Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
A/N: Soon I'll be at the end of this particular story. I'll take suggestions on how to publish the next two installments. Shall I add them on to this story, as in 'Part Two, Part Three', or publish them as separate entities? Everything is already plotted out, I just need feedback on how to post it all. Please let me know in the reviews, or private messages.
Please enjoy this chapter. For those of you who may think Violet Hunter is an OC, she is actually a Conan Doyle character, and I have just changed her to fit my story. Some Holmesian scholars theorized on her true identity in relation to Sherlock Holmes after he created her character, as Holmes' reaction to her was significant. I won't spoil anything, just feel free to go research her on Wikipedia, and there are even some published works out there that discuss her connection to Conan Doyle's Sherlock.
Please enjoy.
Chapter Thirty Five
"Brother Mine"
"Do you want to knock already? These bags aren't getting any lighter." Violet grumbled to the doctor, his hand raised to knock at the door of 23-24 Leinster Gardens.
John hesitated. Mary may not even be in there anymore. There's no guarantee that she even came here. It's well past midnight now, most likely closer to two in the morning really. She might be sleeping.
"John!" Violet snapped at him.
John gathered his courage, and knocked. Or he tried, as the door opened before his knuckles hit the wood. John found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm, with a blonde assassin at the other end. He froze, and met her eyes over the gun. She looked pissed. It was very late at night. Ooops.
"Oh, that's Mary! Darling, you look way to fine to be getting blood splattered all over that sweater. Except for the bruises. Is it true she hit you as part of an ambush? Wow. How about you not shoot your baby daddy, and you let me in? John can stay out in the cold, that's cool." Violet spoke over his shoulder, and Mary slowly broke eye contact to look at the girl behind him. John watched as Mary did a double take, her eyes widening when she saw Violet.
The gun dropped, and John sucked in some air, thankful he'd used the restroom at the last place they stopped before coming here. Mary backed away from the door, and John took that as an invitation, stepping over the threshold into the most bizarre building he'd ever seen. It looked utterly normal on the outside, but the inside was nothing but a long concrete hall, with a small room near the front. He saw a few doors off the hall, and thought there might be more rooms as the space went on.
Violet scampered in behind him, and she kicked the door shut. Violet had bags overflowing from both hands, and John carried an armful himself. Violet had insisted they get everything she thought a woman in hiding might need. John had been flummoxed by some of her selections. What was Mary going to be needing a hair dryer for? Or hairspray? She was in hiding, right? But he had been on enough shopping trips with girlfriends in his life to know the futility of arguing with a woman when she was shopping.
"I wasn't expecting you, John." Mary said as she tucked the gun into her waistband, walking away from him. She stood near a faded and dusty settee, arms crossed over her chest. He couldn't tell if she was angry, sad, tired, or if this is what the real Mary Morstan looked like all the time. Or is it Amelia?
"I wasn't expecting me to be here, either. But Sherlock said you were here, and we thought you may need some things." John said, and he smiled ruefully as she lifted a brow at him. He put his bags next to the door. "Oh fine, Violet did all the shopping, I just carried everything."
"And a marvelous job you did, too. Gold star, Sexy." Violet walked right past him, and dropped the bags on the settee next to Mary. She moved without fear, not at all bothered by the fact she was in the same room as the woman who had been in league with Death only a few days earlier. John was having trouble, for so many reasons.
Mary was staring at Violet, and Violet was unashamedly staring right back. The raven haired beauty was the taller of the two women, nearly as tall as Sherlock, and Mary was shorter than John. The size discrepancy didn't matter at all as the two sized each other up. John felt like he was caught in an alley with two cats, and they were sniffing noses, trying to decide if they would be friends or bitter enemies.
Mary broke the silence first, dropping her arms, and turning fully to Violet. She was smiling, her blue eyes twinkling in the low lamp light. Violet just kept staring, her vivid eyes evaluating the blonde assassin.
"You look just like him." She said, eyeing Violet from head to toe. "I'd say family, but Jaime had a dossier on the entire Holmes' clan, and there was no daughter. Another son, yes, but no daughter."
John jumped, staring at Mary. Another son? There's another Holmes brother? What the hell?
"I never asked." Violet smiled at the blonde assassin. She seemed to make up her mind, as she spun on her heels, diving into the bags on the settee. Clothing, toiletries and random packages spilled out everywhere.
"What do you mean, another son?" John asked Mary. He really needed to know. There was no way that he had missed something like that all these years. But then, he hadn't even known that Sherlock had parents until two weeks ago.
Mary spared him a look, as she bent over the supplies next to Violet.
"Yes, he died years ago. He was the eldest, by quite a few years." Mary said, not even paying attention to his shock. "There was no name, just the initials of S.H. Same as Sherlock. You want to know more, ask him. The man was his brother, after all."
"Yeah, I guess I will." John didn't know if he was mad or not. But if his oldest brother was dead, and had been for a long time, he could see how that wouldn't be a topic of conversation. Sherlock never volunteered information, especially about his family. Other than Mycroft, that is. Sherlock loved to complain about Mycroft.
John watched the ladies as they picked through the bags, already acting like they'd known each other for years. They were chatting quietly, and he caught Violet sneaking a random glance his way once in a while. He shouldn't be surprised. They were both crazy. He pulled out the mobile that Violet had given him, and started sending a text to the other phone.
At the safe house. Mary and Violet are fast friends. Why didn't you tell me you had another brother? –JW
Nothing for a few minutes. John sat on a box next to the door, finding himself glad to be ignored. He had no notion of how to interact with Mary. He tried not to feel like he was being rude, or that he was hiding.
He died a very long time ago. It never mattered. –SH
Most people would be demanding to know how he found out, who told him, things like that. Not Sherlock. He wouldn't care, or he would correctly figure it out on his own. But John was feeling lost, and he hated that feeling. So if his next text came out slightly snarky, he didn't mean it that way. Maybe.
Maybe it matters now? –JW
John waited, wondering if he'd put Sherlock off. He didn't mean to be demanding. Mary was making him uncomfortable. He kept thinking he should say something, but he had no idea what. It was several minutes before Sherlock replied.
Is this one of those relationship rules?-SH
Yes. –JW
I'll tell you in person then. Is Mary well? –SH
Must be, she's ignoring me. –JW
Better than her trying to kill you. –SH
HA. True. How are you feeling? –JW
I am fine. High, but fine. –SH
Turn down the morphine, Sherlock. –JW
Boring! Fine. Hurry back. Mycroft came by to 'visit'. Spying, more like. Lestrade woke up. –SH
John felt a rush of happiness at that bit of news, and he looked up from the mobile to the women organizing the supplies.
"Violet, Lestrade woke up." John told the brunette. She smiled at him, and pulled out her mobile. She checked the notifications, her brows rising.
