Chapter 2: Me Tis.
It was a two minute walk from the bus stop to the Earl of Stockport's mansion-or rather, the gates to the drive of his mansion, but it felt like miles and miles to Violet, who simply wanted to get to bed and sleep. Sleep being in short supply since Sherlock had come back from his travels around the world.
She pressed the buzzer at the side of the gate.
"Hello," Jervis' clipped (and harried) tones came through the speaker, "how may I help you?"
"Hi, Jervis," Violet said brightly, knowing that her informality irked the stiff butler.
"Ah. Miss Sherringford." The speaker shouldn't have been able to register the butler's subtle disdain for the young Hacker, but miraculously, it did, and Violet couldn't help but flash a mischievous grin as the gates opened.
The front door (which, incidentally, was about three times the size of any other front door that Violet had ever seen) opened before she even had a chance to knock on it, but instead of the wizened, unsmiling butler whom she'd expected to see on the other side, her eyes met with her friend and fellow Hacker: 'Dracula'. "Quick, quick. Come in." he panted, a gleaming scimitar held limply in his grip. The sight would have been amusing if Violet hadn't known what Sherlock was like. As it was, she could barely suppress a groan.
"What happened?" She asked. The aristocrat raked his pale fingers through his long, dark hair and muttered something almost unintelligible. "What?" she asked, eyeing the hallway for any signs of acid burns, blood spatter, ears (-don't laugh-true story-) nailed to the walls…Her eyes touched everything they could before making their way back to the man in front of her.
The Count was a tall, gangly man with gorgeously long, dark hair, marble skin and glacial eyes. On the street or at one of the charity galas that he couldn't avoid attending, he could be found wearing one of his dozens of black, designer suits and a pair of priceless, Italian leather shoes. But right now, in the relative comfort of his own home, he was garbed in a long-sleeved Black Sabbath t-shirt, a pair of faded, black jeans and a pair of mismatching green and black socks.
"I said: "he got bored…and-I-may-have-challenged-him-to-duel"
"Ollie!" She moaned. She would have called him 'Freddie', but he refused to have any affiliation with an ascot-wearing cartoon character in a TV programme named after a cowardly Great Dane. "How was I supposed to know that he was good with blades?" he demanded incredulously.
Just then, the ominous crashing sound of metal being brought to the floor in a heap had Oliver wincing. The sound came from the library-where all the priceless first-edition books and antique armour were kept.
"Are you going to see what he's gone and destroyed?" Violet enquired with an apologetic grimace. She was well aware that Sherlock was here only because she'd begged Oliver to give him a place to stay for a while, and she knew that there would be no way that she could repay her friend for the favour-what do you give the man who has everything and enjoys very little of it?-She only wished that Sherlock could be a little more appreciative of what they were doing.
Oh, he was appreciative in his way. She knew that; he, along with the rest of her father's side of the family (and her mother's, come to that) was not exactly demonstrative in the usual sense.
Violet was hardly surprised, when Oliver led her to the library and opened the door, to see a tall, thin, curly haired man standing over a toppled suit of Tudor armour with one of Oliver's old cos-play throwing knives. She was completely mortified, however, when that throwing knife was expertly launched into a painting hung on the wall. Hearing a muted groan from behind her, she prayed the painting wasn't the one she thought it was.
She stalked into the room and took a look at the mutilated painting. "Really? Really?" She demanded of the restless and soon-to-be-if-not-already-dead Consulting Detective. But he didn't answer, far too irked and bored to take note of his niece's reprimand-it reminded him far too much of her father. So she cast her eyes over to his host whose face was a stoic mask.
"I am so sorry," she said feelingly, casting her hands around the mess. It was, indirectly, her fault. She should never have had Sherlock brought here; it was a mistake. "It doesn't matter." Oliver said, his tone deceptively light, "I never liked that picture, anyway."
"It was Vermeer." Sherlock interjected in a monotone.
"Shut up." Violet hissed as Oliver muttered a simple and irate:
"Yep."
"So why all this?" Violet demanded at last, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
"All what?" Sherlock asked innocently.
"You know what."
