The Hall. The next morning, breakfast time again. Sherlock is sitting alone at one of the long tables with a bowl of cornflakes in front of him, a spoon in one hand and an open book in the other. Sebastian Wilkes and the tall, willowy red-haired girl enter the Hall together. As they're about to pass Sherlock's place, Sherlock raises his head. Sebastian, seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, stops dead, then turns to look at him. On Sherlock's face, the mark from Simon's blow has blossomed into a magnificent black eye, and his nose still looks slightly swollen, too. Near the left corner of his upper lip, a split has dried into a small vertical graze. He lets his eyes travel pointedly back and forth between Sebastian and the girl. A corner of his mouth twitches. Sebastian, unsmiling, points a commanding finger at him.
SEBASTIAN: Don't you dare say a fucking word.
SHERLOCK: Not wasting my breath on stating the obvious.
In spite of the attempted grin, he does look rather pitiful. After a moment, Sebastian's expression visibly softens.
SEBASTIAN: You alright?
SHERLOCK (in a flat voice): Thank you, never better.
He returns to his book, case closed. Sebastian stands undecided for a moment. Then, seeing that sympathy isn't welcome, he tries a different approach.
SEBASTIAN: Well, you can't complain, you know. You did get it a bit wrong.
SHERLOCK (without looking up): What exactly?
SEBASTIAN: Being a hero. Heroes slay the dragon and rescue the maiden, buddy. They don't slay the maiden.
Sherlock looks up at him with an unreadable expression. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and there is suddenly an almost triumphant glint in them. It sits very strangely on his battered face. Then he shifts his gaze from Sebastian to the open doorway. Sebastian turns to look. A middle-aged, very respectable-looking lady with short iron-grey hair and large glasses – obviously a college official – is striding purposefully towards them, one of the college porters - not Mr Thompson - following at her heels. Much of the chattering in the Hall stops, and everywhere heads turn to see what's going on. The lady halts in front of Sherlock, who takes a deep breath and stands up to face her, the scraping of his chair on the floorboards over-loud in the sudden hush.
THE MASTER'S SECRETARY (very formally): Mr Holmes? The Master would like to see you. Now, if you please.
SHERLOCK (coolly): About time, too.
He abandons his breakfast and his book, nods to Sebastian and lets himself be marched out of the Hall with his head held high, wearing the bruises on his face like a badge of honour. Fifty pairs of eyes watch him - and the two officials walking behind him, one at each shoulder - out of the door, their footsteps echoing in the tense silence. Among those eyes are Sebastian's and his girl's, she coldly indifferent, he extremely uncomfortable.
The Master's office.A cosy room steeped in academic tradition, bookshelves filled with heavy leather-bound volumes, oil paintings of gowned former Masters and distinguished Fellows on the walls. Seated at his desk is the Master of the college himself, like his room an epitome of academic respectability, a man in his late fifties with a deeply lined but not unkindly face, impeccably dressed in a dark brown tweed suit, an unlit pipe and a cup of tea on the desk in front of him. In a chair facing his desk is Violet Westbury, dressed unusually demurely in a woollen turtleneck jumper, jeans and flat shoes. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them. To her right, at a window, somewhat withdrawn, another chair has been placed at a right angle to hers and the Master's. It is empty, but next to it stands Professor McAllister, without his reading glasses, leaning against the window sill with his arms crossed and a carefully non-committal look on his face. Nobody speaks. There is a knock on the door, and it opens to admit the Master's secretary, and Sherlock after her. She steps aside just inside the door to let him pass into the room.
THE MASTER (nodding to his secretary): Thank you, Joanne.
She nods in return and departs, closing the door behind her. The Master turns his attention to Sherlock and regards him in silence for a moment. He frowns slightly as he sees his face, but doesn't comment. Not being invited to sit, Sherlock remains standing where he is, next to Violet's chair, facing the Master with his hands linked before him, waiting to be addressed. Violet glances up at him, just once and very quickly, then looks down again.
THE MASTER: Well, Mr Holmes. Thank you for coming so promptly.
Sherlock inclines his head.