"So he did! Less than an hour ago from the heart rate monitor. He's sleeping now, though. Good for him." She tucked her mobile away, and went back to stacking canned food on a shelf.
"What happened to Greg, John?" Mary asked. She sounded nervous, like she actually cared.
"One of Moriarty's guards shot him when he disarmed the bomb set to blow up St Bart's." John told her, trying his best not to come across accusatory. Lestrade nearly died because of her friend. Because she joined up with Moriarty. He didn't try hard enough, because her eyes went flinty, and she turned her back on him. His eyes were drawn to the grip of the gun as it peeked out from under her cream colored jumper. She carried it the way most women carried a purse; so used to it that its presence was normal.
"I won't bother apologizing, John. And you wouldn't believe me anyway." She spoke quietly, to the wall, but her tone was hard and unforgiving. Violet sent her a curious look, but she held her tongue, just watching.
John sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Mary was pushing all his buttons. She was almost unreadable. He couldn't tell if she was upset, sad, remorseful, nothing. Just vague hints of emotion that traveled across her face. She was hiding herself from him, hiding what she was thinking and feeling.
"I didn't come here to argue." John said, mumbling. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. It was a small room, and she heard him.
"Why did you come, John? Why are you here? Why not just let me get caught, or turn me in yourself? Why come here with Sherlock's niece, arms full of peace offerings, and then dare to get mad at me for asking after the welfare of a man I genuinely liked?" She spun back to him, so fast his hand went instinctively for the gun he had tucked under his own jumper. He stopped himself, but it was too late. She saw his reaction, her eyes glacial and fierce.
Mary was furious. Absolutely enraged. Her face was snow white, eyes like blue diamonds, and just as hard. He felt a cold chill run over his skin.
"What, I'm pregnant, and suddenly you expect me to be friendly? That I'm not still horribly pissed off at you? I may have decided to help you, but that doesn't excuse the fact you left me for a man who made you think he was dead for two years!" She was so angry she was growling out the next words. "And regardless of my actions the last several days, I didn't want you all dead! I spared your friends! And I certainly didn't have to answer the fucking phone when Sherlock called!"
John didn't answer, he had nothing to say that wouldn't incite her further. That wouldn't make him blow up just as badly. He just sat there, his face clearly broadcasting his own upset state, biting his tongue. He felt ashamed for his knee-jerk reaction in reaching for his weapon. His lack of an answer didn't help, as she went from furious to insanely scary in mere seconds.
"You asshole." Mary spat at him, and she stalked out of the room. He heard something shatter in the next room, like she had picked up a mug and thrown it at a wall. Violet was staring at the door, mouth open. There came another crash, and he could've sworn he heard her swearing. Her voice was different, and she sounded more like Violet. She sounded American. A very pissed off American woman who had spent the better part of two decades killing people because she was paid to.
"This is the best day of felonies ever." Violet breathed out in awe. She slapped a hand over her mouth at the curses coming from the other room. She giggled softly, and winked at his look of indignation. "John, a piece of unsolicited advice: Never piss off a pregnant assassin."
It was that reminder of Mary's condition that swept away his anger. She was pregnant. He had gotten her pregnant. His responsibility. Must be hormones. Please let it be hormones.
Shit. I will not run away, I will not run away. I'm going to sit here until she calms down, and then I'll see if she'll talk to me. Oh shit. No running, I'm fairly certain Violet would kick my ass after Mary got done with me. I have completely fucked this up. What if she leaves? What if she doesn't leave? Christ.
His mobile buzzed at him, and he looked down, glad for the distraction. Things were still breaking in the other room.
What's taking so long? Thought we were having a relationship thing? –SH
Mary got mad at me. Really mad. –JW
She try to kill you? –SH
No. She's breaking things in the other room. –JW
Then she's not that mad. –SH
And you're an expert on mad women? –JW
I'm an expert on psychopaths. –SH
Oh. Yeah. I feel tons better now. –JW
Do hurry up. I'm not sleeping alone. –SH
There hadn't been the sound of anything breaking for a couple of minutes. John looked nervously down the hall, and glanced at Violet. She was thinking hard, her nose crinkling up exactly like Sherlock's did when he didn't like what he was thinking.
"What?" John asked her. She seemed to be hung up on something.
"I am so glad I never made a move on him." She said, shrugging her shoulders and dropping the last can on a shelf. "Not that it would have been a serious move, wrong equipment and all, but the thought was there for all of a nanosecond. Curiosity, really, and he was always safe."
"Who? What?" John was lost. She relaxed, as if what she was thinking wasn't all that bad after all.
"I think Mary's conjecture is spot on. Sherlock is my uncle." She had a look on her face, as if she was contemplating what shoes to wear or what government agency to hack into. Not at all bothered that she had just dropped a hell of a revelation on Sherlock's boyfriend. "Well, fuck. That means Mycroft is my uncle, too."
"What?! How did you not know?" John was at the point of the conversation where anything else she said just didn't register. "How? What? Does he know?!"
John was whipping the mobile up, determined to call Sherlock and figure out what the hell was going on. How could the Holmes brothers not acknowledge her if she was family? How the hell could anyone do that? He jumped as Violet's hand snatched the mobile out of his grasp.
"No." She glared at him. John gaped at her, totally lost. "He's in the hospital, John. For fuck's sake, it's not an issue. I'm still the same person, he's still the same Sherlock, and unfortunately, Mycroft is still the same too. It's not a problem. It hasn't been an issue for the last eleven years, so it's not going to matter for the next few hours. You can ask him when we get back. Don't harangue him over the fucking phone."
"But….." John was completely lost. This girl might be his lover's niece, and the idea of it didn't seem as much of a revelation to her as it was to him. "Don't you want to know?"
"We can ask him later. I'm sure he knows. Sherlock not saying anything about it could mean anything, really." Violet reached down, and pulled him to his feet. "I'll love him all the same, no matter what the answer is. I know you'll love him, too."
"Mary! We're out, let you get some sleep. Enjoy the space heater and blankets! And there should be a sleeping bag and chocolate in the bags John left by the door! And I got you a burner cell, it's in there too!" Violet called down the hall. The only answer they got was a very quiet good night in response. John wavered, wanting to go down there, see if she was okay. Though Mary might shoot him if he did. "Sherlock gave me the keys to this place, they're on the settee!"
Violet dragged him out of the room, and she pulled him out of the building. John pulled the door shut, waiting near it until he heard Mary lock it from the other side. John felt like an ass. He had come to see how she was, to try and talk to her, maybe find out her plans. Anything other than what had actually happened.
Violet dragged him to the black car, and he shook his head in amazement as she turned it on with her mobile. She was just as brilliant as Sherlock. It would be the world's grandest coincidence if it turned out they weren't related. And if it turned out that they were blood.
