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Chapter 4: The Unexpected Trip

"How is Violet going to explain us to the Rucastles?" asked John as they settled into their seats on the train. "I mean, two men packing formal wear just happen to be touring the English countryside… Oh no. No, no, no."

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock as reached into John's case and extracted his laptop. John snatched his machine back and looked around to make sure no one was listening.

"Tell me we are not Dr. and Mr. Watson searching for the perfect antique doorknocker because I swear to you, Sherlock, I will French kiss Violet the minute we walk through the door," he contended, his voice low but insistent.

"Relax, John. There will be no need to defend your heterosexuality," said Sherlock as he deftly reclaimed the computer and attempted to power it up. "Although I must say that I am surprised you own a tuxedo. It's not exactly standard military issue."

"I don't own a tuxedo; I brought my dress uniform. You don't strike me as the black-tie type either – why is it you own one?" inquired John while pulling the computer's power cord out of his bag. He held it up for Sherlock to see and dangled it temptingly.

"For emergencies, of course," explained Sherlock reaching for the cord, which John quickly placed behind his back and leaned, albeit uncomfortably, against the seat back.

"Of course," John replied. "Most people keep extra batteries on hand for an emergency; you have a tuxedo."

Accepting defeat with a childish grumble, Sherlock picked up his phone and scrolled through the recent messages searching for one conversation in particular.

SH: I am well aware that Molly desires a relationship beyond what I am capable of providing.

V: Capable? Or willing?

SH: I should dispute that. But I cannot.

SH: I also cannot comprehend why she would want anything from me. I have scarcely shown her any kindness over the years.

V: I told you – you're kind of hot.

SH: …

V: Well, "You are very attractive" doesn't really cover it.

V: Plus, it's more than a pretty face that makes you desirable. If you look at Molly the way you looked at me, you could tell her to go to Hell and she'd start packing.

SH: That's complete rubbish.

V: A quote from wordsmith e.e. cummings sums it up nicely: …the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.

V: And you're kind of hot. ;)

SH: And you are incorrigible.

Of course he had immediately looked up the poem she quoted and its significance haunted him. Your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself. He had most certainly closed himself – alone is safe, he always said. Now that there were people in his life whom he considered important – John, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade – he couldn't deny a new sense of purpose directly correlated to the reactions of others. He still lived for his work, nothing would change that, but now the pleasure he derived from the work was tantamount to the level of satisfaction he produced for the people who mattered most.

That development was clear to him before he met Violet, indeed before his liaison with Irene, and now that he understood the power of physical intimacy he found himself craving it. A few months ago, the fact that her slightest look unclosed him would have been viewed as disadvantageous; a response to be avoided in order to retain absolute control. Everything was different now - every day a deeper understanding of the human condition and he was enjoying the process of discovery immensely.

"So, have you talked to Violet? Today, that is," John asked, interrupting Sherlock's reverie.

"Yes, John. I have." said Sherlock, putting aside the phone and opening his newspaper, which he hope would hide the smile he couldn't inhibit. "We are friends stopping by to see how she's getting on."

"Friends?"

"Yes," he turned a page.

"JUST friends?"

"John, what exactly are you getting at?" asked Sherlock pointedly, moving the newspaper to the side to stare intently at his friend.

"I'm wondering if you're going to admit you're more than just friends with her," answered John. He could tell Sherlock was not thrilled with the topic of their conversation but he was not ready to drop it.

"I have no idea what you mean – Violet is a client." Sherlock snapped the paper and tried to concentrate on the words in front of him but they refused to sit still. Just like his heart rate whenever he thought about her. I have been far too obvious, he thought and gripped the paper tightly.

"Sherlock, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You have been acting like a hormonal teenager since you first set eyes on her," John laughed.

"I have not," Sherlock replied and turned another page to continue the pretense. Although he was beginning to acknowledge an emotional response to women, it was not something he wanted to discuss with anyone yet. Not even John.

"Sherlock, I can tell every time you get a text from her. No one looks at his crotch and smiles that much. Not even someone as enamored with himself as you are," John pointed out. "Plus, you don't usually move this quickly unless there's a severed body part up for grabs."

"I was bored," offered Sherlock.

