A/N: This is it—the final chapter! Thanks for reading my mega-fic!
Chapter 37 - The Mutual Suicide Pact
Sherlock turned the corner into the now empty living room, his heart tripping. Exhaling a long breath, he regarded the stairwell. Another climb. Another session of carefully picking their way around the minefield of both their thoughts and emotions.
He'd often thought he couldn't read her, but these last few weeks with their constant arguing—resulting in a mini separation that had them sleeping in separate beds—brought about a clarity he hadn't known before.
Violet, though surely still grieving, was more focussed and determined that he had ever seen before. Her eyes had been constantly wet and red-rimmed before, during and after Dan Corlionne's funeral. And Sherlock knew she had shed quiet tears for Venucci, hidden away in her room upstairs. But then she'd just got on with it. Living. Focussing on proving Sherlock's innocence. Not a drop of alcohol in sight.
Sherlock recalled reaching for her hand in the private hire car on their way to Corlionne's funeral in Manchester. Conversation was sparse between them, even then. Mindful of Violet's reaction last year to Grice Johnson's death, Sherlock had said, "Please don't think this is in any way your fault."
"I don't," she'd replied, without making eye contact. "James Moriarty did this." And she had clenched her jaw, her gaze turning to the view outside the passenger window.
Was it detachment she had felt, much like his own Mind Palace deletions, where those banished thoughts could grow and fester and come back at a later date, mutated and multiplied, much like those aliens he'd seen in Violet's Rise of the Five film? Was she a ticking time-bomb?
The engagement ring secure in his trouser pocket, Sherlock crossed the landing for the stairs. He wearily placed a foot on the first step, then paused, hearing light footfalls from above. Violet came into view, still barefoot but now dressed in casual attire—a t-shirt over yoga pants, and her hair now loose about her shoulders and out of the confines of the formal bun she'd worn to attend the hearing.
"Is she gone?" she asked, coming to a halt above Sherlock. With her brows raised in interest, she looked like the Violet of old—relaxed, motivated, and above all, emotionally present.
"Ah… yes," Sherlock replied.
"I suppose we should go down and celebrate, then," she said, with a resigned smile.
"In a minute." Sherlock returned one foot to the landing. "I've got something I want to talk to you about first."
Violet continued descending. "Don't worry," she said, her voice lowered. "I'm not going to tell anyone about Mary."
"No. It's not that…"
Sherlock gestured towards the living room, his heart beating a pulse in his temples. He followed Violet across the threshold and closed the door behind them, locking it for good measure.
"Oh… Sherlock," Violet said, a crease in her brow. "I don't think I… I mean, with everything that's happened… I really don't think I'm in the mood."
"Sorry… what?" He followed her gaze towards the locked door. "Oh," he said, realising. She thinks I want a quick shag before going downstairs. "No, neither am I," he hastily added.
Violet blew out a soft breath and turned from him, crossing the floor for the living room table.
"I should sort out all these papers," she said, indicating the loose sheets and folders in an untidy heap on the table. "I'll have plenty of time to work as your personal assistant again."
What was she doing? Still trying to keep herself busy?
"I don't need a personal assistant," Sherlock said, watching as Violet picked up a handful of papers and placed them down several inches from where they initially sat. "I've never needed a personal assistant. I hired you because I didn't want you to leave."
"Wow," Violet said, throwing a glance in Sherlock's direction. "Is this a confession?"
Feeling warmed, Sherlock approached the table.
"I only offered you the job because I was intrigued by Copper Beeches, the name of your computer. Then you won that role in… something… Kara's War?" Violet raised a brow, clearly impressed by his recall. "You said something about losing your paid work at the pub," he went on, "and you'd have to move in with your dad. I hadn't found out about Copper Beeches, and you know how I hate not knowing things."
"My god, this is a confession," she said, her eyes twinkling.
Sherlock gave her a half smile, his heart now beating a steady rhythm.
"I need to say something," he said.
Her brows arched. "You're not going to fire me are you?" she asked, a touch of humour in her tone. "Because I don't know if I'm qualified to do anything else."
Sherlock glanced at the contents currently in disarray on the table. Had she ever been qualified to organise Sherlock Holmes's possessions? His schedule? Was that even possible for anyone?
"You are still an actor," he said, the smile growing on his face. "The most talented actor I know."
Violet huffed out a breath.
"An actor who's not acting?"
"All actors have a period of not acting. There's all that silly running around you have to do in between. Aren't we going to Venice soon?"
"We?"
Of course he'd attend with her—the Venice International Film Festival. This time her career path would be different. Violet would have his full support every step of the way—either in person or cheering from the sidelines. How forgiving was the industry, anyway?
