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As always, I don't own these characters, etc, etc.
Holiday blessings to you!
Chapter Five: The Dinner Hour
As promised, Violet knocked on John's door an hour later. Her hair was brushed back from her face and she'd added eyeliner; the effect was not lost on John. He smiled warmly and silently hoped Sherlock decided to skip dinner. Then he noticed what she was wearing and he stopped in his tracks, his mouth agape.
"Oh! It's…" he stuttered, unsure where to go next. "It's…"
"It's the color of Romulan ale, John! Give it your best shot; I won't be offended," she offered and backed away to give him a better view. The gown was the most brilliant blue John had ever seen; the full taffeta skirt was completely covered with organza roses that ended at the bodice, which was tied up the back like a corset and supported by two thin shoulder straps. Altogether, the dress triggered in John the unfortunate memory of his Grandmother's crocheted bathroom tissue cover.
"Well, it certainly makes a statement," said the ever-kind doctor with a shy smile. "Unfortunately that statement involves a nuclear fallout warning."
"Absurd," came Sherlock's blunt opinion from across the hall.
"You think?!," laughed Violet, turning to the detective who was leaning against the door jamb, his arms crossed as he scowled at her. He was nothing short of stunning in a white dinner jacket and black bow tie à la Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.
"I would be remiss if I did not also state the obvious – you two look amazing. Especially you, Doc… Captain?" she asked touching his shoulder.
"Don't tell me you know my rank by the way I'm standing, or my haircut, or some other infuriating Holmesian deduction technique," he said.
"Umm. Well. I'd like to say I'm an expert in British military insignia but to tell the truth…I used to date a Captain. Sorry!" explained Violet with a shrug. "I told you I was a sucker for a man uniform!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. She laced her arm through his and reached out for John, who subsequently offered his arm. She felt Sherlock stiffen just slightly when she pulled John closer to her side. She smiled widely at the tall detective.
"Time to meet the Addams Family!" she said brightly as she guided them down the stairs and into the 3-story hall that connected the sections of the mansion where Sherlock paused. "Three wings," he said, breaking away to closer inspect the entrances.
"Yes, are rooms are in the East Wing; the dining room, kitchen, and the family's living spaces are in the North Wing; and the South Wing is closed off. Something about needing expensive repairs but I don't buy it," Violet explained and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I've seen Mr. Rucastle in there many times and think I've found a way in through the garden. I'll show you tomorrow if you want," she said.
"Oh, I want. I want very much," replied Sherlock almost seductively.
"I can't help you with that, mate," muttered John.
"Sorry?" asked Sherlock completely oblivious to the suggestive nature of his statement.
"Forget it," said John, shaking his head. "Carry on, Violet. He'll catch up eventually." They continued on to the dining room where Violet stopped short of opening the double-doors.
"You're in for a treat, my dear detective," she said and straightened Sherlock's bow tie. Their eyes locked for a split second and Violet was almost certain she saw the beginning of a smile. "The Safe Word is Jubilee," she winked at him as John turned the brass handles and swung the doors wide open to reveal the largest private dining room any of them had ever seen.
"After you," he motioned for Violet to enter. The rich mahogany table was set for six guests but it could easily have accommodated thirty or more; the china glittered from the several massive crystal chandeliers set with flickering gas-fueled candles. Initially Sherlock was too absorbed in cataloguing the room and its inhabitants to notice that the soft glow illuminated Violet's skin and made her sea-green eyes sparkle. When his careful examination of the surroundings reached her face, he finally understood why this woman affected him so. The combination of her incredible musical skill - a talent he almost admitted surpassed his own - with a demure sensuality had captured his curiosity. If only for research purposes, he rationalized.
"Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle, may I introduce my friends Sherlock and John?" The seated pair nodded but did not stand or offer any other acknowledgement. Violet was not surprised; their lack of social graces dwarfed Sherlock's awkwardness. "And this is my star student, Master Edward Rucastle," she continued. Quite unexpectedly, the boy jumped down off his chair and approached the visitors.
"We've heard quite a lot about you, young man," said John, extending his hand with a genuine smile. "Looking forward to hearing you play later."
"Have you ever killed anyone?" Edward said while taking John's hand and turning it over as if to inspect it.
"Edward!" exclaimed Violet.
"Son, just because a man is wearing a uniform doesn't mean he was in battle," said Mr. Rucastle as he snapped his napkin and placed it on his lap, never once raising his eyes off the plate in front of him. It was as if he was terrified of meeting the gaze of the woman sitting across the table. Mrs. Rucastle was decades younger than him but it was clear she was in charge.