THE MASTER: I'm not in the habit of beating about the bush, so I will come straight to the point. I have been informed of the allegations that you made against Miss Westbury and against Professor McAllister yesterday. You are no doubt aware that they are very serious indeed, and that such an incident – if it truly happened - would have dire consequences for the parties concerned. Such matters are not to be taken lightly, and there can be no possible justification for making such claims on the grounds of a mere personal dislike, let alone in jest. I would therefore like to give you the chance to withdraw these allegations, here and now, and to make a formal apology to the two persons here present. In which case this whole unfortunate affair will be forgotten, and no disciplinary action will be taken against you.
SHERLOCK: You are very kind, sir, but I must tell you that I maintain those allegations in full.
Violet glances up at him again, her eyes slightly red but tearless now, her face mask-like. After a short silence, the Master folds his hands upon the desk.
THE MASTER (calmly): Then I assume you have your reasons for doing so. Let me hear them.
SHERLOCK: With pleasure. (He looks as if he means that quite literally. He comes to life, abandoning his stiff posture, and speaks calmly but with great confidence.) Violet Westbury was in Professor McAllister's room on Tuesday afternoon from shortly before four o'clock to nine minutes after, and during this time, without his knowledge or sanction, accessed his computer. If you will make enquiries with the IT department, you will find a record of a person having logged on to that computer at precisely 15:57, and logged off again at 16:09.
THE MASTER: What makes you think it was her and not Professor McAllister himself?
SHERLOCK: He was not in his room at that time, as I and thirty-seven other members of this college will be happy to attest. He was where he was supposed to be, in the rehearsal room. But she wasn't. She turned up almost fifteen minutes late, at around a quarter past four. As Professor McAllister will certainly remember, not having been exactly amused by it at the time.
THE MASTER: That doesn't prove she was in his room. She could have been anywhere.
SHERLOCK: She is the only person apart from Professor McAllister himself who had access to that room.
THE MASTER: How?
SHERLOCK: She had a key.
Violet raises her head again, now staring at Sherlock in genuine surprise. McAllister, from his place at the window, does the same. The Master, though outwardly impassive, shifts in his chair.
THE MASTER: And how did she come by it?
SHERLOCK: If you check with the porters, you will find that Professor McAllister reported his own key missing only last week. It apparently found its way into Miss Westbury's hands. At least that's where it was last Thursday morning, when she was on her way back from her tutorial.
Flashback to Violet walking out of the doorway to Staircase B and marching down the court past So-Yun and Sherlock on their bench. A close-up on her tightly closed hand reveals a key ring protruding from it.
SHERLOCK: She had the key, and she had the nerve to use it. There's more resolve in her than one would suspect. (With a wry smile) At least when it comes to gaining an unfair advantage over her fellow students.
THE MASTER: Is that what you are insinuating she was doing on Professor McAllister's computer?
SHERLOCK: Yes. I strongly suspect that she tried to find something there that would tell her what to expect in the upcoming exams, if not the exam questions themselves.
Violet closes her eyes.
THE MASTER (after a short pause, almost gently): Miss Westbury. Are we to take your silence as a confession?
Violet remains silent. The Master sighs.
THE MASTER (turning to Professor McAllister): What do you say to all of this?
McALLISTER (pushing himself off the window-sill): Well, after hearing Mr Holmes set out the case so eloquently, I'm afraid I can believe that it is quite within her scope.
Violet raises her head sharply and turns towards McAllister. The mask of indifference slips off her face, and she looks dismayed.
McALLISTER (coldly): As her tutor, I can attest to the poor quality of her academic achievements. As a performer, she is certainly above average, but her analytical skills and her knowledge of the historical and theoretical aspects of her subject leave much to be desired. She has been struggling with her coursework all year. I do not find it hard to believe, although it disappoints and saddens me of course, that she would resort to desperate measures in order to improve her chances on her exams. (He glances at Sherlock for a fraction of a second.) I'm sure that if her room was searched, evidence would be discovered that she did indeed steal data from my computer that pertains – or that she thought pertained – to the upcoming exams.
VIOLET (flaring up in sudden indignation): My room? No! There is nothing there. Nothing!
The Master looks at her in surprise. McAllister snorts derisively. Sherlock smiles.
SHERLOCK: Now isn't that an interesting reaction?
THE MASTER (irritated): Interesting?
SHERLOCK: Highly interesting. Think about it. Only a moment ago, I accused her of trying to steal exam questions from her tutor's computer, and she managed to sit through that with perfect composure and never a word in her own defence. But the moment Professor McAllister suggests that the proof of this is to be found in her room, she -
McALLISTER (impatiently): She denies it. Of course!
