Chapter 36 - There's a Loose Thread in the World
Before they left, both Mycroft and Lady Smallwood indicated they'd be in contact with Sherlock sometime in the future. An image loomed of the pair, pyjama-clad, lying in Mycroft's bed, discussing over pillow-talk how they could put his little brother's talents to good use. Sherlock shuddered.
In parting, DI Lestrade shook Sherlock's hand and gave Violet a hug, whereas John embraced Sherlock, murmuring, "You jammy bastard."
Sherlock noticed, with alarm, Violet following Lestrade to the landing after bidding him farewell. As Lestrade descended, Violet began making her way upstairs. To her room.
John followed Sherlock's gaze and cleared his throat.
"I'll just go tell Mrs H," the doctor said, indicating the stairs with a tip of his head. "And… ah… ring Mary." He smiled and turned for the landing. Sherlock watched Violet disappear around the corner of the stairwell, his stomach plummeting. "She's on her way to court," John gabbed. "Mary. Better get her to turn back. Then we'll… celebrate?"
Sherlock nodded automatically. He stood stock still, his eyes locked on the stairs to where, untethered, his heart floated. It wasn't until he heard John call, "Bye Greg!" and the front door click shut, that he realised he was now alone. The absence of a heartbeat told him where he had to go.
He took the stairs uncharacteristically one at a time. There were more than he remembered. Violet was picking up clothes from the floor and doing a poor job of folding them before dropping each item onto her bed. She'd kicked off her shoes, but she still wore her same disengaged expression.
Sherlock crossed the threshold. The air had thickened with the kind of anticipation he felt when preparing to watch Violet perform on-screen. The unknown and the unexpected. What if she was terrible?
"Don't say anything," Violet said without making eye contact. A scrunched up t-shirt joined the others on the bed. Violet was obviously in a highly stressed state. She'd be polishing Mrs Hudson's silverware next. "I don't have any regrets," she went on. "I know you think I do…" She shook out a red striped number. "… Getting dropped from everything…"
Sherlock stretched and curled his fingers to stave off the itch that came from observing the genesis of a poorly organised clothing drawer.
Violet kept her focus on her laundry. "But I don't want… anything… from that man." A white t-shirt suffered from the ferocity in her tone.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"No… I was…" he began.
"I mean," Violet continued, reaching for a pair of slacks, "why should I care about the… the… fucking Legend of Horus…" She rattled off a few other titles of films that wouldn't shout VIOLET HUNTER on their movie posters. She punctuated each word with a wrap, a fold, a scrunch and, ultimately, a dumping of the particular clothing article. Tossing an unfolded undershirt onto the bed, she stood, hands on hips, finally meeting Sherlock's gaze. "So don't tell me it was a waste of time."
Her eyes narrowed as if issuing a challenge.
"I… No…" Sherlock said with a shake of his head. "I was just coming up to say… thank you." He swallowed.
Violet's features softened, brows arching and eyes glistening with unshed tears. In a rush, she was in his arms, a hiccup muffled against his chest. Sherlock slowly exhaled, every taut muscle slackening.
Dropping his chin to the top of Violet's head, he murmured again, "Thank you."
They stayed that way for a moment, arms wrapped around one another, Sherlock drawing in the scent of Violet's shampoo.
With an audible sniff, Violet lifted her head to gaze up at Sherlock.
"I was going to leave you," she said on a whisper of an exhale.
Sherlock furrowed his brow, puzzled. Easing out of his embrace, Violet turned and moved towards the bed, her back to him.
"If he… if he woke up," she said, hugging her elbows.
"Woke up from his coma?" Sherlock asked, immediately catching on.
Violet gave a half-nod and turned back to face him.
Clasping her fingers together, she said, "I wanted him to save you."
"He did save me."
"From jail." Sherlock's insides churned. What was she saying?
"I promised him I'd move to Manchester," she continued, maintaining the distance between them. "To be with him. If he confessed." Sherlock blinked. The floor gave way and he was free-falling. Violet shrugged. "But I don't think I could have. After all you and I have been through." Her voice, tight and strained, she added, "I love you too much to do that to you. " She had zeroed in on his weightlessness, her words catching him.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
Shoving hands into trouser pockets, he slowly approached Violet.
"I knew Jake Venucci for all of five minutes," he said, stopping in front of Violet. "Two minutes would've told me everything I needed to know. Five was ample. So I can say with full confidence, there's no way he'd accept you under those circumstances."
Violet huffed out a breath and bowed her head. Deflating. Sherlock reached for her and rubbed her shoulders.
"I think you may have placed too much faith in him waking up and confessing," he said.
"You don't think he would've woken up?" she asked, looking up at him.
Sherlock released his light hold on Violet. He scratched his temple, but the itch—that niggling feeling—came from deep within his Mind Palace.