They got in, and she pulled out her laptop. She had done this as they left the twenty four hour shopping center outside of London. She had told him she was blacking out the CCTV cameras in a ten block radius around Leinster Gardens. If anyone managed to track them that far, there would still be hundreds of potential places for Mary to be within that area, so finding her wouldn't be that much easier. He watched as Violet checked to make sure the blackout was still in effect. It was, and she set it to a timer, to resume normal coverage once they were out of the radius.
Part of him was wondering why he didn't feel guilty about messing with those cameras. But he knew that if MI6 found Mary, he would most likely never see her again. Or know his unborn child.
Sherlock tucked the mobile back under his pillow, hearing footsteps coming down the hall to his room. He was right to be cautious, as it was Mycroft. This was the second time in two hours he had been by, the first not long after Lestrade had woken up. He had been awake for only a few minutes, but it was enough to get his brother out of the deep state of despair he had been in. Sherlock hadn't seen Mycroft that deeply affected for decades.
"Shouldn't someone be in here, making sure you aren't dipping too deeply into your medication?" Mycroft didn't bother turning on the light, he just entered, and sat in the chair next to his bed.
"Odd position, considering your attempt to keep me heavily sedated for several days after Jaime Moriarty took John." Sherlock tossed that out casually, looking at Mycroft's face, visible in the moonlight from the window.
"Hmm. So you were awake enough to hear me. I figured as much, after you escaped Anderson."
"An infant could escape Anderson." Sherlock settled back deeper into his pillows, ignoring Mycroft's disapproving expression as he reached out and increased his morphine drip. He'd turn it down once John returned. He needed something to handle the forthcoming conversation. "Hardly the wisest choice in nannies, brother dear."
"Yes, so it would seem." Mycroft was beginning to fidget, and Sherlock tracked his gaze as it settled on the empty futon under the window.
"And how is your DI? I am assuming he is well, since you are here, and not at his side." Sherlock needled his brother, just enough to let the elder know he knew about the burgeoning relationship between them. Mycroft glared, but otherwise ignored the comment. Sherlock tried not to sigh out loud as Mycroft again looked to where Violet had been the last two days.
"Where are your doctor and the intrepid hacker?" Mycroft asked, his tone not as casual as Sherlock knew he would have liked. Mycroft knew it would take something special to get John to leave him, and Violet was most likely with the doctor, given her quick attachment to the man.
"Not here." Sherlock knew his non answer would annoy Mycroft, not caring at all as his older brother glared at him. He knew just the thing to get Mycroft's mind off of where his lover and the girl may be.
"John knows about Sherrinford." Sherlock didn't hesitate. He watched Mycroft's face as his brother processed his words. Mycroft tried to speak, mouth opening, before snapping shut. His fingers began to drum on the arm of his chair, and Sherlock withheld the smile he wanted to let free.
"How does your dear doctor know about Sherrinford?" Mycroft's voice was icy, no emotion present. Sherlock wasn't fazed at all. Especially since he was about to lie to his brother. He knew the source was Mary, but he could not tell Mycroft that.
"My assumption would be Moriarty. Did you miss the files on the tables in the ballroom? An entire dossier on our family was right there in front of you. Strange you didn't see it." Sherlock smirked this time, enjoying the relaxed feeling the morphine was giving him. "Must be slipping in your middle age."
"I didn't have much time to see anything before she blew up the manor." Mycroft snapped at him. "How much does John know?"
"Enough to ask me why I never mentioned our older brother to him." Sherlock knew the next part would be tricky. Their elder brother had been off limits for a very long time. Sherlock had hardly known him, being the youngest. The differences in their ages had been great. Mycroft had known him best, and it had nearly destroyed him too. What he was about to say next might break what restraint Mycroft had left.
"Violet is his daughter." Sherlock was blunt. He ignored the shock on his brother's face, and kept going. "She does not know. She may suspect we are blood, as she and I are very similar. She looks like him, always has. As I look like him. I confirmed it years ago, after I found her at my university."
Mycroft didn't say a word. His face was hard, like stone, and his fingers gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. Sherlock found himself wondering if he should stop, if he was merely borrowing trouble. They had enjoyed the static quality of their lives for so long, that it felt wrong to disturb how things were. But Sherlock couldn't lie to John, not anymore. He had made a promise, after all. He would keep it.
"What are you going to tell them?" Mycroft asked, his voice choked on some emotion Sherlock couldn't name.
"I will tell them as much as they want to know; as much as I know. What remains to tell will be for you, if you so choose." Sherlock looked to the clock on the wall beside the door. "They should be back any minute, if you wish to be present as I explain things."
"No." Mycroft stood rapidly. His hands were fists, tight and pressed to his thighs. "You do what you want, you always have. I'll not participate in airing out our family laundry."
Sherlock wasn't surprised as Mycroft left the room, strides eating away at the floor, two of his people scurrying as they attempted to catch up. He didn't know what to make of Mycroft's refusal to acknowledge what he had said about Violet being family. Sherrinford was a deep wound, to his parents and to Mycroft. They may not be willing to welcome her.
Sherlock dozed as he waited for John and Violet to return. He was assuming that John was upset with him. If Mary knew enough about Sherrinford to say something to John, she may know enough to figure out that Violet was Sherlock's niece. He was tired, but determined to get it all out.
This telling the truth thing is exhausting. I only spoke to Mycroft for a few minutes, and I already feel wretched. It's nearly three in the morning. Why did I never notice before just how ridiculous it was to be up at this hour?
He must have fallen asleep; he wasn't aware John and Violet were back until he heard someone in the bathroom. John was standing next to his head, those strong fingers of his running through Sherlock's curls.
"Hey, love." John whispered to him, a smile on his face. Sherlock smiled back, foolishly pleased at John's use of the endearment. His doctor's fingers felt wonderful in his hair, and Sherlock tried not to go back sleep.
"I was waiting for you." Sherlock whispered back.
"That's okay. We can talk in the morning. Violet isn't going anywhere, either. Move over, I'm tired."
John kicked off his shoes, and climbed into bed with him. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John, his doctor curling against him on his uninjured side. John was a welcome and pleasant source of heat, of love. Sherlock loved his doctor, and whispered that to him as sleep took him back under.
Morning was annoying. As was the nurse who was fussing with his morphine drip. She kept glaring at the slumbering doctor stretched out beside him. Sherlock glared right back at her, and she got the hint that he didn't care about her stupid rules, and eventually left.
Sherlock blinked at the sun in his eyes, wishing he was back in his flat, the drapes pulled shut, wrapped around John and sleeping past noon. Getting a case at sunset and solving it by sunrise. Annoying Mrs. Hudson as she left cold tea services everywhere. Maybe even shoot the wall just for old time's sake. He found himself missing things he didn't know he could miss.
