Chapter 4: Dulce et Decorum Est
When they got into her friend's flat without once having to ring a buzzer, as Violet knew all of the codes to the doors, Sherlock began to wish he'd never come. Sat on the floor, beneath various blankets and duvets, like children holding a slumber party, were eight university students
Two studying English
One studying Medicine
Three studying Computer Programming
One studying History
One studying Spanish
"Hiya." Violet called gaily, more to acknowledge their presence than to announce her own, to which they responded with like greetings and smiles.
In the meantime, Sherlock took his time assessing the information laid out before him. That is, until two of the students on the floor shot him strange looks and then began staring at him.
"Staring's rude, you know, guys." Violet informed them lightly, slipping off her drenched, black coat before gesturing for Sherlock's. At first he was about to refuse, until her brows arched in a familiarly patronising manner and she said: "If we dry it, we can get off all the mud that's up the back. Give it here."
With a swift eye-roll and an ignoring grunt, he shucked off his Belstaff coat and flung it at her.
"Thank you." She murmured, turning to the whole room who, as one now, were staring at Sherlock.
"Guys, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is the Nerdfighter Society: there's Charlie, Erin, Nina, Stella, Laurie, Sean, Andy and Ashley." She didn't bother to point them out, knowing that the late, great Sherlock Holmes would be able to tell whom was who.
As she hung up the coats and zipped off her shoes, she turned to Ashley and murmured: "I found him in the street; he's been pretty badly kicked in-I don't suppose you could look him over for me?"
"Yeah, sure." Ashley replied with a smile, her eyes flicking reassuringly to Sherlock's.
"Sherlock?" Violet called, suddenly remembering something of paramount importance..
"What?"
"Be nice." At this, he bristled.
"But-"
"No 'buts'. This isn't up for negotiation; these are my friends and I won't have you upsetting them."
"It's okay." Someone interjected brightly, making Violet close her eyes against a sudden headache. Fine, she supposed, it was their funeral.
Meanwhile, Ashley was bustling around, first aid kit in hand, along with a few supplies bought off eBay. "Can you sit down and take your shirt off?" She asked, as Sherlock's expression turned more and more sour. He did, however, do as she asked.
"Is it all set up?" I asked Andy, who was in charge of the TV/computer for the night.
"Yeah" he replied, absently, still sneaking awed glances.
"We were just waiting for you." Charlie added, wiping black lipstick from her lips.
…
It was safe to say that Sherlock and Red Dwarf were never going to mix. One was a raving pedant whilst the other was a TV programme that couldn't care less about continuity or anything as petty as that. Apparently the former couldn't stand the latter:
"There's no way that a cat would evolve opposable thumbs."
"If there were a cat-species on board, surely they wouldn't just leave the remains of the humans lying about."
"The radiation they're talking about wouldn't take three million years to dissipate."
But nobody minded. Or if they did, to their credit, they didn't show it.
Eventually, though, people left or drifted off to sleep, so that, at four-thirty in the morning, only Violet and Sherlock were left awake.
"Can I ask you a question?" Violet asked, rubbing at her eyes.
"What is it?" He replied, eyes closed and body tensed.
"You died-"
"That isn't a question, and funnily enough, it is demonstrably untrue."
"Why did you do it? How did you do it, come to that?" frustration coloured her tone.
Silence reigned between them for a brief time before Sherlock decided to answer.
"You believe that Moriarty was real." It wasn't a question, but Violet chose to treat it as one.
"Yes." She said.
…
One Month Ago:
He was looking down from the roof of St. Bart's. Normally, he wasn't one to point out the obvious, but it was a rather long way down. Of course, it would have to be. His breath shuddered reluctantly out of him.
He didn't look back at Moriarty's corpse. He'd expected the Consulting criminal to pull a stunt like this, but he hadn't expected to be so shocked by it. He saw dead bodies all the time. Perhaps that was the problem; he'd seen dead bodies, but he'd never before seen someone die. He tried to delete the image of the madman blowing his brains out. There were more important things to consider, after all: John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. Everyone. They would be killed if he didn't jump.