"I don't think he would've confessed." Sherlock drew in a steady breath. "Violet… I'm not sure he actually shot Moriarty."
Violet frowned.
"What do you mean? Of course he did. Who else could have?"
The seed of doubt planted soon after the Tunbridge Wells shootout had taken root and sprouted. Now that the trial no longer existed—now that he no longer had to face charges of murder—Sherlock's mind was free to nurture and fertilise it.
He turned away from Violet and stared, unseeing, across the room.
Jake Venucci could barely press Sherlock's jacket to his head wound. How did he have the strength to stand, grab a blunt instrument and knock out Sherlock Holmes? That left only one other person who was present in the house, who was free to move about: Tommy. But just one glance at the wannabe gangster told Sherlock everything he needed to know about the young lad's capabilities.
No. Not Tommy.
Someone else.
Someone…
…capable.
Sherlock's mind swirled with an array of sound bytes.
Mary, John's voice echoed. She's on her way to court… Better get her to turn back.
"Mary," Sherlock murmured, his Mind Palace slowly kicking into gear.
… get her to turn back.
What was it about Mary?
Mary's got a theory, Sherlock had told Violet when he was working on the Chenoa Burton assault case.
Mary's visiting friends in Donegal, John had told him.
Is that why Doctor Watson's wife was poking around County Donegal? Moriarty had asked. So she could report back to you?
… get her to turn back.
"What about Mary?" Violet asked.
Sherlock straightened up, waiting as distant memories streamed and buffered on the screens of his Mind Palace..
We don't know if our house is bugged or not, John had said.
It isn't, Mary retorted.
How do you know that?
"We have to go," Sherlock said, moving towards the door.
"Where?"
"One more deduction," he told her, his lips curving into a smile. "Just one more, and then we're done. I promise."
"What?"
"Come on. We have to get to the Watsons'."
Sherlock took the stairs two… three at a time. He strode into the living room and grabbed Violet's jacket from the chair in the corner. His heart swelled to see Violet swiftly descending, her eyes bright, her face flushed. He held out her jacket as she reached the bottom step.
"I don't understand," she said, slipping her arms into the sleeves. "Are they in danger?"
At her change in demeanour, one corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. It was just like old times.
"No. But this is… this is… quite… brilliant. And a bit disturbing."
"Why?"
"It's Mary. She turned back. Come on!"
Sherlock tromped down the stairs with Violet following close behind. He was at the front door when laughter billowed from Mrs Hudson's kitchen.
"Of course!" he exclaimed, making a deduction. He whirled back around and made a beeline for the landlady's kitchen. "He's still here. John."
John had said he'd tell Mrs Hudson and ring his wife. He hadn't left for home yet!
Inside the tiny kitchen, he found John and Mrs Hudson with Mary, all sharing a laugh.
"Oh, Sherlock!" the landlady exclaimed, bringing her hand to her chest.
"Violet!" Mary said, stepping forward to embrace the actress. "Well done!"
"You're… here," Sherlock said to Mary, immediately side-stepping his landlady.
"Yes! John phoned. I wasn't far from here, so I—"
"Turned back."
"Of course," Mary said, laughing. "Why would I keep going?"
"Why, indeed."
Her bright expression faltered when she noticed Sherlock's piercing gaze.
"Have a drink!" John said.
"Can we postpone our celebrations for the moment?" Sherlock asked. "I need to have a word with Mary. Upstairs. Come on, Violet. You, too."
He turned and left, the stunned silence in his wake indicating he'd left them stranded at sea.
Upstairs, Sherlock grabbed a chair from the living room table and placed it between the two armchairs so it faced the fireplace. When Mary entered the room with Violet trailing behind, he indicated the dining chair.
"Mary," he said.
"What's this all about, Sherlock?" she asked.
"Violet," Sherlock said, gesturing to Violet's armchair. He strode over to the living room door and closed it. "Please take a seat, both of you."
He waited until the women tentatively took their seats before he, too, took to his armchair.
"That's a chair we usually reserve for clients," he told Mary. "You're a client now, Mrs Watson, formerly Mary Morstan. Although… was that even your real name?"
"Wha—?"
"Sherlock," said Violet. "What are you—"
"Mary," Sherlock told her. "She turned back."
"So you keep saying."
"She turned back to the farmhouse."
Mary sat taller in her seat, neutralising her expression. Her palms cupped her knees as she locked eyes on Sherlock.
"The—" Violet began, looking from Sherlock to Mary.
"You were late arriving back in London that night," Sherlock said, addressing Mary. He settled into his chair, steepling his fingers. "The night of the shooting. You should've returned from Tunbridge Wells before we did, if you'd continued driving after you left us. So… what happened? You received word from John?"