He heard the shower in the bathroom, and Violet's empty bed confirmed where she was. He hadn't spoken to her since she dragged John out last night. She wasn't one to get overly emotional, so he wasn't worried about her reaction to his confession. John, though, he would be emotional. His poor doctor. Always feeling everything at once, flashing rapidly from one emotion to another like flames jumped from house to house. But his emotions when it came to Sherlock were very welcome. Addictive, actually.
John stirred, and Sherlock watched as he slowly woke up. His eyes would be blank, unthinking, then he would notice where he was, and who he was with. It made Sherlock's heart race every time he saw John see him after waking. There was no better proof of how the doctor felt about him than in those few seconds. John smiled at him, the gentle, loving, sweet smile he never showed anyone else.
Sherlock leaned in, and kissed his doctor, lingering over the slow heat that simmered inside him as John responded. He really missed his flat right now. Broken ribs be damned, next time he got some alone time with John, he was doing everything he wanted. Everything.
"So cute." Violet sighed from the bathroom door, wearing a long tee and extra short shorts, towel drying her hair. "But I probably shouldn't be thinking that, you being my uncle and all."
John yanked back, looking guilty to be caught making out. Sherlock grinned, and sat up. He was sick of laying down, anyway. Sherlock undid the drip, and slowly stood. John was at his side almost instantly, but Sherlock waved him off, needing to see if he could handle walking on his own. He could, and took a few steps before swallowing his pride and reaching for John.
"Mary let slip the truth, I see." Sherlock said to Violet. "I figured as much after John texted me last night."
She nodded, her eyes looking at him very intently, as if she were looking for signs of her father in him. She would see a lot, as Sherlock was a close copy of his eldest brother. It was Mycroft who took after their mother, but for the eyes. Sherlock and Sherrin had taken after their father.
"I'll tell you everything after I get a shower." Sherlock told her, and he gently nudged John in the direction of the bathroom.
"I'm going to get dressed then, and if I hear sounds of too much fun in there, I'm going to the cafeteria for breakfast." Violet smirked at the look on John's face. "A very long breakfast."
"Sherlock, behave." John muttered to him, trying to avoid his hands as Sherlock reached for him. The water was hot, and Sherlock wanted company under the spray. John was being obstinate, and was getting his clothes wet as a result. Sherlock saw the bag hanging from the back of the bathroom door, knew John had a change of clothing, and snagged John's wrist.
"Violet left two minutes ago. Come here, John." Sherlock pulled as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard, given his ribs. John's shirt got wet, and his doctor broke down in laughter.
"Fine! Christ, you are stubborn." John was grinning, but his shirt came off, and the rest of his clothes followed. John jumped under the spray, gasping at the heat. And his mouth was on Sherlock's faster than the detective could blink.
Strong, powerful tongue strokes fueled the fire between them. Sherlock dipped his head, and kissed John so deeply he felt his head spin. His doctor tasted wonderful, his wet mouth making Sherlock thirsty for more of him. John was groaning, his hips pressing to Sherlock's, his arousal hardening, encouraging Sherlock's length to harden as well. Sherlock wanted John badly, in any way he could get him. His hand slid down John's chest, rubbing at the firm muscles of his stomach, down to his groin.
Sherlock stopped. John had stilled, his hips jerking back. John's mouth beneath his was pulling away, and his doctor was breathing in rapid, shallow breaths. As if he was scared. He saw John's face. His doctor was terrified.
"John?" Sherlock whispered, bringing his hands back up, curving behind John's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes dropped to the red welts on his doctor's neck, the heat from the shower making them stand out a brilliant scarlet. Sherlock felt his world tip on its axis, his stomach growing cold with fury. Not at John, never at the man he loved. But at the men who had hurt his love, who were dead and burned. Beyond his reach, beyond his ability to torture and maim.
"John, I love you. Tell me what you need. Anything." Sherlock pulled John close, and his heart snapped like thawing ice as John wrapped his arms tightly around him. Sherlock ignored the pain caused by his lover's embrace, and held John under the warm spray.
"I'm so sorry. It's not you." John gasped out, his face pressed to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock suspected that the moisture wasn't all from the water. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened."
"Don't be sorry." Sherlock kissed John's ear, holding him tightly. "I'm sorry I was so late getting to you."
"No! You saved us, you stopped her. I stopped them. I stopped them! Why do I feel like this? I stopped them!" John cried out, and he pressed his face so hard to Sherlock's shoulder that they feel back against the shower wall. "I stopped them."
"You did, yes you did. You saved yourself." Sherlock murmured to him. "I won't tell you everything is okay. I know it's not. I won't lie to you, and say I understand. I don't. All I will say is that you stopped them, and you freed yourself. You fought back. And you're here with me, and I'll never let that happen to you again. I love you."
John was so tightly pressed to him that the water couldn't get between them, spilling over their shoulders. Sherlock held him back, not caring that John's grip was making his eyes water. Whatever his love needed, he would give.
"He hurt me." The whisper was so low Sherlock feared he didn't hear all of it. He bent his head down, John shivering in his arms despite the heat from the water. "His hand hurt me…. There."
Sherlock fought not to react. He just held John, and let the rage flow out of him with the water. He knew instinctively that getting upset as John told him this would merely make John stop confiding. Sherlock just waited, hoping John would keep going. Hoping that talking about it would help John.
"My hands were tied behind my back." John said, a little louder this time. "I couldn't push him off of me. He had said….Something about…. That since I liked it when my freak of a detective fucked me, I should have a real man fuck me."
Sherlock rubbed his shoulders, pulling John further under the warm water as he shivered. He said nothing, letting his silence be all the encouragement John needed.
"He picked me up, threw me on the table. Crushed my hands." John wasn't lifting his head, letting his forehead rest on Sherlock's strong shoulder. "He opened my belt."
Sherlock felt sick, in his heart, in his stomach. Oh John. I'm so sorry. Sherlock had seen the signs at Blackwood Manor, the clues that had lead him to the realization that John had been assaulted. He had assumed that when John didn't react to him removing his belt the day before that he was okay. He just hadn't gone far enough. I'm sorry. I'm such an idiot.
"I love you." Sherlock whispered, knowing he had nothing more important to say than those words.
"He put his hand down there, grabbed me. Hard. It hurt, it really hurt. I was so fucking scared. So mad….." John said the rest in a rush. His words tripping over themselves, as if saying them made it happen all over again. "I kicked him off of me."
"He came back at me, and he bit me, crushed me, put his hand back on me….. I went limp. Like I had passed out. He pulled back enough….. For me to break his nose." John sounded mad now. Sounded angry. He still held Sherlock tightly, but the broken fear and pain was fading.
"I broke his fucking nose, and rolled off the table. I got free, snapped the restraints. I grabbed a gun from the table, was about to kill the guy with the shotgun when Death's knife landed in his temple. Good thing too. I would have been hit. He fired wide when he died."