"We have a word for that in the military, you know. We call it bullshit," admonished John. "Sherlock, she's dead gorgeous, smart, incredibly talented… most men would kill for the chance to even talk to her. I know you're not 'most men' but, for me as the man most likely to be labeled your gay lover, would you please just admit you find her attractive?"

"As I have said before, John, I am married to my work," Sherlock explained. "If there are disparities in my relationship with Violet they are purely for research purposes."

"Uh huh. Just keep in mind that Violet may not know there's a difference between high-functioning sociopath and complete ass, OK?" he warned. "Don't hurt her, Sherlock." For his troubles, John received that special 'Do shut up now' look he had come to know. If Sherlock didn't want to you to know something, you weren't going to badger it out of him. Giving up saved so much time.

The remainder of the journey passed uneventfully – John worked on his blog and Sherlock pointed out noteworthy places in the countryside where one might hide a body. The travelers arrived at the Rucastle Estate courtesy of the car and driver Violet had sent to retrieve them. Unable to contain her excitement, Violet literally ran down to the kitchen when John texted her they were pulling up to the house.

"Mr. and Mrs. Toller – these are the friends I mentioned," she explained as they came through the back door. "This is Sherlock…" Sherlock smiled at the housekeeper and her husband far too broadly and inelegantly waved his violin case at her. Unsure if he was drunk or just playing around, Violet continued. "Sherlock plays the violin. Obviously. And… and this is John."

"Uh huh. And what does he play then?" questioned Mr. Toller from his place at the big wooden table, the drink in his hand splashed with a broad gesture towards the unsuspecting doctor.

"John? He plays the… uh…" Violet stuttered, unprepared for the question, but before she had time to come up with an answer, Sherlock interrupted her.

"Harp," he supplied, throwing his arm around John and pulling him close, grinning from ear-to-ear. Violet could only stare, her mouth agape.

John was equally as flabbergasted. "Yes, the uh – harp… My mother really wanted a girl so…." he managed to say. Sherlock continued to grin like a fool until John elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

Violet laughed nervously and stepped in front of her two screwy friends. "Yes, well. Sooooo – guys. I'm sure you'd like to rest up before dinner…. Uh, Mrs. Toller?" she said, hoping the old woman would catch on. Thankfully she did and motioned for them to follow.

"Come with me you lot. And don't be thinking you're sharing a room. I'll have none a that in his house," she wagged a crooked finger at John.

"OK but seriously though, we are NOT a couple," he insisted as they gathered their luggage. Mrs. Toller gave him and Sherlock the once-over and grunted her reply as she left the kitchen. "I happen to LIKE women. I like them a LOT!" he called after her.

"I'm so glad you got here before the dogs are let out," Violet said as they mounted the back stairs. "They took down a deer the other day; it wasn't pretty."

"Dogs don't usually attack deer, do they?" asked John.

"My husbands dogs do," warned Mrs. Toller. "And you'd be smart to stay inside at night. There'll be no saving your sorry selves if the dogs find you." Behind the old woman's back, Violet made a face at John; he hid his amusement in a well-timed cough.

Mrs. Toller opened a bedroom door and pointed at Sherlock. "You in here," she barked. "You over here." Mrs. Toller entered the room; Violet leaned in to John.

"Hey - what's with Sherlock?" she whispered to John. "Is he drunk or something?"

"How I wish it were that simple. I can never really tell what he's playing at right off. Maybe he wanted them to think he's just a regular guy," he explained quietly and shrugged his shoulders.

As soon as Mrs. Toller left them alone, Violet audibly breathed a sigh of relief. "I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you," she said throwing her arms around John just as Sherlock entered the room. Much to the amazement of both gentlemen, she kissed him on the lips, and touched her forehead to his. "Thank you so much, Doc."

"There's something very wrong here, Violet. You shouldn't be alone," he replied almost shyly as he hesitantly broke the embrace.

"As if you could keep us away," affirmed Sherlock. "A damsel held a virtual captive in an isolated estate guarded by a pack of angry dogs was tantalizing enough, but with your new evidence it became positively irresistible." She turned to him, her light green eyes sparkling. His breath caught when she moved within inches of his face. John was right, he thought, she is particularly attractive.

"You brought your violin, Mr. Holmes," she said lightly touching the strong fingers gripping the instrument's case.