SHERLOCK: No. She's not denying anything. She's telling us the truth, or rather the truth as she knows it.
VIOLET: I told you, there is nothing there!
SHERLOCK (to Violet, meeting her eyes for the first time in the scene): But in that you're wrong, Violet. There is. (She opens her mouth, but he talks over her) No, I believe you when you say that you brought nothing there from Professor McAllister's room. (Addressing the Master) As the IT records will show, there was in fact nothing taken from that computer. There was no memory stick connected to it, nor any other external device on which data could have been taken away. Neither was the printer used. And twelve minutes is really not enough time to simply memorise a substantial amount of complex information, at least not for someone with Miss Westbury's mental capacities and the added complication of extreme stress. And yet, I share Professor McAllister's conviction that if you went up there now and had her room searched, you would definitely find something, either in digital form or on paper, to suggest that such a theft has indeed taken place.
VIOLET: What? No! If I didn't take it, how can it be there?
SHERLOCK (turning to face McAllister): Because you put it there.
A heavy silence. The Master frowns deeply. Violet gapes at Sherlock, her eyes huge, then turns towards McAllister with the same expression of utter astonishment. McAllister opens his mouth, then closes it again. After a moment, he exhales audibly and addresses the Master in a calm tone.
McALLISTER: Sir, this is ridiculous.
SHERLOCK (drily): I agree.
The Master directs his frown at him.
SHERLOCK: It is quite ridiculous for a man of his position and abilities, yes. But unfortunately that didn't stop him doing it.
McALLISTER (rounding on Sherlock, aggressively): When? How?
SHERLOCK (unfazed): Yesterday afternoon, around five. You were quick, I almost missed it.
THE MASTER (holding up his hand and speaking with great authority): I utterly fail to see a reason why Professor McAllister should have done such a thing. Before you continue making such accusations, Mr Holmes, I must insist that you clarify this point first.
SHERLOCK: He did it to make sure that Miss Westbury got expelled.
VIOLET: He wanted me expelled?
SHERLOCK (to Violet): Yes, and I think you know why.
THE MASTER (quietly): Why?
SHERLOCK (his eyes on McAllister, coldly): To punish her for not dancing to his tune.
McALLISTER (to Sherlock, sharply): What are you talking about?
SHERLOCK: Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about. (To the Master, in an off-hand tone) Although I can't rule out that she'd also simply started to get on his nerves. She can be a bit annoying sometimes.
McALLISTER (turning to the Master for support): Sir, I must protest, you can't –
The Master holds up his hand again to cut him off, not unkindly but firmly.
THE MASTER (to Sherlock): What do you mean when you say she would not dance to his tune?
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply.
VIOLET (speaking up suddenly, in an unexpectedly strong voice): No, don't say it.
Everyone looks at her in surprise.
VIOLET (firmly): I want to say it myself.
Sherlock makes a little gesture with his hand, inviting her to go ahead. Violet rises from her chair to face McAllister fully, looking suddenly quite mature and rather beautiful in her grim determination. She takes a deep breath.
VIOLET: I'm done with covering up for you. I know what kind of man you are, and I don't care who else knows it. I've got nothing to lose any more, but you're not going to get away with what you've done if I can help it. (Addressing the Master) Everything Sherlock has told you about what I did, every word of it is true. I don't know how he knows it, but it is. (She swallows, but then forges ahead bravely.) I was worried sick about failing my exams. Professor McAllister knew about the panic I was in, and he teased me about it at every opportunity. Then one day, last week, I couldn't stand it any more, and I flew in his face when he kept me behind after a tutorial, told him to leave me alone, and that - (She turns back towards McAllister, her voice wavering slightly for the first time.) - that was when he made me an offer.
THE MASTER (gently): What offer?
SHERLOCK: He gave her one key, and offered her another.
THE MASTER (slightly irritated): Please don't speak in riddles.
SHERLOCK: He gave her the key to his room – as I said, he had a duplicate issued to him shortly before, on the pretence that he had lost his own – and promised to also give her the password to his computer, on which he said he kept the exam questions, in exchange -
He glances at Violet as if asking for permission to continue, but she is still glaring at McAllister and doesn't notice.
SHERLOCK (curtly): - in exchange for something that she was not willing to give. (With a very brief, humourless smile) At least not to him.