"She saved me. Killed the guy I took out like he was a rabbit, and she was a rabid wolf. You saw what was left of him, nothing but ripped meat. She saved me. I know why too." John pulled back, and Sherlock watched his face. He looked tired, but equally wide awake. The storm was passing, for now. "She kept screaming, 'never again in this house.'"
"Never again." John sucked in a deep breath, and he wiped at his face. Sherlock let him pull away, and John reached for the soap. Sherlock smiled slightly as John attacked him with the soap, letting his doctor do what he wanted. Anything to return a smile to his face. "She told me that Blackwood was her childhood home. And she was raped there."
Sherlock didn't know what to say. He had nothing. He let John wash him, and John kept talking, and Sherlock listened. John looked better after every word. He wanted an outlet, and Sherlock had no problem being that ear he seemed to need.
"I felt bad for her. She wasn't born crazy. Which is weird, because if she was born normal, then he was, too." Sherlock knew who 'he' was. John paused, the soap running from his hands to the shower floor. "Something fucking horrible happened in that house, to them. They were just kids, normal kids. And a monster destroyed them."
Sherlock felt cold shiver run down his spine. Monsters came in all shapes. The guise of a father, a mother, a brother. Especially brothers. His own brother had been a monster, too.
John turned him around, his fingers massaging the soap into Sherlock's tense and sore muscles. Sherlock groaned, and felt guilty for enjoying the attention. John didn't stop, his hands drifting over Sherlock's firm ass, his thighs. Sherlock was thankful his body didn't react beyond some gentle tremors. He didn't want to embarrass John, make him uncomfortable.
"I love you, Sherlock." John kissed the back of his shoulder, firm and solid. "Thank you."
"For what?" Sherlock risked the question, hoping he could speak to John now, that it was okay.
"For listening. You're pretty good at it." John sounded surprised. "Usually you're doing all the talking, and I'm trying to catch up. So thank you."
"Um. You're welcome?" Sherlock thought that was the right thing to say. John broke out in laughter, his wet arms circling Sherlock from behind. He laughed into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smiled, bringing his hands up to hold John's, where they rested on his stomach. "I love you too, John."
The shower ended fairly soon after that. John relaxed, and appeared not at all bothered that he had poured out his experience to his detective. Sherlock took that as a good sign. That meant he had done the right thing, just letting John talk. Hopefully he had helped. He wasn't sure. But he would keep trying. Anything for John.
John helped him get dressed. Sharing bathroom space was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had been doing it for years. Sherlock was glad to be back in normal clothing, the hospital gowns left a lot to be desired. John refused to let him wear a jacket, and the doctor rolled up his sleeves so his IV site was accessible.
John opened the door for Sherlock, and he knew he wasn't getting out of making a confession. Violet was back. She was dressed, on the futon. And she was tapping away at her laptop, the charging cord wrapped around her foot, and she was swirling it in circles.
"Hey, Uncle Sherlock." Violet said, grabbing a half-eaten bagel from the paper plate beside her hip. "Brought nibbles, on the stand next to your bed. Tea, too."
John threw Sherlock a glance, wondering at her tone. Her words were as normal as she usually got, but she sounded strained. Off key.
"Yes, Violet. I am your uncle." Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the morphine drip. He ignored the insidious voice deep in his soul that whispered he should use it. Just to get past this conversation. He looked back up at the young woman who bore his brother's face, his memory altering her features, wiping away her mother's influence. He saw Sherrinford in her, so clearly, so much so he had to blink away the recollection. And he wondered how Mycroft never saw it. But maybe he had. Denial could strike anyone.
Sherlock grabbed a paper cup, idly looking at the lukewarm tea.
"I won't waste time saying I'm sorry, or making excuses. Foolish sentiment. I'm not certain I would be telling the truth, really." Sherlock ignored John's glare at his words. Violet was like him, she would appreciate his intent, and ignore the words that were inadequate to convey everything he tried to say.
"His name was Sherrinford, the eldest of us. Three sons. My parents started early, having children, but finished their higher education before they had Mycroft. And I came along much later." Sherlock wasn't seeing the hospital room, the girl who watched him silently from the futon. He was seeing those long lost years. She was so close in age to him that is seemed silly to call her his niece.
"Sherrinford was fifteen years older than me. Almost sixteen. Mycroft is my elder by seven years. He had more time with Sherrin than I did. I was still a child when Sherrin fathered you." Sherlock struggled not to tell the story out of order. He shouldn't make this harder to understand. John was quiet, watching him from the chair next to the bed. Violet was still, staring at him so hard he could almost feel the sensation of her gaze on his face.
"He was away at school most of my younger years. I saw him during holidays, but his age was so much greater than mine that we never really got along all that well. He was not safe to be around, anyways." Sherlock took a sip of the warm tea, and made a face at the nasty flavor. He put the cup down, and sat further back on the bed.
John's expression was clouding; Sherlock's words a premonition of doom.
"Sherrin was a sadist. Pets would disappear from neighbor's yards. Children at school would be bullied, harassed. Tormented in tiny ways that destroyed them every time. I spent most of my time with my mother, as I was the youngest. I never liked my brother. Mycroft would follow Sherrin everywhere. He idolized him. So much so, he ignored the vicious streak, the violent tendencies. Sherrin enjoyed making people bleed. If he fought, he would strike for maximum pain, for the most damage. The more someone bled, the happier he got."
"I could tell you dozens of stories of things he did, to me, our parents, Mycroft. Especially Mycroft. But I won't. I can't. Some of those are not mine to tell. Sherrin was our monster." Sherlock sent himself away, deep into his mind palace. He went back to the red house on the fair green hill. Heard the weeping of his mother, his father's shouts. Sherrin's laughter. Redbeard's barks, his final yelp of pain before Sherrin slit his throat. Sherlock flinched at that memory, turning away from it.
"My parents sent him to hospitals, to doctors. He went through therapy, counseling. He knew the systems, the right responses. He would be released, let free in the world. He was in his late teens the first time he murdered someone." Sherlock knew he was being heartless, emotionless. But he had no other way of telling this horrible part of his history. He wasn't even telling all of it. Mycroft would have to tell the rest, if he could.
"He killed the neighbor's daughter. I know he did. I saw the clues, the signs. As did Mycroft. He refused to believe it though, refused to acknowledge the truth. Mycroft refused to believe ill of his revered brother. Sherrin could do no wrong. Not in Mycroft's eyes." Sherlock saw the scene in his mind. Sherrin, a smudge of blood on his hand, the look of satisfaction on his face, the very young Sherlock hiding from the monster wearing his brother's face.
"He would disappear. And every time he did, a girl would die. Pretty ones, ones he liked. The police questioned him about the girls, but they had no evidence. A nasty reputation isn't evidence, after all. No one would listen to me, my deductions. I was small, just a child, too small." Sherlock changed the memory, one of him slightly older, Mycroft angry, sad. "As the years went by, he would disappear more frequently. The longest time he vanished is when he fathered you, Violet."