"All of you - sit down so Mrs. Toller can serve dinner. You know we have a schedule to follow," added Mrs. Rucastle briskly. With an apologetic look, Violet ushered Edward back to his seat next to Mr. Rucastle and took the chair next to the boy. John and Sherlock took the seats next to Mrs. Rucastle who subsequently rang the tiny bell she kept next to her plate. Mrs. Toller rushed in with the first course, leek and potato soup, and the meal commenced. Minus any significant conversation, mainly due to the dour mood that permeated the room, the diners moved on to roast pork with applesauce. Just after Mrs. Toller set lemon tarts in front of everyone, Sherlock addressed Mr. Rucastle.
"Why her?" he asked bluntly. Mr. Rucastle stopped, his spoon hung in midair. He glanced quickly at his wife before returning Sherlock's intense stare. Violet's eyes widened and she held her breath. John simply looked board and finished off a glass of water. "Why Ms. Hunter?"
"She's the best, is she not?" Mr. Rucastle replied evenly as he placed his spoon on the table and folded his hands in his lap. Mrs. Rucastle stared hard at her husband.
"Not that I doubt Ms. Hunter's abilities in any way, but how did you determine she was, indeed, 'the best'?" inquired Sherlock insistently, his voice calm but intense. "Audition? Professional references? Word of mouth? Perhaps you compared her recordings to others of her talent?"
"Sir, I insist you cease this extremely rude examination of my husband!" interjected Mrs. Rucastle as she pushed back her chair. "Dinner is now over, Mrs. Toller. We will withdraw to the ballroom. I suggest, Violet, that you remind Mr. Holmes he is a guest in this house and is expected to act accordingly." With that she threw her napkin over her untouched dessert and stalked out of the dining room with her family in tow. Mrs. Toller filled her cart with dirty dishes and left the room.
"Way to make friends, Sherlock," said Violet as she finished the last spoonful of her tart.
"Watching him make friends is my favorite pastime," laughed John.
"Please," replied Sherlock as he dug in to his dessert. "If I wanted 'friends' I'd hack into John's Facebook account again."
"Hold on! Is that why Angela thinks I'm into riding crops?" exclaimed John. "She's my COUSIN, Sherlock!"
"That explains her "I'm telling your mother" reply."
"Gentlemen," interrupted Violet before John could respond. "As much as I'd love to hear why Sherlock chats about riding crops online, I think we should join the others." She stood up, smoothing down the voluminous skirt as best she could, and John pulled out her chair.
"I just don't understand how you keep figuring out my passwords," said John as they left the dining room.
"John, you've been using SherlockIsADick, or a variation thereof, for weeks now," explained Sherlock plainly.
"I only called you a dick because they wouldn't let me use the expletive I really wanted," John snapped. Violet laughed so hard she had to hold onto the chair rail for support.
"Stop – please! You're going to make me bust my corset," she begged. "I cannot tell you how happy I am that you're here." She pulled John into her arms and hugged him tightly. "But you!" She pointed at Sherlock over John's shoulder. "Attack dogs are damn fast and I resemble a rather large stuffed animal so please try not to get us kicked out before morning, OK?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.
"I fail to see why you find this so amusing," he said drolly.
"It's you two - you're like an old married couple," she explained putting her hand on John's face. "It's hilarious."
"Seriously. No," said John. "I'm never going to get a date with a woman again if this doesn't stop." He stood very tall, leaned forward, and kissed Violet, tentatively at first, but then more passionately as she relaxed into him. Sherlock cleared his throat loudly.
"If you're quite through," he said hoping his voice did not give them any clues to what was going on in his head. Truth be told, he it took all the strength he could muster to stop himself from tearing John away from her and punching him solidly in the jaw.
"Sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me," stuttered John as he stepped away.
"Well, I hope it comes over you again," she countered breathlessly. "Soon."
"Can we get this over with, please?" asked Sherlock. "I want access to the library before morning."
The Rucastles were waiting for them in the ballroom; Edward sat poised at the piano with his parents on a nearby sofa. Mr. Rucastle stood when they entered the room and approached them.
"Please do sit down," he said. "I've arranged a settee for you by the window." He gestured towards a very small sofa up against one of the large windows. John started to say something but changed his mind when Violet shrugged and took her place on the center cushion. Somehow, the two men managed to squeeze on each side of her; Sherlock put his arm over the back so that Violet wasn't smashed completely and her voluminous skirt nearly covered the men. Mrs. Rucastle approvingly.
"We are ready now, Edward," she said. "Please show us what you working on." The young boy played several Bach minuets, and Schumann's Soldier's March, which he performed with much enthusiasm. The small audience applauded and Violet stood.