Disgraced Hollywood Executive Makes a Come Back, James Moriarty had boasted. Everybody loves the bad boy. Would the same be true for Violet Hunter? Moriarty knew the industry better than anybody. He knew how to work it. He also knew how to terrorise the people in it. Disregarding the latter, Sherlock had an inkling as to how it all worked, too.
He recalled the naivety and enthusiasm with which Violet began her career in the entertainment industry. The sparkle in her eyes. The way her hands fluttered when she spoke at length about a play she wanted to see, a book she'd devoured, a call back she longed for. Her laughter at Sherlock's ignorance of the industry had both grated on him and endeared her to him in equal measure. Her vibrancy for her art mirrored his own passion for the work. Violet Hunter at the infancy of her career was the Violet Hunter he fell in love with.
Violet now knew what she wanted and wouldn't suffer anyone else's agenda for it. The fluttering hands were replaced by clenched fists; the sparkle in her eyes, now a steely gaze. He hoped her bubbly persona would still emerge now and again through her new-found confidence in her work. But Violet Hunter in control was the Violet Hunter he stayed in love with.
"Of course I'm coming with you," he said. "Promoting Arthur Avenue?The sole film James Moriarty didn't have a hand in? Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"I'm not sure the name Violet Hunter is going to help promote any film," Violet said ruefully.
"What about Violet Holmes?"
The words had escaped his mouth before he knew it.
"I don't think changing my name's going to help," Violet replied, with a shrug. "They'll still know who I am. And why would I change my surname to… your—" The last word petered out on an exhale.
Violet's eyes moistened, her lips still parted.
Sherlock returned her half-formed question with a warm smile. He reached for her hand. When Violet looked up at him, a questioning gaze lighting her eyes, Sherlock felt an odd sense of calm.
"There was something I was about to say back at the cottage," he said " In Tunbridge Wells. On our walk. Before we were… interrupted." He paused, letting his unspoken words reflect the gravity of the events that had marred every waking hour since.
But the tip of Violet's nose had turned pink. Tears were pooling and clotting her lashes. She'd made a deduction, so perhaps now wasn't the time for speeches.
Sherlock reached into his pocket, feeling for the ring box, momentarily dropping his gaze, his larynx constricting.
He scraped his throat to clear it and drew the box out of his pocket.
Violet gasped or squeaked; he couldn't immediately tell, because she'd covered her mouth, eyes widened.
"You once thought I wasn't the marrying kind," he said, running his thumb over the velvet. "Probably still do. All that ritual. My disdain for the Watsons' ceremony—I hardly kept that a secret. But that's a wedding. Something I'll endure to get from point A to point B. Because point B is where I want to be, that is, if you'll…" He paused to search Violet's eyes, which were now so wet with tears, he wondered how she could see out of them. He'd begun at a manic pace and now was the time to slow down.
"Violet," he said, feeling a little disconcerted by her uncharacteristic silence. Was she even breathing? "Would you do me the honour of marrying me?" He opened the box, displaying the delicate ring housed inside.
Violet sniffed, blinked, then wiped away her tears, obviously struggling to compose herself. Sherlock couldn't breathe. This was the longest few seconds of his life.
What came out of Violet's mouth was a cross-between a croak and a "Yes". Her bottom lip quivered as Sherlock plucked out the ring and slid it onto her finger. Violet regarded the ring for a split second before throwing her arms around him, curiously silent. Sherlock patted her back, feeling her trembling against him. He waited for a rush of compliments for his efforts, a stream of incredulous murmurings. But none came.
"Are you sure coherent speech is one of your many specialisms?" he asked.
Violet fiercely shushed him, tightening her hold. Sherlock let out a steady breath, tension leaving every muscle. Violet sniffed again, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Surely her wet lashes were now leaving smudges of mascara on his collar?
"Don't you want to see it properly?" he asked. Her response was a muffled sniff. "Violet?" He gently untwined her arms. "Are you okay?"
She shook her bowed head from side to side.
"No."
Sherlock waited, giving Violet time to gather her thoughts.
"I… I can't believe this… that we… I mean… Happiness," she began. "Every time I think…" She finally lifted her gaze. "Everything that's happened… how do I even deserve this?"
Sherlock felt his heart sink. How could she think she didn't deserve happiness?
"Despite the fact you've never done anything wrong… well, you get to marry me," Sherlock quipped, his attempt at levity. "So… somebody somewhere would see that as a punishment."
"Don't say that!"
He grinned.