He heard a tiny indrawn breath, but he was too deep inside his mind to tell who it came from.
"He was a young man then, I was nearly seven. You were born that summer. I never knew you existed, though. Not until I met you at the university." Sherlock came back to the room. Violet was standing just a few feet away from him, her tan face paling. John was looking at her in concern.
"I believe he spared one of his victims. Seduced her, loved her, married her, or kidnapped her. Something made him still the blade. Spare her life. And then there was you. I don't know if he knew about you or not. He never mentioned a child."
"He died when I was fifteen. He died when Mycroft finally caught him. Mycroft killed Sherrin." Sherlock said that last part with a faint grimace, the first time he had ever spoken them to anyone. "He was working with MI6 at this point. Mycroft stopping Sherrin as he did propelled his career. And destroyed what was left of his heart, his emotions."
Sherlock looked at his niece. She had Sherrin's eyes, his face, and his hair. But she had her mother's smile, and the way she talked was not Sherrin. She was the best parts of his brother, none of the bad parts. She had his intelligence, and his ability to function under stress. But not the evil. There was no evil in her.
"There is much I don't know about Sherrinford. I am sorry for that. I remember seeing you at the university the day we met. I was struck by the resemblance. It wasn't until I graduated, and you stayed another two years, that I made the decision to see if you were who I thought you might be. I did a DNA test. The results left me stunned." Sherlock sighed, tired from ripping the memories out from the darkness.
"You are his child. I told no one. Not even you. I didn't know how. What could I say? Your birth father is a dead serial killer, slain by his own brother, who didn't kill your mother for some reason? And I don't know why?" Sherlock risked a glance at Violet. She was still, and pale. She was staring at him like she trying to catch him in a lie. "I found myself thinking that if you didn't ask if we were related, then you didn't want to know, that it wasn't important. I saw you wondering sometimes. But I let you not ask me, and I was thankful."
"I do know why I am telling you now." Sherlock reached out, hoping she wouldn't pull away from him. Her hand was cold, and unresisting. He gently tugged, bringing her in front of him. Her lovely eyes were dry, but her thoughts were chaotic in them, unraveling. "I'm telling you now because John has shown me what a complete idiot I am."
She wasn't expecting that. He saw her react, a tiny twitch near her eyes.
"John has shown me the necessity of saying even the most difficult of things. When I tell him I love him, it is because I do, I must. But a part of me still rebels, unused to such sentiment. But the rewards I get from saying it outweigh the discomfort. I wish I had met him all those years ago. I would have told you all of this sooner." Sherlock pulled her closer. "I would have been capable of saying it."
"I am your family. You are mine. There is a place for you in my heart. Next to John, next to Mycroft. I love you, Violet."
Sherlock waited. He rubbed her hand, pleased when the cold began to leave, warmth coming back into her body. She was so close to him, he could see life coming back into her face, her muscles. He figured she might strike him. Or push him away. Freeze him out, or pretend he had said nothing. He would deserve it all. He was a fool.
Her hug startled him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her face to his. She shook as sobs wrecked her frame. Tears and laughter. Peals of laughter mixing with sobs. She cried all over him, and laughed as she did it. His arms found her, held her close. He rested his chin on her shoulder, and found himself smiling. His eyes were wet, and he couldn't believe it when a single tear escaped, ran down his face.
John was watching them, a hand pressed tightly to his mouth. John was crying too, tears unnoticed on his cheeks. That sight moved Sherlock as deeply as the weepy laughter of the woman he held.
"I'm gonna have to stop calling you Sexy." She sputtered. "It's a bit weird, now."
Sherlock laughed, and she joined him.
Mycroft stood in Lestrade's room, watching the DI breathe. Each rise and fall of his chest soothed the maelstrom that was brewing in Mycroft's heart. Greg would live. Mycroft would, too. But living meant dealing with things he thought long dead and buried. Sherrinford. He had been wiped from existence, but for the living legacy that was upstairs with his little brother.
Violet is Sherrinford's daughter. Not possible. I killed him. Sherrinford died. But she is, I see it. Why didn't I see it before?
"Sir?" Anthea had escaped her room, standing at his elbow. She was in regular clothing, a short sleeved blouse on to accommodate her sling and cast. Mycroft had been on his way to collect her, to take her home. The repairs to his house were complete enough that he felt comfortable letting her leave the hospital.
He had been drawn to Greg's room, unable to stay away. Watching the DI sleep was calming him down. He had been restless all night thinking about both of his brothers. His little brother was going to be the cause of so much grief, yet Mycroft was thankful he was still around to cause trouble.
"Anthea, dear. I was coming for you." Mycroft murmured, pulling her mobile from his pocket. It had survived being dropped on the stairs during her kidnapping, and he had held on to it since. Mycroft turned from Greg's sleeping form, and gave it to her.
"Oh." She gasped softly, her good hand wrapped tightly around it. "Thank you."
She sounded teary, and Mycroft caught the glimmer of moisture in her eyes. She didn't start crying, which he was thankful for. He didn't know what to do with tears. Especially her tears, as he had never seen her cry. Not even when she thought she was going to die.
"Shall we go?" Mycroft asked her, taking her coat from the back of the chair where he had left it.
"Don't you want to stay with him?" She asked, her green eyes searching his face. "I know you do."
"I….." He was surprised. He didn't know how to respond. He didn't know what to say to her.
"You love him, Mycroft." Anthea shrugged into her coat, as he held it open for her, frozen in shock at her plain statement of fact. "You're in love with him. Stay."
"I… What about you?" Mycroft ignored her comment, knowing as he did that she would take it as confirmation. He was still trying to fathom it.
"Have the car take me home. You've been running the country from this room for the last three days anyway, and I'll feel better knowing you aren't worried about DI Lestrade while you're at home with me." She used her good arm to keep her coat pulled over her sling, her eyes still locked on his face. "Don't feel bad about me. Please don't. I know you care. I want you to be happy, so stay."
"Will you be alright?" Mycroft asked her, his fingers brushing a strand of rich brown hair back from her eyes. What a lovely shade of green, her eyes. He had thought to never see them again.
"I am going to sleep in my own bed, in my home, and I'll be glad to do so. The doctors told me to rest, and I'll resume my normal duties tomorrow. Thankfully, I'm not a field agent." Anthea gave him a tiny smile. "Being your personal assistant has its privileges."
"So it does. And you'll never need worry about losing them, either." Mycroft had no intention of ever losing her again. She was his, and he had yet to analyze what that meant for the two of them, and the man sleeping mere feet away. He would do anything to keep them both.