VIOLET (her eyes still on McAllister, quietly but with her voice full of disgust): He gave me the key to his room, and he told me that within a week, I would be there and – no, I don't want to say that. But it made me want to spit in his face there and then, only I didn't dare. I wish I had.
McAllister stares at her, stunned by the formidable force of her anger. The Master exhales heavily and leans back in his chair.
THE MASTER: Is this true, David?
McAllister doesn't reply immediately.
THE MASTER (sternly): Is it true?
There is a moment in which McAllister seems to be engaged in an intense inner struggle, but he manages to emerge from it with his face composed into an expression of tolerant condescension.
McALLISTER (to the Master): Sir, I believe we must make allowances for Miss Westbury's current emotional turmoil. Having just been found out in such a misdeed, she naturally tries to lay the blame on someone else, even though the attempt must appear absurd to us. (Shifting his gaze to Sherlock) But why this young man should choose to ally himself to such a misdirected cause and back up such a fairytale is beyond my comprehension.
SHERLOCK (in a sudden burst of righteous anger, rather loudly): Because her fairytale is the truth, and you can't be allowed to do things like that, now, can you?
McALLISTER (flaring up in his turn, equally loudly): And who made you the judge of what I can or can't do?
THE MASTER (in a thundering voice): If you please!
Sherlock and McAllister glare at each other, but they both fall silent.
THE MASTER (drily): Thank you.
McALLISTER (after a moment, shifting his gaze from Sherlock to the Master, still in a slightly irritable tone): Even if there was any truth in what Miss Westbury has just told us about me suggesting such a bargain to her – it would have been null and void the moment she found that other way to access my computer. After she had done it, and after her misconduct had been exposed so publicly by the very same person who is now playing her advocate, why would I still go to the lengths of planting any incriminating evidence of it in her room?
SHERLOCK (back in his former tone of calm confidence): Because you could not be absolutely certain that she really would be disgraced and expelled as long as there was no proof of her guilt. There would be an enquiry, of course, and it would come out that your computer had been used at that time by someone other than yourself. But you were her tutor, she came to your room at least once a week for her tutorial, so the mere indentations of her heels on your carpet would have been just as inconclusive towards establishing her presence during those particular minutes as a whiff of her perfume on the air would have been. (He sniffs.) "Flower" by Kenzo. Not that exclusive anyway. Even her DNA on your computer keyboard would not argue any illicit activities on her part - you might have let her use it on some earlier occasion. So you had to make sure that there would be clear and irrefutable evidence of her guilt, and you did.
McALLISTER (exasperated): Why? Why would I care about her being expelled or not?
SHERLOCK (still calmly, but now with an edge of contempt in his voice): Because if you could not break her in one way, you had to find another. She had not only refused you, she had even managed to turn the tables and get the better of you. And that was something that you couldn't bear. She wasn't supposed to beat you. She was young, inexperienced, impressionable, intellectually inferior to you by a long way and scared to death about failing her exams – your perfect victim. Had she come to you of her own accord, batting her eyelashes and trying to ingratiate herself with the maestro by those very same means that you later suggested to her, you would have scorned her and turned her away. But once you realised that she wanted nothing from you but the solid and factual help and advice that any decent teacher owes his student, and that she, happy to hold hands with her boring, ordinary boyfriend, was not interested in you in any other way, she became a challenge, and you set out to bend her to your will. (Narrowing his eyes, in a tone of deepest disgust) Because you don't want willing submission, do you? You want to watch your victims panic and squirm and writhe and wriggle, and you live for that moment when they finally cave in.
The Master is sitting in stony silence, his eyes fixed on his colleague, his face inscrutable. Violet is listening with the palms of her hands pressed against her cheeks, as if to physically contain a rush of emotion. McAllister has paled visibly, his eyes growing wider and wider as Sherlock levels his accusations at him, and now his eyes start flickering back and forth between Sherlock and the Master.
SHERLOCK: Anyone who has ever played under you knows how you walk all over people just for the pleasure of it. That's the way your mind works. (Dismissively) Maybe you can't even help it. There's probably a medical term for it that makes it sound somehow more excusable. But that is why you couldn't let the one girl who would not play that game with you get away with it.
There is a long moment of silence, in which the muscles in McAllister's face work furiously for a while, until he once again manages to force them into a mask-like calm.