"Bravo, Master Rucastle!" she said. "You've come a long way since we started."
"I'm still rushing the third passage in the Minute in G," he said apologetically to his father.
"Play some Rachmaninoff, please. I'm in the mood for something Russian," said Mr. Rucastle as Edward scrambled into a large wing chair.
"Rachmaninoff - no problem," Violet sighed. "I'll just need a little help – John, would you…"
"No," said Sherlock, immediately cutting her off. In a moment he was standing directly in front of her. He took her face in his hands; their eyes closed as their lips met. The kiss seemed to both go on forever and end far too soon. "Did that work?" he whispered, taking her hands in his. She vaguely felt his thumbs caress her fingers.
"It… uh…" she stammered, reluctantly coming back down to earth. John's earlier kiss was nothing to sneeze at, but good God, this man is incredible, she thought. Just then, a vivid flash of light outside the large window caught her eye. A quick glance at Sherlock proved he had seen it, too.
"Play," he mouthed and squeezed her hands. Her eyes told him she understood; he wanted her to distract the audience so he could more closely study the light outside. She arranged herself on the piano bench, raising it higher to accommodate her long legs and ridiculous skirt. Having warmed up just before dinner only a quick run up and down the keyboard was needed before launching into the opening chords of Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C sharp minor.
The moment she touched the keys, Violet was transported to the place where only she and the music existed. Had Sherlock jumped out the window naked with John following, she would not have noticed. (Well, maybe she'd have noticed a little.) She continued with Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu followed by Bach's Partita No. 2.
She paused for a moment at the keyboard and cast a sideways glance at Sherlock who nodded slightly. She stood and bowed, one hand holding the side of the piano. John applauded loudly.
"Oh, Violet, that was fantastic," he said.
"Thank you, Violet," said Mrs. Rucastle abruptly. "We will take our leave now but please do continue to play if you wish." When the family had gone and Violet heard the doors click shut she sat back down at the piano and began to play softly.
"Speak softly, just in case," she said. "Never sure who's listening. Could you see anything outside, Sherlock?" she whispered.
"There was indeed someone out there - just on the other side of the fence. Judging by shadows from the flash, I estimate a man about 6 feet tall, slim build," detailed Sherlock as he sat next to her on the bench.
"What? Who?" demanded a confused Dr. Watson. "What're you two on about?"
"A flash of light outside," she explained while continuing to play. "We saw it when Sherlock…umm… helped me remember the music."
"Is that what they call snogging in America?" John asked. Violet was unsure if he was joking or truly upset but before she could respond, Sherlock interrupted.
"The light source was most likely a camera flash; probably from a smart phone," Sherlock continued. "It was too dark to see anything definitive. Ideas on who it could be?"
"None at all. The last visitor before you guys was probably a friend of Anna's," she said.
"OK. I am completely lost," said John. "Who's Anna?"
"The girl in the painting with the first Mrs. R.," offered Violet with a nod towards the wall behind him. "She's the once with an unhealthy addiction to this horrific blue. Living in America going on two years now."
"Take us to the library," ordered Sherlock. "I want to see the evidence."
"OK but we need to be quiet. Mr. T has been known to lurk in shadows," explained Violet.
"That man jumps out of the dark at me and I will have an answer for your inquisitive little brat," offered John as Violet led them out the back door of the ballroom and down to the library. She turned the knob very quietly, peeked in, and, after making sure the room was empty, then walked towards the desk where she opened the center drawer to reveal a 10 inch braid tied in a blue ribbon.
He touched the blonde hair lightly. "It's not yours," he said abruptly and closed the drawer. "So the question is, whose is it?"
"How… how can you tell it's not mine?" Violet asked.
"I know your hair and that is not it. The texture is all wrong," Sherlock fired back. "It's clearly important to someone. Mrs. Rucastle hardly seems the sentimental type and the boy is more interested in taxidermy than headhunting. Mr. Rucastle, on the other hand, is hiding more than a few peculiarities. "
"You think he offed someone and kept her hair?" Violet asked, her voice incredulous.
"If he did, it was hushed up," offered Sherlock. "They have the monetary means to accomplish that."
"How about Mycroft?" suggested John.
"What's a Mycroft?" asked Violet, clearly confused.
"Mycroft is Sherlock's brother," explained John.
"Wait one minute…. Sherlock and Mycroft?!" cried Violet.
"Unusual names, granted, but not extraordinary," pronounced Sherlock.
"Did your parents actually want kids?"