Mycroft held very still as she came to him, and rose up on her toes. She kissed him, her lips soft on his cheek. He closed his eyes, and breathed in the sweet scent of her perfume. She was real. He opened his eyes as she drew back, and he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. She smiled at him, and slowly walked away. She looked at the man still sleeping, and Mycroft had no idea what her expression meant as she left the room.
Two agents followed behind her. He set them to watch over her, and he knew she wouldn't argue about their presence. She would send them away once she felt them unnecessary. She knew they were there more for his peace of mind than hers.
He went to the small desk in the corner of Greg's room. He grabbed his bag, pulling out his laptop as he did so. Mycroft had set up this space not long after Greg woke up the first time. Anthea had been right; he had been running the country from this small desk for the past three days. And he would continue to do so until the Prime Minister or Her Majesty bid him leave.
Mycroft went to work, facing the DI as he slept on. Mycroft wanted to be there the instant he woke up. He wanted to see the look Greg had given him after he woke up that first time. He was certain it was the most important expression he had ever seen in his life.
Mycroft pulled up the reports from his people and Scotland Yard. As of yet, there was no sign of the woman known as Mary Morstan. Some of his people were theorizing she had died in the explosion. Or that she was already out of the country. Mycroft had a feeling she was still here. She was still in London, somewhere.
Sherlock had come to the conclusion that she had been responsible for bombing CAM Tower, and the death of Magnussen. There was no proof whatsoever that she had done it, but the timing and the connections made it unlikely that she wasn't involved. She was involved with Jaime Moriarty. Her participation in Sherlock's ambush, and her assault on his brother were irrefutable.
Anthea had told him that Mary had spared her life, and the life of Moriarty's two other hostages. Mycroft didn't know what to make of that. She had been willing to participate in Moriarty's plans, even negotiating her own terms. Then, according to what he had gotten from Violet, and Anthea, she had radically changed her position, and helped Sherlock stop Moriarty. Mycroft had a feeling Anthea knew why, but she wasn't forthcoming. He was loathing pressuring her into telling him. She had been through too much. She would tell him if it was important. That is, if he didn't figure it out first.
But Morstan's reasons for flipping allegiances were irrelevant until he found her. He would have plenty of time to ask all the questions he wanted once she was in custody. The CIA had been in contact, inquiring as to the status of their rogue agent. He had replied that her whereabouts were currently unknown. Mycroft had a suspicion that his reply did not sit well with his American counterpart, and that the CIA would get involved in the search directly if she wasn't found soon.
He opened another report, this one concerning Blackwood Manor. No bodies had been recovered. He wasn't surprised. The explosion had been massive, and the resulting fire hotter than anything he had been expecting. There would be no proof of Jaime Moriarty's death, other than the assurances he could provide that she had been locked in that cell mere minutes before the manor was destroyed. No one could have escaped. Not even a Moriarty.
Mycroft did his best to ignore the thread of unease that was worming its way through his gut. He would have felt better if he had a cold corpse as proof, instead of ashes.
Violet was pretending to still be asleep on the futon as Sherlock argued with the 'idiot doctor, no not you, John!' Sherlock's hospital doctor was clearly fed up with the consulting detective's behavior. Apparently he wasn't supposed to be fiddling with his morphine like he had been. And John sleeping with him wasn't 'helping' his recovery. Bed rest to this doctor actually meant rest, not snuggling.
Violet smirked, and covered her mouth with her blanket as John got red in the face. John had given up trying to calm Sherlock down. He was sitting in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, a hand covering half of his face as he struggled not to laugh. He knew what his detective was doing. Sherlock was being as obnoxious as possible so he could get discharged early. Violet didn't see it happening, regardless of Sherlock's determination.
It was the day after Sherlock's revelations, and the early morning light was streaking in the room across the floor. She was shaded under the window itself, the sill blocking most of the light. They had only been here for four or five days, and Sherlock was meant to be in the hospital for at least another week. John had tried to see about getting Sherlock discharged to his care, but someone (Mycroft) had beat him to it, making sure Sherlock would not be allowed to leave until his lung had healed more.
Sherlock had lacerated it severely, and it was a miracle his lung hadn't collapsed. The internal bleeding had stopped, but any strenuous activity could reopen the injury. Like going home to Baker Street, and taking the inevitable case that came his way. Which it would. His email was flooded, thanks to John.
John had borrowed Violet's laptop, and updated his blog. It was a very good thing that this hospital had an overabundance of security, as the press was literally camping in the parking lots. John hadn't mentioned Mary, but everything else was out in the world now. He had left her out too. Not that she minded. All of her hacking and research had been under Sherlock's direction, so he should get the credit. Violet had stopped MI6 from crashing John's blog, as he wasn't 'authorized' to be disclosing 'classified' information.
Fuck that! Sherlock, John, and Mary saved London. And me, but I'm not in the blog, thankfully. Admittedly, Mary did help wreck it too. But she wasn't mentioned, so the rest of it is fair game. Shame on Mycroft for trying to cover it all up. Though John's blog isn't really 'sanctioned' so the government can deny all of it as they see fit. Not that the world believes them.
She knew Mycroft was furious, especially at her. She had protected John's site long enough that enough people saw it, shared it, and linked it. Once that happened, there was no point in crashing the site. They might have had a chance at stopping the truth from getting out if she hadn't been around.
The whole world now knew the name of Jaime Moriarty. Some might even say she had eclipsed her brother. In many ways, it was too bad that she was dead. She might have appreciated her celebrity.
One of the pluses of John's blog was that everyone knew that DI Lestrade had nearly died saving St Bart's from exploding. There were people petitioning for him to receive promotions, commendations, and so much more she couldn't remember. Mycroft couldn't complain about that, surely. Though he probably was. Lestrade was able to stay awake for longer periods now, and she had snuck down late last night, to see Mycroft sitting at his bedside, holding his hand.
Anthea was supposedly at home. Where she lived with Mycroft. That had made Violet's eyes twitch. A sexy woman lived with Mycroft? She had shrugged, and went down to raid the cafeteria. He had seen her in the doorway, but he didn't acknowledge her at all. Before, he would have glared, or made shooing motions with his hand. But now, after Sherlock had told him who she was, Mycroft just stared right through her. She didn't mind that much. Mycroft had never meant as much to her as Sherlock. She didn't see that changing anytime soon.
The hospital doctor threw up his hands, and stormed from the room. She hadn't been paying attention, so she didn't know what got him upset enough to leave.
"What's his problem?" Violet mumbled, tossing off the blanket. She sat up, and shook out her hair.
"He didn't appreciate my observations about his penchant for wearing women's undergarments." Sherlock smirked from the bed. He was wearing regular clothes again, but this was his last set. She would either have to get his clothes dry cleaned, or run back to Baker Street.