His question elicited a blank response from Mary, so Sherlock stood. Violet regarded him with deep creases in her brow. Pacing was better for thinking and theorising. Mary would have to twist around in her seat as Sherlock about-faced on the rug, but he was sure he had her undivided attention now.
"My brother was looking for me," he continued. "He had to warn me about Moran escaping custody. I assume he rang John to see if he knew my whereabouts when I failed to answer his phone call. Naturally, John touched base with you, not to ask if you'd seen me—why would you have. He was telling you the news and letting you know his movements. That's what he does. But you didn't tell him you'd just left us in Tunbridge Wells. John had no knowledge of you driving Violet there. Instead of telling him, you thought you'd take matters into your own hands. You were the closest to us. So you turned back. You wouldn't have done so if you lacked the skills to face this kind of danger. Otherwise, why not tell Mycroft our location and let his army of minions deal with it?"
He waited a beat, searching for a flicker of emotion on Mary's face. Violet wasn't looking in his direction anymore. With a tilt of her head, she studied the woman in front of her.
When he received nothing from Mary, Sherlock added, "It was you. You came to the farmhouse. Maybe you left your car by the side of the road, or parked in a neighbour's driveway. You bided your time. Got the lay of the land before you infiltrated the house. At the right moment, you knocked me out so I wouldn't know the truth. The truth that is: you, Mary. You shot James Moriarty." Violet inhaled his words with a gasp. "You placed the gun back in Jake's hand and left as stealthily as you came."
Mary's lips slid into a false smile.
"That's… an incredible story," she said.
"What makes it all the more incredible," Sherlock added, "is that it's true."
Mary redirected her gaze to a spot on the kitchen floor.
"Huh," she said, her jaw jutting forward. "But I'm just a doctor's wife and a nurse." Her voice never rose from the floor. She was no longer believing her own lie.
"A nurse who takes it upon herself to travel to Ireland to trace the background of a criminal mastermind?" Sherlock went on. "A doctor's wife who can state with all confidence that her home isn't bugged? Who has a theory that three unrelated victims are, in fact, related because they share a physical resemblance?"
"Just intelligent guesses."
"Intelligent, yes. I assume, then, that you were an intelligence officer?"
Violet's jaw had slackened. Mary huffed an irritated breath as if he'd just insulted her profession with the wrong title.
Sherlock took to his seat once more. If Mary Watson was the professional he deduced she was, she'd already know how to deal with an interrogation. The cracks were beginning to show because she'd been living an ordinary life. A life with John Watson. And she maintained some semblance of a friendship with Sherlock Holmes. A gentler approach would be more appropriate. He had to address his best friend's wife now, not the professional operative.
Leaning forward, resting elbows on knees, he lowered his voice and asked, "Why didn't you confide in me?"
Mary's eyes shone against the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. One blink, and she faltered. It took her two attempts to get the words out.
"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him," she replied, her voice rough with emotion. "It would break him and I would lose him forever. And Sherlock, I will never let that happen. Please... understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening."
In a blur of motion, Violet was on her feet. Mary straightened in her seat. Sherlock hadn't even seen Violet grab the fire poker that she now pointed at Mary Watson.
"You don't get to threaten us!" Violet's fist was wound tight around her weapon.
"Violet," Sherlock warned, slowly rising.
Mary raised an interested brow.
Violet's gaze was steady and locked on Mary's.
"I've had enough of people threatening us," she said, jabbing the poker in the air for emphasis. "I'm not going to sit back and let that happen again."
Sherlock held out a steadying hand.
"Violet, it's fine."
"She threatened us."
"Yes, that's what her people do. It's a reflex. Like saying 'bless you' after someone sneezes. Mary wouldn't hurt us…" Closing his fingers over the end of the poker, Sherlock eased it out of Violet's grasp. "Because we're going to keep her secret safe, aren't we?"
"Are we?" Violet repeated, a look of defiance in her expression.
"Yes. Because the deed is done, and we're all moving on."
With a loud tut, Violet side-stepped the armchairs and stalked across the room. Sherlock replaced the poker in its holder. Planting herself in front of the window, Violet looked out onto the street. Mary rose from her seat and turned to address the actress.
"Violet…" she began. She drew in a steadying breath. "I stood by for far too long, watching what that madman was doing to the pair of you. To two people I care about. And I couldn't do anything, not without finding a good excuse to fly to L.A. When Mycroft's warning came through, yes, I turned back to the farmhouse, expecting Sebastian Moran to show up, not James Moriarty."
Violet turned around sharply.
"So you just stepped in and killed him?"
"People like James Moriarty should be killed," Mary replied confidently. "That's why there are people like me."
"Is that what you were, then?" Sherlock asked. "An assassin?"
Mary clenched her jaw as she turned to face him.
"Yes."
"So, as an assassin," Sherlock said, casually stepping away from the fireplace, "you should've possessed the skills to take a life and make it look like the victim died of another cause entirely. But you made a mistake in this instance."