McALLISTER (appealing to the Master): Sir, there is not a shred of evidence to support this preposterous theory. (Getting louder, his anger showing through) Even if we assume for a moment that I had indeed such a reason for wanting to plant documents or data in Miss Westbury's room - (rounding on Sherlock again, almost shouting now) - where's your bloody proof?
SHERLOCK (unimpressed): I saw you.
McALLISTER (sarcastically): Oh, you saw me in her room, did you? Where were you, hiding under her bed?
SHERLOCK: I saw you returning from it. Yesterday, shortly before five, you borrowed a master key from the porter, pretending - as he will attest - that you had locked your own key in your room and needed to retrieve it. You did go directly to your room at first then, in case he should be watching and wondering.
Flashback to the view of Professor McAllister's back as he limps across the court towards Staircase B on the afternoon before, seen through the open inner archway of the gatehouse.
SHERLOCK: But when you went back to the porter's lodge to return the master key, you came by a different way, down Staircase A, on which Miss Westbury's room is located.
THE MASTER: How do you know that he took that route?
SHERLOCK: Because it had started to rain. You'll remember it was quite a downpour. If he had come back directly from his own room across the court, the shortest and quickest way, his jacket and his hair, or at least his hood, would have been wet. They weren't.
Flashback to Professor McAllister standing in front of the porter's desk. His jacket and his hair are indeed dry.
SHERLOCK: The only route from his room to the porter's lodge that is under cover throughout requires going up Staircase B to the second floor, letting yourself through the door in the bricked-up wall that leads into the girls' wing – easy, with a master key - and then coming down Staircase A as the girls usually do. All the time in the world for a little stop in one of the girls' rooms.
McALLISTER: So what if I did come back that way? (To the Master) As he says, it was raining heavily. I wanted to keep dry.
SHERLOCK (smoothly): Why would a man with a walking disability and a rainproof jacket bother to climb two steep flights of stairs, pass through a long corridor in a part of the college where his presence, if detected, would certainly raise eyebrows, and then climb down two more flights of stairs, just to avoid the trouble of putting up his hood? Only a moment later, you walked out into the rain just like that, and never seemed to mind.
Flashback to Professor McAllister, turning away from the porter's desk, putting up his hood, readjusting the bicycle clips on his trousers, and resolutely stepping out of the college gates into the pouring rain outside.
Back in the Master's office, the Master has leant forward in his chair, and regards McAllister with a disillusioned, almost sad expression on his face.
THE MASTER (very quietly): Why indeed, David. Why indeed.
McAllister meets the Master's eyes and shakes his head, again and again and again, but the Master's expression does not change.
THE MASTER: Shall we go up to Miss Westbury's room now and find what's there, or would you prefer to spare us the trouble?
McAllister doesn't reply. The muscles in his face are working again, but his formidable self-control is crumbling. After a moment, he lowers his head and turns away to the empty chair that had been placed for him by the window, sinks down in it and covers his eyes with one of his carefully manicured hands. The Master turns away from him with a deep sigh, back towards the two students standing in front of his desk, shoulder to shoulder, a pair of very unlikely allies, united for a moment in their common cause.
THE MASTER: Well. This certainly puts a very different face on the whole matter. Although I must admit, Mr Holmes, that I still don't quite see why it was necessary to expose Miss Westbury in such a way as you did yesterday, in front of so many of your fellow students and with such uncourteous words.
VIOLET (quietly, but still with an angry edge in her voice): Yes, I think I would like to know that, too.
SHERLOCK (to Violet): Imagine for a moment what would have happened if I hadn't done it.
VIOLET (with a very brief, mirthless laugh): Then I would still be able to look people in the eye?
SHERLOCK: No. You would have given in to him. (She opens her mouth to disagree, but he cuts her off.) Don't kid yourself, Violet. Sooner or later, you would have. I knew, I saw, like everyone else did, what state you were in when your one weapon against him had turned out to be useless, when you had discovered that there was nothing on his computer to help you. You had put yourself terribly in the wrong, all to no avail. You lost your nerve completely then, you were going to pieces before our eyes. So I took pity on you and put an end to it.
VIOLET (aghast): Pity? You call that pity?
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): I won't insist on that particular term if you can think of a better one. And besides, I was getting a bit annoyed at you butchering Mozart, too. But on the whole, rather finish it quick and clean than let him win, wouldn't you say? (To the Master) I'm sure she'll agree, once she's thought it through. (With a complacent smile) And even apart from those considerations, someone had to drive him over the edge, too, and make him condemn himself by his own actions.