"You'll have to be a bit more specific-your father has that trouble too-"
"You can sodding-well leave him out of this." She almost shrieked, "I am nothing like him."
"Well-"
"I wouldn't." Oliver pointed out helpfully, reaching his scimitar into its resting place above the mantle-piece. "You know she hates anything to do with him." Without taking the trouble to whirl around to fix him with a glare, Moira retorted: "Thank you for reiterating the obvious."
"No problem." He said with a malicious brightness.
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock decided to stop toying with his brother's brilliant yet equally indignant offspring; "When can I 'come back'?" he asked.
"When can you-" she began with a frown.
"Stop being officially dead." He finished impatiently, "I've located and shut down the majority of Moriarty's network; I'm back now and I'm sick of being cooped up, here. In Manchester. Nothing interesting happens in Manchester-"
"That's not true." Violet objected,
"Of course it is, else why is there such a concentration of you Hackers in this area? Because it's easy to hide, because nobody comes looking. Manchester has the highest student population in Europe; if any crimes happen, the likelihood of it being committed by a student means that people in power only spare a glance for this part of the country."
"You make it sound like a total backwater." Violet muttered.
"Compared to London…" Sherlock murmured wistfully-or as wistfully as she'd ever heard him. She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. She really wished that she could give him what he wanted immediately, but the truth was that they needed more time.
"I told him he couldn't go back to Baker Street. And this is what happened." Oliver explained, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear before leaving the room to tell Jervis and the other servants that the coast was clear.
"He's right, you know." Violet pointed out softly, as the curly-haired man removed the helmet to the scattered armour from a leather armchair before slumping into it, his lips pinched irritably. "We just need a few more months-six at the most-to properly rebuild your reputation. No matter how many people we blackmail into being supportive of you, they're still going to think that you're a fraud-a fake. I hate to say it, but Moriarty did a pretty good job on completely ruining you.
"The plan wasn't just to keep the nay-sayers quiet; it was to make you respectable again. Oliver's found evidence for Moriarty's existence and general evilness, and for your innocence. Now it's just a case of making sure that the right people find the evidence and can acquit you without interference from people who are more than happy to hate your guts.
"Honestly, it's just a case of time, now, Sherlock." She said that last with a note of pleading. After all their work over the last two years, she wasn't sure how she could cope with Sherlock pulling the rug out from under them with his almost child-like impatience.
When the man in question looked up at her with mildly annoyed understanding in his gaze, a triumphant grin graced her lips. "You are definitely a Holmes." He murmured. Violet snorted, glad that she was welcome to be related to Sherlock Holmes, though still furious at whom she was related to him through. "Thanks." She replied.
"I would like to tell John, though." Sherlock added, making Violet roll her eyes; she doubted that he was insincere, but he'd completely ruined the fond feelings that she'd just been experiencing.
"You are such a knob, sometimes." She informed him smartly, at which he grinned ruefully, knowing that she'd still give him whatever he needed. "Can you let me do it?" She asked patiently, "I know he'll understand why you jumped. I've seen his blog; he looks like a reasonable sort of bloke, but I can explain everything on the quiet and hopefully that way, there won't be any scenes."
Sherlock wanted to argue. He wanted to be the first to tell John. John was his friend, after all, but he had a funny feeling that if he simply turned up at John's flat, not looking in the least decomposed after two years of being dead, that John might just punch him in the face and refuse to speak to him.
He nodded. His niece, Violet Sherringford-A.K.A. 'Medusa', could be trusted to do what needed to be done.
Author's Note: The Soundtrack for this chapter is: 'What the Water Gave Me' by Florence + the Machine.
When Odysseus meets the Cyclops in the Odyssey (Book 9 or 10, I think) he introduces himself as 'no man'. The ancient Greek translation is 'me tis', which, combined into 'metis' means cunning. I thought it was appropriate given all the A.K.A.s that we're going to come across. (Yes, I know, I'm an insufferable smart arse, but I'm having too much fun).
I should also say that 'Dracula'='Count Frederick Oliver Pearce'=Ollie/Oliver. I just read it through and wasn't sure if it was clear enough. If it wasn't, you now know.
Enough from me: Please Read, Review and Enjoy }-)