"Yes. I did."
"Jake's injuries were too severe," Sherlock told her. "There was no way he could've stood up and had the strength to deliver a blow to the back of my head."
"There wasn't enough time to stage an alternative. You were coming round, and I didn't want to risk injuring you further by knocking you out a second time. Besides, I didn't think Sh—"
"Didn't think the police would be so competent at their jobs?"
Mary heaved out a sigh.
"I didn't think Sherlock Holmes lacked the foresight to tell a completely different story."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.
"A different story?"
Mary gave him a half-smile.
"All you had to do was change the sequence of events," she said. "If Jake shot Moriarty first, then received his injuries after Moran shot him in retaliation, it would've sounded more plausible. Why didn't you think of that?"
"Because I was telling the truth."
"You were trying to solve the crime, instead of thinking of a scenario which would prove your innocence. And as you know from questioning witnesses, Sherlock Holmes, those two things are not necessarily the same."
Sherlock exchanged a smile with Mary. She really was the superior half of the Watson duo. He rumbled out a laugh at his own shortcomings.
Across the room, Violet tutted.
"This isn't funny!"
"It's a bit funny," he retorted.
Gesturing towards the living room door, Mary said, "Everyone's going to be wondering why you asked me up here. We'll have to think of something to tell them."
"How about we tell them the truth?" Violet snapped.
"What good will that do?" Sherlock asked. "No," he said, crossing his arms and running a thumb over his lips. "I have a better idea. Come on." He took off for his bedroom, calling back, "Just Mary! Violet you stay there. Won't be long!"
#
"Intriguing," Mary said, crossing the threshold. "This better be good. You have a very irate girlfriend out there."
Shutting the door behind the assassin, Sherlock said, "Well, she won't be my girlfriend for much longer."
"Oh, God, Sherlock. What now?"
Sherlock chuckled as he made his way across the floor to his dresser.
"I asked for your assistance with this once before, remember?"
Pulling open his top drawer, he drew out the green velvet box.
"Oh," Mary said on an exhale. "You're going to do this now?"
Sherlock ran his thumb over the fabric, feeling the beginnings of nervous flutterings in his stomach.
"At my last attempt, all hell broke loose. Our country retreat," he added with a grim smile. "Now's a good a time as any."
Mary's expression softened.
"And what did you need me for?"
"Tell everyone I gave this to you for safekeeping. You know… when I thought there was a chance I'd…"
"Go to prison?"
"Precisely. And now I've asked for it back."
"And I happened to have had it on me?"
"Always prepared for every occasion, Mary Watson!"
"Or I was just lazy and it was still in my handbag."
She grinned and held out her hand. Sherlock gave her the ring to examine. He watched as the former assassin gazed in deep thought at the single solitaire diamond promise. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? A promise to marry the recipient.
"It's beautiful," Mary said softly. Her chest rose and fell as she inhaled slowly and blew out a long breath. A touch of normality, Sherlock deduced of her thoughts. A reminder of her own choice to live an ordinary life. Handing the box back, she said, "I'm really happy for you both, Sherlock."
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Thank you." He bowed his head, turning the box around in his palm. And now his heart began to hammer. "It's… um…"
"You've come a long way," Mary said, voicing his own thoughts.
Sherlock lifted his gaze, a smile forming on his lips.
"I have, haven't I?"
Mary held out her arms, murmuring, "Congratulations. You deserve this." Sherlock returned her embrace, his hopes and fears escaping his mind's gravitation pull and floating into orbit.
"Do you think you can you talk her round?" Mary asked.
"I'm pretty confident she'll say yes, otherwise why would I be propos—"
"I meant about me," she said, easing back from their hug. "My secret."
Sherlock straightened up, dropping his loose hold on Mary.
"Yes… yes, of course. Don't you worry about a thing."
"I should leave you to it, then. You'll have to come downstairs and announce your engagement officially, of course, to John and Mrs H."
Sherlock winced.
"Oh, dear God. Can't people just make a deduction?"
"That pair?" Mary asked, tilting her head towards the door.
Sherlock chuckled lightly. Mary fixed him with a wink, and he watched her leave, his breathing growing shallower by the second.
He looked beyond his bedroom door to the passageway through the kitchen and his potential new life. Why was he considering this again?
Oh, yes.
Although the air was thinner in outer space, Violet Hunter was the inhale to his every exhale, the very oxygen he needed for existence. They'd be talking about this day forever. The day Sherlock Holmes first set foot on the moon.
Sherlock slipped the box into his trouser pocket, stood taller and swallowed hard.
There were approximately twenty-six steps between him and lift-off.
#
Author's Note:
Just one chapter to go… maybe two if I'm feeling up to it and you guys want an extra one!