His free hand skimmed her shoulders and wove through her hair as he pulled her just against his chest. Violet closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the scent that was uniquely him. She had wondered if the attraction she'd experienced when they first met was a one-time occurrence; the product of an overactive imagination distorted by her unease about the position she had taken perhaps. Judging by the fact that her knees were about to give out, however, she was pretty sure now that it was not a fluke. Collecting her strength, she looked up at him and gave her best attempt at an evocative smile.

"Does this mean you want to play with me?" she inquired softly, savoring the innuendo. A hint of shock flashed across Sherlock's face as he grasped her intent. He tried his best to conceal the effect her suggestive remark had elicited, but her nearness damned him and an unquestionably male reaction was occurring despite his concentrated resolve. Sherlock realized that if he didn't do something to correct this condition immediately, there would be no denying the extremely visible proof of his desire for her.

"Violet, can you show us where you found the ponytail," he asked, clearing his throat and praying silently that his voice was not as strained as it sounded to him. He buried his hands in his pants pockets in a desperate tactic to conceal the effect she had provoked.

"Of course, but it will have to wait until later – it's homework time in the library until dinner," Violet explained and backed away, tossing a quick glance downward to confirm her suspicion. A knowing smile spread across her face as Sherlock walked awkwardly to the window. She decided to be gentle and changed the subject. "Speaking of dinner - I hope you guys brought your dress-up clothes! Dinner here is quite the experience."

"We did indeed. I hope my uniform still fits – the food in London is a bit better than in Afghanistan," John said as he hung up his jacket and smoothed out the sleeves. She reached out to touch the service ribbons.

"Mmmm! I do love a man in uniform," teased Violet with a wink. "Better make sure you lock your door tonight!" She lightly touched his shoulder and he blushed. Sherlock effectively fought the desire to step between them and/or punch John in the face; he settled for a barely perceptible huff.

"Right – so the plan. Dinner begins at 5:15 and promptly at 6:00 we retire to the ballroom for the little master's concert," she explained. "I'll have to play something as well but at 8:30, it's lights out at Castle Rucastle. We can take a look in the library after everyone goes to bed."

"I can't wait to hear you play, Violet," said John. "Maybe you and Sherlock can do something together?"

"Could've had a trio if you'd brought your harp, John," she chided with as straight a face as she could manage.

"Right, Sherlock – about that," demanded John. "You looked at me and the first instrument that came to your mind – the very first one - was the HARP?" Sherlock frowned and Violet dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"John, insecurities regarding your perceived sexuality are not my concern at this moment," he said. "Making myself presentable for dinner is, however."

"I'll come get you in about an hour," said Violet when she stopped giggling. "It's easy to get lost in this place. I've not even been in half the rooms."

"Where is your room in relation to ours, Violet?"

"I'm directly above," she said and pointed towards the ceiling. "So if you hear footsteps in the middle of the night, it's not Jacob Marley or anything, I just don't sleep well here."

"This place is definitely high on the creep factor," said John opening his case and taking out his toothbrush. "And now, having seen Psycho, I'm locking myself in the bathroom and having a shower."

Sherlock and Violet left John's room, closing the door behind them, and paused in the hallway.

"What did Rucastle say when you announced that two male friends would be coming to stay?" asked Sherlock out of the blue.

"Quiet at first," she recalled. "Then he said it would be fine. He's not big into conversation unless there's something wrong with the way the furniture is arranged."

"The furniture?"

"If there's a chair or something out of place, he flips," Violet explained. "He's either really serious about feng shui or he's a complete nutjob."

"I will be watching tonight – see if you can provoke him," he said. "I'm not leaving you alone here until I have this figured out."

"Sherlock! You do care about me!" she exclaimed with a smile, putting a hand to her heart to feign shock.

"Of course I care," he pronounced softly and opened the door to his bedroom. Turning to face her he continued, "Something in me understands…"

And with that single quote, he successfully stopped her heart. Unaware of what he had just done to her, Sherlock gently closed the door and as he did, she caught a glimpse of his tuxedo hanging on the closet door. She momentarily pictured Sherlock in evening clothes – pale skin in sharp contrast to the black of a tuxedo – and the image made her gasp. Shaking her head, she salvaged her composure and reprimanded herself for acting like a love-struck adolescent. "This is going to be a looooonng night," she said aloud and continued on to get ready for what was sure to be an interesting dinner.

The poem quoted in this chapter is somewhere i have never travelled… by e.e. cummings