"We deserve each other," Sherlock said, reaching to cup Violet's cheek. "This is what my brother feared would happen. You and I, with an abundance of similar dysfunctional traits… He thinks we'll be the ruin of one another. And he's absolutely right. The Sherlock Holmes he once knew no longer exists. The Violet Hunter I first met is dead. We killed them off. This was our mutual suicide pact. And it worked."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"It doesn't matter." His mouth slid into a smile. "We deserve this. We deserve each other and the happiness our union brings…" He studied her expression. Hope — that's what he saw there. "We're getting married," he finished.
It was the spark needed to reignite the humour in Violet's eyes. She regarded the ring once more.
"Did you buy this all by yourself?"
"Yes… well, I chose it. Mary picked it up for me. I wanted to avoid trending on Twitter at all costs."
"It's so beautiful. And it fits perfectly."
"Of course it does." When Violet met his gaze, he added, "There's not one dip, curve or circumference of your body that I haven't mentally measured and stored in my Mind Palace."
She lifted a brow. "Because you're clever?"
"Because I'm clever."
Sherlock ducked his head, meeting Violet in a tender kiss. She slid her hands up to his nape, twining fingers into his curls as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight. Her body, soft and supple, surrendered to his. Cleo de Thebes, her old staple, circled him, seducing him, promising all that was Violet Hunter.
As her lips parted beneath his, the blood began to hum under his skin. He felt a tiny prickling of anticipation. Here he was, a man of feeling—of longing—of desire to connect with another human being. For life. And he'd spent much of his life trying to avoid such connections.
Her light touch at his nape combined with the taste of her on his lips sent the blood throbbing through his veins and a thick fog clouding his thoughts.
As he ran his hands along her spine, he felt Violet shiver.
She eased back a little. "We really should…" she began, her lips lightly skimming his, "… take this upstairs." Desire was evident in her eyes, darkened to pools.
Sherlock reclaimed her mouth, which was warm and willing. She hummed against his lips, her tongue in a languid dance with his. The weeks of separation, the tension, the unmet needs that had all knotted together in frustration loosened inside him.
"Upstairs," she murmured.
Pinning Violet against the dining table, he skimmed her jawline.
"Here's just fine," he rasped in her ear. He would take her right where they stood.
In a quickened breath, Violet gasped as Sherlock pressed himself hard against her. Using the table edge as leverage, she twined her legs around his torso.
"I mean," she added, puffing lightly while he nibbled at the soft skin of her neck, "they're just downstairs… and…" A sigh broke her train of thought.
"The door's locked," Sherlock offered. There were too many barriers, he thought, his fingers brushing the hem of her t-shirt.
"We need one more floor between us," she said, her breath running ragged.
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Why?"
"Because of the loud crashes and thumps." Tugging at his collar, a new purpose lighting her eyes, she added, "You're not going to get off lightly."
Sherlock gave a low chuckle.
"Neither are you."
He pushed her down onto the table and hooked fingers into the waistband of her yoga pants. With a couple of tugs, he eased Violet out of them.
"So much for the paperwork," she quipped.
Sherlock grabbed Violet behind her knees and yanked her towards him. She yelped, throwing back her arms in surprise, hitting his laptop and sending it teetering towards the edge of the table. Sherlock made a grab for it at the same time Violet turned to see what she had connected with. Her elbow jabbed the computer even further, sending it sliding onto the chair, before it toppled to the floor.
"That's… what I was talking about," she said.
"I can get another."
Something flashed in Violet's eyes, and she sat up again, reaching for Sherlock's shirt and tearing it open, buttons pinging.
"Wait!" he protested. "This is a… uh…" The rest of the buttons went flying. Violet attempted to slide the shirt from his shoulders. Naturally, like every other time before, she had neglected the buttons at his cuffs.
And, like every other time, she began to giggle at both the predicament and Sherlock's irate huffs.
"It's a Trevor & Vernet," he said, unfastening the button at his wrist. "As well you know." He made light work of the other. "It's not available yet," he added, slipping out of the shirt. "Victor's upcoming autumn collection." This fact only made Violet chuckle even more.
Sherlock dropped the designer garment onto the rug along with Violet's yoga pants.
Her eyes were moist with laughter. The laughter that had first tugged at his heartstrings in those heady flirting days.
Violet reached for the hem of her t-shirt and drew it over her head, tossing it to the floor where it landed on top of the Trevor & Vernet exclusive. Her bra added to the ever-growing pile.
She reached for Sherlock, her hair in disarray, a dangerous glint in her eyes. The way the light filtered through the curtains and accentuated her curves brought Sherlock's arousal and desire peaking into one sweet ache.
In a light, teasing whisper, she said, "You're going to regret asking me to marry you."
Sherlock, now shirtless, loomed over her, his hand unhooking his waistband. "I'm counting on it."
~ THE END ~
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