VIOLET (incredulously): No, wait - are you telling me that you dragged me through the mud like that just to get at him, when you knew all along that I wasn't -
SHERLOCK (impatiently): Yes, of course. It was a necessary condition for success.
Violet just gasps, at a loss for words.
SHERLOCK (to the Master): Or would you have preferred to worm all this out of him bit by bit in a lengthy and probably very unpleasant formal enquiry, if ever? I thought we might get there a lot quicker. (Lightly, almost flippantly) And didn't it work beautifully?
THE MASTER (drily): That is maybe not exactly the word I would have chosen. I grant you that it was efficient.
Sherlock beams at him as if he has just been paid the highest compliment that he can imagine. The Master clears his throat.
THE MASTER: Well, then there remains only one question that still requires an answer, as far as I'm concerned. (With a hint of irony, but no ill-will) And since you, Mr Holmes, have proved yourself so adept at solving riddles and providing answers to questions that we others would probably never even have thought of asking, I'm sure I can turn once more to you for enlightenment.
Sherlock makes a little gesture with his hand, as if to say "ask away".
THE MASTER: How did Miss Westbury technically manage to gain access to Professor McAllister's computer in the first place? As you said, his account, like everyone else's, would have been protected by a password, one of those ridiculously long strings of letters and numbers that no-one can ever remember. I hardly know my own. Are you telling me that she just made a couple of lucky guesses and hit on it by chance?
SHERLOCK (generously conceding the point): I'm afraid, sir, that this is the one question that I have not yet managed to find a satisfactory answer to. (Confidently) But she most certainly could not have figured it out by chance. It would have required extraordinary technical abilities to either work it out by computation or to bypass the password barrier altogether, so we will have to assume that –
At his side, Violet shifts. The movement arrests Sherlock's attention, and he glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She meets his gaze with such an unexpectedly grave look that he baulks.
SHERLOCK: – she –
He does a double take. Violet is still fixing him intently with her eyes, and we can literally see the wheelworks of Sherlock's brain kick into motion behind his forehead, frantically trying to work out its significance.
THE MASTER: That she – what?
SHERLOCK (hesitantly): - had help.
He turns fully towards Violet, frowns, and a split second later, comprehension dawns on his face. His eyes grow wide, and the full meaning of his own words hits him like a blow, derailing him completely. Too late, far too late to take them back, he blinks, once, twice – and then averts his face and lowers his eyes in bitter regret.
VIOLET (breaking the silence almost gently): No.
Sherlock's eyes fly open again, staring at her in utter disbelief of what he's hearing.
VIOLET (to the Master, calmly): I had no help. I worked it out myself. I'm – I'm good with computers.
The Master folds his arms and leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Violet stands her ground bravely. After a moment, the Master clears his throat again.
THE MASTER (to Sherlock): Then I suppose there is no point either in asking you, Mr Holmes, how you came by such detailed knowledge of what happened on Professor McAllister's computer on Tuesday afternoon.
Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but then meets the Master's eyes with creditable composure.
SHERLOCK: I'm good with computers, too.
THE MASTER (drily): Well. Discovering unexpected talents in my students is part of what makes my work so rewarding.
He straightens up in his chair and picks up the telephone.
THE MASTER: Joanne? Please ask the Head Porter to step up here for a moment. And anyone from IT who's free. (To Violet and Sherlock) And in the meantime, I must ask the two of you to wait outside until I let you know my decision. Miss Westbury, please be so kind as to leave the key to your room here with me.
Violet readily complies with his request, putting her keys down onto the desk. The Master acknowledges the gesture with a nod, then turns to Sherlock.
THE MASTER (now in a tone of almost paternal concern): And by the way, what happened to your face?
There is a short pause, in which Sherlock very deliberately refrains from even so much as glancing at Violet.
SHERLOCK: Rowing accident. (He smiles wryly.)
A view of the corridor outside the Master's office. It is brightly lit by morning sunlight coming in through a window, and deserted. The door of the Master's office opens, and we see Sherlock holding it open for Violet, who walks out first. He follows her and quietly closes the door behind him. Violet advances a few steps into the corridor, then stops and turns back towards him.
VIOLET (resigned, but without the slightest hint of sarcasm): Well. Thank you, I suppose.
