorating mental state, as you call it. If you hadn't interfered—"
"Things were looking up during Doctor Watson's stint here in 221B. I can't say the same for Ms Hunter's."
Sherlock felt his face glow hot.
"Mycroft—"
"You're not good for her."
"… Sorry, what?"
"And vice-versa. Look what you've done to her. Look what you've become. You are both systematically destroying one another with this unspoken competition to out-do each other for a mutual benefit. Nothing good will come of this union."
"This union is already a reality. And 'doing good for our mutual benefit' is called being in a relationship: caring for one another; supporting each other; a place of mutual respect."
"Mutual respect?" Mycroft's expression grew dark. "This is a mutual suicide pact. You'll continue destroying one another until there is nothing left of either of you."
"Then so be it. I'd much rather live a very short life with Violet Hunter than a long life without her. I'm sure she feels… I know she feels the same way. So… this will be our mutual suicide pact. Get used to it."
Mycroft lifted his chin and looked down upon his younger brother.
"On your own head be it."
Sherlock held open the door until his brother got the message to leave.
But what was the interfering arse up to now?
A tentative knock on the door jolted Sherlock out of his musings.
"Sherlock?"
Dammit. John. Sherlock had hoped it was going to be Violet.
"Yes?"
"Uh… Mycroft's here. And he's… he's got someone with him."
Sherlock's skin bristled.
Following John into the living room, he found Violet and Lestrade standing in a loose group with Mycroft and a well-groomed woman, about sixty-ish, clearly a civil servant and a former gymnast, going by her build and the osteoarthritis in her joints.
"May I introduce Lady Smallwood," Mycroft said. "She's—"
"The chairperson of your secret committee," Sherlock finished.
"How very observant of you, Sherlock," Mycroft replied.
"Gentlemen. Ms Hunter," Lady Smallwood began. "I won't take up too much of your time. We've just come out of a meeting, Mycroft and I, with the Joint Intelligence Committee and representatives of the CIA, the FBI, the DGSE of France, the BfV of Germany, and in fact a whole alphabet of various intelligence agencies from around the world. These member organisations have come to rely on the information we disseminated to each of them from the contents of Irene Adler's phone. They are all working, some with more progress than others, to disrupt or bring down various networks in their own jurisdictions, ones which were controlled in one form or another by James Moriarty."
"We know this," Sherlock stated.
"Yes, of course," she said, acknowledging Sherlock with a nod. "They're all operating successfully on the fact that the criminal networks are unaware that we have any intelligence about the scope of James Moriarty's businesses. As far as the world is concerned, he was involved in an insignificant human trafficking operation in the United States for elite clients in the United Arab Emirates, and was perhaps a co-conspirator in the assassination plot of an English detective. A small-time operator, if you like, and now he's dead."
"And this is relevant how?"
Mycroft took a step forward.
"Allow me," he said in deference to Lady Smallwood. When she gave a nod of approval, Mycroft continued. "Intelligence about James Moriarty's operations is residing in the head of someone we might call a loose cannon. Someone who has just demonstrated, to the intelligence community at least, that she has no qualms about giving up her own secrets for the man she loves." Mycroft looked pointedly at Violet. "How can we be confident she can keep the secrets of an entire nation? Or those of our nation's neighbours?"
"She has no interest in revealing national secrets," Sherlock countered. "Ours or anyone's."
"And I don't even know—" began Violet.
"Perhaps we all know that," Mycroft went on. "But you're forgetting about that little thing called pillow talk, Sherlock. Remember the bugs we found in your flat last year? Violet Hunter is a security concern. What Sherlock Holmes knows, Violet Hunter knows, one can assume. And Irene Adler gave the access code for her phone to you, Brother mine. Baron von Bork of the BfV knows and cares little for Ms Hunter. He called for her immediate silencing."
Beside him, Violet gasped.
John Watson stammered, "S-silencing? As in..."
"As in what we in the intelligence community call silencing, Doctor Watson," Lady Smallwood replied.
"They would have to go through me first," Sherlock growled.
"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft continued, "and it would appear that keeping Sherlock Holmes on side is a priority for most of our European friends, after all the good work you've done for them, naturally. They're keen for you to work for them in the future."
"Who, exactly?"
"Italy, Poland, the Czech Republic," Lady Smallwood replied.
"They were the most vocal," Mycroft added, "thanks to your recent successes there. But there were many others voting in your favour. Almost a majority, had it not been for Germany."
"And the United Kingdom?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, I could have voted either way."
Lady Smallwood clasped her hands together and said, "It seemed far easier for all concerned if the British Government silenced Violet Hunter with the only means at our disposal: to have the charges against Sherlock Holmes dropped."
"Jesus Christ," murmured John. "It's over."
"The CPS has swiftly moved to drop all charges against you," Mycroft said. "With gentle encouragement from the highest in the land. Nobody will admit to such interference, of course. The official word is: it is no longer in the public interest to pursue prosecution."
"Congratulations," said Lady Smallwood. "You're off the hook, Mr Holmes. You're home and dry."
Violet let out a shaky breath. All eyes were upon him, but Sherlock only returned the gaze of one.
Violet.
It worked, he thought. Your stupid, idiotic plan worked.
#
Author's Note:
Almost done! I'm still trying to decide if there are two or three chapters to go.