"I imagined them as kids once. I had nightmares for a week," muttered John. Violet unsuccessfully covered a giggle.
"Definitely a British thing – in America, even the Chess Club would've had a field day with Sheer Luck and Minecraft."
"How I weep for your country," said Sherlock drolly as he pulled out his iPhone and began typing. "But right now I am more concerned for your safety, Violet. And if my dear brother can use some of his influence to uncover any bald skeletons in Rucastle's closet…"
"Thank you for that image - I'll be locking my closet door tonight," said John.
"Yeah. No kidding," said Violet rubbing her arms. "I'm ready to get out of here if you're done, Sherlock."
"Yes," he replied sliding his phone into a pocket. "I have all I need. Tomorrow, I want you to show me the South Wing."
They left the library and moved silently up the back stairs to their bedrooms. Violet kissed each of them on the cheek and they agreed to meet in John's room at 8am the following morning.
Violet returned to her room and immediately discarded her gown, tossing it over the back of a chair. Breathing a sigh of relief, she ran a bubble bath and sank down into the hot water with the book she'd been trying to read for a week now but rogue thoughts of the two men who had, quite literally, come to her rescue kept disturbing her concentration. Tossing the book to the floor, she pulled the plug, and dried off. Dressed in an oversized Harvard T-shirt and sleep shorts, she climbed under the covers and turned out the light. Her overactive imagine continued to play havoc only now that she was alone and in the dark, they turned decidedly less innocent.
She was about to give up sleeping at all that night when her phone lit up and played the opening measures to Paganini's Caprice No. 24 in A minor signaling a text from Sherlock.
SH: Are you awake?
Of course she was awake, but there was no way she was going to admit thoughts of him in various states of undress were keeping her up.
V: Uh, yes - now.
SH: May I come in?
Well damn, she thought and turned on the light. A quick look in the mirror confirmed her suspicions – she looked exactly like someone who had been tossing and turning for the past three hours. She ran her fingers through her hair and put on some lip-gloss. This is as good as it gets, she thought with a sigh.
"Don't tell me the Great Detective is scared of the dark," she said to the man in a blue silk bathrobe standing on the other side of her bedroom door. The color made his eyes that much more striking and Violet gripped the door to steady herself.
"Humor again? You really shouldn't," he countered as he glided past her.
"I knew your social skills were limited but somehow at this hour it's even more apparent. Do sit down." Sherlock, who was already perched stiffly on the edge of her bed, did not reply, rather he stared straight ahead as if studying something on the wall only he could see. Violet climbed under the covers and rested her chin on her bended knees. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she looked intently at the man whose very presence made it difficult to breathe. She did not know that at the same time she was contemplating his control over her, he was also trying to ascertain exactly why she affected him so.
After all, he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. He didn't have friends (outside of John, of course) much less girlfriends. Yet here he was, in the bedroom of a woman so captivating he hadn't noticed the bed (late 19th century), the sheets (800 thread count Egyptian cotton), or the room temperature (slightly below comfortable at 67 degrees.) Well, maybe he noticed them a little…
What was happening to him was so new he couldn't put a label on it and it was driving him mad. The foremost problem was the myriad of sensations occurring all at once. When he first saw her that evening, he had to resist the urge to immediately pull her into his arms. Was that affection? John kissed her and it nearly destroyed him. Jealousy? He was holding on to the edge of the mattress to keep himself from impulsively moving closer to her. Desire? Lust? Sherlock knew well the pleasures of sex – with Irene he had experienced physical love beyond his wildest imagination – but his need for intimacy with Violet was remarkably more complicated. He wanted to be physically close to her, yes, but he also wanted to know everything about her, to share music with her, and to take care of her. He wanted Violet involved in his life in ways that he never even considered with Irene.
"She's not Irene," he said aloud, more forcefully than he intended.
"Ok – yeah, John said you do this. I'm going back to sleep," she pronounced, slipping under the covers and yanking the blankets up to her chin. "Please turn out the light when you go." Shutting her eyes tightly, Violet hoped had she successfully hidden her disappointment. For hours she had been fantasizing about him and here he was, sitting on her bed in the middle of the night, and what was he doing? Talking nonsensically about another woman!
The tears welled, ready to spill the moment she was alone and she squeezed them shut. The light went off and she waited for the sound of the door closing but instead, that infuriating man surprised her yet again. He walked to the other side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid in behind her. One arm moved under her neck while the other wrapped tenderly around her waist, his face coming to rest against her hair. Soon his breathing slowed and Violet felt every muscle in her body relax. And for the first time in a very long while, enclosed in his protective embrace, Violet slept soundly.