SHERLOCK (frowning at her, honestly at a loss): Thank you? Why? I've just got you expelled.
VIOLET: I meant thank you for not peaching – you know.
SHERLOCK: Oh, that. I suspect I was only returning a favour.
VIOLET: You suspect, or you know?
SHERLOCK: I know now.
Violet sighs deeply.
VIOLET: I didn't lie because he's your friend, though. I did it for him. I do like him. He's – he's clever like you, but without all the - (She makes a random little gesture with her hand.)
SHERLOCK (almost gently): All the what?
VIOLET (avoiding his eyes): Dunno. (She sighs again.) I've lied so much over this past week, to so many people, adding just one more lie didn't seem to matter. But this is the only one I don't feel guilty about. (In an attempt to sound light-hearted) A good one to end on, isn't it?
SHERLOCK: You make that sound very final.
VIOLET: It is final.
SHERLOCK: They might give you a second chance. You know, mitigating circumstances and all that.
VIOLET (the look of grim determination that we saw earlier back on her face): I don't want it. I'm leaving. Tomorrow, if they let me. And believe it or not, I'll be glad to be going.
She walks over to the window, where a wooden bench has been built into the recess, and sits down on it, hugging herself as if she's cold, looking down at her shoes.
VIOLET: Do you ever feel like you don't belong here? Oh, of course you don't. Brains like yours, this place must feel like heaven. (Sherlock makes a little move as if to speak, but she continues too quickly.) But it never was for me. From the first day on, I was like a fish out of water. The way people talked, the way they all knew stuff, all they'd read and all they expected me to have read, too... (A tone of despair steals into her voice.) I was so far out of my depth. Like I'd been thrown into some sort of bad dream where you keep trying to catch a train but something always holds you back, no matter how you struggle... (A shudder passes over her. She bravely tries to fight it down, but now her voice is shaking badly, too.) I just wanted to make music. That's all I ever wanted. Just to play. (She sniffs.) I never cared about the books and the theory. But then my parents and my teachers and everyone at home put this idea in my head… and I didn't know better, I thought they were right, I was flattered, but once I was here -
She breaks off and buries her face in her hands. Sherlock looks down at her bowed head for a moment, then walks over to the bench and very gingerly sits down next to her, not close enough to touch but close enough for her to be aware of his presence. She cries quietly, and he waits patiently for her to stop. There is a long moment of silence. At last, when she has calmed down a little, Violet raises her head, her eyes still swimming in tears, her make-up running.
VIOLET (searching his face): You're strangely quiet.
SHERLOCK: What should I say?
VIOLET: Dunno. (In a very weak attempt at sarcasm) But you hate me. You're not going to let me go from here without a proper parting shot, are you? (Her voice is shaking again, but she grits her teeth.) Round it off nicely, come on. You always had the last word with him, don't make me feel that I deserve less than he does.
SHERLOCK (sincerely): I don't hate you. I probably did, but I know better now.
VIOLET (smiling through her tears): You're not doing your best. Try again.
SHERLOCK (straightening up): Well, if you insist -
VIOLET (taking a deep breath, steeling herself for the onslaught): I do.
SHERLOCK: Then you already know what to do, don't you? (Sententiously) Embrace your mediocrity.
Violet stares at him. Then she pulls a face in amused disbelief.
VIOLET: Says who?
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Says the man from the third desk in the second violins, who knows what he's talking about.
VIOLET (starting to giggle): The same who thinks he can improve Handel?
SHERLOCK: Well, yes, maybe now and –
VIOLET (holding up her hand in mock protest, now laughing outright): No! Don't spoil it, please. I want to remember that to the end of my days - you, of all people, confessing to mediocrity.
SHERLOCK (in mock resignation): If it makes you happy.
VIOLET (sincerely): It is a relief.
SHERLOCK (dead serious for a moment): You know what? I agree. (With a sudden grin) Just don't tell anyone.
He snorts, and now they're both laughing, he biting his lip and she with her hand clamped over her mouth in a joint but useless – and soon abandoned - effort to keep it quiet. After a while, calming down, Violet sighs weakly, runs her hand over her eyes and nods towards the closed door of the Master's office.
VIOLET: What d'you think's gonna happen to him now?
SHERLOCK (after a moment): Who cares.
They crack up again hopelessly, and they laugh and laugh, both of them silly with relief, giggling away together on their bench under the window until we fade to black.