"Eeeeeeeeew." Violet crinkled her nose at the thought of the fifty something, overweight, and rude doctor wearing lingerie. If he wanted to, that's cool, but the visual was disturbing. "Please do not tell me how you know."
Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her anyway, and she threw her pillow at him. He caught it, a huge grin on his face.
"Hey now kids, none of that." John warned them, but he had a smile on his face too. John was smiling at her, and she caught the sideways glance he sent to Sherlock. As if they were silently talking about her.
"What?" She demanded, hopping off the futon. She was wearing nothing but her super short daisy dukes, and a t-shirt that was long enough to be a dress. She was running out of clothing too. Shopping! Sweet! If the stores are open…. Ugh.
John got pink on his cheeks, and studiously looked away. She found that hilarious. Yesterday he would have looked just fine, and appreciated the sight. But today, she could see she was clearly labeled under 'Sherlock's niece, NO looking'. Violet snickered, and met Sherlock's eyes. He was amused at his doctor too.
"Well, c'mon! Don't hold out on me, that look meant something." Violet crossed her arms over her chest, glaring good naturedly at the doctor and her uncle. Uncle! So weird. But nice.
"Sherlock wants you to move in with us." John blurted it out. "And me too."
Violet felt her face go slack with surprise. She had been planning on just moving in, not asking, just doing. She hadn't expected an invitation. Especially since they were both so clearly still in the 'let's have sex all the time because our relationship is new and super-hot' stage. Not that them having sex bothered her at all, she just knew people tended to ignore everyone else while at that stage.
John looked nervous she hadn't responded, and he hurried to convince her.
"There's the spare bedroom upstairs. I'm not using it anymore. You would be welcome." John bit his lip, and sent another look to his lover. "Unless you were planning on leaving. Sherlock said you moved around a lot."
Violet blinked, and pretended she had an eyelash in her eye, wiping away the tiny bit of moisture that threatened to betray her. Sherlock was quiet, his eyes tracing her every move. She couldn't read his expression.
"Look, if it makes you uncomfortable, never mind, it's okay, really….." John didn't get to finish that sentence before she was sitting in his lap, hugging him tightly around the neck. He exhaled as she settled in, and she didn't care that he had no idea with what to do with his arms. She hugged Sherlock's doctor, and kissed him on the cheek.
"You're sweet, John." She pulled back, and laughed at the deep red blush on his face. "And I know you want me there for Sherlock, and he wants me there so he can keep an eye on me. He's not slow, he knows why I'm hanging around. Well, one of the reasons."
She kissed John smack on the lips, and got up. Sherlock was blinking at John's very red face, but the doctor was smiling, so she knew he enjoyed himself. She backed up, and tossed a look between the two men. John was gaping at her, before he lowered his brow and turned on Sherlock.
"What does she mean, you know the real reason she's hanging around?" John asked Sherlock. Violet disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her uncle to explain just what it meant to have Violet Hunter as a flat mate. Or should it be Violet Holmes now?
Sherlock had thoroughly enjoyed, and been slightly confused by, John's reaction to Violet this morning. Poor John. He had no problem admiring her when she wasn't related to Sherlock, but the second he learned she was, she was suddenly a new and terrifying creature. Sherlock was wondering why John was blushing furiously, but his doctor still managed to glower at him.
"Violet is a hacker, John." Sherlock stated the obvious, hoping he wouldn't have to drag this out.
"Yeeeessss, I know." John gave him a look that said he might need to elaborate. Sherlock sighed, and dropped his head on his pillow.
"Everything about her chosen profession is illegal, in every country she frequents." Sherlock looked at John, hoping he'd connect the dots. No such luck.
"Violet is still here, even though you've been rescued, and I'm no longer on the lamb, because she needs protection." Sherlock watched as John's face drained of color, and went glacial. John Watson was an admirable man. Quite willing to save a damsel in distress. No matter who she was.
"Who's after her?" John's voice was lower, and Sherlock tried his best not to grin at the protective look on his face.
"Everyone, I suspect. She is literally the best in the world, John." Sherlock wasn't bragging. He didn't brag about anyone except himself. Violet was exceptional at what she did. "Violet will occasionally acquire admirers, zealous fans who want more than she's willing to provide. Clients, who hire her for jobs, then decide it's easier to kill her than to pay her. She has enough enemies, and nations, after her for a variety of reasons. This time the attention is too much, so she's hiding under the nebulous protection of knowing me, and through me, Mycroft and MI6. No one will bother her while she's with us."
"What? How often does she use you guys for cover?" John was surprised, and he turned to glare at the bathroom door.
"John." Sherlock smiled as John dragged his attention from the closed door, and back to him. "It's not a problem. She hasn't used me for cover in several years, so I suspect it has something to do with recent events. Most likely her current trouble occurred when she hacked the CIA, when we asked for her help. You do recall how upset she was when she realized what we were asking?"
John nodded, and his face went from indignation to guilt.
"I suspect she was currently avoiding the attentions of the American government at the time, and our request merely intensified their scrutiny. She doesn't leave clues as to her identity, she is that skilled. Yet conversely, it is her skill level that identifies her. No one is as good as she is, so when the impossible happens, the probability is in favor of Violet being behind it."
"She was most likely going to cash in the favors we owe her for her assistance by staying with us until it was safe for her to leave." Sherlock heard the shower turn on in the bathroom, and he knew Violet approved of how he was filling in John. Of course she had been listening the whole time.
"The reality of our relationships changes the dynamic, but does nothing to negate the necessity of her staying with us, for her sake. Now all we need to do is a bit of sweeping, and I can…. We can go home."
He tried his best not to let that last bit come out in pathetic whine, but he knew he failed miserably when John got up, and kissed him. It was very nice kiss, and Sherlock planned on doing some more whining if that was the result.
"We get the flat clean, you heal up some more, and then we can all go home."
The hill top was still smoldering. Days after the explosion, after the fire devoured Blackwood Manor, the remaining rubble was still hot, smoke furling in the still night air. The site was closed off, the investigators done with the scene, but restricted from the general public. So if someone saw the lone figure walking through the soot stained grass, they might have assumed it was someone who was allowed to be there. Some fanciful people might even call it a ghost, a wraith born of misery and fire. In many ways, it was the only soul with the most valid claim to be on these haunted grounds.
Slim, shrouded in a long black coat, and walking with an easy, elegant stride, the lonesome figure paused beneath the remaining section of wall. It was half a story tall, and contained the void of a window frame. It was the window to the old manor's private study, a window that now looked out at nothing. There was nothing left of the misery, the pain, the horror that had once echoed off the stone walls. It was all gone. All the ghosts once trapped in this house were now free.
The shrouded wraith took one last look, before turning away. The coat opened just enough for the moon to catch on the long silver blade strapped to a muscular thigh.
This ghost was free as well, determined to never return. Free to fade away in the night air, dreaming of new possibilities.