He knew that this was coming, his 'suicide', and he'd prepared for it. Stress balls were wonderful things, with so many different uses. He'd done the rest of it; he'd played along with Jim; he'd broken John's heart. All that was left now was to make that leap…So he did.
Freefall is a curious thing, he mused, just before he hit the ground…
When he regained consciousness, it was to the sound of a plastic zip and a woman's voice calling his name: "Sherlock. Sherlock! Sherlock?"
"M-m-ly."
"Good. That's good. Come on then. Let's get you cleaned up." Molly Hooper's dainty hands ran over his skin, checking for broken bones and bruises. Every so often, she'd come across one that had her patient wincing and she apologised softly, her shy, brown eyes meeting his flinty ones for half-a-moment.
"Do you need somewhere to stay?" asked Molly, her voice businesslike, but somehow subdued, as if waiting to flinch from one of his scathing remarks. Sherlock shook his head: "No. I need to leave London immediately."
"Where will you go?"
"To start, Manchester."
"Right."
When she finished her examinations, he asked: "Did you manage to find my replacement?"
…
One Month Later (i.e. Red Dwarf marathon):
Violet nodded; everything that Sherlock had told her made complete sense, and yet it was a story that you just couldn't make up. "Wow." She said simply.
"Why Manchester, then?" she enquired with a frown.
"I was hoping to find someone who could help me." He answered.
"With what?" she would have ignored his exasperated sigh, had it not been followed by:
"How is it that even my brother's offspring can be so stupid?"
"What!" shock smeared itself over her broad features.
"Oh, please, it's obvious that you're his. Though I wonder why he doesn't know..."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She snapped.
"Don't be tiresome. Mycroft is excellent at that, too. Have you accessed his computer, yet?"
Gritting her teeth, Violet could see that it was a very bad idea to try lying to her uncle. So she told him the truth. "Yes."
"Hmm. I'm impressed."
"No you're not." She muttered,
"True; with your brains, that's hardly an impressive feat. So what did you do?"
Violet smirked, remembering just how childish she'd been when she finally got into Mycroft Holmes' computer. "I changed his desktop background so that it said: MY NAME IS MYCROFT AN' I IS VER CLEVA, INNIT! and I switched around all his files. I found that far too enjoyable - it took him ages to put it right."
"That was you?" Sherlock asked in surprise, before his mouth curled into a wide smile, "He did mention something like that; he was paranoid for about three weeks ... I think I rather like you."
Violet would never admit it, but her heart skipped a beat. Sherlock Holmes approved of her. Her uncle liked her. If she were anyone else, she'd have burst into happy tears or made a speech. As it was, she merely said: "That's nice. But it would be even nicer if he wasn't told about me." Sherlock measured that for a moment before nodding. "I think that can be arranged. That is, if you can get me out of the country."
Violet smiled for what seemed like the hundredth time, that night. Of course, it was the best day of her life so far. "Deal." She said.
Author's Note: Right, first things first: thank you so much to Alaris24 for your review (I did a pitiful little victory dance, I was so happy). And, yeah, I thought Mycroft was a bit of a tool, but then again, I really like his character…oh…what to do!
Also I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the real Nerdfighter Society, who I hope don't mind me using our weekly movie marathons as a setting…and no, we don't fight Nerds (just sayin').
Anyhoo, the Soundtrack for this chapter is: Spitfire by the Prodigy
'Dulce et Decorum Est' is a poem by WW1 poet Wilfred Owen, the title of which is pulled from one of the Roman poet Horace's works: 'Dulce et Decorum Est, pro Patria Mori', which means: 'It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country' (again, I felt a bit like being a smart arse)
I'm really hoping that Sherlock isn't too OOC, and that Moira isn't just one of those annoying OCs (I've written plenty of those) So I'd really appreciate it if you could all tell me what you think-i.e. review! Because, you see, Reviews make the world go round. }-)